Villa Rubein and Other Stories.........................................................................................................................1

John Galsworthy......................................................................................................................................1

PREFACE ................................................................................................................................................2

VILLA RUBEIN ......................................................................................................................................4

I................................................................................................................................................................4

II ...............................................................................................................................................................8

III ............................................................................................................................................................12

IV...........................................................................................................................................................14

V .............................................................................................................................................................17

VII ..........................................................................................................................................................28

VIII .........................................................................................................................................................31

IX...........................................................................................................................................................36

X .............................................................................................................................................................40

XI...........................................................................................................................................................42

XII ..........................................................................................................................................................44

XIII .........................................................................................................................................................48

XIV........................................................................................................................................................52

XV ..........................................................................................................................................................56

XVI........................................................................................................................................................59

XVIII ......................................................................................................................................................64

XIX........................................................................................................................................................72

XX ..........................................................................................................................................................75

XXI........................................................................................................................................................76

XXII.......................................................................................................................................................82

XXIII ......................................................................................................................................................84

XXIV ......................................................................................................................................................87

XXIX ......................................................................................................................................................89

A MAN OF DEVON.............................................................................................................................91

I..............................................................................................................................................................91

II .............................................................................................................................................................94

III ............................................................................................................................................................96

IV.........................................................................................................................................................101

V ...........................................................................................................................................................107

VI.........................................................................................................................................................113

VII ........................................................................................................................................................115

VIII .......................................................................................................................................................117

A KNIGHT..........................................................................................................................................119

I............................................................................................................................................................119

II ...........................................................................................................................................................121

III ..........................................................................................................................................................124

IV.........................................................................................................................................................126

V ...........................................................................................................................................................128

VI.........................................................................................................................................................129

VII ........................................................................................................................................................131

VIII .......................................................................................................................................................133

SALVATION OF A FORSYTE ..........................................................................................................135

I............................................................................................................................................................135

II ...........................................................................................................................................................137

III ..........................................................................................................................................................140

IV.........................................................................................................................................................142

V ...........................................................................................................................................................144

VI.........................................................................................................................................................145

VII ........................................................................................................................................................146

VIII .......................................................................................................................................................148

IX.........................................................................................................................................................149

X ...........................................................................................................................................................151

XI.........................................................................................................................................................153

XII ........................................................................................................................................................154

THE SILENCE....................................................................................................................................157

I............................................................................................................................................................157

II ...........................................................................................................................................................159

Writing not long ago to my oldest literary friend, I expressed in a moment of heedless sentiment the wish that

we might have again one of our talks of longpast days, over the purposes and methods of our art. And my

friend, wiser than I, as he has always been, replied with this doubting phrase "Could we recapture the zest of

I would not like to believe that our faith in the value of imaginative art has diminished, that we think it less

worth while to struggle for glimpses of truth and for the words which may pass them on to other eyes; or that

we can no longer discern the star we tried to follow; but I do fear, with him, that half a lifetime of endeavour

has dulled the exuberance which kept one up till morning discussing the ways and means of aesthetic

achievement. We have discovered, perhaps with a certain finality, that by no talk can a writer add a cubit to

his stature, or change the temperament which moulds and colours the vision of life he sets before the few who

will pause to look at it. And sothe rest is silence, and what of work we may still do will be done in that

Other times, other men and modes, but not other truth. Truth, though essentially relative, like Einstein's

theory, will never lose its evernew and unique qualityperfect proportion; for Truth, to the human

consciousness at least, is but that vitally just relation of part to whole which is the very condition of life itself.

And the task before the imaginative writer, whether at the end of the last century or all these aeons later, is

the presentation of a vision which to eye and ear and mind has the implicit proportions of Truth.

I confess to have always looked for a certain flavour in the writings of others, and craved it for my own,

believing that all true vision is so coloured by the temperament of the seer, as to have not only the just

proportions but the essential novelty of a living thing for, after all, no two living things are alike. A work of

fiction should carry the hall mark of its author as surely as a Goya, a Daumier, a Velasquez, and a Mathew

Maris, should be the unmistakable creations of those masters. This is not to speak of tricks and manners

which lend themselves to that facile elf, the caricaturist, but of a certain individual way of seeing and feeling.

A young poet once said of another and more popular poet: "Oh! yes, but be cuts no ice. "And, when one came

to think of it, he did not; a certain flabbiness of spirit, a lack of temperament, an absence, perhaps, of the

ironic, or passionate, view, insubstantiated his work; it had no edgejust a felicity which passed for

Let me not be understood to imply that a novel should be a sort of sandwich, in which the author's mood or

philosophy is the slice of ham. One's demand is for a far more subtle impregnation of flavour; just that, for

instance, which makes De Maupassant a more poignant and fascinating writer than his master Flaubert,

Dickens and Thackeray more living and permanent than George Eliot or Trollope. It once fell to my lot to be

the preliminary critic of a book on painting, designed to prove that the artist's sole function was the

impersonal elucidation of the truths of nature. I was regretfully compelled to observe that there were no such

things as the truths of Nature, for the purposes of art, apart from the individual vision of the artist. Seer and

thing seen, inextricably involved one with the other, form the texture of any masterpiece; and I, at least,

demand therefrom a distinct impression of temperament. I never saw, in the flesh, either De Maupassant or

Tchekovthose masters of such different methods entirely devoid of didacticismbut their work leaves on

me a strangely potent sense of personality. Such subtle intermingling of seer with thing seen is the outcome

only of long and intricate brooding, a process not too favoured by modern life, yet without which we achieve

little but a fluent chaos of clever insignificant impressions, a kind of glorified journalism, holding much the

same relation to the deeplyimpregnated work of Turgenev, Hardy, and Conrad, as a film bears to a play.

Speaking for myself, with the immodesty required of one who hazards an introduction to his own work, I was

writing fiction for five years before I could master even its primary technique, much less achieve that union

of seer with thing seen, which perhaps begins to show itself a little in this volumebinding up the scanty

harvests of 1899, 1900, and 1901especially in the tales: "A Knight," and "Salvation of a Forsyte." Men,

women, trees, and works of fiction very tiny are the seeds from which they spring. I used really to see the

"Knight"in 1896, was it?sitting in the "Place" in front of the Casino at Monte Carlo ; and because his

driedup elegance, his burnt straw hat, quiet courtesy of attitude, and big dog, used to fascinate and intrigue

me, I began to imagine his life so as to answer my own questions and to satisfy, I suppose, the mood I was in.

I never spoke to him, I never saw him again. His real story, no doubt, was as different from that which I wove

As for Swithin, wild horses will not drag from me confession of where and when I first saw the prototype

which became enlarged to his bulky stature. I owe Swithin much, for he first released the satirist in me, and

is, moreover, the only one of my characters whom I killed before I gave him life, for it is in "The Man of

Ranging beyond this volume, I cannot recollect writing the first words of "The Island Pharisees"but it

would be about August, 1901. Like all the stories in "Villa Rubein," and, indeed, most of my tales, the book

originated in the curiosity, philosophic reflections, and unphilosophic emotions roused in me by some single

figure in real life. In this case it was Ferrand, whose real name, of course, was not Ferrand, and who died in

some "sacred institution" many years ago of a consumption brought on by the conditions of his wandering

life. If not "a beloved," he was a true vagabond, and I first met him in the Champs Elysees, just as in "The

Pigeon" he describes his meeting with Wellwyn. Though drawn very much from life, he did not in the end

turn out very like the Ferrand of real lifethe, figures of fiction soon diverge from their prototypes.

The first draft of "The Island Pharisees" was buried in a drawer; when retrieved the other day, after nineteen

years, it disclosed a picaresque string of anecdotes told by Ferrand in the first person. These twothirds of a

book were laid to rest by Edward Garnett's dictum that its author was not sufficiently within Ferrand's skin;

and, struggling heavily with laziness and pride, he started afresh in the skin of Shelton. Three times be wrote

that novel, and then it was long in finding the eye of Sydney Pawling, who accepted it for Heinemann's in

1904. That was a period of ferment and transition with me, a kind of long awakening to the home truths of

social existence and national character. The liquor bubbled too furiously for clear bottling. And the book,

after all, became but an introduction to all those following novels which depictsomewhat satiricallythe

Looking back on the longstretchedout body of one's work, it is interesting to mark the endless duel fought

within a man between the emotional and critical sides of his nature, first one, then the other, getting the upper

hand, and too seldom fusing till the result has the mellowness of full achievement. One can even tell the

nature of one's readers, by their preference for the work which reveals more of this side than of that. My early

work was certainly more emotional than critical. But from 1901 came nine years when the critical was, in the

main, holding sway. From 1910 to 1918 the emotional again struggled for the upper hand; and from that time

on there seems to have been something of a "dead beat." So the conflict goes, by what mysterious tides

An author must ever wish to discover a hapless member of the Public who, never yet having read a word of

his writing, would submit to the ordeal of reading him right through from beginning to end. Probably the

effect could only be judged through an autopsy, but in the remote case of survival, it would interest one so

profoundly to see the differences, if any, produced in that reader's character or outlook over life. This,

however, is a consummation which will remain devoutly to be wished, for there is a limit to human

complaisance. One will never know the exact measure of one's infecting power; or whether, indeed, one is

A writer they say, should not favouritize among his creations; but then a writer should not do so many things

that be does. This writer, certainly, confesses to having favourites, and of his novels so far be likes best: The

Forsyte Series; "The Country House"; "Fraternity"; "The Dark Flower"; and "Five Tales"; believing these to

be the works which most fully achieve fusion of seer with thing seen, most subtly disclose the individuality

Walking along the river wall at Botzen, Edmund Dawney said to Alois Harz: "Would you care to know the

They had stopped before an old house with a blind, deserted look, that stood by itself on the wall; Harz

He ran up the bare broad stairs, and Dawney followed leisurely, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his

In the attic which filled the whole top story, Harz had pulled a canvas to the window. He was a young man of

middle height, square shouldered, active, with an angular face, high cheekbones, and a strong, sharp chin.

His eyes were piercing and steelblue, his eyebrows very flexible, nose long and thin with a high bridge; and

his dark, unparted hair fitted him like a cap. His clothes looked as if he never gave them a second thought.

This room, which served for studio, bedroom, and sittingroom, was bare and dusty. Below the window the

river in spring flood rushed down the valley, a stream, of molten bronze. Harz dodged before the canvas like

"The snows have gone with a rush this year," he drawled. "The Talfer comes down brown, the Eisack comes

down blue; they flow into the Etsch and make it green; a parable of the Spring for you, my painter."

"I've no time for parables," he said, "no time for anything. If I could be guaranteed to live to ninetynine, like

Titianhe had a chance. Look at that poor fellow who was killed the other day! All that struggle, and

He spoke English with a foreign accent; his voice was rather harsh, but his smile very kindly.

"You painters," he said, "are better off than most of us. You can strike out your own line. Now if I choose to

"My dear Doctorif I don't paint what the public likes, I starve; all the same I'm going to paint in my own

"It pays to work in the groove, my friend, until you've made your name; after thatdo what you like, they'll

Dawney answered slowly: "Never so happy as when my hands are full. But I want to make money, to get

known, to have a good time, good cigars, good wine. I hate discomfort. No, my boy, I must work it on the

usual lines; I don't like it, but I must lump it. One starts in life with some notion of the idealit's gone by the

board with me. I've got to shove along until I've made my name, and then, my little manthen"

Dawney stretched his large soft body; a calculating look had come into his eyes.

"Touching Villa Rubein," he said, "shall I call for you? It's a mixed household, English mostlyvery decent

"No, thank you. I shall be painting all day. Haven't time to know the sort of people who expect one to change

"As you like; tato!" And, puffing out his chest, Dawney vanished through a blanket looped across the

Harz set a pot of coffee on a spiritlamp, and cut himself some bread. Through the window the freshness of

the morning came; the scent of sap and blossom and young leaves; the scent of earth, and the mountains freed

from winter; the new flights and songs of birds; all the odorous, enchanted, restless Spring.

There suddenly appeared through the doorway a white roughhaired terrier dog, blackmarked about the

face, with shaggy tan eyebrows. He sniffed at Harz, showed the whites round his eyes, and uttered a sharp

"Scruff! Thou naughty dog!" Light footsteps were heard on the stairs; from the distance a thin, high voice

A little girl of twelve, with long fair hair under a widebrimmed hat, slipped in.

Her blue eyes opened wide, her face flushed up. That face was not regular; its cheekbones were rather

prominent, the nose was flattish; there was about it an air, innocent, reflecting, quizzical, shy.

She did not answer, but looked at him with soft bewilderment; then running to the dog seized him by the

"Scrruff! Thou naughty dogthe baddest dog!" The ends of her hair fell about him; she looked up at Harz,

"Oh no! You must notI will beat himand tell him he is bad; then he shall not do such things again. Now

"I have to talk English this morning, but I do not like it very much because, also I am half Austrian, and I

like it best; but my sister, Christian, is all English. Here is Miss Naylor; she shall be very angry with me."

And pointing to the entrance with a rosytipped forefinger, she again looked ruefully at Harz.

There came into the room with a walk like the hopping of a bird an elderly, small lady, in a grey serge dress,

with narrow bands of claretcoloured velveteen; a large gold cross dangled from a steel chain on her chest;

she nervously twisted her hands, clad in black kid gloves, rather white about the seams.

Her hair was prematurely grey; her quick eyes brown; her mouth twisted at one corner; she held her face,

kindlooking, but long and narrow, rather to one side, and wore on it a look of apology. Her quick sentences

sounded as if she kept them on strings, and wanted to draw them back as soon as she had let them forth.

"Greta, how can, you do such things? I don't know what your father would say! I am sure I don't know how

"You must come at onceso very sorryso awkward!" They were standing in a ring: Harz with his

eyebrows working up and down; the little lady fidgeting her parasol; Greta, flushed and pouting, her eyes all

"Oh, look!" The coffee had boiled over. Little brown streams trickled spluttering from the pan; the dog, with

ears laid back and tail tucked in, went scurrying round the room. A feeling of fellowship fell on them at once.

"Along the wall is our favourite walk, and Scruffso awkward, so unfortunatewe did not think any one

lived herethe shutters are cracked, the paint is peeling off so dreadfully. Have you been long in Botzen?

Two months? Fancy! You are not English? You are Tyrolese? But you speak English so wellthere for

Miss Naylor's eyes darted bewildered glances at the roof where the crossing of the beams made such deep

shadows; at the litter of brushes, tools, knives, and colours on a table made out of packing cases; at the big

window, innocent of glass, and flush with the floor, whence dangled a bit of rusty chainrelic of the time

when the place had been a storeloft; her eyes were hastily averted from an unfnished figure of the nude.

Greta, with feet crossed, sat on a coloured blanket, dabbling her fnger in a little pool of coffee, and gazing up

at Harz. And he thought: 'I should like to paint her like that. "A forgetmenot."'

"'Will,' Greta'will'; how often must I tell you? I think we should be goingit is very lateyour

fatherso very kind of you, but I think we should be going. Scruff!" Miss Naylor gave the floor two taps.

The terrier backed into a plaster cast which came down on his tail, and sent him flying through the doorway.

Miss Naylor crossed the room; bowing, she murmured an apology, and also disappeared.

Harz was left alone, his guests were gone; the little girl with the fair hair and the eyes like forgetmenots,

the little lady with kindly gestures and birdlike walk, the terrier. He looked round him; the room seemed

Then taking up his brush, stood before his picture, smiling and frowning. Soon he had forgotten it all in his

It was early morning four days later, and Harz was loitering homewards. The shadows of the clouds passing

across the vines were vanishing over the jumbled roofs and greentopped spires of the town. A strong sweet

wind was blowing from the mountains, there was a stir in the branches of the trees, and flakes of the late

blossom were drifting down. Amongst the soft green pods of a kind of poplar chafers buzzed, and numbers of

He passed a bench where a girl sat sketching. A puff of wind whirled her drawing to the ground; Harz ran to

pick it up. She took it from him with a bow; but, as he turned away, she tore the sketch across.

This girl, who stood with a bit of the torn sketch in either hand, was slight and straight; and her face earnest

and serene. She gazed at Harz with large, clear, greenish eyes; her lips and chin were defiant, her forehead

"You've no business to do that," said the girl in a hurt voice; "I want to know."

"You mean that if it does not matter enough, one had better not do it at all. I don't know if you are rightI

There was the sound of a nervous cough, and Harz saw behind him his three visitorsMiss Naylor offering

him her hand; Greta, flushed, with a bunch of wild flowers, staring intently in his face; and the terrier,

"We wondered if you would still be here, Christian. I am sorry to interrupt youI was not aware that you

"About my sketch. Oh, Greta, you do tickle! Will you come and have breakfast with us today, Herr Harz?

But Greta in a pleading voice said: "Oh! do come! Scruff likes you. It is so dull when there is nobody for

"Oh no! we do not mind; then we shall none of us wash, and afterwards I shall show you my rabbits."

"I hope you won't regret it, not a very good mealthe girls are so impulsivesuch informal invitation; we

But Greta pulled softly at her sister's sleeve, and Christian, gathering her things, led the way.

Harz followed in amazement; nothing of this kind had come into his life before. He kept shyly glancing at the

girls; and, noting the speculative innocence in Greta's eyes, he smiled. They soon came to two great

poplartrees, which stood, like sentinels, one on either side of an unweeded gravel walk leading through lilac

bushes to a house painted dull pink, with greenshuttered windows, and a roof of greenish slate. Over the

"That is to the stables," said Greta, pointing down a path, where some pigeons were sunning themselves on a

wall. "Uncle Nic keeps his horses there: Countess and Cuckoohis horses begin with C, because of

Christhey are quite beautiful. He says he could drive them to KingdomCome and they would not turn

"Father said all strangers should, and I think it brings good luck." >From the doorstep she looked round at

A broad, thickset man, with stiff, brushedup hair, a short, brown, bushy beard parted at the chin, a fresh

complexion, and blue glasses across a thick nose, came out, and called in a bluff voice:

"Ha! my good dears, kiss me quickprrt! How goes it then this morning? A good walk, hein?" The sound of

"Ha, Fraulein, good!" He became aware of Harz's figure standing in the doorway: "Und der Herr?"

"Good! An artist! Kommen Sie herein, I am delight. You will breakfast? I tooyes, yes, my dearsI too

Harz, looking at him keenly, perceived him to be of middle height and age, stout, dressed in a loose holland

jacket, a very white, starched shirt, and blue silk sash; that he looked particularly clean, had an air of

belonging to Society, and exhaled a really fine aroma of excellent cigars and the best hairdresser's essences.

The room they entered was long and rather bare; there was a huge map on the wall, and below it a pair of

globes on crooked supports, resembling two inflated frogs erect on their hind legs. In one corner was a

cottage piano, close to a writingtable heaped with books and papers; this nook, sacred to Christian, was

foreign to the rest of the room, which was arranged with supernatural neatness. A table was laid for breakfast,

The meal went merrily; Herr Paul von Morawitz was never in such spirits as at table. Words streamed from

him. Conversing with Harz, he talked of Art as who should say: "One does not claim to be a

connoisseurpas si betestill, one has a little knowledge, que diable!" He recommended him a man in the

town who sold cigars that were "not so very bad." He consumed porridge, ate an omelette; and bending

across to Greta gave her a sounding kiss, muttering: "Kiss me quick!"an expression he had picked up in a

London musichall, long ago, and considered chic. He asked his daughters' plans, and held out porridge to

"Well," he said suddenly, looking at Miss Naylor, "here is a gentleman who has not even heard our names!"

"Good!" Herr Paul said, puffing out his lips: "Now we know each other!" and, brushing up the ends of his

moustaches, he carried off Harz into another room, decorated with piperacks, prints of dancing girls,

spittoons, easychairs wellseasoned by cigar smoke, French novels, and newspapers.

The household at Villa Rubein was indeed of a mixed and curious nature. Cut on both floors by corridors, the

Villa was divided into four divisions; each of which had its separate inhabitants, an arrangement which had

When old Nicholas Treffry died, his estate, on the boundary of Cornwall, had been sold and divided up

among his three surviving childrenNicholas, who was much the eldest, a partner in the well known firm

of Forsyte and Treffry, teamen, of the Strand; Constance, married to a man called Decie; and Margaret, at her

father's death engaged to the curate of the parish, John Devorell, who shortly afterwards became its rector. By

his marriage with Margaret Treffry the rector had one child called Christian. Soon after this he came into

some property, and died, leaving it unfettered to his widow. Three years went by, and when the child was six

years old, Mrs. Devorell, still young and pretty, came to live in London with her brother Nicholas. It was

there that she met Paul von Morawitzthe last of an old Czech family, who had lived for many hundred

years on their estates near Budweiss. Paul had been left an orphan at the age of ten, and without a solitary

ancestral acre. Instead of acres, he inherited the faith that nothing was too good for a von Morawitz. In later

years his savoir faire enabled him to laugh at faith, but it stayed quietly with him all the same. The absence of

acres was of no great consequence, for through his mother, the daughter of a banker in Vienna, he came into a

wellnursed fortune. It befitted a von Morawitz that he should go into the Cavalry, but, unshaped for

soldiering, he soon left the Service; some said he had a difference with his Colonel over the quality of food

provided during some manoeuvres; others that he had retired because his chargers did not fit his legs, which

He had an admirable appetite for pleasure; a manabouttown's life suited him. He went his genial,

unreflecting, costly way in Vienna, Paris, London. He loved exclusively those towns, and boasted that he was

as much at home in one as in another. He combined exuberant vitality with fastidiousness of palate, and

devoted both to the acquisition of a special taste in women, weeds, and wines; above all he was blessed with

a remarkable digestion. He was thirty when he met Mrs. Devorell; and she married him because he was so

very different from anybody she had ever seen. People more dissimilar were never mated. To

Paulaccustomed to stage doorsfreshness, serene tranquillity, and obvious purity were the baits; he had

run through more than half his fortune, too, and the fact that she had money was possibly not overlooked. Be

that as it may, he was fond of her; his heart was soft, he developed a domestic side.

Greta was born to them after a year of marriage. The instinct of the "freeman" was, however, not dead in

Paul; he became a gambler. He lost the remainder of his fortune without being greatly disturbed. When he

began to lose his wife's fortune too things naturally became more difficult. Not too much remained when

Nicholas Treffry stepped in, and caused his sister to settle what was left on her daughters, after providing a

lifeinterest for herself and Paul. Losing his supplies, the good man had given up his cards. But the instinct of

the "freeman" was still living in his breast; he took to drink. He was never grossly drunk, and rarely very

sober. His wife sorrowed over this new passion; her health, already much enfeebled, soon broke down. The

doctors sent her to the Tyrol. She seemed to benefit by this, and settled down at Botzen. The following year,

when Greta was just ten, she died. It was a shock to Paul. He gave up excessive drinking; became a constant

smoker, and lent full rein to his natural domesticity. He was fond of both the girls, but did not at all

understand them; Greta, his own daughter, was his favourite. Villa Rubein remained their home; it was cheap

About this time Mrs. Decie, his wife's sister, whose husband had died in the East, returned to England; Paul

invited her to come and live with them. She had her own rooms, her own servant; the arrangement suited

Paulit was economically sound, and there was some one always there to take care of the girls. In truth he

began to feel the instinct of the "freeman" rising again within him; it was pleasant to run over to Vienna now

and then; to play piquet at a Club in Gries, of which he was the shining light; in a word, to go "on the tiles" a

little. One could not always mourneven if a woman were an angel; moreover, his digestion was as good as

The fourth quarter of this Villa was occupied by Nicholas Treffry, whose annual sojourn out of England

perpetually surprised himself. Between him and his young niece, Christian, there existed, however, a rare

sympathy; one of those affections between the young and old, which, mysteriously born like everything in

life, seems the only end and aim to both, till another feeling comes into the younger heart.

Since a long and dangerous illness, he had been ordered to avoid the English winter, and at the

commencement of each spring he would appear at Botzen, driving his own horses by easy stages from the

Italian Riviera, where he spent the coldest months. He always stayed till June before going back to his

London Club, and during all that time he let no day pass without growling at foreigners, their habits, food,

drink, and raiment, with a kind of big dog's growling that did nobody any harm. The illness had broken him

very much; he was seventy, but looked more. He had a servant, a Luganese, named Dominique, devoted to

him. Nicholas Treffry had found him overworked in an hotel, and had engaged him with the caution:

"Lookhere, Dominique! I swear!" To which Dominique, dark of feature, saturnine and ironical, had only

Harz and his host sat in leather chairs; Herr Paul's square back was wedged into a cushion, his round legs

crossed. Both were smoking, and they eyed each other furtively, as men of different stamp do when first

thrown together. The young artist found his host extremely new and disconcerting; in his presence he felt

both shy and awkward. Herr Paul, on the other hand, very much at ease, was thinking indolently:

'Goodlooking young fellowcomes of the people, I expect, not at all the manner of the world; wonder what

Presently noticing that Harz was looking at a photograph, he said: "Ah! yes! that was a woman! They are not

to be found in these days. She could dance, the little Coralie! Did you ever see such arms? Confess that she is

"Yes," he murmured, "she was fine all over!" He had dropped his eyeglasses, and his full brown eyes, with

'He'd be like a Satyr if he wasn't too clean,' thought Harz. 'Put vine leaves in his hair, paint him asleep, with

"When I am told a person has individuality," Herr Paul was saying in a rich and husky voice, "I generally

expect boots that bulge, an umbrella of improper colour; I expect a creature of 'bad form' as they say in

England; who will shave some days and some days will not shave; who sometimes smells of Indiarubber,

"Not if it means doing, and thinking, as those who know better do not do, or think."

"Ah! my dear, you are asking me a riddle? Well, thenSociety, men of birth, men of recognised position,

Harz looked at him fixedly. "Men who haven't the courage of their own ideas, not even the courage to smell

of Indiarubber; men who have no desires, and so can spend all their time making themselves flat!"

Herr Paul drew out a red silk handkerchief and wiped his beard. "I assure you, my dear," he said, "it is easier

"Certes; like any common fellowlike me, par exemple!" Herr Paul waved his hand. When he exercised

Harz flushed. Herr Paul followed up his victory. "Come, come!" he said. "Pass me my men of repute! que

Herr Paul twisted his moustache. "I beg your pardon," he said slowly. But at this moment the door was

opened; a rumbling voice remarked: "Morning, Paul. Who's your visitor?" Harz saw a tall, bulky figure in the

"Come in,"' called out Herr Paul. "Let me present to you a new acquaintance, an artist: Herr HarzMr.

Nicholas Treffry. Psumm bumm! All this introducing is dry work." And going to the sideboard he poured out

Mr. Treffry waved it from him: "Not for me," he said: "Wish I could! They won't let me look at it." And

walking over, to the window with a heavy tread, which trembled like his voice, he sat down. There was

something in his gait like the movements of an elephant's hind legs. He was very tall (it was said, with the

customary exaggeration of family tradition, that there never had been a male Treffry under six feet in height),

but now he stooped, and had grown stout. There was something at once vast and unobtrusive about his

He wore a loose brown velvet jacket, and waistcoat, cut to show a soft frilled shirt and narrow black ribbon

tie; a thin gold chain was looped round his neck and fastened to his fob. His heavy cheeks had folds in them

like those in a bloodhound's face. He wore big, drooping, yellowgrey moustaches, which he had a habit of

sucking, and a goatee beard. He had long loose ears that might almost have been said to gap. On his head

there was a soft black hat, large in the brim and low in the crown. His grey eyes, heavylidded, twinkled

under their bushy brows with a queer, kind cynicism. As a young man he had sown many a wild oat; but he

had also worked and made money in business; he had, in fact, burned the candle at both ends; but he had

never been unready to do his fellows a good turn. He had a passion for driving, and his reckless method of

Once, when he was driving tandem down a hill with a loose rein, the friend beside him had said: "For all the

good you're doing with those reins, Treffry, you might as well throw them on the horses' necks."

"Just so," Treffry had answered. At the bottom of the hill they had gone over a wall into a potato patch.

He was a great sufferer now, but, constitutionally averse to being pitied, he had a disconcerting way of

humming, and this, together with the shake in his voice, and his frequent use of peculiar phrases, made the

understanding of his speech depend at times on intuition rather than intelligence.

The clock began to strike eleven. Harz muttered an excuse, shook hands with his host, and bowing to his new

acquaintance, went away. He caught a glimpse of Greta's face against the window, and waved his hand to her.

In the road he came on Dawney, who was turning in between the poplars, with thumbs as usual hooked in the

"Serve you right," said Dawney, "for your confounded egoism! Wait here till I come out, I shan't be many

But Harz went on his way. A cart drawn by creamcoloured oxen was passing slowly towards the bridge. In

front of the brushwood piled on it two peasant girls were sitting with their feet on a mat of grassthe picture

"I'm wasting my time!" he thought. "I've done next to nothing in two months. Better get back to London!

That girl will never make a painter!" She would never make a painter, but there was something in her that he

could not dismiss so rapidly. She was not exactly beautiful, but she was sympathetic. The brow was pleasing,

with darkbrown hair softly turned back, and eyes so straight and shining. The two sisters were very

different! The little one was innocent, yet mysterious; the elder seemed as clear as crystal!

He had entered the town, where the arcaded streets exuded their peculiar pungent smell of cows and leather,

woodsmoke, winecasks, and drains. The sound of rapid wheels over the stones made him turn his head. A

carriage drawn by redroan horses was passing at a great pace. People stared at it, standing still, and looking

alarmed. It swung from side to side and vanished round a corner. Harz saw Mr. Nicholas Treffry in a long,

whitish dustcoat; his Italian servant, perched behind, was holding to the seatrail, with a nervous grin on his

'Certainly,' Harz thought, 'there's no getting away from these people this morningthey are everywhere.'

In his studio he began to sort his sketches, wash his brushes, and drag out things he had accumulated during

his two months' stay. He even began to fold his blanket door. But suddenly he stopped. Those two girls! Why

not try? What a picture! The two heads, the sky, and leaves! Begin tomorrow! Against that windowno,

The wind, stirring among trees and bushes, flung the young leaves skywards. The trembling of their silver

linings was like the joyful flutter of a heart at good news. It was one of those Spring mornings when

everything seems full of a sweet restlessnesssoft clouds chasing fast across the sky; soft scents floating

forth and dying; the notes of birds, now shrill and sweet, now hushed in silences; all nature striving for

Villa Rubein withstood the influence of the day, and wore its usual look of rest and isolation. Harz sent in his

card, and asked to see "der Herr." The servant, a greyeyed, cleverlooking Swiss with no hair on his face,

Herr Paul, a small white flannel cap on his head, gloves on his hands, and glasses on his nose, was watering a

This aspect of the house was very different from the other. The sun fell on it, and over a veranda creepers

clung and scrambled in long scrolls. There was a lawn, with freshly mown grass; flowerbeds were laid out,

and at the end of an avenue of young acacias stood an arbour covered with wisteria.

In the east, mountain peaksfingers of snowglittered above the mist. A grave simplicity lay on that scene,

on the roofs and spires, the valleys and the dreamy hillsides, with their yellow scars and purple bloom, and

"I have to beg a favour," replied Harz. "I wish to paint your daughters. I will bring the canvas herethey

shall have no trouble. I would paint them in the garden when they have nothing else to do."

Herr Paul looked at him dubiouslyever since the previous day he had been thinking: 'Queer bird, that

painterthinks himself the devil of a swell! Looks a determined fellow too!' Nowstaring in the painter's

faceit seemed to him, on the whole, best if some one else refused this permission.

"With all the pleasure, my dear sir," he said. "Come, let us ask these two young ladies!" and putting down his

hose, he led the way towards the arbour, thinking: 'You'll be disappointed, my young conqueror, or I'm

Miss Naylor and the girls were sitting in the shade, reading La Fontaine's fables. Greta, with one eye on her

"Ah! my dear dears!" began Herr Paul, who in the presence of Miss Naylor always paraded his English.

"Here is our friend, who has a very flattering request to make; he would paint you, yesboth together,

She saw Harz looking at her, and added, slowly: "If you really wish it, I suppose we could!" then dropped her

"Ah!" said Herr Paul raising his brows till his glasses fell from his nose: "And what says Gretchen? Does she

want to be handed up to posterities a little peacock along with the other little birds?"

"Prrt!" said Herr Paul, looking at Miss Naylor. The little lady indeed opened her mouth wide, but all that

came forth was a tiny squeak, as sometimes happens when one is anxious to say something, and has not

The affair seemed ended; Harz heaved a sigh of satisfaction. But Herr Paul had still a card to play.

"There is your Aunt," he said; "there are things to be considered one must certainly inquireso, we shall

"I don't see why it is a waste of time," said Christian quietly; "there are lots of hours when we sit here and do

"You are rude, Greta," said Miss Naylor in a little rage, pursing her lips, and taking up her knitting.

"I think it seems always rude to speak the truth," said Greta. Miss Naylor looked at her in that concentrated

But at this moment a servant came, and said that Mrs. Decie would be glad to see Herr Harz. The painter

made them a stiff bow, and followed the servant to the house. Miss Naylor and the two girls watched his

Crossing the veranda, and passing through an open window hung with silk curtains, Hart entered a cool dark

room. This was Mrs. Decie's sanctum, where she conducted correspondence, received her visitors, read the

latest literature, and sometimes, when she had bad headaches, lay for hours on the sofa, with a fan, and her

eyes closed. There was a scent of sandalwood, a suggestion of the East, a kind of mystery, in here, as if things

like chairs and tables were not really what they seemed, but something much less commonplace.

The visitor looked twice, to be quite sure of anything; there were many plants, bead curtains, and a deal of

Mrs. Decie came forward in the slightly rustling silk whichwhether in or out of fashionalways

accompanied her. A tall woman, over fifty, she moved as if she had been tied together at the knees. Her face

was long, with broad brows, from which her sandygrey hair was severely waved back; she had pale eyes,

and a perpetual, pale, enigmatic smile. Her complexion had been ruined by long residence in India, and might

unkindly have been called fawncoloured. She came close to Harz, keeping her eyes on his, with her head

"We are so pleased to know you," she said, speaking in a voice which had lost all ring. "It is charming to find

some one in these parts who can help us to remember that there is such a thing as Art. We had Mr. C here

last autumn, such a charming fellow. He was so interested in the native customs and dresses. You are a

She went on for some time, introducing painters' names, asking questions, skating round the edge of what

was personal. And the young man stood before her with a curious little smile fixed on his lips. 'She wants to

"You wish to paint my nieces?" Mrs. Decie said at last, leaning back on her settee.

"That," said Harz, "is in the future. I couldn't tell you." And he thought: 'Will she ask me if I get my tints in

The perpetual pale smile on Mrs. Decie's face seemed to invite his confidence, yet to warn him that his words

would be sucked in somewhere behind those broad fine brows, and carefully sorted. Mrs. Decie, indeed, was

thinking: 'Interesting young man, regular Bohemianno harm in that at his age; something Napoleonic in his

face; probably has no dress clothes. Yes, should like to see more of him!' She had a fine eye for points of

celebrity; his name was unfamiliar, would probably have been scouted by that famous artist Mr. C, but

she felt her instinct urging her on to know him. She was, to do her justice, one of those "lion" finders who

seek the animal for pleasure, not for the glory it brings them; she had the courage of her

instinctslionentities were indispensable to her, but she trusted to divination to secure them; nobody could

"It will be very nice. You will stay and have some lunch? The arrangements here are rather odd. Such a

mixed householdbut there is always lunch at two o'clock for any one who likes, and we all dine at seven.

You would have your sittings in the afternoons, perhaps? I should so like to see your sketches. You are using

Harz would not stay to lunch, but asked if he might begin work that afternoon; he left a little suffocated by

Walking home along the river wall, with the singing of the larks and thrushes, the rush of waters, the

humming of the chafers in his ears, he felt that he would make something fine of this subject. Before his eyes

the faces of the two girls continually started up, framed by the sky, with young leaves guttering against their

Three days had passed since Harz began his picture, when early in the morning, Greta came from Villa

Rubein along the river dyke and sat down on a bench from which the old house on the wall was visible. She

"I did not knock," said Greta, "because you would not have heard, and it is so early, so I have been waiting

Selecting a rosebud, from some flowers in her hand, she handed it to him. "That is my first rosebud this

year," she said; "it is for you because you are painting me. Today I am thirteen, Herr Harz; there is not to be

a sitting, because it is my birthday; but, instead, we are all going to Meran to see the play of Andreas Hofer.

You are to come too, please; I am here to tell you, and the others shall be here directly."

"Christian, and Dr. Edmund, Miss Naylor, and Cousin Teresa. Her husband is ill, so she is sad, but today

she is going to forget that. It is not good to be always sad, is it, Herr Harz?"

Greta answered gravely: "Oh yes, I could. I too am often sad. You are making fun. You are not to make fun

"I think," said Greta, "you are very much afraid of losing time. Chris says that time is nothing."

"She says that time is nothing, and thought is everything," Greta murmured, rubbing a rose against her cheek,

"but I think you cannot have a thought unless you have the time to think it in. There are the others! Look!"

A cluster of sunshades on the bridge glowed for a moment and was lost in shadow.

At Meran, under Schloss Tirol, people were streaming across the meadows into the open theatre. Here were

tall fellows in mountain dress, with leather breeches, bare knees, and hats with eagles' feathers; here were

fruitsellers, burghers and their wives, mountebanks, actors, and every kind of visitor. The audience, packed

into an enclosure of high boards, sweltered under the burning sun. Cousin Teresa, tall and thin, with hard, red

The play began. It depicted the rising in the Tyrol of 1809: the village life, dances and yodelling; murmurings

and exhortations, the warning beat of drums; then the gathering, with flintlocks, pitchforks, knives; the battle

and victory; the homecoming, and festival. Then the second gathering, the roar of cannon; betrayal, capture,

death. The impassive figure of the patriot Andreas Hofer always in front, blackbearded, leatherngirdled,

Harz and Christian sat behind the others. He seemed so intent on the play that she did not speak, but watched

his face, rigid with a kind of cold excitement; he seemed to be transported by the life passing before them.

Something of his feeling seized on her; when the play was over she too was trembling. In pushing their way

The path rose a little; a narrow stream crept alongside the meadow, and the hedge was spangled with wild

roses. Christian kept glancing shyly at the painter. Since their meeting on the river wall her thoughts had

never been at rest. This stranger, with his keen face, insistent eyes, and ceaseless energy, had roused a strange

feeling in her; his words had put shape to something in her not yet expressed. She stood aside at a stile to

make way for some peasant boys, dusty and roughhaired, who sang and whistled as they went by.

"It's my country up there. I was born amongst the mountains. I looked after the cows, and slept in haycocks,

and cut the trees in winter. They used to call me a 'black sheep,' a 'loafer' in my village."

"Ah! why? I worked as hard as any of them. But I wanted to get away. Do you think I could have stayed there

"If people don't understand what it is you want to do, they always call you a loafer!" muttered Harz.

For herself it was so hard to finish or decide. When in the old days she told Greta stories, the latter, whose

instinct was always for the definite, would say: "And what came at the end, Chris? Do finish it this morning!"

but Christian never could. Her thoughts were deep, vague, dreamy, invaded by both sides of every question.

Whatever she did, her needlework, her versemaking, her painting, all had its charm; but it was not always

what it was intended for at the beginning. Nicholas Treffry had once said of her: "When Chris starts out to

make a hat, it may turn out an altarcloth, but you may bet it won't be a hat." It was her instinct to look for

what things meant; and this took more than all her time. She knew herself better than most girls of nineteen,

but it was her reason that had informed her, not her feelings. In her sheltered life, her heart had never been

ruffled except by rare fits of passion"tantrums" old Nicholas Treffry dubbed themat what seemed to her

"If I were a man," she said, "and going to be great, I should have wanted to begin at the very bottom as you

She did not notice how simply he assumed that he was going to be great. He went on, a smile twisting his

"Not many people think like you! It's a crime not to have been born a gentleman."

"By Heavens!" said Harz, striking one hand into the other, "if more truth were spoken there would not be so

"You are right all the same, Fraulein Christian," he added suddenly; "that's a very little business. Work is

Christian's face changed. She understood, well enough, this craving after beauty. Slipping down from the

"If you and Fraulein Greta would ever like to come and see my studio, I should be so happy. I would try and

"We must be in front of the others; it's nice to be in frontlet's dawdle. I forgotyou never dawdle, Herr

"After a big fit of work, I can dawdle against any one; then I get another fit of workit's like appetite."

By the roadside a peasant woman screwed up her sundried face, saying in a low voice: "Please, gracious

Christian stooped, but before she could raise it, Harz hoisted it up on his back.

The woman, looking very much ashamed, walked along by Christian; she kept rubbing her brown hands

together, and saying; "Gracious lady, I would not have wished. It is heavy, but I would not have wished."

They had not gone far along the road, however, before the others passed them in a carriage, and at the strange

sight Miss Naylor could be seen pursing her lips; Cousin Teresa nodding pleasantly; a smile on Dawney's

"You English are so funny. You mustn't do this here, you mustn't do that there, it's like sitting in a field of

nettles. If I were to walk with you without my coat, that little lady would fall off her seat." His laugh infected

The sun had dipped behind the mountains when the little train steamed down the valley. All were subdued,

and Greta, with a nodding head, slept fitfully. Christian, in her corner, was looking out of the window, and

He tried to see her eyes. He had remarked indeed that, whatever their expression, the brows, arched and

rather wide apart, gave them a peculiar look of understanding. He thought of his picture. There was nothing

in her face to seize on, it was too sympathetic, too much like light. Yet her chin was firm, almost obstinate.

The train stopped with a jerk; she looked round at him. It was as though she had said: "You are my friend."

At Villa Rubein, Herr Paul had killed the fatted calf for Greta's Fest. When the whole party were assembled,

he alone remained standing; and waving his arm above the cloth, cried: "My dears! Your happiness! There

are good things hereCome!" And with a sly look, the air of a conjurer producing rabbits, he whipped the

Geniality radiated from Herr Paul's countenance, mellow as a bowl of wine. He toasted everybody, exhorting

Harz passed a cracker secretly behind Greta's head, and Miss Naylor, moved by a mysterious impulse, pulled

it with a sort of gleeful horror; it exploded, and Greta sprang off her chair. Scruff, seeing this, appeared

suddenly on the sideboard with his forelegs in a plate of soup; without moving them, he turned his head, and

appeared to accuse the company of his false position. It was the signal for shrieks of laughter. Scruff made no

attempt to free his forelegs; but sniffed the soup, and finding that nothing happened, began to lap it.

"Allons! Mon cher!" cried Herr Paul, "c'est magnifique, mais, vous savez, ce nest guere la guerre!" Scruff,

"Ah!" cried Miss Naylor, "the carpet!" Fresh moans of mirth shook the table; for having tasted the wine of

laughter, all wanted as much more as they could get. When Scruff and his traces were effaced, Herr Paul took

"I have a toast," he said, waving it for silence; "a toast we will drink all together from our hearts; the toast of

my little daughter, who today has thirteen years become; and there is also in our hearts," he continued,

putting down the ladle and suddenly becoming grave, "the thought of one who is not today with us to see this

joyful occasion; to her, too, in this our happiness we turn our hearts and glasses because it is her joy that we

All stood up, clinking their glasses, and drank: then, in the hush that followed, Greta, according to custom,

began to sing a German carol; at the end of the fourth line she stopped, abashed.

Heir Paul blew his nose loudly, and, taking up a cap that had fallen from a cracker, put it on.

Every one followed his example, Miss Naylor attaining the distinction of a pair of donkey's ears, which she

wore, after another glass of wine, with an air of sacrificing to the public good.

At the end of supper came the moment for the offering of gifts. Herr Paul had tied a handkerchief over

Greta's eyes, and one by one they brought her presents. Greta, under forfeit of a kiss, was bound to tell the

giver by the feel of the gift. Her swift, supple little hands explored noiselessly; and in every case she guessed

"That is Dr. Edmund's," she cried at once. Christian saw that Harz had disappeared, but suddenly he came

Advancing on tiptoe, he put his present into Greta's hands. It was a small bronze copy of a Donatello statue.

"Oh, Herr Harz!" cried Greta; "I saw it in the studio that day. It stood on the table, and it is lovely."

They went into the next room now, and Herr Paul, taking Greta's bandage, transferred it to his own eyes.

"Take caretake care, all!" he cried; "I am a devil of a catcher," and, feeling the air cautiously, he moved

forward like a bear about to hug. He caught no one. Christian and Greta whisked under his arms and left him

grasping at the air. Mrs. Decie slipped past with astonishing agility. Mr. Treffry, smoking his cigar, and

barricaded in a corner, jeered: "Bravo, Paul! The active beggar! Can't he run! Go it, Greta!"

At last Herr Paul caught Cousin Teresa, who, fattened against the wall, lost her head, and stood uttering tiny

Suddenly Mrs. Decie started playing The Blue Danube. Herr Paul dropped the handkerchief, twisted his

moustache up fiercely, glared round the room, and seizing Greta by the waist, began dancing furiously,

bobbing up and down like a cork in lumpy water. Cousin Teresa followed suit with Miss Naylor, both very

"I can't dance," he said, "that is, I have only danced once, butif you would try with me!"

She put her hand on his arm, and they began. She danced, light as a feather, eyes shining, feet flying, her

body bent a little forward. It was not a great success at first, but as soon as the time had got into Harz's feet,

they went swinging on when all the rest had stopped. Sometimes one couple or another slipped through the

window to dance on the veranda, and came whirling in again. The lamplight glowed on the girls' white

dresses; on Herr Paul's perspiring face. He constituted in himself a perfect orgy, and when the music stopped

Greta clapped her hands: "Every evening we will dance, every evening we will dance."

"I'll show you how they dance in my village, feet upon the ceiling!" And running to Dawney, he said:

"Hold me here! Lift meso! Now, ontwo," he tried to swing his feet above his head, but, with an "Ouch!"

from Dawney, they collapsed, and sat abruptly on the floor. This untimely event brought the evening to an

end. Dawney left, escorting Cousin Teresa, and Harz strode home humming The Blue Danube, still feeling

In their room the two girls sat long at the window to cool themselves before undressing.

Cristian too thought: 'I have never been so happy in my life as I have been today. I should like every day to

be like this!' And she leant out into the night, to let the air cool her cheeks.

"Chris!" said Greta some days after this, "Miss Naylor danced last evening; I think she shall have a headache

"That is nice; then we can talk. I am sorry about the headache. I shall give her some of my Eau de Cologne."

Miss Naylor's headaches after dancing were things on which to calculate. The girls carried their books into

the arbour; it was a showery day, and they had to run for shelter through the raindrops and sunlight.

"The French first, Chris!" Greta liked her French, in which she was not far inferior to Christian; the lesson

therefore proceeded in an admirable fashion. After one hour exactly by her watch (Mr. Treffry's birthday

Greta vanished. Christian watched the bright water dripping from the roof; her lips were parted in a smile.

She was thinking of something Harz had said the night before. A discussion having been started as to whether

average opinion did, or did not, safeguard Society, Harz, after sitting silent, had burst out: "I think one man in

earnest is better than twenty halfhearted men who follow tamely; in the end he does Society most good."

"Bah!" Herr Paul chimed in; "the weak goes to the wall; that is as certain as that you and I are here."

"Bino," she said, sighing, "has eaten too much. I remember now, I did feed them before. Must we do the

Greta opened her book, and put a finger in the page. "Herr Harz is very kind to me," she said. "Yesterday he

brought a bird which had. come into his studio with a hurt wing; he brought it very gently in his

handkerchiefhe is very kind, the bird was not even frightened of him. You did not know about that,

"I think he does, and it is because you do not make him angry. It is very easy to make him angry; you have

"You are a little cat!" said Christian; "it isn't true, at all. He hates shams, and can't bear meanness; and it is

"Father!" began Christian hotly; biting her lips she stopped, and turned her wrathful eyes on Greta.

"I? What has that to do with it? Because one is a coward that doesn't make it any better, does it?"

"I wish you would attend to your own faults, and not pry into other people's," and pushing the book aside,

Some minutes passed, then Greta leaning over, rubbed a cheek against her shoulder.

There was no answer. The lingering raindrops pattered down on the roof. Greta pulled at her sister's sleeve.

Christian looked up, dropped her eyes again, and said: "Will you go on with the history, Greta?"

"Yes, I willbut, oh! Chris, there is the luncheon gong!" and she meekly closed the book.

During the following weeks there was a "sitting" nearly every afternoon. Miss Naylor usually attended them;

the little lady was, to a certain extent, carried past objection. She had begun to take an interest in the picture,

and to watch the process out of the corner of her eye; in the depths of her dear mind, however, she never quite

got used to the vanity and waste of time; her lips would move and her knittingneedles click in suppressed

What Harz did fast he did best; if he had leisure he "saw too much," loving his work so passionately that he

could never tell exactly when to stop. He hated to lay things aside, always thinking: "I can get it better." Greta

was finished, but with Christian, try as he would, he was not satisfied; from day to day her face seemed to

Dawney would often stroll out to them after his daily visit, and lying on the grass, his arms crossed behind his

head, and a big cigar between his lips, would gently banter everybody. Tea came at five o'clock, and then

Mrs. Decie appeared armed with a magazine or novel, for she was proud of her literary knowledge. The

sitting was suspended; Harz, with a cigarette, would move between the table and the picture, drinking his tea,

putting a touch in here and there; he never sat down till it was all over for the day. During these "rests" there

was talk, usually ending in discussion. Mrs. Decie was happiest in conversations of a literary order, making

frequent use of such expressions as: "After all, it produces an illusiondoes anything else matter?" "Rather a

poseur, is he not?" "A question, that, of temperament," or "A matter of the definition of words"; and other

charming generalities, which sound well, and seem to go far, and are pleasingly irrefutable. Sometimes the

discussion turned on Arton points of colour or technique; whether realism was quite justified; and should

we be preRaphaelites? When these discussions started, Christian's eyes would grow bigger and clearer, with

a sort of shining reasonableness; as though they were trying to see into the depths. And Harz would stare at

them. But the look in those eyes eluded him, as if they had no more meaning than Mrs. Decie's, which, with

their pale, watchful smile, always seemed saying: "Come, let us take a little intellectual exercise."

Greta, pulling Scruff's ears, would gaze up at the speakers; when the talk was over, she always shook herself.

But if no one came to the "sittings," there would sometimes be very earnest, quick talk, sometimes long

Harz finished the touch he was putting on the canvas, before he answered: "Roman Catholic, I suppose; I was

"Christian," murmured Greta, who was plaiting blades of grass, "shall always want to know what people

"How can I tell?" said Harz; "I've never really thought of itnever had the time."

"How can you help thinking?" Christian said: "I have toit seems to me so awful that we might come to an

She closed her book, and it slipped off her lap. She went on: "There must be a future life, we're so

incomplete. What's the good of your work, for instance? What's the use of developing if you have to stop?"

"I don't know," answered Harz. "I don't much care. All I know is, I've got to work."

"For happinessthe real happiness is fightingthe rest is nothing. If you have finished a thing, does it ever

Christian clasped her hands behind her neck; sunlight flickered through the leaves on to the bosom of her

"You work because you must; but that's not enough. Why do you feel you must? I want to know what's

behind. When I was travelling with Aunt Constance the winter before last we often talkedI've heard her

discuss it with her friends. She says we move in circles till we reach Nirvana. But last winter I found I

couldn't talk to her; it seemed as if she never really meant anything. Then I started readingKant and

"Ah!" put in Harz, "if they would teach me to draw better, or to see a new colour in a flower, or an expression

Christian leaned forward: "It must be right to get as near truth as possible; every step gained is something.

You believe in truth; truth is the same as beautythat was what you saidyou try to paint the truth, you

always see the beauty. But how can we know truth, unless we know what is at the root of it?"

"Ithink," murmured Greta, sotto voce, "you see one wayand he sees anotherbecauseyou are not

Nicholas Treffry was coming from the house, holding the Times in one hand, and a huge meerschaum pipe in

"Aha!" he said to Harz: "how goes the picture?" and he lowered himself into a chair.

Mr. Treffry growled. "Confounded humbugs, doctors!" he said. "Your father used to swear by them; why, his

Mr. Treffry looked at her; his eyes twinkled. "I don't know, my dear. If they get half a chance, they won't let

There had been a gentle breeze all day, but now it had died away; not a leaf quivered, not a blade of grass was

stirring; from the house were heard faint sounds as of some one playing on a pipe. A blackbird came hopping

"When you were a boy, did you go after birds' nests, Uncle Nic?" Greta whispered.

"You frightened him, Uncle Nic! Papa says that at Schloss Konig, where he lived when he was young, he

"Gammon, Greta. Your father never took a jackdaw's nest, his legs are much too round!"

Harz began to gather his brushes: "Thank you," he said, "that's all I can do today."

Uncle Nic got up slowly, and stood in front of the picture. "When it's for sale," he said at last, "I'll buy it."

Harz bowed; but for some reason he felt annoyed, as if he had been asked to part with something personal.

"You'll stay and have a snack with us?" said Mr. Treffry; "the doctor's stopping." Gathering up his paper, he

moved off to the house with his hand on Greta's shoulder, the terrier running in front. Harz and Christian

were left alone. He was scraping his palette, and she was sitting with her elbows resting on her knees;

between them, a gleam of sunlight dyed the path golden. It was evening already; the bushes and the flowers,

after the day's heat, were breathing out perfume; the birds had started their evensong.

"I shall get something into it that everybody does not seesomething behind the surface, that will last."

Christian said slowly: "That's like a challenge. You were right when you said fighting is happinessfor

yourself, but not for me. I'm a coward. I hate to hurt people, I like them to like me. If you had to do anything

that would make them hate you, you would do it all the same, if it helped your work; that's fineit's what I

The young painter looked towards the house, where under the veranda old Nicholas Treffry was still in sight;

"If I were the finest painter in the world, he wouldn't think anything of me for it, I'm afraid; but if I could

show him handfuls of big cheques for bad pictures I had painted, he would respect me."

She put her hand out, and her fingers met his. "We shall be late," she said, glowing, and catching up her

There was one other guest at dinner, a wellgroomed person with pale, fattish face, dark eyes, and hair thin

on the temples, whose clothes had a military cut. He looked like a man fond of ease, who had gone out of his

groove, and collided with life. Herr Paul introduced him as Count Mario Sarelli.

Two hanging lamps with crimson shades threw a rosy light over the table, where, in the centre stood a silver

basket, full of irises. Through the open windows the garden was all clusters of black foliage in the dying

light. Moths fluttered round the lamps; Greta, following them with her eyes, gave quite audible sighs of

pleasure when they escaped. Both girls wore white, and Harz, who sat opposite Christian, kept looking at her,

Mrs. Decie understood the art of diningthe dinner, ordered by Herr Paul, was admirable; the servants silent

Sarelli, who sat on her right hand, seemed to partake of little except olives, which he dipped into a glass of

sherry. He turned his black, solemn eyes silently from face to face, now and then asking the meaning of an

English word. After a discussion on modern Rome, it was debated whether or no a criminal could be told by

"Crime," said Mrs. Decie, passing her hand across her brow"crime is but the hallmark of strong

Miss Naylor, gushing rather pink, stammered: "A great crime must show itselfa murder. Why, of course!"

"If that were so," said Dawney, "we should only have to look about usno more detectives."

Miss Naylor rejoined with slight severity: "I cannot conceive that such a thing can pass the human face by,

Miss Naylor shivered, as if some one had put a penny down her back; and Mrs. Decie, leaning towards Harz,

smiled like one who has made a pet dog do a trick. Christian alone was motionless, looking thoughtfully at

"I saw a man tried for murder once," he said, "a murder for revenge; I watched the judge, and I thought all the

time: 'I'd rather be that murderer than you; I've never seen a meaner face; you crawl through life; you're not a

In the dubious silence following the painter's speech, Mr. Treffry could distinctly be heard humming. Then

Sarelli said: "What do you say to anarchists, who are not men, but savage beasts, whom I would tear to

"As to that," Harz answered defiantly, "it maybe wise to hang them, but then there are so many other men that

"How can we tell what they went through; what their lives were?" murmured Christian.

Miss Naylor, who had been rolling a pellet of bread, concealed it hastily. "They arealways given a chance

Mrs. Decie signalled with her fan: "We are trying to express the inexpressibleshall we go into the garden?"

He sat down again with a sudden sense of loss. There was no white figure opposite now. Raising his eyes he

"Shocking affair!" he said; "I could never have believed it of her! B is quite beside himself. Yesterday

"But to leave without a word, and go no one knows where! B is 'viveur' no doubt, mais, mon Dieu, que

voulezvous? She was always a poor, pale thing. Why!, when my" he flourished his cigar; "I was not

alwayswhat I should have beenone lives in a world of flesh and bloodwe are not all

angelsque diable! But this is a very vulgar business. She goes off; leaves everythingwithout a word;

and Bis very fond of her. These things are not done!" the starched bosom of his shirt seemed swollen by

Mr. Treffry, with a heavy hand on the table, eyed him sideways. Dawney said slowly:

"Ah!" said Herr Paul. "He is fond of her. He is a chap of resolution, he will get her back. He told me: 'Well,

you know, I shall follow her wherever she goes till she comes back.' He will do it, he is a determined chap; he

"She was a fool to marry him," said Dawney; "they haven't a point in common; she hates him like poison, and

she's the better of the two. But it doesn't pay a woman to run off like that. B had better hurry up, though.

"Eh?" said Mr. Treffry; "how should I know? Ask Paul there, he's one of your moral men, or Count Sarelli."

The latter said impassively: "If I cared for her I should very likely kill herif not" he shrugged his

Harz, who was watching, was reminded of his other words at dinner, "wild beasts whom I would tear to

pieces." He looked with interest at this quiet man who said these extremely ferocious things, and thought: 'I

Herr Paul twirled his wineglass in his fingers. "There are family ties," he said, "there is society, there is

decency; a wife should be with her husband. B will do quite right. He must go after her; she will not

perhaps come back at first; he will follow her; she will begin to think, 'I am helplessI am ridiculous!' A

woman is soon beaten. They will return. She is once more with her husband Society will forgive, it will be

Mr. Treffry tugged at his beard: "Make a woman live with you, if she don't want to? I call it low."

"But, my dear," exclaimed Herr Paul, "how should you know? You have not been married."

"But looking at the question broadly, sir," said Dawney; "if a husband always lets his wife do as she likes,

"The marriage tie," growled Mr. Treffry, "is the biggest thing there is! But, by Jove, Doctor, I'm a Dutchman

"I am not thinking of myself," Herr Paul cried out, "I think of the community. There are rights."

"A decent community never yet asked a man to tread on his self respect. If I get my fingers skinned over my

marriage, which I undertake at my own risk, what's the community to do with it? D'you think I'm going to

whine to it to put the plaster on? As to rights, it'd be a deuced sight better for us all if there wasn't such a fuss

about 'em. Leave that to women! I don't give a tinker's damn for men who talk about their rights in such

"Forgiveness is another thing. I leave that to your sanctimonious beggars. But, hunt a woman! Hang it, sir,

I'm not a cad!" and bringing his hand down with a rattle, he added: "This is a subject that don't bear talking

Sarelli fell back in his seat, twirling his moustaches fiercely. Harz, who had risen, looked at Christian's empty

Herr Paul, with a somewhat vinous glare, still muttered, "But your duty to the family!"

Harz slipped through the window. The moon was like a wonderful white lantern in the purple sky; there was

but a smoulder of stars. Beneath the softness of the air was the iciness of the snow; it made him want to run

and leap. A sleepy beetle dropped on its back; he turned it over and watched it scurry across the grass.

Someone was playing Schumann's Kinderscenen. Harz stood still to listen. The notes came twining, weaving

round his thoughts; the whole night seemed full of girlish voices, of hopes and fancies, soaring away to

mountain heightsinvisible, yet present. Between the stems of the acaciatrees he could see the flicker of

white dresses, where Christian and Greta were walking arm in arm. He went towards them; the blood flushed

up in his face, he felt almost surfeited by some sweet emotion. Then, in sudden horror, he stood still. He was

in love! With nothing done with everything before him! He was going to bow down to a face! The flicker of

the dresses was no longer visible. He would not be fettered, he would stamp it out! He turned away; but with

Round the corner of the house, in the shadow of the wall, Dominique, the Luganese, in embroidered slippers,

was smoking a long cherrywood pipe, leaning against a treeMephistopheles in evening clothes. Harz

Resting a card against the tree Harz wrote to Mrs. Decie: "Forgive me, I am obliged to go away. In a few

He sent Dominique for his hat. During the man's absence he was on the point of tearing up the card and going

When the Luganese returned he thrust the card into his hand, and walked out between the tall poplars,

Harz walked away along the road. A dog was howling. The sound seemed too appropriate. He put his fingers

to his ears, but the lugubrious noise passed those barriers, and made its way into his heart. Was there nothing

that would put an end to this emotion? It was no better in the old house on the wall; he spent the night

Just before daybreak he slipped out with a knapsack, taking the road towards Meran.

He had not quite passed through Gries when he overtook a man walking in the middle of the road and leaving

It was Count Sarelli. The raw light had imparted a grey tinge to his pale face, the growth of his beard showed

black already beneath the skin; his thumbs were hooked in the pockets of a closely buttoned coat, he

"You are making a journey?" he said, nodding at the knapsack. "You are earlyI am late; our friend has

admirable kummelI have drunk too much. You have not been to bed, I think? If there is no sleep in one's

bed it is no good going to look for it. You find that? It is better to drink kummel...! Pardon! You are doing the

right thing: get away! Get away as fast as possible! Don't wait, and let it catch you!"

"Pardon!" Sarelli said again, raising his hat, "that girlthe white girlI saw. You do well to get away!" he

swayed a little as he walked. "That old fellowwhat is his nameTrrreffrry! What ideas of honour!" He

mumbled: "Honour is an abstraction! If a man is not true to an abstraction, he is a low type; but wait a

The hedges were brightening with a faint pinky glow; there was no sound on the long, deserted road, but that

of their footsteps; suddenly a bird commenced to chirp, another answeredthe world seemed full of these

"That white girl," he said, speaking with rapidity. "Yes! You do well! get away! Don't let it catch you! I

waited, it caught me what happened? Everything horribleand nowkummel!" Laughing a thick laugh,

"I was a fine fellownothing too big for Mario Sarelli; the regiment looked to me. Then she camewith her

eyes and her white dress, always white, like this one; the little mole on her chin, her hands for ever

movingtheir touch as warm as sunbeams. Then, no longer Sarelli this, and that! The little house close to

the ramparts! Two arms, two eyes, and nothing here," he tapped his breast, "but flames that made ashes

quicklyin her, like this ash!" he flicked the white flake off his cigar. "It's droll! You agree, hein? Some

He stopped at a house close to the road, and stood still, his teeth bared in a grin.

"But I bore you," he said. His cigar, flung down, sputtered forth its sparks on the road in front of Harz. "I live

heregoodmorning! You are a man for workyour honour is your Art! I know, and you are young! The

man who loves flesh better than his honour is a low type I am a low type. I! Mario Sarelli, a low type! I

He remained swaying at the gate with the grin fixed on his face; then staggered up the steps, and banged the

door. But before Harz had walked on, he again appeared, beckoning, in the doorway. Obeying an impulse,

"We will make a night of it," said SareIIi; "wine, brandy, kummel? I am virtuouskummel it must be for

He sat down at a piano, and began to touch the keys. Harz poured out some wine. Sarelli nodded.

Winebrandykummel!" he quickened the time of the tune: "it is not too long a passage, and this"he

Sarelli, who was bending and swaying to the music of a tarantella, broke off, and letting his eyes rest on the

"It pricks you?" said Sarelli suavely; "what do you think of this?" he played again, crouching over the piano,

"Your health! And so you don't believe in suicide, but in murder? The custom is the other way; but you don't

believe in customs? Customs are only for Society?" He drank a glass of kummel. "You do not love Society?"

"I am not too fond of other people's thoughts," he said at last; "I prefer to think my own.

"Ah!" he said; "now we are coming to it. It is good to be an artist, a fine bantam of an artist; where other men

Harz broke into laughter. It was crazy to stay there listening to this mad fellow. What had brought him in? He

"Ah!" said Sarelli, "but it is no good going to bedlet us talk. I have a lot to sayit is pleasant to talk to

"You are all anarchists, you painters, you writing fellows. You live by playing ball with facts.

Imagesnothing solid hein? You're all for new things too, to tickle your nerves. No discipline! True

Harz poured out another glass of wine and drank it off. The man's feverish excitement was catching.

"Only fools," he replied, "take things for granted. As for discipline, what do you aristocrats, or bourgeois

know of discipline? Have you ever been hungry? Have you ever had your soul down on its back?"

"A man's no use," cried Harz, "if he's always thinking of what others think; he must stand on his own legs."

"What would you do," he said, striking his chest, "if you had a devilhere? Would you go to bed?"

A sort of pity seized on Harz. He wanted to say something that would be consoling but could find no words;

and suddenly he felt disgusted. What link was there between him and this man; between his love and this

"Harz!" muttered Sarelli; "Harz means 'tar,' hein? Your family is not an old one?"

Sarelli lifted the kummel bottle and emptied it into his glass, with a steady hand.

"You're honestand we both have devils. I forgot; I brought you in to see a picture!"

He threw wide the shutters; the windows were already open, and a rush of air came in.

"Ah!" he said, sniffing, "smells of the earth, nicht wahr, Herr Artist? You should knowit belongs to your

"Then you have given me the lie, Signor," and drawing out his handkerchief SareIIi flicked it in the painter's

"Duelling is a good custom!" said Sarelli. "I shall have the honour to teach you just this one, unless you are

afraid. Here are pistols this room is twenty feet across at least, twenty feet is no bad distance."

And pulling out a drawer he took two pistols from a case, and put them on the table.

"One moment!" Sarelli murmured: "I will load them, they are more useful loaded."

Harz leaned out of the window; his head was in a whirl. 'What on earth is happening?' he thought. 'He's

mador I am! Confound him! I'm not going to be killed!' He turned and went towards the table. Sarelli's

head was sunk on his arms, he was asleep. Harz methodically took up the pistols, and put them back into the

drawer. A sound made him turn his head; there stood a tall, strong young woman in a loose gown caught

together on her chest. Her grey eyes glanced from the painter to the bottles, from the bottles to the

"It is often like this," she said in the country patois; "der Herr must not be frightened."

"Ah!" she said, sitting down and resting her elbow on the table; "he will not wake!"

Harz bowed to her; her patient figure, in spite of its youth and strength, seemed to him pathetic. Taking up his

The smoke of cottages rose straight; wisps of mist were wandering about the valley, and the songs of birds

dropping like blessings. All over the grass the spiders had spun a sea of threads that bent and quivered to the

Blacksmiths, tall stout men with knotted muscles, sleepy eyes, and great fair beards, came out of their forges

Teams of white oxen, waiting to be harnessed, lashed their tails against their flanks, moving their heads

slowly from side to side in the heat. Old women at chalet doors blinked and knitted.

The white houses, with gaping caves of storage under the roofs, the red church spire, the clinking of hammers

in the forges, the slow stamping of oxenall spoke of sleepy toil, without ideas or ambition. Harz knew it all

Towards sunset coming to a copse of larches, he sat down to rest. It was very still, but for the tinkle of

Two barefooted little boys came from the wood, marching earnestly along, and looking at Harz as if he were

'At their age,' he thought, 'I should have done the same.' A hundred memories rushed into his mind.

He looked down at the village straggling belowwhite houses with russet tiles and crowns of smoke,

vineyards where the young leaves were beginning to unfold, the redcapped spire, a thread of bubbling

stream, an old stone cross. He had been fourteen years struggling up from all this; and now just as he had

breathing space, and the time to give himself wholly to his workthis weakness was upon him! Better, a

In a house or two lights began to wink; the scent of wood smoke reached him, the distant chimes of bells, the

Next day his one thought was to get back to work. He arrived at the studio in the afternoon, and, laying in

provisions, barricaded the lower door. For three days he did not go out; on the fourth day he went to Villa

Schloss Runkelsteingrey, blind, strengthlessstill keeps the valley. The windows which once, like eyes,

watched men and horses creeping through the snow, braved the splutter of guns and the gleam of torches, are

now holes for the birds to nest in. Tangled creepers have spread to the very summits of the walls. In the keep,

instead of grim men in armour, there is a wooden board recording the history of the castle and instructing

visitors on the subject of refreshments. Only at night, when the cold moon blanches everything, the castle

After a long morning's sitting the girls had started forth with Harz and Dawney to spend the afternoon at the

ruin; Miss Naylor, kept at home by headache, watched them depart with words of caution against sunstroke,

Since the painter's return Christian and he had hardly spoken to each other. Below the battlement on which

they sat, in a railed gallery with little tables, Dawney and Greta were playing dominoes, two soldiers drinking

beer, and at the top of a flight of stairs the Custodian's wife sewing at a garment. Christian said suddenly: "I

"I don't think you care," she went on with a sort of desperate haste, "whether you hurt people or not. You

He turned his head away, and then burst out: "I'm proud to come straight from the soilI wouldn't have it

otherwise; but they are of 'the people,' everything is narrow with themthey only understand what they can

"I'm sorry I spoke like that," said Christian softly; "you've never told me about yourself."

There was something just a little cruel in the way the painter looked at her, then seeming to feel compunction,

he said quickly: "I always hatedthe peasant lifeI wanted to get away into the world; I had a feeling in

hereI wantedI don't know what I wanted! I did run away at last to a housepainter at Meran. The priest

Christian's eyes were very bright, her lips moved, like the lips of a child listening to a story.

"I stayed at Meran two years, till I'd learnt all I could there, then a brother of my mother's helped me to get to

Vienna; I was lucky enough to find work with a man who used to decorate churches. We went about the

country together. Once when he was ill I painted the roof of a church entirely by myself; I lay on my back on

"A friend asked me why I didn't try for the Academie. That started me going to the night schools; I worked

Then when the examination came, I thought I could do nothingit was just as if I had never had a brush or

pencil in my hand. But the second day a professor in passing me said, 'Good! Quite good!' That gave me

"To work in the schools after that I had to give up my business, of course. There was only one teacher who

ever taught me anything; the others all seemed fools. This man would come and rub out what you'd done with

his sleeve. I used to cry with ragebut I told him I could only learn from him, and he was so astonished that

His face burned with a dark flush. "I don't know how I lived; you must have been through these things to

"What do you want me to tell you? How I went twice a week to eat free dinners! How I took charity! How I

was hungry! There was a rich cousin of my mother'sI used to go to him. I didn't like it. But if you're

"I used to borrow apronsful of coals from other students who were as poorbut I never went to the rich

"That sort of thing makes you hate the world! You work till you stagger; you're cold and hungry; you see rich

people in their carriages, wrapped in furs, and all the time you want to do something great. You pray for a

"But I wasn't the only one in that condition; we used to meet. Garin, a Russian with a brown beard and

patches of cheek showing through, and yellow teeth, who always looked hungry. Paunitz, who came from

sympathy! He had fat cheeks and little eyes, and a big gold chainthe swine! And little Misek. It was in his

room we met, with the paper peeling off the walls, and two doors with cracks in them, so that there was

always a draught. We used to sit on his bed, and pull the dirty blankets over us for warmth; and

smoketobacco was the last thing we ever went without. Over the bed was a Virgin and ChildMisek was

a very devout Catholic; but one day when he had had no dinner and a dealer had kept his picture without

paying him, he took the image and threw it on the floor before our eyes; it broke, and he trampled on the bits.

Lendorf was another, a heavy fellow who was always puffing out his white cheeks and smiting himself, and

saying: 'Cursed society!' And Schonborn, an aristocrat who had quarrelled with his family. He was the

poorest of us all; but only he and I would ever have dared to do anythingthey all knew that!"

"You see! you're afraid of me at once. It's impossible even for you to understand. It only makes you afraid. A

"That's not true. If I can't understand, I can feel. Would you be the same now if it were to come again?"

"Yes, it drives me mad even now to think of people fatted with prosperity, sneering and holding up their

hands at poor devils who have suffered ten times more than the most those soft animals could bear. I'm older;

I've livedI know things can't be put right by violencenothing will put things right, but that doesn't stop

Unconsciously she claimed, and he seemed unconsciously to admit her right to this knowledge.

"There's not much to tell. One day we began talking in low voices Garin began it; he had been in some

affair in Russia. We took an oath; after that we never raised our voices. We had a plan. It was all new to me,

and I hated the whole thingbut I was always hungry, or sick from taking charity, and I would have done

anything. They knew that; they used to look at me and Schonborn; we knew that no one else had any courage.

He and I were great friends, but we never talked of that; we tried to keep our minds away from the thought of

it. If we had a good day and were not so hungry, it seemed unnatural; but when the day had not been

goodthen it seemed natural enough. I wasn't afraid, but I used to wake up in the night; I hated the oath we

had taken, I hated every one of those fellows; the thing was not what I was made for, it wasn't my work, it

wasn't my nature, it was forced on meI hated it, but sometimes I was like a madman."

"All this time I was working at the Academie, and learning all I could.... One evening that we met, Paunitz

was not there. Misek was telling us how the thing had been arranged. Schonborn and I looked at each

otherit was warmperhaps we were not hungryit was springtime, too, and in the Spring it's different.

"While we were talking there came a knock at the door. Lendorf put his eye to the keyhole, and made a sign.

The police were there. Nobody said anything, but Misek crawled under the bed; we all followed; and the

knocking grew louder and louder. In the wall at the back of the bed was a little door into an empty cellar. We

crept through. There was a trapdoor behind some cases, where they used to roll barrels in. We crawled

"I thought I would get my money, but there was a policeman before my door. They had us finely. It was

Paunitz; if I met him even now I should wring his neck. I swore I wouldn't be caught, but I had no idea where

to go. Then I thought of a little Italian barber who used to shave me when I had money for a shave; I knew he

would help. He belonged to some Italian Society; he often talked to me, under his breath, of course. I went to

him. He was shaving himself before going to a ball. I told him what had happened; it was funny to see him

put his back against the door. He was very frightened, understanding this sort of thing better than I didfor I

was only twenty then. He shaved my head and moustache and put me on a fair wig. Then he brought me

macaroni, and some meat, to eat. He gave me a big fair moustache, and a cap, and hid the moustache in the

lining. He brought me a cloak of his own, and four gulden. All the time he was extremely frightened, and

"When I had done, he just said: 'Go away, I refuse to know anything more of you.'

"I thanked him and went out. I walked about all that night; for I couldn't think of anything to do or anywhere

to go. In the morning I slept on a seat in one of the squares. Then I thought I would go to the Gallerien; and I

spent the whole day looking at the pictures. When the Galleries were shut I was very tired, so I went into a

cafe, and had some beer. When I came out I sat on the same seat in the Square. I meant to wait till dark and

then walk out of the city and take the train at some little station, but while I was sitting there I went to sleep.

"'No,' he said, 'you're not bald, you've been shaved. I can feel the hair coming.'

"'Ah!' he said, 'you'll come with me and explain all this; your nose and eyes are looked for.'

Harz seemed carried away by his story. His quick dark face worked, his steelgrey eyes stared as though he

The hot sun struck down; Christian drew herself together, sitting with her hands clasped round her knees.

"I didn't care by then what came of it. I didn't even think what I was going to say. He led me down a passage

to a room with bars across the windows and long seats, and maps on the walls. We sat and waited. He kept

his eye on me all the time; and I saw no hope. Presently the Inspector came. 'Bring him in here,' he said; I

remember feeling I could kill him for ordering me about! We went into the next room. It had a large clock, a

writingtable, and a window, without bars, looking on a courtyard. Long policemen's coats and caps were

hanging from some pegs. The Inspector told me to take off my cap. I took it off, wig and all. He asked me

who I was, but I refused to answer. Just then there was a loud sound of voices in the room we had come from.

The Inspector told the policeman to look after me, and went to see what it was. I could hear him talking. He

called out: 'Come here, Becker!' I stood very quiet, and Becker went towards the door. I heard the Inspector

say: 'Go and find Schwartz, I will see after this fellow.' The policeman went, and the Inspector stood with his

back to me in the halfopen door, and began again to talk to the man in the other room. Once or twice he

looked round at me, but I stood quiet all the time. They began to disagree, and their voices got angry. The

Inspector moved a little into the other room. 'Now!' I thought, and slipped off my cloak. I hooked off a

policeman's coat and cap, and put them on. My heart beat till I felt sick. I went on tiptoe to the window. There

was no one outside, but at the entrance a man was holding some horses. I opened the window a little and held

my breath. I heard the Inspector say: 'I will report you for impertinence!' and slipped through the window.

The coat came down nearly to my heels, and the cap over my eyes. I walked up to the man with the horses,

and said: 'Goodevening.' One of the horses had begun to kick, and he only grunted at me. I got into a

passing tram; it was five minutes to the West Bahnhof; I got out there. There was a train starting; they were

shouting 'Einsteigen!' I ran. The collector tried to stop me. I shouted: 'Businessimportant!' He let me by. I

Harz went on, twisting a twig of ivy in his hands: "There was another man in the carriage reading a paper.

Presently I said to him, 'Where do we stop first?' 'St. Polten.' Then I knew it was the Munich expressSt.

Polten, Amstetten, Linz, and Salzburgfour stops before the frontier. The man put down his paper and

looked at me; he had a big fair moustache and rather shabby clothes. His looking at me disturbed me, for I

thought every minute he would say: 'You're no policeman!' And suddenly it came into my mind that if they

looked for me in this train, it would be as a policeman!they would know, of course, at the station that a

policeman had run past at the last minute. I wanted to get rid of the coat and cap, but the man was there, and I

didn't like to move out of the carriage for other people to notice. So I sat on. We came to St. Polten at last.

The man in my carriage took his bag, got out, and left his paper on the seat. We started again; I breathed at

last, and as soon as I could took the cap and coat and threw them out into the darkness. I thought: 'I shall get

across the frontier now.' I took my own cap out and found the moustache Luigi gave me; rubbed my clothes

as clean as possible; stuck on the moustache, and with some little ends of chalk in my pocket made my

eyebrows light; then drew some lines in my face to make it older, and pulled my cap well down above my

wig. I did it pretty wellI was quite like the man who had got out. I sat in his corner, took up his newspaper,

and waited for Amstetten. It seemed a tremendous time before we got there. From behind my paper I could

see five or six policemen on the platform, one quite close. He opened the door, looked at me, and walked

through the carriage into the corridor. I took some tobacco and rolled up a cigarette, but it shook, "Harz lifted

the ivy twig, "like this. In a minute the conductor and two more policemen came. 'He was here,' said the

conductor, 'with this gentleman.' One of them looked at me, and asked: 'Have you seen a policeman travelling

on this train?' 'Yes,' I said. 'Where?' 'He got out at St. Polten.' The policeman asked the conductor: 'Did you

see him get out there?' The conductor shook his head. I said: 'He got out as the train was moving.' 'Ah!' said

the policeman, 'what was he like?' 'Rather short, and no moustache. Why?' ' Did you notice anything

unusual?' 'No,' I said, 'only that he wore coloured trousers. What's the matter?' One policeman said to the

other: 'That's our man! Send a telegram to St. Polten; he has more than an hour's start.' He asked me where I

was going. I told him: 'Linz.' 'Ah!' he said, 'you'll have to give evidence; your name and address please?'

'Josef Reinhardt, 17 Donau Strasse.' He wrote it down. The conductor said: 'We are late, can we start?' They

shut the door. I heard them say to the conductor: 'Search again at Linz, and report to the Inspector there.'

They hurried on to the platform, and we started. At first I thought I would get out as soon as the train had left

the station. Then, that I should be too far from the frontier; better to go on to Linz and take my chance there. I

After a long time, we began to run more slowly. I put my head out and could see in the distance a ring of

lights hanging in the blackness. I loosened the carriage door and waited for the train to run slower still; I

didn't mean to go into Linz like a rat into a trap. At last I could wait no longer; I opened the door, jumped and

fell into some bushes. I was not much hurt, but bruised, and the breath knocked out of me. As soon as I could,

I crawled out. It was very dark. I felt heavy and sore, and for some time went stumbling in and out amongst

trees. Presently I came to a clear space; on one side I could see the town's shape drawn in lighted lamps, and

on the other a dark mass, which I think was forest; in the distance too was a thin chain of lights. I thought:

'They must be the lights of a bridge.' Just then the moon came out, and I could see the river shining below. It

was cold and damp, and I walked quickly. At last I came out on a road, past houses and barking dogs, down

to the river bank; there I sat against a shed and went to sleep. I woke very stiff. It was darker than before; the

moon was gone. I could just see the river. I stumbled on, to get through the town before dawn. It was all

black shapeshouses and sheds, and the smell of the river, the smell of rotting hay, apples, tar, mud, fish; and

here and there on a wharf a lantern. I stumbled over casks and ropes and boxes; I saw I should never get

clearthe dawn had begun already on the other side. Some men came from a house behind me. I bent, and

crept behind some barrels. They passed along the wharf; they seemed to drop into the river. I heard one of

them say: 'Passau before night.' I stood up and saw they had walked on board a steamer which was lying head

upstream, with some barges in tow. There was a plank laid to the steamer, and a lantern at the other end. I

could hear the fellows moving below deck, getting up steam. I ran across the plank and crept to the end of the

steamer. I meant to go with them to Passau! The rope which towed the barges was nearly taut; and I knew if I

could get on to the barges I should be safe. I climbed down on this rope and crawled along. I was desperate, I

knew they'd soon be coming up, and it was getting light. I thought I should fall into the water several times,

but I got to the barge at last. It was laden with straw. There was nobody on board. I was hungry and

thirstyI looked for something to eat; there was nothing but the ashes of a fire and a man's coat. I crept into

the straw. Soon a boat brought men, one for each barge, and there were sounds of steam. As soon as we

began moving through the water, I fell asleep. When I woke we were creeping through a heavy mist. I made a

little hole in the straw and saw the bargeman. He was sitting by a fire at the barge's edge, so that the sparks

and smoke blew away over the water. He ate and drank with both hands, and funny enough he looked in the

mist, like a big bird flapping its wings; there was a good smell of coffee, and I sneezed. How the fellow

started! But presently he took a pitchfork and prodded the straw. Then I stood up. I couldn't help laughing, he

was so surpriseda huge, dark man, with a great black beard. I pointed to the fire and said 'Give me some,

brother!' He pulled me out of the straw; I was so stiff, I couldn't move. I sat by the fire, and ate black bread

and turnips, and drank coffee; while he stood by, watching me and muttering. I couldn't understand him

wellhe spoke a dialect from Hungary. He asked me: How I got therewho I waswhere I was from? I

looked up in his face, and he looked down at me, sucking his pipe. He was a big man, he lived alone on the

river, and I was tired of telling lies, so I told him the whole thing. When I had done he just grunted. I can see

him now standing over me, with the mist hanging in his beard, and his great naked arms. He drew me some

water, and I washed and showed him my wig and moustache, and threw them overboard. All that day we lay

out on the barge in the mist, with our feet to the fire, smoking; now and then he would spit into the ashes and

mutter into his beard. I shall never forget that day. The steamer was like a monster with fiery nostrils, and the

other barges were dumb creatures with eyes, where the fires were; we couldn't see the bank, but now and then

a bluff and high trees, or a castle, showed in the mist. If I had only had paint and canvas that day!" He sighed.

"It was early Spring, and the river was in flood; they were going to Regensburg to unload there, take fresh

cargo, and back to Linz. As soon as the mist began to clear, the bargeman hid me in the straw. At Passau was

the frontier; they lay there for the night, but nothing happened, and I slept in the straw. The next day I lay out

on the barge deck; there was no mist, but I was freethe sun shone gold on the straw and the green sacking;

the water seemed to dance, and I laughedI laughed all the time, and the barge man laughed with me. A fine

fellow he was! At Regensburg I helped them to unload; for more than a week we worked; they nicknamed me

baldhead, and when it was all over I gave the money I earned for the unloading to the big bargeman. We

kissed each other at parting. I had still three of the gulden that Luigi gave me, and I went to a housepainter

and got work with him. For six months I stayed there to save money; then I wrote to my mother's cousin in

Vienna, and told him I was going to London. He gave me an introduction to some friends there. I went to

Hamburg, and from there to London in a cargo steamer, and I've never been back till now."

After a minute's silence Christian said in a startled voice: "They could arrest you then!"

"I had been working too hard, I wanted to see my countryafter seven years, and when it's forbidden! But

"Harder, at firstI couldn't speak the language. In my profession it's hard work to get recognised, it's hard

work to make a living. There are too many whose interest it is to keep you downI shan't forget them."

"No; there are fine fellows, too. I shan't forget them either. I can sell my pictures now; I'm no longer weak,

and I promise you I shan't forget. If in the future I have power, and I shall have powerI shan't forget."

A shower of fine gravel came rattling on the wall. Dawney was standing below them with an amused

"Are you going to stay there all night?" he asked. "Greta and I have bored each other."

On the way back neither spoke a word, but when they reached the Villa, Harz took her hand, and said:

"Fraulein Christian, I can't do any more with your picture. I shan't touch it again after this."

She made no answer, but they looked at each other, and both seemed to ask, to entreat, something more; then

In the corridor, Dominique, carrying a dish of fruit, met the sisters; he informed them that Miss Naylor had

retired to bed; that Herr Paul would not be home to dinner; his master was dining in his room; dinner would

be served for Mrs. Decie and the two young ladies in a quarter of an hour: "And the fish is good tonight;

little trouts! try them, Signorina!" He moved on quickly, softly, like a cat, the tails of his dresscoat flapping,

Christian ran upstairs. She flew about her room, feeling that if she once stood still it would all crystallise in

hard painful thought, which motion alone kept away. She washed, changed her dress and shoes, and ran down

to her uncle's room. Mr. Treffry had just finished dinner, pushed the little table back, and was sitting in his

chair, with his glasses on his nose, reading the Tines. Christian touched his forehead with her lips.

"Glad to see you, Chris. Your stepfather's out to dinner, and I can't stand your aunt when she's in one of her

talking moodsbit of a humbug, Chris, between ourselves; eh, isn't she?" His eyes twinkled.

Christian smiled. There was a curious happy restlessness in her that would not let her keep still.

"Picture finished?" Mr. Treffry asked suddenly, taking up the paper with a crackle. "Don't go and fall in love

'Why not?' she thought. 'What should you know about him? Isn't he good enough for me?' A gong sounded.

But when she had left the room Mr. Treffry put down the Times and stared at the door, humming to himself,

Christian could not eat; she sat, indifferent to the hoverings of Dominique, tormented by uneasy fear and

longings. She answered Mrs. Decie at random. Greta kept stealing looks at her from under her lashes.

"Decided characters are charming, don't you think so, Christian?" Mrs. Decie said, thrusting her chin a little

forward, and modelling the words. "That is why I like Mr. Harz so much; such an immense advantage for a

man to know his mind. You have only to look at that young man to see that he knows what he wants, and

Christian pushed her plate away. Greta, flushing, said abruptly: "Doctor Edmund is not a decided character, I

think. This afternoon he said: 'Shall I have some beeryes, I shallno, I shall not'; then he ordered the beer,

When dinner was over they went into her room. Greta stole at once to the piano, where her long hair fell

almost to the keys; silently she sat there fingering the notes, smiling to herself, and looking at her aunt, who

was reading Pater's essays. Christian too had taken up a book, but soon put it downof several pages she

had not understood a word. She went into the garden and wandered about the lawn, clasping her hands behind

her head. The air was heavy; very distant thunder trembled among the mountains, flashes of summer

lightning played over the trees; and two great moths were hovering about a rosebush. Christian watched their

soft uncertain rushes. Going to the little summerhouse she flung herself down on a seat, and pressed her

There was a strange and sudden aching there. Was he going from her? If so, what would be left? How little

and how narrow seemed the outlook of her lifewith the world waiting for her, the world of beauty, effort,

selfsacrifice, fidelity! It was as though a flash of that summer lightning had fled by, singeing her, taking

from her all powers of flight, burning off her wings, as off one of those pale hovering moths. Tears started up,

and trickled down her face. 'Blind!' she thought; 'how could I have been so blind?'

"Why did you come out?" he said. "Ah! why did you come out?" He caught her hand; Christian tried to draw

it from him, and to turn her eyes away, but she could not. He flung himself down on his knees, and cried: "I

"What are you doing?" she heard him say. "Is it possible that you love me?" and she felt his kisses on her

"My sweet! it will be so hard for you; you are so little, so little, and so weak." Clasping his hand closer to her

There was a long, soft silence, that seemed to last for ever. Suddenly she threw her arms round his neck and

"Whatever comes!" she whispered, and gathering her dress, escaped from him into the darkness.

Christian woke next morning with a smile. In her attitudes, her voice, her eyes, there was a happy and sweet

seriousness, as if she were hugging some holy thought. After breakfast she took a book and sat in the open

window, whence she could see the poplartrees guarding the entrance. There was a breeze; the roses close by

kept nodding to her; the cathedral bells were in full chime; bees hummed above the lavender; and in the sky

The sounds of Miss Naylor's staccato dictation travelled across the room, and Greta's sighs as she took it

down, one eye on her paper, one eye on Scruff, who lay with a black ear flapped across his paw, and his tan

eyebrows quivering. He was in disgrace, for Dominique, coming on him unawares, had seen him "say his

Christian put her book down gently, and slipped through the window. Harz was coming in from the road. "I

am all yours!" she whispered. His fingers closed on hers, and he went into the house.

She slipped back, took up her book, and waited. It seemed long before he came out, but when he did he

waved her back, and hurried on; she had a glimpse of his face, white to the lips. Feeling faint and sick, she

Herr Paul was standing in a corner with the utterly disturbed appearance of an easygoing man, visited by the

unexpected. His fine shirtfront was crumpled as if his breast had heaved too suddenly under strong emotion;

his smoked eyeglasses dangled down his back; his fingers were embedded in his beard. He was fixing his eye

on a spot in the floor as though he expected it to explode and blow them to fragments. In another corner Mrs.

Quivering from head to foot, Christian cried: "How dared you?" and ran from the room, pushing aside Miss

Herr Paul stopped in his tramp, and, still with his eyes fixed on the floor, growled:

"A fine thinghein? What's coming? Will you please tell me? An anarchista beggar!"

"There is nothing to be gained by violence," Mrs. Decie murmured, passing her handkerchief across her lips.

"I hope you do not"she said; "I am sure there was nothing that I could have preventedI should be glad if

that were understood." And, turning with some dignity, the little lady went away, closing the door behind her.

"You hear!" Herr Paul said, violently sarcastic: "nothing she could have prevented! Enfin,! Will you please

"Men of the world"whose philosophy is a creature of circumstance and accepted thingsfind any

deviation from the path of their convictions dangerous, shocking, and an intolerable bore. Herr Paul had spent

his life laughing at convictions; the matter had but to touch him personally, and the tap of laughter was turned

off. That any one to whom he was the lawful guardian should marry other than a wellgroomed man,

properly endowed with goods, properly selected, was beyond expression horrid. From his point of view he

had great excuse for horror; and he was naturally unable to judge whether he had excuse for horror from other

points of view. His amazement had in it a spice of the pathetic; he was like a child in the presence of a thing

that he absolutely could not understand. The interview had left him with a sense of insecurity which he felt to

The door was again opened, and Greta flew in, her cheeks flushed, her hair floating behind her, and tears

"Papa!" she cried, "you have been cruel to Chris. The door is locked; I can hear her cryingwhy have you

Herr Paul seized his hair with both his hands: "Good! Very good! My own child, please! What next then?"

Mrs. Decie rose from her chair languidly. "My head is very bad," she said, shading her eyes and speaking in

low tones: "It is no use making a fussnothing can come of thishe has not a penny. Christian will have

nothing till you die, which will not be for a long time yet, if you can but avoid an apoplectic fit!"

At these last words Herr Paul gave a start of real disgust. "Hum!" he muttered; it was as if the world were

"If I know anything of this young man, he will not come here again, after the words you have spoken. As for

'French!' thought Mrs. Decie; 'we shall soon have peace. Poor Christian! I'm sorry! After all, these things are

But for Christian the hours were a long nightmare of grief and shame, fear and anger. Would he forgive?

Would he be true to her? Or would he go away without a word? Since yesterday it was as if she had stepped

into another world, and lost it again. In place of that new feeling, intoxicating as wine, what was coming?

She let Greta into her room after a time, for the child had begun sobbing; but she would not talk, and sat hour

after hour at the window with the air fanning her face, and the pain in her eyes turned to the sky and trees.

After one or two attempts at consolation, Greta sank on the floor, and remained there, humbly gazing at her

sister in a silence only broken when Christian cleared her throat of tears, and by the song of birds in the

After his interview with Mr. Treffry, Herr Paul took a bath, perfumed himself with precision, and caused it to

be clearly understood that, under circumstances such as these, a man's house was not suited for a pig to live

in. He shortly afterwards went out to the Kurbaus, and had not returned by dinnertime.

Christian came down for dinner. There were crimson spots in her cheeks, dark circles round her eyes; she

behaved, however, as though nothing had happened. Miss Naylor, affected by the kindness of her heart and

the shock her system had sustained, rolled a number of bread pills, looking at each as it came, with an air of

surprise, and concealing it with difficulty. Mr. Treffry was coughing, and when he talked his voice seemed to

rumble even more than usual. Greta was dumb, trying to catch Christian's eye; Mrs. Decie alone seemed at

ease. After dinner Mr. Treffry went off to his room, leaning heavily on Christian's shoulder. As he sank into

"Look!" she whispered, thrusting a piece of paper into Christian's hand. "It is to me from Dr. Edmund, but

"MY PHILOSOPHER AND FRIEND,I received your note, and went to our friend's studio; he was not in,

but half an hour ago I stumbled on him in the Platz. He is not quite himself; has had a touch of the

sunnothing serious: I took him to my hotel, where he is in bed. If he will stay there he will be all right in a

"'DEAR DR. EDMUND,We are anxious about Herr Harz. We think he is perhaps not very well today.

We (I and Christian) should like to know. You can tell us. Please shall you? GRETA.'

Greta gazed at her mournfully: "I thoughtO Chris! come into the garden. I am so hot, and it is so dull

Christian bent her head forward and rubbed her cheek against Greta's, then without another word ran upstairs

and locked herself into her room. The child stood listening; hearing the key turn in the lock, she sank down

Half an hour later Miss Naylor, carrying a candle, found her there fast asleep, with her head resting on the

Mrs. Decie presently came out, also carrying a candle, and went to her brother's room. She stood before his

"There's something in Christian that makes interference dangerous. I know very well that I've no influence

"I wish you would leave off drinking whisky and attend to me. Paul is an element"

"Paul," pursued Mrs. Decie, "is an element of danger in the situation; any illtimed opposition of his might

drive her to I don't know what. Christian is gentle, she is 'sympathetic' as they say; but thwart her, and she is

"Men!" she said with a mysterious intonation; shrugging her shoulders, she walked out.

'Understand?' he thought; 'no, you don't, and I don't. Who understands a young girl? Vapourings, dreams,

moonshine I.... What does she see in this painter fellow? I wonder!' He breathed heavily. 'By heavens! I

For many hours after Dawney had taken him to his hotel, Harz was prostrate with stunning pains in the head

and neck. He had been all day without food, exposed to burning sun, suffering violent emotion. Movement of

any sort caused him such agony that he could only lie in stupor, counting the spots dancing before, his eyes.

Dawney did everything for him, and Harz resented in a listless way the intent scrutiny of the doctor's calm,

Towards the end of the second day he was able to get up; Dawney found him sitting on the bed in shirt and

"My son," he said, "you had better tell me what the trouble isit will do your stubborn carcase good."

Dawney hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat: "You won't see the sun for three days yet, if I can help it."

"I'm going to my studio tomorrow," he said. "I promise not to go out. I must be where I can see my work. If

I can't paint, I can draw; I can feel my brushes, move my things about. I shall go mad if I do nothing."

"I'll let you go," he said, "but give me a chance! It's as much to me to put you straight as it is to you to paint a

Harz sat down on the bed again, and for a long time stayed without moving, his eyes fixed on the floor. The

He took his hat and turned towards the Villa. Between the poplars he stopped to think. The farther trees were

fretworked black against the lingering gold of the sunset; a huge moth, attracted by the tip of his cigar, came

fluttering in his face. The music of a concertina rose and fell, like the sighing of some disillusioned spirit.

He was shown to Mrs. Decie's room. She was holding a magazine before her eyes, and received him with as

"You are a young man," pursued Mrs. Decie, "but as my doctor I have a right to your discretion."

Dawney smiled; the features of his broad, cleanshaven face looked ridiculously small on such occasions, but

"It is about this unfortunate affair. I understand that Mr. Harz is with you. I want you to use your influence to

"Everybody," she said, "has his weak points. This young man is open to approach from at least two

quartershis pride is one, his work an other. I am seldom wrong in gauging character; these are his vital

spots, and they are of the essence of this matter. I'm sorry for him, of coursebut at his age, and living a

man's life, these things" Her smile was extra pale. "I wish you could give me something for my head. It's

foolish to worry. Nerves of course! But I can't help it! You know my opinion, Dr. Dawney. That young man

will go far if he remains unfettered; he will make a name. You will be doing him a great service if you could

show him the affair as it really isa drag on him, and quite unworthy of his pride! Do help me! You are just

Dawney threw up his head as if to shake off this impeachment; the curve of his chin thus displayed was

imposing in its fulness; altogether he was imposing, having an air of capability.

She struck him, indeed, as really scared; it was as if her mask of smile had become awry, and failed to cover

her emotion; and he was puzzled, thinking, 'I wouldn't have believed she had it in her....' "It's not an easy

Passing the schoolroom, he looked in through the open door. Christian was sitting there. The sight of her face

shocked him, it was so white, so resolutely dumb. A book lay on her knees; she was not reading, but staring

before her. He thought suddenly: 'Poor thing! If I don't say something to her, I shall be a brute!'

Three days later Harz was sitting in the window of his studio. It was the first day he had found it possible to

work, and now, tired out, he stared through the dusk at the slowly lengthening shadows of the rafters. A

solitary mosquito hummed, and two house sparrows, who had built beneath the roof, chirruped sleepily.

Swallows darted by the window, dipping their blue wings towards the quiet water; a hush had stolen over

He woke, with a dim impression of some near presence. In the pale glimmer from innumerable stars, the

room was full of shadowy shapes. He lit his lantern. The flame darted forth, bickered, then slowly lit up the

A rustling seemed to answer. He peered about, went to the doorway, and drew the curtain. A woman's

cloaked figure shrank against the wall. Her face was buried in her hands; her arms, from which the cloak fell

She ran past him, and when he had put the lantern down, was standing at the window. She turned quickly to

"But you don't grasp what this means. Things to bear that you know nothing ofhunger perhaps! Think,

"I must chooseit's one thing or the other. I can't give you up! I should be afraid!"

"You are too good for me," said Harz. "The life you're going into may be dark, like that!" he pointed to the

A sound of footsteps broke the hush. They could see a figure on the path below. It stopped, seemed to

consider, vanished. They heard the sounds of groping hands, of a creaking door, of uncertain feet on the

Christian was trembling violently. She drew her hood across her face. The heavy breathing and ejaculations

With a thrill at his heart, Harz kissed her, then walked towards the entrance. The curtain was pulled aside.

It was Herr Paul, holding a cigar in one hand, his hat in the other, and breathing hard.

"Pardon!" he said huskily, "your stairs are steep, and dark! mais en, fin! nous voila! I have ventured to come

"Pardon! A thousand pardons! I had no idea! I beg you to forgive this indiscretion! I may take it you resign

pretensions then? You have a lady hereI have nothing more to say; I only beg a million pardons for

He bowed and turned to go. Christian stepped forward, and let the hood fall from her head.

"You came here, at night! You, the daughter of my wife!" His eyes wandered with a dull glare round the

The two men stared at each other's eyes. And without warning, the lantern flickered and went out. Christian

drew the cloak round her again. Herr Paul's voice broke the silence; he had recovered his selfpossession.

"Ah! ah!" he said: "Darkness! Tant mieux! The right thing for what we have to say. Since we do not esteem

Christian had come close to them. Her pale face and great shining eyes could just be seen through the gloom.

"This is a matter, I believe, between two men," he said, addressing Harz. "Let us come to the point. I will do

you the credit to suppose that you have a marriage in view. You know, perhaps, that Miss Devorell has no

"It is calculated to increase hunger! You are prepared to take Miss Devorell, a young lady accustomed to

luxury, into places likethis!" he peered about him, "into places that smell of paint, into the milieu of 'the

"In that event, we reach the ultimatum," said Herr Paul. "Listen, Herr Outlaw! If you have not left the country

Christian uttered a cry. For a minute in the gloom the only sound heard was the short, hard breathing of the

"Coward!" Herr Paul repeated. "That is indeed the last word. Look to yourself, my friend!"

Stooping and fumbling on the floor, he picked up his hat. Christian had already vanished; the sound of her

hurrying footsteps was distinctly audible at the top of the dark stairs. Herr Paul stood still a minute.

"Look to yourself, my dear friend!" he said in a thick voice, groping for the wall. Planting his hat askew on

Nicholas Treffry sat reading the paper in his room by the light of a lamp with a green shade; on his sound

foot the terrier Scruff was asleep and snoring lightlythe dog habitually came down when Greta was in bed,

and remained till Mr. Treffry, always the latest member of the household, retired to rest.

Through the long window a little river of light shone out on the veranda tiles, and, flowing past, cut the

There was the sound of hurried footsteps, a rustling of draperies; Christian, running through the window,

Mr. Treffry dropped his paper, such a fury of passion and alarm shone in the girl's eyes.

"Oh! Uncle! He's insulted, threatened! And I love his little finger more than all the, world!"

Quiet in the extremity of his disturbance, Mr. Treffry leaned forward in his chair, rested his big hands on its

Chris! Here was a woman he did not know! His lips moved under the heavy droop of his moustache. The

girl's face had suddenly grown white. She sank down on her knees, and laid her cheek against his hand. He

felt it wet; and a lump rose in his throat. Drawing his hand away, he stared at it, and wiped it with his sleeve.

She seized it again and clung to it; that clutch seemed to fill him with sudden rage.

She looked up at him. The distress of the last days, the passion and fear of the last hour, the tide of that new

life of the spirit and the flesh, stirring within her, flowed out in a stream of words.

When she had finished, there was so dead a silence that the fluttering of a moth round the lamp could be

Mr. Treffry raised himself, crossed the room, and touched the bell. "Tell the groom," he said to Dominique,

"to put the horses to, and have 'em round at once; bring my old boots; we drive all night...."

His bent figure looked huge, body and legs outlined by light, head and shoulders towering into shadow. "He

shall have a run for his money!" he said. His eyes stared down sombrely at his niece. "It's more than he

deserves!it's more than you deserve, Chris. Sit down there and write to him; tell him to put himself entirely

Christian rose, and sat down at the writingtable. A whisper startled her. It came from Dominique, who was

"M'mselle Chris, what is this?to run about all night?" But Christian did not answer.

She finished her letter and went out to the carriage. Mr. Treffry was seated under the hood.

Christian thrust her letter into his hand. "Give him that," she said, clinging to his arm with sudden terror.

"Chris, if I do this for you" They looked wistfully at one another. Then, shaking his head, Mr. Treffry

The carriage with a jerk plunged forward into darkness, curved with a crunch of wheels, and vanished,

Down the passage came a flutter of white garments; soft limbs were twined about her, some ends of hair fell

Greta stroked her face. "Poor Chris!" she murmured. Her bare feet gleamed, her hair shone gold against her

Christian laughed. "You little white moth! Feel how hot I am! You'll burn your wings!"

Harz had lain down, fully dressed. He was no longer angry, but felt that he would rather die than yield.

It was the voice of Dominique, whose face, illumined by a match, wore an expression of ironical disgust.

"My master," he said, "makes you his compliments; he says there is no time to waste. You are to please come

"Ah, M'sieu," said Dominique, grimacing, "I must not go back with such an answer. If you would not come, I

A clock was striking as they went out through the gate. From within the dark cave of the phaeton hood Mr.

His companion's figure swayed, the whiplash slid softly along the flank of the off horse, and, as the carriage

rattled forward, Mr. Treffry called out, as if by afterthought: "Hallo, Dominique!" Dominque's voice, shaken

In the long street of silent houses, men sitting in the lighted cafes turned with glasses at their lips to stare after

the carriage. The narrow river of the sky spread suddenly to a vast, limpid ocean tremulous with stars. They

Mr. Treffry took a pull at his horses. "Whoa, mare! Dogged does it!" and the near horse, throwing up her

The painter had come on impulse; because Christian had told him to, not of his own free will. He was angry

with himself, wounded in selfesteem, for having allowed any one to render him this service. The smooth

swift movement through velvet blackness splashed on either hand with the flying lamplight; the strong

sweet air blowing in his faceair that had kissed the tops of mountains and stolen their spirit; the snort and

snuffle of the horses, and crisp rattling of their hoofsall this soon roused in him another feeling. He looked

at Mr. Treffry's profile, with its tufted chin; at the grey road adventuring in darkness; at the purple mass of

As if suddenly aware that he had a neighbour, Mr. Treffry turned his head. "We shall do better than this

presently," he said, "bit of a slope coming. Haven't had 'em out for three days. Whoamare! Steady!"

"I'm an old chap, Mr. Harz, and an old chap may do a stupid thing once in a while!"

"Just so," he said drily, "but you see there's my niece to be thought of. Look here! We're not at the frontier

yet, Mr. Harz, by forty miles; it's long odds we don't get thereso, don't spoil sport!" He pointed to the left.

Harz caught the glint of steel. They were already crossing the railway. The sigh of the telegraph wires

"Hear 'em," said Mr. Treffry, "but if we get away up the mountains, we'll do yet!" They had begun to rise, the

"Not bad stuff, Mr. Harztry it. You won't? Mother's milk! Fine night, eh?" Below them the valley was lit

These two men sitting side by sideunlike in face, age, stature, thought, and lifebegan to feel drawn

towards each other, as if, in the rolling of the wheels, the snorting of the horses, the huge dark space, the huge

uncertainty, they had found something they could enjoy in common. The, steam from the horses' flanks and

Harz took the proffered weed, and lighted it from the glowing tip of Mr. Treffry's cigar, by light of which his

head and hat looked like some giant mushroom. Suddenly the wheels jolted on a rubble of loose stones; the

carriage was swung sideways. The scared horses, straining asunder, leaped forward, and sped downwards, in

Past rocks, trees, dwellings, past a lighted house that gleamed and vanished. With a clink and clatter, a flirt of

dust and pebbles, and the side lamps throwing out a frisky orange blink, the carriage dashed down, sinking

and rising like a boat crossing billows. The world seemed to rock and sway; to dance up, and be flung flat

Mr. Treffry, putting on the brake, muttered apologetically: "A little out o'hand!"

Suddenly with a headlong dive, the carriage swayed as if it would fly in pieces, slithered along, and with a

jerk steadied itself. Harz lifted his voice in a shout of pure excitement. Mr. Treffry let out a short shaky howl,

and from behind there rose a wail. But the hill was over and the startled horses were cantering with a free,

Mr. Treffry said with a sort of laugh: "Near go, eh? You drive? No? That's a pity! Broken most of my bones

at the gamenothing like it!" Each felt a kind of admiration for the other that he had not felt before.

Presently Mr. Treffry began: "Look here, Mr. Harz, my niece is a slip of a thing, with all a young girl's

notions! What have you got to give her, eh? Yourself? That's surely not enough; mind thissix months after

marriage we all turn out much the samea selfish lot! Not to mention this anarchist affair!

You're not of her blood, nor of her way of life, nor anythingit's taking chancesand" his hand came

"Men have made themselves before now. For those who don't believe in failure, there's no such thing.

Suppose she does suffer a little? Will it do her any harm? Fair weather love is no good."

"Brave words, sir! You'll pardon me if I'm too old to understand 'em when they're used about my niece."

He pulled the horses up, and peered into the darkness. "We're going through this bit quietly; if they lose track

of us here so much the better. Dominique! put out the lamps. Soho, my beauties!" The horses paced forward

at a walk the muffled beat of their hoofs in the dust hardly broke the hush. Mr. Treffry pointed to the left:

They passed the whitewashed houses, and village church with its sentinel cypresstrees. A frog was croaking

It was wood now on either side, the high pines, breathing their fragrance out into the darkness, and, like

Mr. Treffry said gruffly: "You won't give her up? Her happiness means a lot to me."

"To you!" said Harz: "to him! And I am nothing! Do you think I don't care for her happiness? Is it a crime for

"My niece was born and bred a lady," he said at last. "I ask you plainly What position have you got to give

"If she marries me," said Harz, "she comes into my world. You think that I'm a common...."

A light breeze had sprung up; the whispering in the trees, the rolling of the wheels in this night progress, the

pinedrugged air, sent Harz to sleep. When he woke it was to the same tune, varied by Mr. Treffry's uneasy

snoring; the reins were hanging loose, and, peering out, he saw Dominique shuffling along at the horses'

heads. He joined him, and, one on each side, they plodded up and up. A haze had begun to bathe the trees, the

stars burnt dim, the air was colder. Mr. Treffry woke coughing. It was like some long nightmare, this

interminable experience of muffled sounds and shapes, of perpetual motion, conceived, and carried out in

darkness. But suddenly the day broke. Heralded by the snuffle of the horses, light began glimmering over a

chaos of lines and shadows, pale as mother o'pearl. The stars faded, and in a smouldering zigzag the dawn

fled along the mountain tops, flinging out little isles of cloud. From a lake, curled in a hollow like a patch of

smoke, came the cry of a waterbird. A cuckoo started a soft mocking; and close to the carriage a lark flew

up. Beasts and men alike stood still, drinking in the airsweet with snows and dew, and vibrating faintly with

The night had played sad tricks with Mr. Nicholas Treffry; his hat was grey with dust; his cheeks

brownishpurple, there were heavy pouches beneath his eyes, which stared painfully.

"We'll call a halt," he said, "and give the gees their grub, poor things. Can you find some water, Mr. Harz?

Can't get about myself this morning; make that lazy fellow of mine stir his stumps."

Harz saw that he had drawn off one of his boots, and stretched the foot out on a cushion.

Harz looked at him, then catching up the bucket, made off in search of water. When he came back the horses

were feeding from an india rubber trough slung to the pole; they stretched their heads towards the bucket,

The flame in the east had died, but the tops of the larches were bathed in a gentle radiance; and the peaks

ahead were like amber. Everywhere were threads of water, threads of snow, and little threads of dewy green,

Mr. Treffry called out: "Give me your arm, Mr. Harz; I'd like to shake the reefs out of me. When one comes

to stand over at the knees, it's no such easy matter, eh?" He groaned as he put his foot down, and gripped the

"'All over now!' as Chris would say when she was little; nasty temper she had tookick and scream on the

floor! Never lasted long though.... 'Kiss her! take her up! show her the pictures!' Amazing fond of pictures

Chris was!" He looked dubiously at Harz; then took a long pull at his flask. "What would the doctor say?

Whisky at four in the morning! Well! Thank the Lord Doctors aren't always with us." Sitting on the stone,

with one hand pressed against his side, and the other tilting up the flask, he was grey from head to foot.

Harz had dropped on to another stone. He, too, was worn out by the excitement and fatigue, coming so soon

after his illness. His head was whirling, and the next thing he remembered was a tree walking at him, turning

round, yellow from the roots up; everything seemed yellow, even his own feet. Somebody opposite to him

was jumping up and down, a grey bearwith a hatMr. Treffry! He cried: "Ha alloo!" And the figure

When Harz came to himself a hand was pouring liquor into his mouth, and a wet cloth was muffled round his

brows; a noise of humming and hoofs seemed familiar. Mr. Treffry loomed up alongside, smoking a cigar; he

was muttering: "A low trick, Paulbit of my mind!" Then, as if a curtain had been snatched aside, the vision

before Harz cleared again. The carriage was winding between uneven, blackeaved houses, past doorways

from which goats and cows were coming out, with bells on their necks. Blackeyed boys, and here and there

a drowsy man with a long, cherrystemmed pipe betwen his teeth, stood aside to stare.

Mr. Treffry seemed to have taken a new lease of strength; like an angry old dog, he stared from side to side.

The last house vanished, glowing in the early sunshine, and the carriage with its trail of dust became

entombed once more in the gloom of tall trees, along a road that cleft a wilderness of mossgrown rocks, and

Dominique came round to them, bearing appearance of one who has seen better days, and a pot of coffee

The ears of the horses were twitching with fatigue. Mr. Treffry said sadly: "If I can see this through, you can.

As soon as the sun struck through the trees, Mr. Treffry's strength ebbed again. He seemed to suffer greatly;

but did not complain. They had reached the pass at last, and the unchecked sunlight was streaming down with

"Jump up!" Mr. Treffry cried out. "We'll make a finish of it!" and he gave the reins a jerk. The horses flung

up their heads, and the bleak pass with its circling crown of jagged peaks soon slipped away.

Between the houses on the very top, they passed at a slow trot; and soon began slanting down the other side.

"That's all I can do for you; you'd better leave me here," he said. "Keep this track down to the rivergo

southyou'll be in Italy in a couple of hours. Get rail at Feltre. Money? Yes? Well!" He held out his hand;

"No? Then it's 'pull devil, pull baker,' between us. Goodbye, and good luck to you!" And mustering his

Harz watched his figure huddled again beneath the hood. The carriage moved slowly away.

At Villa Rubein people went about, avoiding each other as if detected in conspiracy. Miss Naylor, who for an

inscrutable reason had put on her best frock, a purple, relieved at the chest with bird'seye blue, conveyed an

impression of trying to count a chicken which ran about too fast. When Greta asked what she had lost she was

Christian, with big circles round her eyes, sat silent at her little table. She had had no sleep. Herr Paul coming

into the room about noon gave her a furtive look and went out again; after this he went to his bedroom, took

off all his clothes, flung them passionately one by one into a footbath, and got into bed.

"I might be a criminal!" he muttered to himself, while the buttons of his garments rattled on the bath.

"Am I her father? Have I authority? Do I know the world? Bssss! I might be a frog!"

Mrs. Decie, having caused herself to be announced, found him smoking a cigar, and counting the flies on the

"If you have really done this, Paul," she said in a restrained voice, "you have done a very unkind thing, and

what is worse, you have made us all ridiculous. But perhaps you have not done it?"

"I have done it," cried Herr Paul, staring dreadfully: "I have done it, I tell you, I have done it"

"Very well, you have done itand why, pray? What conceivable good was there in it? I suppose you know

that Nicholas has driven him to the frontier? Nicholas is probably more dead than alive by this time; you

"Nicholas is madand the girl is mad! Leave me alone! I will not be made angry; do you understand? I will

not be worriedI am not fit for it." His prominent brown eyes stared round the room, as if looking for a way

"If I may prophesy, you will be worried a good deal," said Mrs. Decie coldly, "before you have finished with

The anxious, uncertain glance which Herr Paul gave her at these words roused an unwilling feeling of

"You are not made for the outraged father of the family," she said. "You had better give up the attitude, Paul;

Just then the door was opened, and Fritz, with an air of saying the right thing, announced:

Mrs. Decie, covering her lips, disappeared with a rustling of silk; in her place stood a stiff man in blue....

Thus the morning dragged itself away without any one being able to settle to anything, except Herr Paul, who

was settled in bed. As was fitting in a house that had lost its soul, meals were neglected, even by the dog.

About three o'clock a telegram came for Christian, containing these words: "All right; self returns

tomorrow. Treffry." After reading it she put on her hat and went out, followed closely by Greta, who, when

she thought that she would not be sent away, ran up from behind and pulled her by the sleeve.

The two girls walked on together. When they had gone some distance Christian said:

Neither girl spoke again till they had taken the path along the wall. Over the tops of the vines the heat was

At the old house they stopped, and Christian, breathing quickly, pushed the door; it was immovable.

"Look!" said Greta, "they have screwed it!" She pointed out three screws with a rosytipped forefinger.

"Yes," murmured Greta, "let us think." Dangling an end of hair, she regarded Christian with her wide blue

"I can't make any plan," Christian cried at last, "while you stare at me like that."

"I was thinking," said Greta humbly, "if they have screwed it up, perhaps we shall screw it down again; there

"People do not pass in the evening," murmured Greta, "because the gate at our end is always shut."

After dinner the girls went to their room, Greta bearing with her the big screwdriver of Fritz. At dusk they

They arrived at the old house, and stood, listening, in the shadow of the doorway. The only sounds were those

"Quick!" whispered Christian; and Greta, with all the strength of her small hands, began to turn the screws. It

was some time before they yielded; the third was very obstinate, till Christian took the screw driver and

The opened door revealed the gloom of the dank rooms and twisting staircase, then fell to behind them with a

"You are a baby!" Christian answered in a trembling voice. "You had better go home!"

Her cheeks were burning; she was trembling all over. Having found the bottom step she began to mount with

The haze above inspired a little courage in the child, who, of all things, hated darkness. The blanket across

the doorway of the loft had been taken down, there was nothing to veil the empty room.

"Noo," whispered Greta, running to the window, and clinging to the wall, like one of the bats she dreaded.

"But they have been here!" cried Christian angrily. "They have broken this." She pointed to the fragments of

Out of the corner she began to pull the canvases set in rough, wooden frames, dragging them with all her

They collected a heap of sketches and three large pictures, piling them before the window, and peering at

"O Chris! they are heavy ones; we shall never carry them, and the gate is shut now!"

It was the sound of whistling, which stopped beneath the window. The girls, clasping each other's hands,

Greta crept to the window, and, placing her face level with the floor, peered over.

"It is only Dr. Edmund; he doesn't know, then," she whispered; "I shall call him; he is going away!" cried

"He would help us," Greta said reproachfully, "and it would not be so dark if he were here."

"I don't choose," she said, and began handling the pictures, feeling their edges with her knife.

"It will take a long time to cut these pictures out carefully; or, perhaps I can get them out without cutting.

You must screw me up and go home. In the morning you must come early, when the gate is open, unscrew

"We can't both stay here all night," said Christian; "if any one comes to our room there will be nobody to

answer. We can't lift these pictures over the gate. One of us must go back; you can climb over the

Greta remained sitting where she was, shivering violently, as a little animal shivers when it scents danger. At

"If Miss Naylor shall ask me where you are, Chris, I shall be telling her a story."

"I shall die if I stay here alone," she said; "I can tell her that you are in bed; you must go to bed here, Chris,

"I am so sorry, darling; I wish I could go instead. But if you have to tell a lie, I would tell a straight one."

"I think," said Greta to herself, beginning to descend the stairs, "I think I will tell it in my way." She

Christian listened for the sound of the screws. It came slowly, threatening her with danger and solitude.

Sinking on her knees she began to work at freeing the canvas of a picture. Her heart throbbed distressfully; at

the stir of wind breath or any distant note of clamour she stopped, and held her breathing. No sounds came

near. She toiled on, trying only to think that she was at the very spot where last night his arms had been round

her. How long ago it seemed! She was full of vague terror, overmastered by the darkness, dreadfully alone.

The new glow of resolution seemed suddenly to have died down in her heart, and left her cold.

She would never be fit to be his wife, if at the first test her courage failed! She set her teeth; and suddenly she

felt a kind of exultation, as if she too were entering into life, were knowing something within herself that she

had never known before. Her fingers hurt, and the pain even gave pleasure; her cheeks were burning; her

breath came fast. They could not stop her now! This feverish task in darkness was her baptism into life. She

finished; and rolling the pictures very carefully, tied them with cord. She had done something for him!

Nobody could take that from her! She had a part of him! This night had made him hers! They might do their

She was awakened by Scruff's tongue against her face. Greta was standing by her side.

In the cold early light the child seemed to glow with warmth and colour; her eyes were dancing.

"I am not afraid now; Scruff and I sat up all night, to catch the morningIthink it was fun; and O Chris!"

Each supporting an end, the girls carried the bundle downstairs, and set out with their corpselike burden

Hidden by the shade of rosebushes Greta lay stretched at length, cheek on arm, sleeping the sleep of the

unrighteous. Through the flowers the sun flicked her parted lips with kisses, and spilled the withered petals

on her. In a denser islet of shade, Scruff lay snapping at a fly. His head lolled drowsily in the middle of a

At three o'clock Miss Naylor too came out, carrying a basket and pair of scissors. Lifting her skirts to avoid

the lakes of water left by the garden hose, she stopped in front of a rosebush, and began to snip off the

shrivelled flowers. The little lady's silvered head and thin, brown face sustained the shower of sunlight

Presently, as the scissors flittered in and out of the leaves, she, began talking to herself.

"If girls were more like what they used to be, this would not have happened. Perhaps we don't understand; it's

very easy to forget." Burying her nose and lips in a rose, she sniffed. "Poor dear girl! It's such a pity his father

Miss Naylor leaped. "Greta! How you startled me! A farmerthat is anan agriculturalist!"

"A farmer with vineyardshe told us, and he is not ashamed. Why is it a pity, Miss Naylor?"

"That is what you always say," pursued the sleepy voice; "and that is why, when I am to be married, there

"Greta!" Miss Naylor cried, "it is not proper for a girl of your age to talk like that."

Miss Naylor made no reply to this, but vexedly cut off a sound rose, which she hastily picked up and

"Chris said: 'I have got the pictures, I shall tell her'; but I shall tell you instead, because it was I that told the

"Last night," said Greta slowly, "I and Chris went to his studio and took his pictures, and so, because the gate

was shut, I came back to tell it; and when you asked me where Chris was, I told it; because she was in the

studio all night, and I and Scruff sat up all night, and in the morning we brought the pictures, and hid them

Over the rosebush Miss Naylor peered down at her; and though she was obliged to stand on tiptoe this did

"I am surprised at you, Greta; I am surprised at Christian, more surprised at Christian. The world seems

Greta, a sunbeam entangled in her hair, regarded her with inscrutable, innocent eyes.

"When you were a girl, I think you would be sure to be in love," she murmured drowsily.

Greta nestled down again. "I think it is wicked to cut off all the good buds," she said, and shut her eyes.

Miss Naylor continued to peer across the rosebush; but her thin face, close to the glistening leaves, had

become oddly soft, pink, and girlish. At a deeper breath from Greta, the little lady put down her basket, and

began to pace the lawn, followed dubiously by Scruff. It was thus that Christian came on them.

Miss Naylor slipped her arm into the girl's and though she made no sound, her lips kept opening and shutting,

"Oh, my dear! I know; Greta has been in the confessional before you." She gave the girl's arm a squeeze.

"Isn't it a lovely day? Did you ever see 'Five Fingers' look so beautiful?" And she pointed to the great peaks

"Well," agreed Miss Naylor nervously, "they certainly are nicer with clouds about them. They look almost

hot and greasy, don't they.... My dear!" she went on, giving Christian's arm a dozen little squeezes, "we all of

"My dear," Miss Naylor tried again, "I am farthat is, I mean, to all of us at some time or anotherand then

Christian kissed the gloved hand resting on her arm. Miss Naylor bobbed her head; a tear trickled off her

Her aunt was sitting, back to the light, tapping a bowl of goldfish with the tip of a polished fingernail; the

room was very cool. She held a letter out. "Your uncle is not coming back tonight."

"DEAR CONCan't get back tonight. Sending Dominique for things. Tell Christian to come over with him

"Dominique has a carriage here," said Mrs. Decie. "You will have nice time to catch the train. Give my love

to your uncle. You must take Barbi with you, I insist on that." She rose from her chair and held Christian's

hand: "My dear! You look very tiredvery! Almost ill. I don't like to see you look like that. Come!" She

Then as Christian left the room she sank back in her chair, with creases in her forehead, and began languidly

to cut a magazine. 'Poor Christian!' she thought, 'how hardly she does take it! I am sorry for her; but perhaps

it's just as well, as things are turning out. Psychologically it is interesting!'

Christian found her things packed, and the two servants waiting. In a few minutes they were driving to the

"To you, then, M'mselle," said Dominique, as one who accepts his fate; "to you, then, who will doubtless

forget all that I shall tell youmy master is not well; he has terrible pain here; he has a cough; he is not well

"We were a caravan for all that night," Dominique resumed. "In the morning by noon we ceased to be a

caravan; Signor Harz took a mule path; he will be in Italycertainly in Italy. As for us, we stayed at San

Martino, and my master went to bed. It was time; I had much trouble with his clothes, his legs were swollen.

In the afternoon came a signor of police, on horseback, red and hot; I persuaded him that we were at

Paneveggio, but as we were not, he came back angry Mon Die! as angry as a cat. It was not good to meet

himwhen he was with my master I was outside. There was much noise. I do not know what passed, but at

last the signor came out through the door, and went away in a hurry." Dominique's features were fixed in a

sardonic grin; he rubbed the palm of one hand with the finger of the other. "Mr. Treffry made me give him

whisky afterwards, and he had no money to pay the billthat I know because I paid it. Well, M'mselle, to

day he would be dressed and very slowly we came as far as Auer; there he could do no more, so went to bed.

Christian was overwhelmed by forebodings; the rest of the journey was made in silence, except when Barbi, a

country girl, filled with the delirium of railway travel, sighed: "Ach! gnadige Friiulein!" looking at Christian

At once, on arriving at the little hostel, Christian went to see her uncle. His room was darkened, and smelt of

In a blue flannel gown, with a rug over his feet, he was lying on a couch lengthened artificially by chairs; the

arm he reached out issued many inches from its sleeve, and showed the corded veins of the wrist. Christian,

"I'm not quite the thing, Chris," said Mr. Treffry. "Somehow, not quite the thing. I'll come back with you

"Nono! Plenty of him when I get home. Very good young fellow, as doctors go, but I can't stand his

puddin'sslops and puddin's, and all that trumpery medicine on the top. Send me Dominique, my dear I'll

put myself to rights a bit!" He fingered his unshaven cheek, and clutched the gown together on his chest. "Got

He was asleep when she came into the room an hour later. Watching his uneasy breathing, she wondered

He looked ill! And suddenly she realised that her thoughts were not of him.... When she was little he would

take her on his back; he had built cocked hats for her and paper boats; had taught her to ride; slid her between

his knees; given her things without number; and taken his payment in kisses. And now he was ill, and she

was not thinking of him! He had been all that was most dear to her, yet before her eyes would only come the

Mr. Treffry woke suddenly. "Not been asleep, have I? The beds here are infernal hard."

"He's safe into Italy; they aren't very keen after him, it's so long ago; I squared 'em pretty easily. Now, look

"I'd like to see you pull yourself together. 'Tisn't so much the position; 'tisn't so much the money; because

after all there's always mine" Christian shook her head. "But," he went on with shaky emphasis, "there's

the difference of blood, and that's a serious thing; and there's this anarchthis political affair; and there's the

sort of life, an' that's a serious thing; butwhat I'm coming to is this, Christhere's the man!"

"Ah! yes. I'm an old chap and fond of you, but I must speak out what I think. He's got pluck, he's strong, he's

in earnest; but he's got a damned hot temper, he's an egotist, andhe's not the man for you. If you marry

him, as sure as I lie here, you'll be sorry for it. You're not your father's child for nothing; nice fellow as ever

lived, but soft as butter. If you take this chap, it'll be like mixing earth and ironstone, and they don't blend!"

He dropped his head back on the pillows, and stretching out his hand, repeated wistfully: "Take my word for

Christian, staring at the wall beyond, said quietly: "I can't take any one's word for that."

"Ah!" muttered Mr. Treffry, "you're obstinate enough, but obstinacy isn't strength.

You'll give up everything to him, you'll lick his shoes; and you'll never play anything but second fiddle in his

life. He'll always be first with himself, he and his work, or whatever he calls painting pictures; and some day

you'll find that out. You won't like it, and I don't like it for you, Chris, and that's flat."

Christian said: "You don't understand; you don't believe in him; you don't see! If I do come after his

workif I do give him everything, and he can't give all backI don't care! He'll give what he can; I don't

want any more. If you're afraid of the life for me, uncle, if you think it'll be too hard"

"Well, then, I hate to be wrapped in cotton wool; I want to breathe. If I come to grief, it's my own affair;

Mr. Treffry laid his hand against her cheek. "I think I could do with a nap," he said.

By a stroke of Fate Mr. Treffry's return to Villa Rubein befell at the psychological moment when Herr Paul,

As soon as he saw the carriage appear between the poplars he became as pensive as a boy caught in the act of

stealing cherries. Pitching his hatbox to Fritz, he recovered himself, however, in time to whistle while Mr.

Treffry was being assisted into the house. Having forgotten his anger, he was only anxious now to smooth out

its after effects; in the glances he cast at Christian and his brotherinlaw there was a kind of shamed

entreaty which seemed to say: "For goodness' sake, don't worry me about that business again! Nothing's come

He came forward: "Ah! Mon cher! So you return; I put off my departure, then. Vienna must wait for

But noticing the extreme feebleness of Mr. Treffry's advance, he exclaimed with genuine concern:

"What is it? You're ill? My God!" After disappearing for five minutes, he came back with a whitish liquid in

"Ah!" he said. "No doubt! But it's uncommonly like gin, Paul." Then turning to Christian, he said: "Shake

Christian looked from one to the other, and at last held out her hand to Herr Paul, who brushed it with his

"My dear!" he began, "you support her in this execrable matter? You forget my position, you make me

ridiculous. I have been obliged to go to bed in my own house, absolutely to go to bed, because I was in

"Look here, Paul!" Mr. Treffry said gruffly, "if any one's to bully Chris, it's I."

"You may go to the devil!" said Mr. Treffry; "and I'll tell you what in my opinion it was low to set the

Herr Paul divided his beard carefully in two, took his seat on the very edge of an armchair, and placing his

"I have regretted it sincemais, que diable! He called me a coward it is very hot weather!there were

drinks at the KurhausI am her guardianthe affair is a very beastly onethere were more drinksI was

a little enfin!" He shrugged his shoulders. "Adieu, my dear; I shall be some time in Vienna; I need rest!" He

rose and went to the door; then he turned, and waved his cigar. "Adieu! Be good; get well! I will buy you

some cigars up there." And going out, he shut the door on any possibility of answer.

Mr. Treffry lay back amongst his cushions. The clock ticked; pigeons cooed on the veranda; a door opened in

the distance, and for a moment a treble voice was heard. Mr. Treffry's head drooped forward; across his face,

The clock suddenly stopped ticking, and outside, in mysterious accord, the pigeons rose with a great

fluttering of wings, and flew off'. Mr. Treffry made a startled, heavy movement. He tried to get on to his feet

and reach the bell, but could not, and sat on the side of the couch with drops of sweat rolling off his forehead,

and his hands clawing his chest. There was no sound at all throughout the house. He looked about him, and

tried to call, but again could not. He tried once more to reach the bell, and, failing, sat still, with a thought

"I'm done for," he muttered. "By George! I believe I'm done for this time!" A voice behind him said:

Dawney propped him against the cushions, and loosened his shirt. Receiving no answer to his questions, he

Mr. Treffry broke out with a husky whisper: "Out with it, Doctor; don't humbug me."

"I don't know how you've got into this state, sir," he said with the brusqueness of emotion. "You're in a bad

way. It's the old trouble; and you know what that means as well as I. All I can tell you is, I'm going to have a

"I feel better now; don't make a fuss about it. It'll be very awkward if I die just now. Patch me up, for the sake

A moment later Greta stole in on tiptoe. She bent over till her hair touched Mr. Treffry's face.

"I have come to bring you my love, Uncle Nic, and to say goodbye. Papa says that I and Scruff and Miss

Naylor are going to Vienna with him; we have had to pack in half an hour; in five minutes we are going to

"To Vienna!" Mr. Treffry repeated slowly. "Don't have a guide, Greta; they're humbugs."

"Draw the curtains, old girl, let's have a look at you. Why, you're as smart as ninepence!"

"Yes," said Greta with a sigh, touching the buttons of her cape, "because I am going to Vienna; but I am sorry

"While I am gone, Uncle Nic, you are to get well, you are not very well, you know."

"If you were well you would be smoking a cigarit is just three o'clock. This kiss is for myself, this is for

She stood upright again; a tremulous, joyful gravity was in her eyes and on her lips.

"Goodbye, my dear; take care of yourselves; and don't you have a guide, they're humbugs."

"No, Uncle Nic. There is the carriage! To Vienna, Uncle Nic!" The dead gold of her hair gleamed in the

"I love you very much!" she said, and kissing him, backed slowly, then, turning, flew out like a bird.

After many days of hot, still weather, the wind had come, and whirled the dust along the parched roads. The

leaves were all astir, like tiny wings. Round Villa Rubein the pigeons cooed uneasily, all the other birds were

silent. Late in the afternoon Christian came out on the veranda, reading a letter:

"DEAR CHRIS,We are here now six days, and it is a very large place with many churches. In the first

place then we have been to a great many, but the nicest of them is not St. Stephan's Kirche, it is another, but I

do not remember the name. Papa is out nearly all the night; he says he is resting here, so he is not able to

come to the churches with us, but I do not think he rests very much. The day before yesterday we, that is,

Papa, I, and Miss Naylor, went to an exhibition of pictures. It was quite beautiful and interesting (Miss

Naylor says it is not right to say 'quite' beautiful, but I do not know what other word could mean 'quite' except

the word 'quite,' because it is not exceedingly and not extremely. And O Chris! there was one picture painted

by him; it was about a ship without masts Miss Naylor says it is a barge, but I do not know what a barge

ison fire, and, floating down a river in a fog. I think it is extremely beautiful. Miss Naylor says it is very

impressionistickwhat is that? and Papa said 'Puh!' but he did not know it was painted by Herr Harz, so I

"There has also been staying at our hotel that Count Sarelli who came one evening to dinner at our house, but

he is gone away now. He sat all day in the winter garden reading, and at night he went out with Papa. Miss

Naylor says he is unhappy, but I think he does not take enough exercise; and O Chris! one day he said to me,

'That is your sister, Mademoiselle, that young lady in the white dress? Does she always wear white dresses?'

and I said to him: 'It is not always a white dress; in the picture, it is green, because the picture is called

"Spring.'" But I did not tell him the colours of all your dresses because he looked so tired. Then he said to me:

'She is very charming.' So I tell you this, Chris, because I think you shall like to know. Scruff' has a sore toe;

"It is not nice without you, Chris, and Miss Naylor says I am improving my mind here, but I do not think it

shall improve very much, because at night I like it always best, when the shops are lighted and the carriages

are driving past; then I am wanting to dance. The first night Papa said he would take me to the theatre, but

yesterday he said it was not good for me; perhaps tomorrow he shall think it good for me again.

"Yesterday we have been in the Prater, and saw many people, and some that Papa knew; and then came the

most interesting part of all, sitting under the trees in the rain for two hours because we could not get a

"There is one young lady here, only she is not any longer very young, who knew Papa when he was a boy. I

like her very much; she shall soon know me quite to the bottom and is very kind.

"The ill husband of Cousin Teresa who went with us to Meran and lost her umbrella and Dr. Edmund was so

sorry about it, has been very much worse, so she is not here but in Baden. I wrote to her but have no news, so

I do not know whether he is still living or not, at any rate he can't get well again so soon (and I don't think he

ever shall). I think as the weather is very warm you and Uncle Nic are sitting much out of doors. I am sending

presents to you all in a wooden box and screwed very firm, so you shall have to use again the big screw

driver of Fritz. For Aunt Constance, photographs; for Uncle Nic, a green bird on a stand with a hole in the

back of the bird to put his ashes in; it is a good green and not expensif please tell him, because he does not

like expensif presents (Miss Naylor says the bird has an inquiring eyeit is a parrat); for you, a little brooch

of turquoise because I like them best; for Dr. Edmund a machine to weigh medicines in because he said he

could not get a good one in Botzen; this is a very good one, the shopman told me so, and is the most expensif

of all the presentsso that is all my money, except two gulden. If Papa shall give me some more, I shall buy

for Miss Naylor a parasol, because it is useful and the handle of hers is 'wobbley' (that is one of Dr. Edmund's

"PS.Miss Naylor has read all this letter (except about the parasol) and there are several things she did not

want me to put, so I have copied it without the things, but at the last I have kept that copy myself, so that is

why this is smudgy and several words are not spelt well, but all the things are here."

Christian read, smiling, but to finish it was like dropping a talisman, and her face clouded. A sudden draught

blew her hair about, and from within, Mr. Treffry's cough mingled with the soughing of the wind; the sky was

"MY FRIEND,Why haven't you written to me? It is so, long to wait. Uncle says you are in Italyit is

dreadful not to know for certain. I feel you would have written if you could; and I can't help thinking of all

the things that may have happened. I am unhappy. Uncle Nic is ill; he will not confess it, that is his way; but

he is very ill. Though perhaps you will never see this, I must write down all my thoughts. Sometimes I feel

that I am brutal to be always thinking about you, scheming how to be with you again, when he is lying there

so ill. How good he has always been to me; it is terrible that love should pull one apart so. Surely love should

be beautiful, and peaceful, instead of filling me with bitter, wicked thoughts. I love youand I love him; I

feel as if I were torn in two. Why should it be so? Why should the beginning of one life mean the ending of

another, one love the destruction of another? I don't understand. The same spirit makes me love you and him,

the same sympathy, the same trustyet it sometimes seems as if I were a criminal in loving you. You know

what he thinkshe is too honest not to have shown you. He has talked to me; he likes you in a way, but you

are a foreignerhe saysyour life is not my life. 'He is not the man for you!' Those were his words. And now

he doesn't talk to me, but when I am in the room he looks at methat's worsea thousand times; when he

talks it rouses me to fightwhen it's his eyes only, I'm a coward at once; I feel I would do anything,

anything, only not to hurt him. Why can't he see? Is it because he's old and we are young? He may consent,

"I want to tell you everything; I have had worse thoughts than these sometimes I have thought that I should

never have the courage to face the struggle which you have to face. Then I feel quite broken; it is like

something giving way in me. Then I think of you, and it is over; but it has been there, and I am ashamedI

told you I was a coward. It's like the feeling one would have going out into a storm on a dark night, away

from a warm fireonly of the spirit not the bodywhich makes it worse. I had to tell you this; you mustn't

think of it again, I mean to fight it away and forget that it has ever been there. But Uncle Nicwhat am I to

do? I hate myself because I am young, and he is old and weaksometimes I seem even to hate him. I have

all sorts of thoughts, and always at the end of them, like a dark hole at the end of a passage, the thought that I

ought to give you up. Ought I? Tell me. I want to know, I want to do what is right; I still want to do that,

"Do you remember once when we were talking, you said: 'Nature always has an answer for every question;

you cannot get an answer from laws, conventions, theories, words, only from Nature.' What do you say to me

now; do you tell me it is Nature to come to you in spite of everything, and so, that it must be right? I think

you would; but can it be Nature to do something which will hurt terribly one whom I love and who loves me?

If it isNature is cruel. Is that one of the 'lessons of life'? Is that what Aunt Constance means when she says:

'If life were not a paradox, we could not get on at all'? I am beginning to see that everything has its dark side;

"Uncle Nic dreads the life for me; he doesn't understand (how should he?he has always had money) how

life can be tolerable without money it is horrible that the accident of money should make such difference

in our lives. I am sometimes afraid myself, and I can't outface that fear in him; he sees the shadow of his fear

in mehis eyes seem to see everything that is in me now; the eyes of old people are the saddest things in the

world. I am writing like a wretched coward, but you will never see this letter I suppose, and so it doesn't

matter; but if you do, and I pray that you maywell, if I am only worth taking at my best, I am not worth

"With Uncle Nic it is not as with my stepfather; his opposition only makes me angry, mad, ready to do

anything, but with Uncle Nic I feel so bruisedso sore. He said: 'It is not so much the money, because there

is always mine.' I could never do a thing he cannot bear, and take his money, and you would never let me.

One knows very little of anything in the world till trouble comes. You know how it is with flowers and trees;

in the early spring they look so quiet and self contained; then all in a moment they changeI think it must

be like that with the heart. I used to think I knew a great deal, understood why and how things came about; I

thought selfpossession and reason so easy; now I know nothing. And nothing in the world matters but to see

you and hide away from that look in Uncle Nic's eyes. Three months ago I did not know you, now I write like

this. Whatever I look at, I try to see as you would see; I feel, now you are away even more than when you

were with me, what your thoughts would be, how you would feel about this or that. Some things you have

A slanting drift of rain was striking the veranda tiles with a cold, ceaseless hissing. Christian shut the

He was lying with closed eyes, growling at Dominique, who moved about noiselessly, putting the room ready

for the night. When he had finished, and with a compassionate bow had left the room, Mr. Treffry opened his

"This is beastly stuff of the doctor's, Chris, it puts my monkey up; I can't help swearing after I've taken it; it's

as beastly as a vulgar woman's laugh, and I don't know anything beastlier than that!"

He nodded, and Christian read the letter, leaving out the mention of Harz, and for some undefined reason the

"Ay!" said Mr. Treffry with a feeble laugh, "Greta and her money! Send her some more, Chris. Wish I were a

youngster again; that's a beast of a proverb about a dog and his day. I'd like to go fishing again in the West

Country! A fine time we had when we were youngsters. You don't get such times these days. 'Twasn't often

the fishingsmacks went out without us. We'd watch their lights from our bedroom window; when they were

swung aboard we were out and down to the quay before you could say 'knife.' They always waited for us; but

your Uncle Dan was the favourite, he was the chap for luck. When I get on my legs, we might go down there,

"I'd like to look at the smack lights going to sea on a dark night; pity you're such a duffer in a boatwe

might go out with them. Do you a power of good! You're not looking the thing, my dear."

His voice died wistfully, and his glance, sweeping her face, rested on her hands, which held and twisted

Greta's letter. After a minute or two of silence he boomed out again with sudden energy:

"Your aunt'll want to come and sit with me, after dinner; don't let her, Chris, I can't stand it. Tell her I'm

asleepthe doctor'll be here directly; ask him to make up some humbug for youit's his business."

He was seized by a violent fit of pain which seemed to stab his breath away, and when it was over signed that

he would be left alone. Christian went back to her letter in the other room, and had written these words, when

'I'm like a leaf in the wind, I put out my hand to one thing, and it's seized and twisted and flung aside. I want

The rain drove with increasing fury. The night was very black. Nicholas Treffry slept heavily. By the side of

his bed the night lamp cast on to the opposite wall a bright disc festooned by the hanging shadow of the

ceiling. Christian was leaning over him. For the moment he filled all her heart, lying there, so helpless.

Fearful of waking him she slipped into the sittingroom. Outside the window stood a man with his face

pressed to the pane. Her heart thumped; she went up and unlatched the window. It was Harz, with the rain

He was sodden with wet, his face drawn and tired; a dark growth of beard covered his cheeks and chin.

"It's not possible to go on like this; I came to tell your uncle so. He is a man. As for the other, I want to have

nothing to do with him! I came back on foot across the mountains. It's not possible to go on like this,

She handed him her letter. He held it to the light, clearing his brow of raindrops. When he had read to the last

"While this goes on I can't work; I can do nothing. I can'tI won't bargain with my work; if it's to be that, we

had better end it. What are we waiting for? Sooner or later we must come to this. I'm sorry that he's ill, God

knows! But that changes nothing. To wait is tying me hand and footit's making me afraid! Fear kills! It

will kill you! It kills work, and I must work, I can't waste timeI won't! I will sooner give you up." He put

his hands on her shoulders. "I love you! I want you! Look in my eyes and see if you dare hold back!"

Christian stood with the grip of his strong hands on her shoulders, without a movement or sign. Her face was

very white. And suddenly he began to kiss that pale, still face, to kiss its eyes and lips, to kiss it from its chin

up to its hair; and it stayed pale, as a white flower, beneath those kissesas a white flower, whose stalk the

There was a sound of knocking on the wall; Mr. Treffry called feebly. Christian broke away from Harz.

"Tomorrow!" he whispered, and picking up his hat and cloak, went out again into the rain.

It was not till morning that Christian fell into a troubled sleep. She dreamed that a voice was calling her, and

When she woke the light was streaming in; it was Sunday, and the cathedral bells were chiming. Her first

thought was of Harz. One step, one moment of courage! Why had she not told her uncle? If he had only

asked! But whywhy should she tell him? When it was over and she was gone, he would see that all was for

Her eyes fell on Greta's empty bed. She sprang up, and bending over, kissed the pillow. 'She will mind at

first; but she's so young! Nobody will really miss me, except Uncle Nic!' She stood along while in the

"Liebes Fraulein, what a beautiful morning after the rain it has become! How cool! It is for you goodfor

the colour in your cheeks; now they will bloom again!" and Barbi stroked her own well coloured cheeks.

Dominique, sunning himself outside with a cloth across his arm, bowed as she passed, and smiled

"He is better this morning, M'mselle. We marchwe are getting on. Good news will put the heart into you."

Even the Villa seemed to greet her, with the sun aslant on it; and the trees, trembling and weeping golden

tears. At the cathedral she was early for the service, but here and there were figures on their knees; the faint,

sickly odour of longburnt incense clung in the air; a priest moved silently at the far end. She knelt, and when

at last she rose the service had begun. With the sound of the intoning a sense of peace came to herthe

She went out with a look of quiet serenity and walked home along the dyke. Close to Harz's studio she sat

down. Nowit was her own; all that had belonged to him, that had ever had a part in him.

An old beggar, who had been watching her, came gently from behind. "Gracious lady!" he said, peering at

Christian opened her purse, there was only one coin in it, a gold piece; the beggar's eyes sparkled.

She thought suddenly: 'It's no longer mine; I must begin to be careful,' but she felt ashamed when she looked

"I am sorry," she said; "yesterday I would have given you this, but but now it's already given."

He seemed so old and poorwhat could she give him? She unhooked a little silver brooch at her throat.

"You will get something for that," she said; "it's better than nothing. I am very sorry you are so old and poor."

Christian hurried on; the rustling of leaves soon carried the words away. She did not feel inclined to go in,

and crossing the bridge began to climb the hill. There was a gentle breeze, drifting the clouds across the sun;

The sunshine, dappling through the tops of trees, gashed down on a torrent. The earth smelt sweet, the

vineyards round the white farms glistened; everything seemed to leap and dance with sap and life; it was a

moment of Spring in midsummer. Christian walked on, wondering at her own happiness.

'Am I heartless?' she thought. 'I am going to leave himI am going into life; I shall have to fight now,

The path broke away and wound down to the level of the torrent; on the other side it rose again, and was lost

In her room she began to pack, sorting and tearing up old letters. 'Only one thing matters,' she thought;

She looked up and saw Barbi standing before her with towels in her hands, and a scared face.

"I am going away to be married, Barbi," said Christian at last; "don't speak of it to any one, please."

Barbi leant a little forward with the towels clasped to the blue cotton bosom of her dress.

"No, no! I will not speak. But, dear Fraulein, that is a big matter; have you well thought?"

"Ach! dear God! that is terrible. Katrina, my sister, she is married; she tells me all her life; she tells me it is

very hard, and but for the money in her stocking it would be harder. Dear Fraulein, think again! And is he

"He is good," said Christian, rising; "it is all settled!" and she kissed Barbi on the cheek.

"You are crying, liebes Fraulein! Think yet again, perhaps it is not quite all settled; it is not possible that a

Mr. Treffry's gaze was fixed on a tortoiseshell butterfly fluttering round the ceiling. The insect seemed to

fascinate him, as things which move quickly always fascinate the helpless. Christian came softly in.

"Couldn't stay in bed, Chris," he called out with an air of guilt. "The heat was something awful. The doctor

piped off in a huff, just because o' this." He motioned towards a jug of claretcup and a pipe on the table by

Mr. Treffry took a lengthy draught. "Broken my promise; don't matterwon't hurt any one but me." He took

up the pipe and pressed tobacco into it. "I've been lying here with this pain going right through me, and never

a smoke! D'you tell me anything the parsons say can do me half the good of this pipe?" He leaned back,

steeped in a luxury of satisfaction. He went on, pursuing a private train of thought: "Things have changed a

lot since my young days. When I was a youngster, a young fellow had to look out for peck and perchhe put

the future in his pocket. He did well or not, according as he had stuff in him. Now he's not content with that,

it seemstrades on his own opinion of himself; thinks he is what he says he's going to be."

Mr. Treffry grunted. "Ah, well! I like to know where I am. If I lend money to a man, I like to know whether

he's going to pay it back; I may not care whether he does or not, but I like to know. The same with other

things. I don't care what a man hasthough, mind you, Chris, it's not a bad rule that measures men by the

balance at their banks; but when it comes to marriage, there's a very simple rule, What's not enough for one is

not enough for two. You can't talk black white, or bread into your mouth. I don't care to speak about myself,

as you know, Chris, but I tell you thiswhen I came to London I wanted to marryI hadn't any money, and

I had to want. When I had the moneybut that's neither here nor there!" He frowned, fingering his pipe.

"I didn't ask her, Chris; I didn't think it the square thing; it seems that's out of fashion!"

"I think a lot while I lie here," Mr. Treffry went on; "nothing much else to do. What I ask myself is this: What

do you know about what's best for you? What do you know of life? Take it or leave it, life's not all you think;

"I get better every day, but I can't last for ever. It's not pleasant to lie here and know that when I'm gone

"It's no use blinking facts, Chris. I've lived a long time in the world; I've seen things pretty well as they are;

"But, Uncle, if you loved him, as I do, you couldn't tell me to be afraid! It's cowardly and mean to be afraid.

The fan had dropped into Christian's lap; it rested on her white frock like a large crimson leaf; her eyes were

Mr. Treffry looked at her. "Have you heard from him?" he asked with sudden intuition.

She longed to fling herself down at his knees, but he was so still, that to move seemed impossible; she

Christian stole out into the passage. A bead curtain rustled in the draught; voices reached her.

"He is very trying, poor Nicholas! He always had that peculiar quality of opposition; it has brought him to

grief a hundred times. There is opposition in our blood; my family all have it. My eldest brother died of it;

with my poor sister, who was as gentle as a lamb, it took the form of doing the right thing in the wrong place.

"Patience," repeated Dawney's voice, "is one thing; patience where there is responsibility is another. I've not

"Has he made his will? With this trouble in the side again, I tell you plainly, Mrs. Decie, there's little or no

Christian put her hands up to her ears, and ran out into the air. What was she about to do, thento leave him

On the following day Harz was summoned to the Villa. Mr. Treffry had just risen, and was garbed in a

dressingsuit, old and worn, which had a certain air of magnificence. His seamed cheeks were newly shaved.

Thinking of the drive and their last parting, Harz felt sorry and ashamed. Suddenly Christian came into the

"Chris!" said Mr. Treffry reproachfully. She shook her head, and did not move; mournful and intent, her eyes

"I've no right to blame you, Mr. Harz, and Chris tells me you came to see me first, which is what I would

Harz looked again at Christian; but she made no sign, sitting with her chin resting on her hands.

"I have come for her," he said; "I can make my livingenough for both of us. But I can't wait."

Mr. Treffry boomed out again: " Why? Isn't she worth waiting for? Isn't she worth serving for?"

"I can't expect you to understand me," the painter said. "My art is my life to me. Do you suppose that if it

wasn't I should ever have left my village; or gone through all that I've gone through, to get as far even as I

am? You tell me to wait. If my thoughts and my will aren't free, how can I work? I shan't be worth my salt.

You tell me to go back to Englandknowing she is here, amongst you who hate me, a thousand miles away.

I shall know that there's a death fight going on in her and outside her against meyou think that I can go on

working under these conditions. Others may be able, I am not. That's the plain truth. If I loved her less"

"It isn't fair to come here and ask what you're asking. You don't know what's in the future for you, you don't

know that you can keep a wife. It isn't pleasant, either, to think you can't hold up your head in your own

"Ah! you bring that up again!" he broke out. "Seven years ago I was a boy and starving; if you had been in

my place you would have done what I did. My country is as much to me as your country is to you. I've been

an exile seven years, I suppose I shall always be I've had punishment enough; but if you think I am a rascal,

"Stop! I beg your pardon! I never meant to hurt you. It isn't easy for me to eat my words," Mr. Treffry said

Harz came quickly back and took it. Christian's gaze was never for a moment withdrawn; she seemed trying

to store up the sight of him within her. The light darting through the halfclosed shutters gave her eyes a

strange, bright intensity, and shone in the folds of her white dress like the sheen of birds' wings.

Mr. Treffry glanced uneasily about him. "God knows I don't want anything but her happiness," he said.

"How can you tell what is happiness to her? You have your own ideas of happinessnot hers, not mine. You

"Dare?" said Mr. Treffry. "Her father gave her over to me when she was a mite of a little thing; I've known

her all her life. I've I've loved herand you come here with your 'dare'! " His hand dragged at his beard,

"I've acted squarely by you, sir," Mr. Treffry went on, "I ask the same of you. I ask you to wait, and come

like an honest man, when you can say, 'I see my wayhere's this and that for her.' What makes this art you

talk of different from any other call in life? It doesn't alter facts, or give you what other men have no right to

expect. It doesn't put grit into you, or keep your hands clean, or prove that two and two make five."

"You know as much of art as I know of money. If we live a thousand years we shall never understand each

"I make you an offer," he said. "Your word not to see or write to her for a year! Then, position or not, money

A kind of despair seemed suddenly to seize on Mr. Nicholas Treffry. He rose, and stood towering over them.

"All my life" he said; but something seemed to click deep down in his throat, and he sank back in his seat.

"Go!" whispered Christian, "go!" But Mr. Treffry found his voice again: "It's for the child to say. Well,

"You know I can't tell you to come withthat, there. Why did you send for me?" And, turning, he went out.

Christian sank on her knees, burying her face in her hands. Mr. Treffry pressed his handkerchief with a

stealthy movement to his mouth. It was dyed crimson with the price of his victory.

A telegram had summoned Herr Paul from Vienna. He had started forthwith, leaving several unpaid accounts

to a more joyful opportunity, amongst them a chemist's bill, for a wonderful quack medicine of which he

It was difficult to find any one to listen; the women were scared and silent, waiting for the orders that were

now and then whispered through the door. Herr Paul could not bear this silence, and talked to his servant for

half an hour, till Fritz also vanished to fetch something from the town. Then in despair Herr Paul went to his

It was hard not to be allowed to helpit was hard to wait! When the heart was suffering, it was frightful! He

turned and, looking furtively about him, lighted a cigar. Yes, it came to every oneat some time or other;

and what was it, that death they talked of? Was it any worse than life? That frightful jumble people made for

His eyes filled with tears, and drawing a penknife from his pocket, he began to stab it into the stuffing of his

chair. Scruff, who sat watching the chink of light under the door, turned his head, blinked at him, and began

It was intolerable, this uncertaintyto be near, and yet so far, was not endurable!

Herr Paul stepped across the room. The dog, following, threw his blackmarked muzzle upwards with a gruff

noise, and went back to the door. His master was holding in his hand a bottle of champagne.

Poor Nicholas! The prince of fellows, and of what use was one? They kept him away from Nicholas!

Herr Paul's eyes fell on the terrier. "Ach! my dear," he said, "you and I, we alone are kept away!"

What was it? This life! Frothlike that! He tossed off a third glass. Forget! If one could not help, it was better

He finished the bottle, and went out into the passage. Scruff ran and lay down at Mr. Treffry's door. Herr Paul

looked at him. "Ach!" he said, tapping his chest, "ungrateful hound!" And opening the front door he went out

Late that afternoon Greta stole hatless through the lilac bushes; she looked tired after her night journey, and

'It is not like home,' she thought; 'I am unhappy. Even the birds are silent, but perhaps that is because it is so

hot. I have never been sad like thisfor it is not fancy that I am sad this time, as it is sometimes. It is in my

heart like the sound the wind makes through a wood, it feels quite empty in my heart. If it is always like this

to be unhappy, then I am sorry for all the unhappy things in the world; I am sorrier than I ever was before.'

Dawney turned to her; a heavy furrow showed between his brows. His eyes, always rather close together,

"Brave?" repeated Greta; "what is it to be brave? If it is not to cry and make a fussthat I can do. But if it is

not to be sad in here," she touched her breast, "that I cannot do, and it shall not be any good for me to try."

"No," said Greta, tracing the pattern of the sunlight on her skirt. "But I think that when we hope, we are not

brave, because we are expecting something for ourselves. Chris says that hope is prayer, and if it is prayer,

then all the time we are hoping, we are asking for something, and it is not brave to ask for things."

"Go on, Philosopher!" he said. "Be brave in your own way, it will be just as good as anybody else's."

"I shall never be brave," she mourned; "I shall always be wanting to be happy." And, kneeling down, she

began to disentangle a fly, imprisoned in a cobweb. A plant of hemlock had sprung up in the long grass by

'But it's very beautiful,' she thought, 'the blossoms are like stars. I am not going to pull it up. I will leave it;

perhaps it will spread all through the garden; and if it does I do not care, for now things are not like they used

The days went by; those long, hot days, when the heat haze swims up about ten of the forenoon, and, as the

sun sinks level with the mountains, melts into golden ether which sets the world quivering with sparkles.

At the lighting of the stars those sparkles die, vanishing one by one off the hillsides; evening comes flying

down the valleys, and life rests under her cool wings. The night falls; and the hundred little voices of the

It was near grapegathering, and in the heat the fight for Nicholas Treffry's life went on, day in, day out, with

gleams of hope and moments of despair. Doctors came, but after the first he refused to see them.

"No," he said to Dawney "throwing away money. If I pull through it won't be because of them."

For days together he would allow no one but Dawney, Dominique, and the paid nurse in the room.

"I can stand it better," he said to Christian, "when I don't see any of you; keep away, old girl, and let me get

To have been able to help would have eased the tension of her nerves, and the aching of her heart. At his own

request they had moved his bed into a corner so that he might face the wall. There he would lie for hours

Sometimes Christian crept in unnoticed, and sat watching, with her arms tightly folded across her breast. At

night, after Greta was asleep, she would toss from side to side, muttering feverish prayers. She spent hours at

her little table in the schoolroom, writing letters to Harz that were never sent. Once she wrote these words: "I

am the most wicked of all creaturesI have even wished that he may die!" A few minutes afterwards Miss

Naylor found her with her head buried on her arms. Christian sprang up; tears were streaming down her

cheeks. "Don't touch me!" she cried, and rushed away. Later, she stole into her uncle's room, and sank down

on the floor beside the bed. She sat there silently, unnoticed all the evening. When night came she could

One day Mr. Treffry expressed a wish to see Herr Paul; it was a long while before the latter could summon

"There's a few dozen of the Gordon sherry at my Chambers, in London, Paul," Mr. Treffry said; "I'd be glad

to think you had 'em. And my man, Dominique, I've made him all right in my will, but keep your eye on him;

he's a good sort for a foreigner, and no chicken, but sooner or later, the women'll get hold of him. That's all I

"Ah! my dear! Courage! We are all mortal. You will get well!" All the morning he walked about quite

inconsolable. "It was frightful to see him, you know, frightful! An iron man could not have borne it."

When Christian came to him, Mr. Treffry raised himself and looked at her a long while.

His wistful face was like an accusation. But that very afternoon the news came from the sickroom that he was

Every one went about with smiles lurking in their eyes, and ready to break forth at a word. In the kitchen

Barbi burst out crying, and, forgetting to toss the pan, spoiled a KaiserSchmarn she was making. Dominique

was observed draining a glass of Chianti, and solemnly casting forth the last drops in libation. An order was

given for tea to be taken out under the acacias, where it was always cool; it was felt that something in the

nature of high festival was being held. Even Herr Paul was present; but Christian did not come. Nobody

Miss Naylor reddened. "I did not ask him. Idon'tknowwhether he is quite respectable. His coat is

"I don't knowI really do not know" began Miss Naylor; "he has veryhighboots," but Greta was

already on her way, with hands clasped behind her, and demure eyes taking in the stranger's figure.

"This house has no bells," he said in a nasal voice; "it has a tendency to discourage one."

"Yes," said Greta gravely, "there is a bell, but it does not ring now, because my uncle is so ill."

"I am very sorry to hear that. I don't know the people here, but I am very sorry to hear that.

I would be glad to speak a few words to your sister, if it is your sister that I want."

"Is it," said Greta, "that you are a friend of Herr Harz? If you are a friend of his, you will please come and

The stranger's progress towards the arbour was so slow that Greta arrived considerably before him.

"It is a friend of Herr Harz," she whispered; "he will drink coffee. I am going to find Chris."

"Ah!" she said, "if it is so, we must be very nice to him for Christian's sake."

"We are so glad to know you; you are an artist too, perhaps? I take a great interest in art, and especially in

"He is the genuine article, ma'am," he said. "He represents no school, he is one of that kind whose corpses

"Ah!" murmured Mrs. Decie, "you are an American. That is so nice. Do sit down! My niece will soon be

Gulping down his coffee, the stranger included them all in a single bow, and followed her.

"I am sending Mr. Harz's things to England; there are some pictures here. He would be glad to have them."

"I am sending them to London," the stranger repeated; "perhaps you could give them to me today."

Her eyes seemed to dart into his soul, and try to drag something from it. The words rushed from her lips

"No," he stammered, "no! I guess not. He is well.... I wish...." He stopped; her white face seemed to flash

scorn, despair, and entreaty on him all at once. And turning, she left him standing there.

When Christian went that evening to her uncle's room he was sitting up in bed, and at once began to talk.

"Chris," he said, "I can't stand this dying by inches. I'm going to try what a journey'll do for me. I want to get

back to the old country. The doctor's promised. There's a shot in the locker yet! I believe in that young chap;

he's stuck to me like a man.... It'll be your birthday, on Tuesday, old girl, and you'll be twenty. Seventeen

years since your father died. You've been a lot to me.... A parson came here today. That's a bad sign. Thought

it his duty! Very civil of him! I wouldn't see him, though. If there's anything in what they tell you, I'm not

going to sneak in at this time o' day. There's one thing that's rather badly on my mind. I took advantage of Mr.

Harz with this damned pitifulness of mine. You've a right to look at me as I've seen you sometimes when you

thought I was asleep. If I hadn't been ill he'd never have left you. I don't blame you, Chris not I! You love

me? I know that, my dear. But one's alone when it comes to the runin. Don't cry! Our minds aren't

Sundayschool books; you're finding it out, that's all!" He sighed and turned away.

The noise of sunblinds being raised vibrated through the house. A feeling of terror seized on the girl; he lay

so still, and yet the drawing of each breath was a fight. If she could only suffer in his place! She went close,

"It's air we want, both you and I!" he muttered. Christian beckoned to the nurse, and stole out through the

A regiment was passing in the road; she stood halfhidden amongst the lilac bushes watching. The poplar

leaves drooped lifeless and almost black above her head, the dust raised by the soldiers' feet hung in the air; it

seemed as if in all the world no freshness and no life were stirring. The tramp of feet died away. Suddenly

within arm's length of her a man appeared, his stick shouldered like a sword. He raised his hat.

"Goodevening! You do not remember me? Sarelli. Pardon! You looked like a ghost standing there. How

badly those fellows marched! We hang, you see, on the skirts of our profession and criticise; it is all we are fit

for." His black eyes, restless and malevolent like a swan's, seemed to stab her face. "A fine evening! Too hot.

The storm is wanted; you feel that? It is weary waiting for the storm; but after the storm, my dear young lady,

comes peace." He smiled, gently, this time, and baring his head again, was lost to view in the shadow of the

His figure had seemed to Christian like the sudden vision of a threatening, hidden force. She thrust out her

No use; it was within her, nothing could keep it away! She went to Mrs. Decie's room, where her aunt and

Miss Naylor were conversing in low tones. To hear their voices brought back the touch of this world of

Dawney slept at the Villa now. In the dead of night he was awakened by a light flashed in his eyes. Christian

was standing there, her face pale and wild with terror, her hair falling in dark masses on her shoulders.

He saw her muffle her face in her white sleeves, and seizing the candle, leaped out of bed and rushed away.

The internal haemorrhage had come again, and Nicholas Treffry wavered between life and death. When it

had ceased, he sank into a sort of stupor. About six o'clock he came back to consciousness; watching his eyes,

they could see a mental struggle taking place within him. At last he singled Christian out from the others by a

His voice grew a little stronger. "I thought that I could see it throughbut here's the end." He lifted his hand

ever so little, and let it fall again. When told a little later that a telegram had been sent to Harz his eyes

Herr Paul came down in ignorance of the night's events. He stopped in front of the barometer and tapped it,

remarking to Miss Naylor: "The glass has gone downstairs; we shall have cool weatherit will still go well

When, with her brown face twisted by pity and concern, she told him that it was a question of hours, Herr

Paul turned first purple, then pale, and sitting down, trembled violently. "I cannot believe it," he exclaimed

almost angrily. "Yesterday he was so well! I cannot believe it! Poor Nicholas! Yesterday he spoke to me!"

Taking Miss Naylor's hand, he clutched it in his own. "Ah!" he cried, letting it go suddenly, and striking at

his forehead, "it is too terrible; only yesterday he spoke to me of sherry. Is there nobody, then, who can do

"Wecanallpray to Him," Miss Naylor murmured; little spots of colour came into her cheeks. "I am

"Are you?" he said; "good! I too." He passed through his study door, closed it carefully behind him, then for

some unknown reason set his back against it. Ugh! Death! It came to all! Some day it would come to him. It

The day dragged to its end. In the sky clouds had mustered, and, crowding close on one another, clung round

the sun, soft, thick, greywhite, like the feathers on a pigeon's breast. Towards evening faint tremblings were

Nobody went to bed that night, but in the morning the report was the same: "Unconsciousa question of

hours." Once only did he recover consciousness, and then asked for Harz. A telegram had come from him, he

was on the way. Towards seven of the evening the long expected storm broke in a sky like ink. Into the

valleys and over the crests of mountains it seemed as though an unseen hand were spilling goblets of pale

wine, darting a swordblade zigzag over trees, roofs, spires, peaks, into the very firmament, which answered

every thrust with great bursts of groaning. Just beyond the veranda Greta saw a glowworm shining, as it

might be a tiny bead of the fallen lightning. Soon the rain covered everything. Sometimes a jet of light

brought the hilltops, towering, dark, and hard, over the house, to disappear again behind the raindrops and

shaken leaves. Each breath drawn by the storm was like the clash of a thousand cymbals; and in his room Mr.

Greta had crept in unobserved; and sat curled in a corner, with Scruff in her arms, rocking slightly to and fro.

When Christian passed, she caught her skirt, and whispered: "It is your birthday, Chris!"

"Chris!" Mr. Treffry said. "It's near now." She bent across him, and her tears fell on his forehead.

For an hour or more he did not speak, though once or twice he moaned, and faintly tightened his pressure on

her fingers. The storm had died away, but very far off the thunder was still muttering.

His eyes opened once more, rested on her, and passed beyond, into that abyss dividing youth from age,

At the foot of the bed Dawney stood covering his face; behind him Dominique knelt with hands held

upwards; the sound of Greta's breathing, soft in sleep, rose and fell in the stillness.

One afternoon in March, more than three years after Mr. Treffry's death, Christian was sitting at the window

of a studio in St. John's Wood. The sky was covered with soft, high clouds, through which shone little gleams

of blue. Now and then a bright shower fell, sprinkling the trees, where every twig was curling upwards as if

waiting for the gift of its new leaves. And it seemed to her that the boughs thickened and budded under her

very eyes; a great concourse of sparrows had gathered on those boughs, and kept raising a shrill chatter. Over

On Christian's face was the quiet smile of one who knows that she has only to turn her eyes to see what she

wishes to see; of one whose possessions are safe under her hand. She looked at Harz with that possessive

smile. But as into the brain of one turning in his bed grim fancies will suddenly leap up out of warm

nothingness, so there leaped into her mind the memory of that long ago dawn, when he had found her

kneeling by Mr. Treffry's body. She seemed to see again the dead face, so gravely quiet, and furrowless. She

seemed to see her lover and herself setting forth silently along the river wall where they had first met; sitting

down, still silent, beneath the poplartree where the little bodies of the chafers had lain strewn in the Spring.

To see the trees changing from black to grey, from grey to green, and in the dark sky long white lines of

cloud, lighting to the south like birds; and, very far away, rosy peaks watching the awakening of the earth.

And now once again, after all that time, she felt her spirit shrink away from his; as it had shrunk in that hour,

when she had seemed hateful to herself. She remembered the words she had spoken: "I have no heart left.

You've torn it in two between you. Love is all selfI wanted him to die." She remembered too the raindrops

on the vines like a million tiny lamps, and the throstle that began singing. Then, as dreams die out into warm

"....O Chris! We are really coming; I seem to be always telling it to myself, and I have told Scruff many

times, but he does not care, because he is getting old. Miss Naylor says we shall arrive for breakfast, and that

we shall be hungry, but perhaps she will not be very hungry, if it is rough. Papa said to me: 'Je serai

inconsolable, mais inconsolable!' But I think he will not be, because he is going to Vienna. When we are

come, there will be nobody at Villa Rubein; Aunt Constance has gone a fortnight ago to Florence. There is a

young man at her hotel; she says he will be one of the greatest playwriters in England, and she sent me a play

of his to read; it was only a little about love, I did not like it very much.... O Chris! I think I shall cry when I

see you. As I am quite grown up, Miss Naylor is not to come back with me; sometimes she is sad, but she

will be glad to see you, Chris. She seems always sadder when it is Spring. Today I walked along the wall; the

little green balls of wool are growing on the poplars already, and I saw one chafer; it will not be long before

the cherry blossom comes; and I felt so funny, sad and happy together, and once I thought that I had wings

and could fly away up the valley to Meranbut I had none, so I sat on the bench where we sat the day we

took the pictures, and I thought and thought; there was nothing came to me in my thoughts, but all was sweet

and a little noisy, and rather sad; it was like the buzzing of the chafer, in my head; and now I feel so tired and

all my blood is running up and down me. I do not mind, because I know it is the Spring.

"Dominique came to see us the other day; he is very well, and is half the proprietor of the Adler Hotel, at

Meran; he is not at all different, and he asked about you and about Aloisdo you know, Chris, to myself I

call him Herr Harz, but when I have seen him this time I shall call him Alois in my heart also.

"I have a letter from Dr. Edmund; he is in London, so perhaps you have seen him, only he has a great many

patients and some that he has 'hopes of killing soon'! especially one old lady, because she is always wanting

him to do things for her, and he is never saying 'No,' so he does not like her. He says that he is getting old.

When I have finished this letter I am going to write and tell him that perhaps he shall see me soon, and then I

think he will be very sad. Now that the Spring is come there are more flowers to take to Uncle Nic's grave,

and every day, when I am gone, Barbi is to take them so that he shall not miss you, Chris, because all the

"I am only to stay three weeks with you, but I think when I am once there I shall be staying longer. I send a

kiss for my niece, and to Herr Harz, my lovethat is the last time I shall call him Herr Harz; and to you,

Christian rose, and, turning very softly, stood, leaning her elbows on the back of a high seat, looking at her

In her eyes there was a slow, clear, faintly smiling, yet yearning look, as though this strenuous figure bent on

its task were seen for a moment as something apart, and not all the world to her.

"No, it's onlywhat Greta says about the Spring; it makes one want more than one has got.

Slipping her hand away, she went back to the window. Harz stood, looking after her; then, taking up his

In the world, outside, the high soft clouds flew by; the trees seemed thickening and budding.

.......It is quiet here, sleepy, rathera farm is never quiet; the sea, too, is only a quarter of a mile away, and

when it's windy, the sound of it travels up the combe; for distraction, you must go four miles to Brixham or

five to Kingswear, and you won't find much then. The farm lies in a sheltered spot, scooped, so to speak, high

up the combe sidebehind is a rise of fields, and beyond, a sweep of down. You have the feeling of being

able to see quite far, which is misleading, as you soon find out if you walk. It is true Devon countryhills,

hollows, hedgebanks, lanes dipping down into the earth or going up like the sides of houses, coppices,

cornfields, and little streams wherever there's a place for one; but the downs along the cliff, all gorse and

ferns, are wild. The combe ends in a sandy cove with black rock on one side, pinkish cliffs away to the

headland on the other, and a coastguard station. Just now, with the harvest coming on, everything looks its

richest, the apples ripening, the trees almost too green. It's very hot, still weather; the country and the sea

seem to sleep in the sun. In front of the farm are half adozen pines that look as if they had stepped out of

another land, but all round the back is orchard as lush, and gnarled, and orthodox as any one could wish. The

house, a long, white building with three levels of roof, and splashes of brown all over it, looks as if it might

be growing down into the earth. It was freshly thatched two years agoand that's all the newness there is

about it; they say the front door, oak, with iron knobs, is three hundred years old at least. You can touch the

ceilings with your hand. The windows certainly might be largera heavenly old place, though, with a

The owner is a man called John Ford, about seventy, and seventeen stone in weightvery big, on long legs,

with a grey, stubbly beard, grey, watery eyes, short neck and purplish complexion; he is asthmatic, and has a

very courteous, autocratic manner. His clothes are made of Harris tweedexcept on Sundays, when he puts

on blacka seal ring, and a thick gold cable chain. There's nothing mean or small about John Ford; I suspect

him of a warm heart, but he doesn't let you know much about him. He's a northcountry man by birth, and

has been out in New Zealand all his life. This little Devonshire farm is all he has now. He had a large

"station" in the North Island, and was much looked up to, kept open house, did everything, as one would

guess, in a narrowminded, largehanded way. He came to grief suddenly; I don't quite know how. I believe

his only son lost money on the turf, and then, unable to face his father, shot himself; if you had seen John

Ford, you could imagine that. His wife died, too, that year. He paid up to the last penny, and came home, to

live on this farm. He told me the other night that he had only one relation in the world, his granddaughter,

who lives here with him. Pasiance Voiseyold spelling for Patience, but they pronounce, it Pashyenceis

sitting out here with me at this moment on a sort of rustic loggia that opens into the orchard. Her sleeves are

rolled up, and she's stripping currants, ready for black currant tea. Now and then she rests her elbows on the

table, eats a berry, pouts her lips, and, begins again. She has a round, little face; a long, slender body; cheeks

like poppies; a bushy mass of blackbrown hair, and darkbrown, almost black, eyes; her nose is snub; her

lips quick, red, rather full; all her motions quick and soft. She loves bright colours. She's rather like a little

cat; sometimes she seems all sympathy, then in a moment as hard as tortoiseshell. She's all impulse; yet she

doesn't like to show her feelings; I sometimes wonder whether she has any. She plays the violin.

It's queer to see these two together, queer and rather sad. The old man has a fierce tenderness for her that

strikes into the very roots of him. I see him torn between it, and his cold northcountry horror of his feelings;

his life with her is an unconscious torture to him. She's a restless, chafing thing, demure enough one moment,

then flashing out into mocking speeches or hard little laughs. Yet she's fond of him in her fashion; I saw her

kiss him once when he was asleep. She obeys him generallyin a way as if she couldn't breathe while she

was doing it. She's had a queer sort of education history, geography, elementary mathematics, and nothing

else; never been to school; had a few lessons on the violin, but has taught herself most of what she knows.

She is well up in the lore of birds, flowers, and insects; has three cats, who follow her about; and is full of

pranks. The other day she called out to me, "I've something for you. Hold out your hand and shut your eyes!"

It was a large, black slug! She's the child of the old fellow's only daughter, who was sent home for schooling

at Torquay, and made a runaway match with one Richard Voisey, a yeoman farmer, whom she met in the

hunting field. John Ford was furioushis ancestors, it appears, used to lead ruffians on the Cumberland

side of the Borderhe looked on "Squire" Rick Voisey as a cut below him. He was called "Squire," as far as

I can make out, because he used to play cards every evening with a parson in the neighbourhood who went by

the name of "Devil" Hawkins. Not that the Voisey stock is to be despised. They have had this farm since it

was granted to one Richard Voysey by copy dated 8th September, 13 Henry VIII. Mrs. Hopgood, the wife of

the bailiff a dear, quaint, serene old soul with cheeks like a rosy, withered apple, and an unbounded love of

"I kape it," she said. "Mr. Ford be tu proudbut other folks be proud tu. 'Tis a praaper old fam'ly: all the

women is Margery, Pasiance, or Mary; all the men's Richards an' Johns an' Rogers; old as they appletrees."

Rick Voisey was a rackety, hunting fellow, and "dipped" the old farm up to its thatched roof. John Ford took

his revenge by buying up the mortgages, foreclosing, and commanding his daughter and Voisey to go on

living here rent free; this they dutifully did until they were both killed in a dogcart accident, eight years ago.

Old Ford's financial smash came a year later, and since then he's lived here with Pasiance. I fancy it's the

cross in her blood that makes her so restless, and irresponsible: if she had been all a native she'd have been

happy enough here, or all a stranger like John Ford himself, but the two strains struggling for mastery seem to

give her no rest. You'll think this a farfetched theory, but I believe it to be the true one. She'll stand with lips

pressed together, her arms folded tight across her narrow chest, staring as if she could see beyond the things

round her; then something catches her attention, her eyes will grow laughing, soft, or scornful all in a minute!

She's eighteen, perfectly fearless in a boat, but you can't get her to mount a horse a sore subject with her

grandfather, who spends most of his day on a lean, halfbred pony, that carries him like a feather, for all his

They put me up here as a favour to Dan Treffry; there's an arrangement of L. s. d. with Mrs. Hopgood in the

background. They aren't at all well off; this is the largest farm about, but it doesn't bring them in much. To

look at John Ford, it seems incredible he should be short of moneyhe's too large.

We have family prayers at eight, then, breakfastafter that freedom for writing or anything else till supper

and evening prayers. At midday one forages for oneself. On Sundays, two miles to church twice, or you get

into John Ford's black books.... Dan Treffry himself is staying at Kingswear. He says he's made his pile; it

suits him down herelike a sleep after years of being too wide awake; he had a rough time in New

Zealand, until that mine made his fortune. You'd hardly remember him; he reminds me of his uncle, old

Nicholas Treffry; the same slow way of speaking, with a hesitation, and a trick of repeating your name with

everything he says; left handed too, and the same slow twinkle in his eyes. He has a dark, short beard, and

redbrown cheeks; is a little bald on the temples, and a bit grey, but hard as iron. He rides over nearly every

day, attended by a black spaniel with a wonderful nose and a horror of petticoats. He has told me lots of good

stories of John Ford in the early squatter's times; his feats with horses live to this day; and he was through the

They are very good friends, and respect each other; Dan has a great admiration for the old man, but the

attraction is Pasiance. He talks very little when she's in the room, but looks at her in a sidelong, wistful sort of

way. Pasiance's conduct to him would be cruel in any one else, but in her, one takes it with a pinch of salt.

Last night, for instance, we were sitting in the loggia after supper. Pasiance was fingering the strings of her

Down came John Ford's hand on the wicker table: "You forget yourself! Go to bed!"

She gave Dan a look, and went; we could hear her playing in her bedroom; it sounded like a dance of spirits;

and just when one thought she had finished, out it would break again like a burst of laughter. Presently, John

Ford begged our pardons ceremoniously, and stumped off indoors. The violin ceased; we heard his voice

growling at her; down he came again. Just as he was settled in his chair there was a soft swish, and something

dark came falling through the apple boughs. The violin! You should have seen his face! Dan would have

picked the violin up, but the old man stopped him. Later, from my bedroom window, I saw John Ford come

out and stand looking at the violin. He raised his foot as if to stamp on it. At last he picked it up, wiped it

My room is next to hers. I kept hearing her laugh, a noise too as if she were dragging things about the room.

Then I fell asleep, but woke with a start, and went to the window for a breath of fresh air. Such a black,

breathless night! Nothing to be seen but the twisted, blacker branches; not the faintest stir of leaves, no sound

but muffled grunting from the cowhouse, and now and then a faint sigh. I had the queerest feeling of unrest

and fear, the last thing to expect on such a night. There is something here that's disturbing; a sort of

suppressed struggle. I've never in my life seen anything so irresponsible as this girl, or so uncompromising as

the old man; I keep thinking of the way he wiped that violin. It's just as if a spark would set everything in a

blaze. There's a menace of tragedy orperhaps it's only the heat, and too much of Mother Hopgood's

......I've made a new acquaintance. I was lying in the orchard, and presently, not seeing me, he came alonga

man of middle height, with a singularly good balance, and no lumberrather old blue clothes, a flannel shirt,

a dull red necktie, brown shoes, a cap with a leather peak pushed up on the forehead. Face long and narrow,

bronzed with a kind of pale burntin brownness; a good forehead. A brown moustache, beard rather pointed,

blackening about the cheeks; his chin not visible, but from the beard's growth must be big; mouth I should

judge sensuous. Nose straight and blunt; eyes grey, with an upward look, not exactly frank, because defiant;

two parallel furrows down each cheek, one from the inner corner of the eye, one from the nostril; age perhaps

thirtyfive. About the face, attitude, movements, something immensely vital, adaptable, daring, and

He stood in front of the loggia, biting his fingers, a kind of nineteenthcentury buccaneer, and I wondered

what he was doing in this galley. They say you can tell a man of Kent or a Somersetshire man; certainly you

can tell a Yorkshire man, and this fellow could only have been a man of Devon, one of the two main types

found in this county. He whistled; and out came Pasiance in a geranium coloured dress, looking like some

tall poppyyou know the slight droop of a poppy's head, and the way the wind sways its stem.... She is a

human poppy, her fuzzy dark hair is like a poppy's lustreless black heart, she has a poppy's tantalising

attraction and repulsion, something fatal, or rather fateful. She came walking up to my new friend, then

"That," she said to me, "is Zachary Pearse. This," she said to him, "is our lodger." She said it with a

wonderful soft malice. She wanted to scratch me, and she scratched. Half an hour later I was in the yard,

"If by any chance," he said suddenly, "you're looking for a job, I could put something in your way. Walk

down to the beach with me, and I'll tell you; my boat's at anchor, smartest little craft in these parts."

It was very hot, and I had no desire whatever to go down to the beachI went, all the same. We had not

gone far when John Ford and Dan Treffry came into the lane. Our friend seemed a little disconcerted, but

soon recovered himself. We met in the middle of the lane, where there was hardly room to pass. John Ford,

"Goodday!" said Pearse; "fine weather! I've been up to ask Pasiance to come for a sail. Wednesday we

thought, weather permitting; this gentleman's coming. Perhaps you'll come too, Mr. Treffry. You've never

seen my place. I'll give you lunch, and show you my father. He's worth a couple of hours' sail any day." It

was said in such an odd way that one couldn't resent his impudence. John Ford was seized with a fit of

wheezing, and seemed on the eve of an explosion; he glanced at me, and checked himself.

"You're very good," he said icily; "my granddaughter has other things to do. You, gentlemen, will please

yourselves"; and, with a very slight bow, he went stumping on to the house. Dan looked at me, and I looked

"You'll come?" said Pearse, rather wistfully. Dan stammered: "Thank you, Mr. Pearse; I'm a better man on a

horse than in a boat, but thank you." Cornered in this way, he's a shy, softhearted being. Pearse smiled his

"Pertinacious beggar!" I heard Dan mutter in his beard; and found myself marching down the lane again by

Pearse's side. I asked him what he was good enough to mean by saying I was coming, without having asked

"You see, I'm not friends with the old man; but I knew he'd not be impolite to you, so I took the liberty."

He has certainly a knack of turning one's anger to curiosity. We were down in the combe now; the tide was

running out, and the sand all little, wet, shining ridges. About a quarter of a mile out lay a cutter, with her tan

sail half down, swinging to the swell. The sunlight was making the pink cliffs glow in the most wonderful

way; and shifting in bright patches over the sea like moving shoals of goldfish. Pearse perched himself on his

"If we could only net some of those spangles," he said, "an' make gold of 'em! No more work then."

"It's a big job I've got on," he said presently; "I'll tell you about it on Wednesday. I want a journalist."

"But I don't write for the papers," I said; "I do other sort of work. My game is archaeology."

"It doesn't matter," he said, "the more imagination the better. It'd be a thundering good thing for you."

His assurance was amazing, but it was past suppertime, and hunger getting the better of my curiosity, I bade

him goodnight. When I looked back, he was still there, on the edge of his boat, gazing at the sea. A queer

Nobody mentioned him that evening; but once old Ford, after staring a long time at Pasiance, muttered a

propos of nothing, "Undutiful children!" She was softer than usual; listening quietly to our talk, and smiling

when spoken to. At bedtime she went up to her grand father, without waiting for the usual command,

Dan did not stay to supper, and he has not been here since. This morning I asked Mother Hopgood who

Zachary Pearse was. She's a true Devonian; if there's anything she hates, it is to be committed to a definite

statement. She ambled round her answer, and at last told me that he was "son of old Cap'en Jan Pearse to

Black Mill. 'Tes an old family to Dartymouth an' Plymouth," she went on in a communicative outburst. "They

du say Francis Drake tuke five o' they Pearses with 'en to fight the Spaniards. At least that's what I've heard

Mr. Zachary zay; but Haapgood can tell yu." Poor Hopgood, the amount of information she saddles him

with in the course of the day! Having given me thus to understand that she had run dry, she at once went on:

"Cap'en Jan Pearse made a dale of ventures. He's old nowthey du say nigh an 'undred. Haapgood can tell

"An' what would yu take for dinner today? There's duck; or yu might like 'toad in the hole,' with an apple

tart; or then, there'sWell! we'll see what we can du like." And off she went, without waiting for my answer.

Tomorrow is Wednesday. I shan't be sorry to get another look at this fellow Pearse....

.......Why do you ask me so many questions, and egg me on to write about these people instead of minding

It was a splendid morning; and Dan turned up, to my surprisethough I might have known that when he

says a thing, he does it. John Ford came out to shake hands with him, then, remembering why he had come,

breathed loudly, said nothing, and went in again. Nothing was to be seen of Pasiance, and we went down to

"I don't like this fellow Pearse, George," Dan said to me on the way; "I was fool enough to say I'd go, and so I

"I'm not so surequeer beggar; I never look at him without thinking of a pirate."

The cutter lay in the cove as if she had never moved. There too was Zachary Pearse seated on the edge of his

"A fiveknot breeze," he said, "I'll run you down in a couple of hours." He made no inquiry about Pasiance,

but put us into his cockleshell and pulled for the cutter. A lanternJawed fellow, named Prawle, with a spiky,

prominent beard, long, cleanshaven upper lip, and tanned complexiona regular hardweather

The cutter was beautifully clean; built for a Brixham trawler, she still had her numberDH 113uneffaced.

We dived into a sort of cabin, airy, but dark, fitted with two bunks and a small table, on which stood some

bottles of stout; there were lockers, too, and pegs for clothes. Prawle, who showed us round, seemed very

proud of a steam contrivance for hoisting sails. It was some minutes before we came on deck again; and

"If I'd known this," stammered Dan, getting red, "I wouldn't have come." She had outwitted us, and there was

It was a very pleasant sail. The breeze was light from the south east, the sun warm, the air soft. Presently

"Columbus is dead and laid in his grave, Oh! heighho! and laid in his grave; Over his head the appletrees

The apples are ripe and ready to fall, Oh! heighho! and ready to fall; There came an old woman and

The apples are gathered, and laid on the shelf, Oh! heighho! and laid on the shelf; If you want any more,

Her small, high voice came to us in trills and spurts, as the wind let it, like the singing of a skylark lost in the

sky. Pearse went up to her and whispered something. I caught a glimpse of her face like a startled wild

creature's; shrinking, tossing her hair, laughing, all in the same breath. She wouldn't sing again, but crouched

in the bows with her chin on her hands, and the sun falling on one cheek, round, velvety, red as a peach....

We passed Dartmouth, and half an hour later put into a little wooded bay. On a low reddish cliff was a house

hedged round by pinetrees. A bit of broken jetty ran out from the bottom of the cliff. We hooked on to this,

and landed. An ancient, fishlike man came slouching down and took charge of the cutter. Pearse led us

The house had a dark, overhanging thatch of the rush reeds that grow in the marshes hereabouts; I remember

nothing else remarkable. It was neither old, nor new; neither beautiful, nor exactly ugly; neither clean, nor

entirely squalid; it perched there with all its windows over the sea, turning its back contemptuously on the

Seated in a kind of porch, beside an immense telescope, was a very old man in a panama hat, with a rattan

cane. His purewhite beard and moustache, and almost black eyebrows, gave a very singular, piercing look to

his little, restless, darkgrey eyes; all over his mahogany cheeks and neck was a network of fine wrinkles. He

"Dad!" said Zachary, "this is Pasiance Voisey." The old man turned his eyes on her and muttered, "How do

you do, ma'am?" then took no further notice. And Pasiance, who seemed to resent this, soon slipped away

and went wandering about amongst the pines. An old woman brought some plates and bottles and laid them

casually on a table; and we sat round the figure of old Captain Pearse without a word, as if we were all under

Before lunch there was a little scene between Zachary Pearse and Dan, as to which of them should summon

Pasiance. It ended in both going, and coming back without her. She did not want any lunch, would stay where

For lunch we had chops, woodpigeons, mushrooms, and mulberry preserve, and drank wonderful Madeira

out of common wineglasses. I asked the old man where he got it; he gave me a queer look, and answered

"Stood me in tu shillin' the bottle, an' the country got nothing out of it, sir. In the early Thirties; tu shillin' the

bottle; there's no such wine nowadays and," he added, looking at Zachary, "no such men."

"Heu!" said the old man, "there's nothing there; I know that coast, as I know the back o' my hand." He

gunsSultanriflesrebelliongold." He detailed a reckless, sordid, bold scheme, which, on the pivot of

"Won't they?" returned Zachary. "Oh yes, they will, an' when I leave, there'll be another dynasty, and I'll be a

Zachary took out a sheet of paper covered with figures. He had worked the whole thing out. So

muchequipment, so muchtrade, so muchconcessions, so muchemergencies. "My last mag!" he

ended, "a thousand short; the ship's ready, and if I'm not there within a month my chance is as good as gone."

This was the pith of his confidencesan appeal for money, and we all looked as men will when that crops

"No," said Zachary. That one word was more eloquent than all the rest of his words put together. This fellow

is no visionary. His scheme may be daring, and unprincipled, buthe knows very well what he's about.

"Well!" said old Pearse, "you shall have five 'undred of my money, if it's only to learn what yu're made of.

"The old man's cheque for five hundred pounds!" he said, holding it up. "Mr. Treffry, give me another, and

"Good!" Dan said slowly. "Give me a written promise! To sea in fourteen days and my fair share on the five

Again I thought Pearse would have jumped at this, but he leaned his chin on his hand, and looked at Dan, and

Dan looked at him. While they were staring at each other like this, Pasiance came up with a kitten.

"See!" she said, "isn't it a darling?" The kitten crawled and clawed its way up behind her neck. I saw both

men's eyes as they looked at Pasiance, and suddenly understood what they were at. The kitten rubbed itself

against Pasiance's cheek, overbalanced, and fell, clawing, down her dress. She caught it up and walked away.

"Goodbye, Mr. Pearse," said Dan; " I guess that's all I'm wanted for. I'll find my pony waiting in the village.

We heard the hoofs of his pony galloping down the road; Pearse suddenly excused himself, and disappeared.

This venture of his may sound romantic and absurd, but it's matter offact enough. He's after L. s. d.!

Shades of Drake, Raleigh, Hawkins, Oxenham! The worm of suspicion gnaws at the rose of romance. What if

I strolled into the pinewood. The earth there was covered like a bee's body with black and gold stripes; there

was the blue sea below, and white, sleepy clouds, and bumblebees booming above the heather; it was all

softness, a summer's day in Devon. Suddenly I came on Pearse standing at the edge of the cliff with Pasiance

"PasiancePasiance!" The sound of his voice, and the sight of her soft, wondering face made me furious.

What business has she with love, at her age? What business have they with each other?

He told me presently that she had started off for home, and drove me to the ferry, behind an old grey pony.

"Come with me," he said. "It doesn't do to neglect the Press; you can see the possibilities. It's one of the few

countries left. If I once get this business started you don't know where it's going to stop. You'd have free

I answered as rudely as I couldbut by no means as rudely as I wantedthat his scheme was mad. As a

matter of fact, it's much too sane for me; for, whatever the body of a scheme, its soul is the fibre of the

"Think of it," he urged, as if he could see into me. "You can make what you like of it. Press paragraphs, of

course. But that's mechanical; why, even I could do it, if I had time. As for the rest, you'll be as freeas free

There, in five words of one syllable, is the kernel of this fellow Pearse"As free as a man!" No rule, no law,

not even the mysterious shackles that bind men to their own selfrespects! "As free as a man!" No ideals; no

principles; no fixed star for his worship; no coil he can't slide out of! But the fellow has the tenacity of one of

"Think of it," he said; "any day will doI've got a fortnight.... Look! there she is! "I thought that he meant

Pasiance; but it was an old steamer, sluggish and black in the blazing sun of midstream, with a

"That's herthe Pied Witcb! Do her twelve knots; you wouldn't think it! Well! goodevening! You'd better

As I was being ferried across I saw him lolling in the sternsheets of a little boat, the sun crowning his straw

I came on Pasiance, about a mile up the road, sitting in the hedge. We walked on together between the

banksDevonshire banks, as high as houses, thick with ivy and ferns, bramble and hazel boughs, and

"Grandfather's God is simply awful. When I'm playing the fiddle, I can feel God; but grandfather's is such a

stuffy Godyou know what I mean: the sea, the wind, the trees, colours toothey make one feel. But I

don't believe that life was meant to 'be good' in. Isn't there anything better than being good? When I'm 'good,'

I simply feel wicked." She reached up, caught a flower from the hedge, and slowly tore its petals.

"What would you do," she muttered, "if you wanted a thing, but were afraid of it? But I suppose you're never

afraid!" she added, mocking me. I admitted that I was sometimes afraid, and often afraid of being afraid.

"That's nice! I'm not afraid of illness, nor of grandfather, nor of his God; butI want to be free. If you want a

"Do you know what I shall do tonight?" she answered. "Get out of my window by the appletree, and go to

We were going down a steep lane, along the side of a wood, where there's always a smell of sappy leaves,

There was a cottage in the bottom, and a small boy sat outside playing with a heap of dust.

"Hallo, Johnny!" said Pasiance. "Hold your leg out and show this man your bad place!" The small boy undid

"Isn't it nasty?" cried Pasiance ruefully, tying up the bandage again; "poor little feller! Johnny, see what I've

brought you!" She produced from her pocket a stick of chocolate, the semblance of a soldier made of

It was a new glimpse of her. All the way home she was telling me the story of little Johnny's family; when

she came to his mother's death, she burst out: "A beastly shame, wasn't it, and they're so poor; it might just as

well have been somebody else. I like poor people, but I hate rich onesstuckup beasts."

Mrs. Hopgood was looking over the gate, with her cap on one side, and one of Pasiance's cats rubbing itself

"Did you get yure tay, my pretty? No? Well, that's a pity; yu'll be falin' lowlike."

Pasiance tossed her head, snatched up the cat, and ran indoors. I remained staring at Mrs. Hopgood.

"Deardear," she clucked," poor lamb. So to spake it's" and she blurted out suddenly, "chuckin' full of

My courage failed that evening. I spent it at the coastguard station, where they gave me bread and cheese and

some awful cider. I passed the kitchen as I came back. A fire was still burning there, and two figures, misty in

the darkness, flitted about with stealthy laughter like spirits afraid of being detected in a carnalmeal. They

were Pasiance and Mrs. Hopgood; and so charming was the smell of eggs and bacon, and they had such an air

of tender enjoyment of this dark revel, that I stifled many pangs, as I crept hungry up to bed.

In the middle of the night I woke and heard what I thought was screaming; then it sounded like wind in trees,

then like the distant shaking of a tambourine, with the high singing of a human voice. Suddenly it

stoppedtwo long notes came wailing out like sobsthen utter stillness; and though I listened for an hour

......For three days after I wrote last, nothing at all happened here. I spent the mornings on the cliff reading,

and watching the sunsparks raining on the sea. It's grand up there with the gorse all round, the gulls basking

on the rocks, the partridges calling in the corn, and now and then a young hawk overhead. The afternoons I

spent out in the orchard. The usual routine goes on at the farm all the timecowmilking, breadbaking,

John Ford riding in and out, Pasiance in her garden stripping lavender, talking to the farm hands; and the

smell of clover, and cows and hay; the sound of hens and pigs and pigeons, the soft drawl of voices, the dull

thud of the farm carts; and day by day the apples getting redder. Then, last Monday, Pasiance was away from

sunrise till sunsetnobody saw her gonobody knew where she had gone. It was a wonderful, strange day,

a sky of silvergrey and blue, with a drift of windclouds, all the trees sighing a little, the sea heaving in a

long, low swell, the animals restless, the birds silent, except the gulls with their old man's laughter and

A something wild was in the air; it seemed to sweep across the downs and combe, into the very house, like a

passionate tune that comes drifting to your ears when you're sleepy. But who would have thought the absence

of that girl for a few hours could have wrought such havoc! We were like uneasy spirits; Mrs. Hopgood's

apple cheeks seemed positively to wither before one's eyes. I came across a dairymaid and farm hand

discussing it stolidly with very downcast faces. Even Hopgood, a hardbitten fellow with immense shoulders,

forgot his imperturbability so far as to harness his horse, and depart on what he assured me was "just a

wildguse chaace." It was long before John Ford gave signs of noticing that anything was wrong, but late in

the afternoon I found him sitting with his hands on his knees, staring straight before him. He rose heavily

when he saw me, and stalked out. In the evening, as I was starting for the coastguard station to ask for help to

search the cliff, Pasiance appeared, walking as if she could hardly drag one leg after the other. Her cheeks

were crimson; she was biting her lips to keep tears of sheer fatigue out of her eyes. She passed me in the

doorway without a word. The anxiety he had gone through seemed to forbid the old man from speaking. He

just came forward, took her face in his hands, gave it a great kiss, and walked away. Pasiance dropped on the

floor in the dark passage, and buried her face on her arms. "Leave me alone!" was all she would say. After a

"Not a word out of heran' not a bite will she ate, an' I had a pie all readyscrumptious. The good Lord

knows the truthshe asked for brandy; have you any brandy, sir? Haapgood'e don't drink it, an' Mister

The good soul seized the flask, and went off hugging it. She returned it to me half empty.

"Lapped it like a kitten laps milk. I misdaoubt it's straong, poor lamb, it lusened 'er tongue praaperly. 'I've

adone it,' she says to me, 'MumsI've adone it,' an' she laughed like a mad thing; and then, sir, she cried,

an' kissed me, an' pusshed me thru the door. Gude Lard! What is 't she's adone...?"

It rained all the next day and the day after. About five o'clock yesterday the rain ceased; I started off to

Kingswear on Hopgood's nag to see Dan Treffry. Every tree, bramble, and fern in the lanes was dripping

water; and every bird singing from the bottom of his heart. I thought of Pasiance all the time. Her absence

that day was still a mystery; one never ceased asking oneself what she had done. There are people who never

grow upthey have no right to do things. Actions have consequencesand children have no business with

Dan was out. I had supper at the hotel, and rode slowly home. In the twilight stretches of the road, where I

could touch either bank of the lane with my whip, I thought of nothing but Pasiance and her grandfather;

there was something in the half light suited to wonder and uncertainty. It had fallen dark before I rode into the

straw yard. Two young bullocks snuffled at me, a sleepy hen got up and ran off with a tremendous

shrieking. I stabled the horse, and walked round to the back. It was pitch black under the appletrees, and the

windows were all darkened. I stood there a little, everything smelled so delicious after the rain; suddenly I

had the uncomfortable feeling that I was being watched. Have you ever felt like that on a dark night? I called

out at last: "Is any one there?" Not a sound! I walked to the gatenothing! The trees still dripped with tiny,

soft, hissing sounds, but that was all. I slipped round to the front, went in, barricaded the door, and groped up

to bed. But I couldn't sleep. I lay awake a long while; dozed at last, and woke with a jump. A stealthy murmur

of smothered voices was going on quite close somewhere. It stopped. A minute passed; suddenly came the

soft thud as of something falling. I sprang out of bed and rushed to the window. Nothingbut in the distance

something that sounded like footsteps. An owl hooted; then clear as crystal, but quite low, I heard Pasiance

"Hahahaha! Goodnight!" then quite low, I heard her catch her breath, hard, sharply. No other answer,

This evening Dan came; during supper he handed Pasiance a roll of music; he had got it in Torquay. The

It was Bach's "Chaconne." You should have seen her eyes shine, her fingers actually tremble while she turned

over the pages. Seems odd to think of her worshipping at the shrine of Bach as odd as to think of a wild colt

running of its free will into the shafts; but that's just it with her you can never tell. "Heavenly!" she kept

During evening prayers, which follow every night immediately on food, her face was a study of mutiny. She

went to bed early. It was rather late when we broke upfor once old Ford had been talking of his squatter's

life. As we came out, Dan held up his hand. A dog was barking. "It's Lass," he said. "She'll wake Pasiance."

"Somebody's been in the orchard, and gone off down to the cove." He ran on down the path. I, too, ran,

horribly uneasy. In front, through the darkness, came the spaniel's bark; the lights of the coastguard station

faintly showed. I was first on the beach; the dog came to me at once, her tail almost in her mouth from

apology. There was the sound of oars working in rowlocks; nothing visible but the feathery edges of the

waves. Dan said behind, "No use! He's gone." His voice sounded hoarse, like that of a man choking with

"George," he stammered, "it's that blackguard. I wish I'd put a bullet in him." Suddenly a light burned up in

the darkness on the sea, seemed to swing gently, and vanished. Without another word we went back up the

hill. John Ford stood at the gate motionless, indifferentnothing had dawned on him as yet. I whispered to

"No," he said, "I'm going to show you." He struck a match, and slowly hunted the footsteps in the wet grass

He stopped under Pasiance's window and swayed the match over the ground. Clear as daylight were the

"And look there!" he said. The bough of an appletree below the window was broken. He blew the match

The old man stood there like some great force, darker than the darkness, staring up at the window, as though

stupefied. We had not a word to say. He seemed unconscious of our presence. He turned round, and left us

We followed. Bending, and treading heavily, he went upstairs. He struck a blow on Pasiance's door. "Let me

in!" he said. I drew Dan into my bedroom. The key was slowly turned, her door was flung open, and there she

stood in her dressinggown, a candle in her hand, her face crimson, and oh! so young, with its short, crisp

hair and round cheeks. The old manlike a giant in front of herraised his hands, and laid them on her

He gave her one awful shake, dropped his hands, then raised them as though to strike her. She looked him in

the eyes; his hands dropped, and he too groaned. As far as I could see, her face never moved.

"I'm married to him," she said, "d' you hear? Married to him. Go out of my room!" She dropped the candle on

the floor at his feet, and slammed the door in his face. The old man stood for a minute as though stunned,

"Go to the fellow this very night." He seemed to have no doubt. Trust one man of action to know another.

I muttered something about being an outsiderwondered if there was anything I could do to help.

"Well," he said slowly, "I don't know that I'm anything but an outsider now; but I'll go along with him, if he'll

He went downstairs. A few minutes later they rode out from the strawyard. I watched them past the line of

hayricks, into the blacker shadows of the pines, then the tramp of hoofs began to fail in the darkness, and at

I've been sitting here in my bedroom writing to you ever since, till my candle's almost gone. I keep thinking

what the end of it is to be; and reproaching myself for doing nothing. And yet, what could I have done? I'm

sorry for hersorrier than I can say. The night is so quietI haven't heard a sound; is she asleep, awake,

They're back. Dan is lying on my bed. I'll try and tell you his story as near as I can, in his own words.

"We rode," he said, "round the upper way, keeping out of the lanes, and got to Kingswear by halfpast

eleven. The horseferry had stopped running, and we had a job to find any one to put us over. We hired the

fellow to wait for us, and took a carriage at the 'Castle.' Before we got to Black Mill it was nearly one,

pitchdark. With the breeze from the southeast, I made out he should have been in an hour or more. The old

man had never spoken to me once: and before we got there I had begun to hope we shouldn't find the fellow

after all. We made the driver pull up in the road, and walked round and round, trying to find the door. Then

"The long window out of the porch where we sat the other day was open, and in we went. There was a door at

the end of the room, and a light coming through. John Ford went towards it; I stayed out in the dark.

"'Let him come in!' I went in. The old fellow was in bed, quite still on his pillows, a candle by his side; to

look at him you'd think nothing of him but his eyes were alive. It was queer being there with those two old

"'Sit down, gentleman,' said old Pearse. 'What may you want to see my son for?' John Ford begged his

"'You can never tell where Zack may be,' he said. 'You think I want to shield him. You're wrong; Zack can

"'Your son's here!' said John Ford. 'I know.' Old Pearse gave us a very queer look.

"'You come into my house like thieves in the night,' he said, 'and give me the lie, do you?'

"'Your son came to my child's room like a thief in the night; it's for that I want to see him,' and then," said

"Old Pearse seemed to think this over, never moving on his pillows. 'You don't know Zack,' he said; 'I'm

sorry for you, and I'm sorry for Rick Voisey's daughter; but you don't know Zack.'

"'Captain Jan Pearse, as sure as I stand here, you and your breed will get your punishment of God.' Old Pearse

"'Mr. John Ford, that's as may be; but sure as I lie here we won't take it of you. You can't punish unless you

"'I won't,' he said, 'and now you may get out. I lie here an old man alone, with no use to my legs, night on

night, an' the house open; any rapscallion could get in; d' ye think I'm afraid of you?'

"We were beat; and walked out without a word. But that old man; I've thought of him a lotninetytwo, and

lying there. Whatever he's been, and they tell you rum things of him, whatever his son may be, he's a man. It's

not what he said, nor that there was anything to be afraid of just then, but somehow it's the idea of the old

We sat silent after that; out of doors the light began to stir among the leaves. There were all kinds of rustling

"He's cheated me. I paid him to clear out and leave her alone. D' you think she's asleep?" He's made no appeal

.......I take up my tale where I left off yesterday.... Dan and I started as soon as we could get Mrs. Hopgood to

give us coffee. The old lady was more tentative, more undecided, more pouncing, than I had ever seen her.

She was manifestly uneasy: Haapgoodwho "don't slape "don't he, if snores are any criterionhad called

out in the night, "Hark to th' 'arses' 'oofs!" Had we heard them? And where might we be going then? 'Twas

very earrly to start, an' no breakfast. Haapgood had said it was goin' to shaowerr. Miss Pasiance was not to 'er

violin yet, an' Mister Ford 'e kept 'is room. Was it?would there be? "Well, an' therr's an 'arvest bug; 'tis

some earrly for they!" Wonderful how she pounces on all such creatures, when I can't even see them. She

pressed it absently between finger and thumb, and began manoeuvring round another way. Long before she

had reached her point, we had gulped down our coffee, and departed. But as we rode out she came at a run,

holding her skirts high with either hand, raised her old eyes bright and anxious in their setting of fine

A shrug of the shoulders was all the answer she got. We rode by the lanes; through sloping farmyards, all

mud and pigs, and dirty straw, and farmers with cleanshaven upper lips and whiskers under the chin; past

fields of corn, where larks were singing. Up or down, we didn't draw rein till we came to Dan's hotel.

There was the river gleaming before us under a rainbow mist that hallowed every shape. There seemed

affinity between the earth and the sky. I've never seen that particular soft unity out of Devon. And every ship,

however black or modern, on those pale waters, had the look of a dream ship. The tall green woods, the red

earth, the white houses, were all melted into one opal haze. It was raining, but the sun was shining behind.

We had told our two boatmen to pull us out to the Pied Witcb! They started with great resolution, then rested

That's the West countryman all over! Never say you "nay," never lose an opportunity, never own he doesn't

know, or can't do anything independence, amiability, and an eye to the main chance. We mentioned

"The Zunflaower, yu mane. That's her. Zunflaower, ahoy!" As we mounted the steamer's black side I heard

"Pied Witch! A praaper name thata dandy name for her!" They laughed as they made fast.

The mate of the Sunflower, or Pied Witcb, or whatever she was called, met usa tall young fellow in his

shirtsleeves, tanned to the roots of his hair, with sinewy, tattooed arms, and grey eyes, charred round the rims

"The skipper is on board," he said. "We're rather busy, as you see. Get on with that, you seacooks," he

bawled at two fellows who were doing nothing. All over the ship, men were hauling, splicing, and stowing

"Today's Friday: we're off on Wednesday with any luck. Will you come this way?" He led us down the

companion to a dark hole which he called the saloon. "Names? What! are you Mr. Treffry? Then we're

"Look here!" he said; "I can show you something," and he unlocked the door of a cabin. There appeared to be

nothing in it but a huge piece of tarpaulin, which depended, bulging, from the topmost bunk. He pulled it up.

The lower bunk had been removed, and in its place was the ugly body of a dismounted Gatling gun.

"Got six of them," he whispered, with unholy mystery, through which his native frankness gaped out. "Worth

their weight in gold out there just now, the skipper says. Got a heap of rifles, too, and lots of ammunition.

He's given me a share. This is better than the P. and O., and playing deck cricket with the passengers. I'd

made up my mind already to chuck that, and go in for plantin' sugar, when I ran across the skipper.

Wonderful chap, the skipper! I'll go and tell him. He's been out all night; only came aboard at four bells;

Off he went. I wondered what there was in Zachary Pearse to attract a youngster of this sort; one of the

customary twelve children of some country parson, no doubtburning to shoot a few niggers, and for ever

"What'll you drink? The skipper'll be here in a jiffy. Excuse my goin' on deck. We're so busy."

And in five minutes Zachary Pearse did come. He made no attempt to shake hands, for which I respected

"You've got five hundred pounds of mine," he said; "why do you think I gave it you?"

"No, and you'd better not tell me!" Then, with one of his peculiar changes, he smiled: "As you like, though."

Dan's face grew very dark. "Give me a plain answer," he said: "What are you going to do about her?"

"To put a child in that positionD! Haven't you the heart of a man? What d' ye come sneaking in at night for?

Zachary's face darkened, he clenched his fists. Then he seemed to shut his anger into himself.

"You wanted me to leave her to you," he sneered. "I gave her my promise that I'd take her out there, and we'd

have gone off on Wednesday quietly enough, if you hadn't come and nosed the whole thing out with your

infernal dog. The fat's in the fire! There's no reason why I should take her now. I'll come back to her a rich

"I would have taken her to save the fussI really wouldit's not my fault the thing's come out. I'm on a

risky job. To have her with me might ruin the whole thing; it would affect my nerve. It isn't safe for her."

"And what's her position to be," I said, "while you're away? Do you think she'd have married you if she'd

known you were going to leave her like this? You ought to give up this business.

He looked at me doubtfully, appealingly, as if for the first time in his life he had been given a glimpse of that

dilemma of consequences which his nature never recognises. I thought he was going to give in. Suddenly, to

Pearse turned his head. "I don't want your advice anyway," he said; "I'll not be dictated to."

"To your last day," said Dan, "you shall answer to me for the way you treat her."

"Do you see that fly?" he said. "WelI care for you as little as this," and he flicked the fly off his white

The noble mariners who manned our boat pulled lustily for the shore, but we had hardly shoved off' when a

storm of rain burst over the ship, and she seemed to vanish, leaving a picture on my eyes of the mate waving

his cap above the rail, with his tanned young face bent down at us, smiling, keen, and friendly.

...... We reached the shore drenched, angry with ourselves, and with each other; I started sulkily for home.

As I rode past an orchard, an apple, loosened by the rainstorm, came down with a thud.

I made up my mind to pack, and go away. But there's a strangeness, a sort of haunting fascination in it all. To

you, who don't know the people, it may only seem a piece of rather sordid folly. But it isn't the good, the

obvious, the useful that puts a spell on us in life. It's the bizarre, the dimly seen, the mysterious for good or

The sun was out again when I rode up to the farm; its yellow thatch shone through the trees as if sheltering a

He began with an apology, which made me feel more than ever an intruder; then he said:

He was stern and sadeyed, like a man with a great weight of grief on his shoulders. He looked as if he had

not slept; his dress was out of order, he had not taken his clothes off, I think. He isn't a man whom you can

pity. I felt I had taken a liberty in knowing of the matter at all. When I told him where we had been, he said:

"It was good of you to take this trouble. That you should have had to! But since such things have come to

pass" He made a gesture full of horror. He gave one the impression of a man whose pride was struggling

I tried to make Pearse's point of view clear. Before this old man, with his inflexible will and sense of duty, I

"Let me understand," he said at last. "He stole her, you say, to make sure; and deserts her within a fortnight."

Before I could answer, I saw Pasiance standing at the window. How long she had been there I don't know.

"Don't touch me, grandfather! I hate every one! Let him do what he likes, I don't care."

"Find? I don't knownothing; I wouldn't be stifled anyway. Now I suppose you'll shut me up because I'm a

"You shan't!" she cried; "I won't let you. He's free to do as he likes. He's freeI tell you all,

John Ford made a movement as if the bottom had dropped out of his world. I left him there.

I went to the kitchen, where Hopgood was sitting at the table, eating bread and cheese. He got up on seeing

"I thart I shude be seeing yu, zurr," he said between his bites; "Therr's no thart to 'atin' 'bout the 'ouse today.

The old wumman's puzzivantin' over Miss Pasiance. Young girls are skeery critters" he brushed his sleeve

over his broad, hard jaws, and filled a pipe "specially when it's in the blood of 'em. Squire Rick Voisey werr a

dandy; an' Mistress Voiseywell, she werr a nice lady tu, but" rolling the stem of his pipe from corner to

Hopgood's a good fellow, and I believe as soft as he looks hard, but he's not quite the sort with whom one

chooses to talk over a matter like this. I went upstairs, and began to pack, but after a bit dropped it for a book,

I woke, and looked at my watch; it was five o'clock. I had been asleep four hours. A single sunbeam was

slanting across from one of my windows to the other, and there was the cool sound of milk dropping into

I opened my door. Hopgood and a coastguardsman were carrying Pasiance slowly up the stairs. She lay in

their arms without moving, her face whiter than her dress, a scratch across the forehead, and two or three

drops there of dried blood. Her hands were clasped, and she slowly crooked and stiffened out her fingers.

When they turned with her at the stair top, she opened her lips, and gasped, "All right, don't put me down. I

can bear it." They passed, and, with a halfsmile in her eyes, she said something to me that I couldn't catch;

the door was shut, and the excited whispering began again below. I waited for the men to come out, and

"Poor young thing!" he said. "She felldown the cliffs'tis her backcoastguard saw her 'twerr they

fetched her in. The Lord 'elp her mebbe she's not broken up much! An' Mister Ford don't know! I'm gwine for

There was an hour or more to wait before he came; a young fellow; almost a boy. He looked very grave,

"The old woman there fond of her? nurse her well...? Fond as a dog!good! Don't knowcan't tell for

certain! Afraid it's the spine, must have another opinion! What a plucky girl! Tell Mr. Ford to have the best

man he can get in Torquaythere's C. I'll be round the first thing in the morning. Keep her dead quiet.

John Ford came in at last. Poor old man! What it must have cost him not to go to her for fear of the

excitement! How many times in the next few hours didn't I hear him come to the bottom of the stairs; his

heavy wheezing, and sighing; and the forlorn tread of his feet going back! About eleven, just as I was going

"Will yu come, sir," she said; "she's asking for yu. Naowt I can zay but what she will see yu; zeems crazy,

don't it?" A tear trickled down the old lady's cheek. "Du 'ee come; 'twill du 'err 'arm mebbe, but I

I slipped into the room. Lying back on her pillows, she was breathing quickly with halfclosed eyes. There

was nothing to show that she had wanted me, or even knew that I was there. The wick of the candle, set by

the bedside, had been snuffed too short, and gave but a faint light; both window and door stood open, still

there was no draught, and the feeble little flame burned quite still, casting a faint yellow stain on the ceiling

like the refection from a buttercup held beneath a chin. These ceilings are far too low! Across the wide, squat

window the apple branches fell in black stripes which never stirred. It was too dark to see things clearly. At

the foot of the bed was a chest, and there Mrs. Hopgood had sat down, moving her lips as if in speech.

Mingled with the halfmusty smell of age; there were other scents, of mignonette, apples, and some sweet

smelling soap. The floor had no carpet, and there was not one single dark object except the violin, hanging

"Why won't you give me that stuff, Mums?" Pasiance said in a faint, sharp voice. "I want to sleep."

"You thought I did it on purpose, but you're wrong. If I had, I'd have done it better than this. I wouldn't have

this brutal pain." She put her fingers over her eyes. "It's horrible to complain! Only it's so bad! But I won't

She took the sleeping draught gratefully, making a face, like a child after a powder.

"How long do you think it'll be before I can play again? Oh! I forgotthere are other things to think about."

She held out her hand to me. "Look at my ring. Marriedisn't it funny? Ha, ha! Nobody will ever

understandthat's funny too! Poor Gran! You see, there wasn't any reasononly me. That's the only reason

I'm telling you now; Mums is therebut she doesn't count; why don't you count, Mums?"

The fever was fighting against the draught; she had tossed the clothes back from her throat, and now and then

raised one thin arm a little, as if it eased her; her eyes had grown large, and innocent like a child's; the candle,

"Nobody is to tell himnobody at all; promise...! If I hadn't slipped, it would have been different. What

would have happened then? You can't tell; and I can'tthat's funny! Do you think I loved him? Nobody

marries without love, do they? Not quite without love, I mean. But you see I wanted to be free, he said he'd

take me; and now he's left me after all! I won't be left, I can't! When I came to the cliffthat bit where the

ivy grows right downthere was just the sea there, underneath; so I thought I would throw myself over and

it would be all quiet; and I climbed on a ledge, it looked easier from there, but it was so high, I wanted to get

back; and then my foot slipped; and now it's all pain. You can't think much, when you're in pain."

"Nobody can take you away fromyourself. He's not to be toldnot evenI don'twant youto go away,

It seems more like three weeks than three days since I wrote. The time passes slowly in a sickhouse...! The

doctors were here this morning, they give her forty hours. Not a word of complaint has passed her lips since

she knew. To see her you would hardly think her ill; her cheeks have not had time to waste or lose their

colour. There is not much pain, but a slow, creeping numbness.... It was John Ford's wish that she should be

told. She just turned her head to the wall and sighed; then to poor old Mrs. Hopgood, who was crying her

When they had gone, she asked for her violin. She made them hold it for her, and drew the bow across the

strings; but the notes that came out were so trembling and uncertain that she dropped the bow and broke into

But to go back. On Sunday, the day after I wrote, as I was coming from a walk, I met a little boy making

I went to her room. In the morning she had seemed better, but now looked utterly exhausted. She had a letter

"It's this," she said. "I don't seem to understand it. He wants me to do somethingbut I can't think, and my

The letter was from Zachary. I read it to her in a low voice, for Mrs. Hopgood was in the room, her eyes

always fixed on Pasiance above her knitting. When I'd finished, she made me read it again, and yet again. At

first she seemed pleased, almost excited, then came a weary, scornful look, and before I'd finished the third

time she was asleep. It was a remarkable letter, that seemed to bring the man right before one's eyes. I slipped

it under her fingers on the bed clothes, and went out. Fancy took me to the cliff where she had fallen. I

found the point of rock where the cascade of ivy flows down the cliff; the ledge on which she had climbed

was a little to my righta mad place. It showed plainly what wild emotions must have been driving her!

Behind was a halfcut cornfield with a fringe of poppies, and swarms of harvest insects creeping and flying;

in the uncut corn a landrail kept up a continual charring. The sky was blue to the very horizon, and the sea

wonderful, under that black wild cliff stained here and there with red. Over the dips and hollows of the fields

great white clouds hung low down above the land. There are no brassy, eastcoast skies here; but always

sleepy, softshaped clouds, full of subtle stir and change. Passages of Zachary's Pearse's letter kept rising to

my lips. After all he's the man that his native place, and life, and blood have made him. It is useless to expect

idealists where the air is soft and things good to look on (the idealist grows where he must create beauty or

comfort for himself); useless to expect a man of law and order, in one whose fathers have stared at the sea

day and night for a thousand years the sea, full of its promises of unknown things, never quite the same, a

"Life's hard enough," he wrote, "without tying yourself down. Don't think too hardly of me! Shall I make you

happier by taking you into danger? If I succeed you'll be a rich woman; but I shall fail if you're with me. To

look at you makes me soft. At sea a man dreams of all the good things on land, he'll dream of the heather, and

honeyyou're like that; and he'll dream of the appletrees, and the grass of the orchardsyou're like that;

sometimes he only lies on his back and wishesand you're like that, most of all like that...."

When I was reading those words I remember a strange, soft, half scornful look came over Pasiance's face;

Then followed a long passage about what he would gain if he succeeded, about all that he was risking, the

impossibility of failure, if he kept his wits about him. "It's only a matter of two months or so," he went on;

"stay where you are, dear, or go to my Dad. He'll be glad to have you. There's my mother's room. There's no

one to say 'No' to your fiddle there; you can play it by the sea; and on dark nights you'll have the stars

dancing to you over the water as thick as bees. I've looked at them often, thinking of you...."

Pasiance had whispered to me, "Don't read that bit," and afterwards I left it out.... Then the sensuous side of

him shows up: "When I've brought this off, there's the whole world before us. There are places I can take you

to. There's one I know, not too warm and not too cold, where you can sit all day in the shade and watch the

creepers, and the cocoapalms, still as still; nothing to do or care about; all the fruits you can think of; no

noise but the parrots and the streams, and a splash when a nigger dives into a waterhole. Pasiance, we'll go

there! With an eightyton craft there's no sea we couldn't know. The world's a fine place for those who go out

to take it; there's lots of unknown stuff' in it yet. I'll fill your lap, my pretty, so full of treasures that you shan't

Throughout this letterfor all its real passionone could feel how the man was holding to his purposethe

rather sordid purpose of this venture. He's unconscious of it; for he is in love with her; but he must be

furthering his own ends. He is vitalhorribly vital! I wonder less now that she should have yielded.

What visions hasn't he dangled before her. There was physical attraction, tooI haven't forgotten the look I

saw on her face at Black Mill. But when all's said and done, she married him, because she's Pasiance Voisey,

who does things and wants "to get back." And she lies there dying; not he nor any other man will ever take

her away. It's pitiful to think of him tingling with passion, writing that letter to this doomed girl in that dark

hole of a saloon. "I've wanted money," he wrote, "ever since I was a little chap sitting in the fields among the

cows.... I want it for you now, and I mean to have it. I've studied the thing two years; I know what I know....

The moment this is in the post I leave for London. There are a hundred things to look after still; I can't trust

myself within reach of you again till the anchor's weighed. When I rechristened her the Pied Witch, I

There followed a solemn entreaty to her to be on the path leading to the cove at seven o'clock on Wednesday

evening (that is, tomorrow) when he would come ashore and bid her goodbye. It was signed, "Your loving

I lay at the edge of that cornfield a long time; it was very peaceful. The church bells had begun to ring. The

long shadows came stealing out from the sheaves; woodpigeons rose one by one, and flapped off to roost; the

western sky was streaked with red, and all the downs and combe bathed in the last sunlight. Perfect harvest

Life at the farm goes on as usual. We have morning and evening prayers. John Ford reads them fiercely, as

though he were on the eve of a revolt against his God. Morning and evening he visits her, comes out

wheezing heavily, and goes to his own room; I believe, to pray. Since this morning I haven't dared meet him.

A quiet afternoonnot a breath up in the churchyard! I was there quite half an hour before they came. Some

red cows had strayed into the adjoining orchard, and were rubbing their heads against the railing. While I

stood there an old woman came and drove them away; afterwards, she stooped and picked up the apples that

"The apples are ripe and ready to fall, Oh! heighho! and ready to fall; There came an old woman and

......They brought Pasiance very simplyno hideous funeral trappings, thank Godthe farm hands carried

her, and there was no one there but John Ford, the Hopgoods, myself, and that young doctor. They read the

service over her grave. I can hear John Ford's "Amen!" now. When it was over he walked away bareheaded in

the sun, without a word. I went up there again this evening, and wandered amongst the tombstones. "Richard

Voisey," "John, the son of Richard and Constance Voisey," "Margery Voisey," so many generations of them

in that corner; then "Richard Voisey and Agnes his wife," and next to it that new mound on which a sparrow

"It's only till seven," she whispered. "He's certain to come then. But if Iwere to die firstthen tell

himI'm sorry for him. They keep saying: 'Don't talkdon't talk!' Isn't it stupid? As if I should have any

other chance! There'll be no more talking after to night! Make everybody come, pleaseI want to see them

all. When you're dying you're freer than any other timenobody wants you to do things, nobody cares what

you say.... He promised me I should do what I liked if I married himI never believed that reallybut now

I can do what I like; and say all the things I want to." She lay back silent; she could not after all speak the

inmost thoughts that are in each of us, so sacred that they melt away at the approach of words.

I shall remember her like thatwith the gleam of a smile in her halfclosed eyes, her red lips partedsuch a

quaint look of mockery, pleasure, regret, on her little round, upturned face; the room white, and fresh with

flowers, the breeze guttering the appleleaves against the window. In the night they had unhooked the violin

and taken it away; she had not missed it.... When Dan came, I gave up my place to him. He took her hand

"How small my hand looks there," she said, "too small." Dan put it softly back on the bedclothes and wiped

his forehead. Pasiance cried in a sharp whisper: "Is it so hot in here? I didn't know." Dan bent down, put his

The afternoon was long, the longest I've ever spent. Sometimes she seemed to sleep, sometimes whispered to

herself about her mother, her grandfather, the garden, or her catsall sorts of inconsequent, trivial, even

ludicrous memories seemed to throng her mindnever once, I think, did she speak of Zachary, but, now and

then, she asked the time.... Each hour she grew visibly weaker. John Ford sat by her without moving, his

heavy breathing was often the only sound; sometimes she rubbed her fingers on his hand, without speaking. It

was a summary of their lives together. Once he prayed aloud for her in a hoarse voice; then her pitiful,

Leaning on a gate stood Zachary, an hour before his time; dressed in the same old blue clothes and

leatherpeaked cap as on the day when I saw him first. He knew nothing of what had happened. But at a

quarter of the truth, I'm sure he divined the whole, though he would not admit it to himself. He kept saying,

"It can't be. She'll be well in a few daysa sprain! D' you think the seavoyage.... Is she strong enough to be

It was painful to see his face, so twisted by the struggle between his instinct and his vitality. The sweat

poured down his forehead. He turned round as we walked up the path, and pointed out to sea. There was his

steamer. "I could get her on board in no time. Impossible! What is it, then? Spine? Good God! The doctors....

Sometimes they'll do wonders!" It was pitiful to see his efforts to blind himself to the reality.

"It can't be, she's too young. We're walking very slow." I told him she was dying.

For a second I thought he was going to run away. Then he jerked up his head, and rushed on towards the

"It's not true!" he said; "she'll get better now I'm here. I'll stay. Let everything go. I'll stay."

"Now's the time," I said, "to show you loved her. Pull yourself together, man!" He shook all over.

"Yes!" was all he answered. We went into her room. It seemed impossible she was going to die; the colour

was bright in her cheeks, her lips trembling and pouted as if she had just been kissed, her eyes gleaming, her

Half an hour later I stole to the open door of her room. She was still and white as the sheets of her bed. John

Ford stood at the foot; and, bowed to the level of the pillows, his head on his clenched fists, sat Zachary. It

was utterly quiet. The guttering of the leaves had ceased. When things have come to a crisis, how little one

feelsno fear, no pity, no sorrow, rather the sense, as when a play is over, of anxiety to get away!

Some hours later I went out on the path leading to the cove. It was pitchblack; the riding light of the Pied

Witch was still there, looking no bigger than a firefly. Then from in front I heard sobbinga man's sobs; no

sound is quite so dreadful. Zachary Pearse got up out of the bank not ten paces off.

I had no heart to go after him, and sat down in the hedge. There was something subtly akin to her in the fresh

darkness of the young night; the soft bank, the scent of honeysuckle, the touch of the ferns and brambles.

Death comes to all of us, and when it's over it's over; but this blind businessof those left behind

A little later the ship whistled twice; her starboard light gleamed faintlyand that was all....

....Do you remember the letters I wrote you from Moor Farm nearly three years ago? Today I rode over

there. I stopped at Brixham on the way for lunch, and walked down to the quay. There had been a

showerbut the sun was out again, shining on the sea, the brownred sails, and the rampart of slate roofs.

A trawler was lying there, which had evidently been in a collision. The spikybearded, thinlipped fellow in

torn blue jersey and sea boots who was superintending the repairs, said to me a little proudly:

"Bane in collision, zurr; like to zee over her?" Then suddenly screwing up his little blue eyes, he added:

"Why, I remembers yu. Steered yu along o' the young lady in this yer very craft."

He leant his back against the quay, and spat. "He was a praaper man; I never zane none like 'en."

"Gude? No, t'was arrm we done, vrom ztart to finishhad trouble all the time. What a man cude du, the

skipper did. When yu caan't du right, zome calls it 'Providence'! 'Tis all my eye an' Betty Martin! What I zay

es, 'tis these times, there's such a dale o' folk, a dale of puzzivantin' fellers; the world's to small."

With these words there flashed across me a vision of Drake crushed into our modern life by the shrinkage of

the world; Drake caught in the meshes of red tape, electric wires, and all the lofty appliances of our

civilization. Does a type survive its age; live on into times that have no room for it? The blood is thereand

"I wudden' goo for to zay that, zurr'tis an ugly word. Daam!" he added, staring at his boots, "'twas thru

me tu. We were along among the haythen, and I mus' nades goo for to break me leg. The capt'n he wudden'

lave me. 'One Devon man,' he says to me, 'don' lave anotherr.' We werr six days where we shuld ha' been tu;

"Yu cudden' kell 'en! 'Tis true, mun 'll die zome day. But therr's not a one that'll show better zport than Capt'n

I believe that; he will be hard to kill. The vision of him comes up, with his perfect balance, defiant eyes, and

sweetish smile; the way the hair of his beard crisped a little, and got blacker on the cheeks; the sort of

desperate feeling he gave, that one would never get the better of him, that he would never get the better of

I took leave of Prawle and half a crown. Before I was off the quay I heard him saying to a lady, "Bane in

After lunch I rode on to Moor. The old place looked much the same; but the appletrees were stripped of

fruit, and their leaves beginning to go yellow and fall. One of Pasiance's cats passed me in the orchard

hunting a bird, still with a ribbon round its neck. John Ford showed me all his latest improvements, but never

by word or sign alluded to the past. He inquired after Dan, back in New Zealand now, without much interest;

his stubbly beard and hair have whitened; he has grown very stout, and I noticed that his legs are not well

under control; he often stops to lean on his stick. He was very ill last winter; and sometimes, they say, will go

I managed to get a few minutes with the Hopgoods. We talked of Pasiance sitting in the kitchen under a row

of plates, with that clinging smell of woodsmoke, bacon, and age bringing up memories, as nothing but

scents can. The dear old lady's hair, drawn so nicely down her forehead on each side from the centre of her

cap, has a few thin silver lines; and her face is a thought more wrinkled. The tears still come into her eyes

"Therr they found 'en, zo to spake, deadin th' sun; but Haapgood can tell yu," and Hopgood, ever rolling

He came to see me off from the strawyard. "'Tis like death to the varrm, zurr," he said, putting all the play of

his vast shoulders into the buckling of my girths. "Mister Fordwell! And not one of th' old stock to take it

when 'e's garn.... Ah! it werr cruel; my old woman's never been hersel' since. Tell 'ee what 'tisdon't du t'

I went out of my way to pass the churchyard. There were flowers, quite fresh, chrysanthemums, and asters;

The red cows were there too; the sky full of great white clouds, some birds whistling a little mournfully, and

At Monte Carlo, in the spring of the year 189, I used to notice an old fellow in a grey suit and sunburnt

straw hat with a black ribbon. Every morning at eleven o'clock, he would come down to the Place, followed

by a brindled German boarhound, walk once or twice round it, and seat himself on a bench facing the casino.

There he would remain in the sun, with his straw hat tilted forward, his thin legs apart, his brown hands

crossed between them, and the dog's nose resting on his knee. After an hour or more he would get up, and,

stooping a little from the waist, walk slowly round the Place and return up hill. Just before three, he would

come down again in the same clothes and go into the casino, leaving the dog outside.

One afternoon, moved by curiosity, I followed him. He passed through the hall without looking at the

gamblingrooms, and went into the concert. It became my habit after that to watch for him. When he sat in

the Place I could see him from the window of my room. The chief puzzle to me was the matter of his

His lean, short face had a skin so burnt that it looked like leather; his jaw was long and prominent, his chin

pointed, and he had hollows in his cheeks. There were wrinkles across his forehead; his eyes were brown; and

little white moustaches were brushed up from the corners of his lips. The back of his head bulged out above

the lines of his lean neck and high, sharp shoulders; his grey hair was cropped quite close. In the Marseilles

buffet, on the journey out, I had met an Englishman, almost his counterpart in featuresbut somehow very

different! This old fellow had nothing of the other's alert, autocratic selfsufficiency. He was quiet and

undemonstrative, without looking, as it were, insulated against shocks and foreign substances. He was

certainly no Frenchman. His eyes, indeed, were brown, but hazelbrown, and gentlenot the redbrown

sensual eye of the Frenchman. An American? But was ever an American so passive? A German? His

moustache was certainly brushed up, but in a modest, almost pathetic way, not in the least Teutonic. Nothing

Leaving at the end of April, I forgot him altogether. In the same month, however, of the following year I was

again at Monte Carlo, and going one day to the concert found myself seated next this same old fellow. The

orchestra was playing Meyerbeer's "Prophete," and my neighbour was asleep, snoring softly. He was dressed

in the same grey suit, with the same straw hat (or one exactly like it) on his knees, and his hands crossed

above it. Sleep had not disfigured him his little white moustache was still brushed up, his lips closed; a very

good and gentle expression hovered on his face. A curved mark showed on his right temple, the scar of a cut

on the side of his neck, and his left hand was covered by an old glove, the little forger of which was empty.

The next thing on the programme was a little thing by Poise from Le joli Gilles, played by Mons. Corsanego

on the violin. Happening to glance at my old neighbour, I saw a tear caught in the hollow of his cheek, and

another just leaving the corner of his eye; there was a faint smile on his lips. Then came an interval; and

while orchestra and audience were resting, I asked him if he were fond of music. He looked up without

distrust, bowed, and answered in a thin, gentle voice: "Certainly. I know nothing about it, play no instrument,

could never sing a note; but fond of it! Who would not be?" His English was correct enough, but with an

emphasis not quite American nor quite foreign. I ventured to remark that he did not care for Meyerbeer. He

"Ah!" he said, "I was asleep? Too bad of me. He is a little noisy I know so little about music. There is

Bach, for instance. Would you believe it, he gives me no pleasure? A great misfortune to be no musician!" He

"To me," he answered, "any music I like is elevating. People say some music has a bad effect on them. I

never found any music that gave me a bad thoughtnonoquite the opposite; only sometimes, as you

see, I go to sleep. But what a lovely instrument the violin!" A faint flush came on his parched cheeks. "The

human soul that has left the body. A curious thing, distant bugles at night have given me the same feeling."

The orchestra was now coming back, and, folding his hands, my neighbour turned his eyes towards them.

When the concert was over we came out together. Waiting at the entrance was his dog.

"Ah! yes. Freda. mia cara, da su mano!" The dog squatted on her haunches, and lifted her paw in the vague,

bored way of big dogs when requested to perform civilities. She was a lovely creaturethe purest brindle,

without a speck of white, and free from the unbalanced look of most dogs of her breed.

"Basta! basta!" He turned to me apologetically. "We have agreed to speak Italian; in that way I keep up the

language; astonishing the number of things that dog will understand!" I was about to take my leave, when he

asked if I would walk a little way with him"If you are free, that is." We went up the street with Freda on

"Play? No. It must be very interesting; most exciting, but as a matter of fact, I can't afford it. If one has very

He had stopped in front of a small hairdresser's shop. "I live here," he said, raising his hat again. "Au

revoir!unless I can offer you a glass of tea. It's all ready. Come! I've brought you out of your way; give me

I have never met a man so free from all selfconsciousness, and yet so delicate and diffident the combination

is a rare one. We went up a steep staircase to a room on the second floor. My companion threw the shutters

open, setting all the flies buzzing. The top of a planetree was on a level with the window, and all its little

brown balls were dancing, quite close, in the wind. As he had promised, an urn was hissing on a table; there

was also a small brown teapot, some sugar, slices of lemon, and glasses. A bed, washstand, cupboard, tin

trunk, two chairs, and a small rug were all the furniture. Above the bed a sword in a leather sheath was

suspended from two nails. The photograph of a girl stood on the closed stove. My host went to the cupboard

and produced a bottle, a glass, and a second spoon. When the cork was drawn, the scent of rum escaped into

"This is a trick I learned from the Russians after Plevna; they had my little finger, so I deserved something in

exchange." He looked round; his eyes, his whole face, seemed to twinkle. "I assure you it was worth

"The weaker side" He paused abruptly, then added: "But it was not that." Over his face innumerable

crow'sfeet had suddenly appeared, his eyes twitched; he went on hurriedly, "I had to find something to do

just thenit was necessary." He stared into his glass; and it was some time before I ventured to ask if he had

"Yes," he replied gravely, "nearly twenty years altogether; I was one of Garibaldi's Mille in '60."

He leaned forward with his hands on his knees. "I was in Genoa at that time learning banking; Garibaldi was

a wonderful man! One could not help it." He spoke quite simply. "You might say it was like seeing a little

man stand up to a ring of great hulking fellows; I went, just as you would have gone, if you'd been there. I

was not long with themour war began; I had to go back home." He said this as if there had been but one

war since the world began. "In '60," he mused, "till '65. Just think of it! The poor country. Why, in my State,

South CarolinaI was through it allnobody could be spared therewe were one to three."

"H'm!" he said, as if considering the idea for the first time. "Sometimes I fought for a living, and

sometimesbecause I was obliged; one must try to be a gentleman. But won't you have some more?"

I refused more tea and took my leave, carrying away with me a picture of the old fellow looking down from

the top of the steep staircase, one hand pressed to his back, the other twisting up those little white

moustaches, and murmuring, "Take care, my dear sir, there's a step there at the corner."

"To be a gentleman!" I repeated in the street, causing an old French lady to drop her parasol, so that for about

two minutes we stood bowing and smiling to each other, then separated full of the best feeling.

A week later I found myself again seated next him at a concert. In the meantime I had seen him now and

then, but only in passing. He seemed depressed. The corners of his lips were tightened, his tanned cheeks had

a greyish tinge, his eyes were restless; and, between two numbers of the programme, he murmured, tapping

his fingers on his hat, "Do you ever have bad days? Yes? Not pleasant, are they?"

Then something occurred from which all that I have to tell you followed. There came into the concerthall

the heroine of one of those romances, crimes, follies, or irregularities, call it what you will, which had just

attracted the "world's" stare. She passed us with her partner, and sat down in a chair a few rows to our right.

She kept turning her head round, and at every turn I caught the gleam of her uneasy eyes. Some one behind us

My companion turned full round, and glared at whoever it was who had spoken. The change in him was quite

remarkable. His lips were drawn back from his teeth; he frowned; the scar on his temple had reddened.

"Ah!" he said to me. "The hue and cry! Contemptible! How I hate it! But you wouldn't understand! "he

broke off, and slowly regained his usual air of selfobliteration; he even seemed ashamed, and began trying

to brush his moustaches higher than ever, as if aware that his heat had robbed them of neatness.

"I'm not myself, when I speak of such matters," he said suddenly; and began reading his programme, holding

it upside down. A minute later, however, he said in a peculiar voice: "There are people to be found who

object to vivisecting animals; but the vivisection of a woman, who minds that? Will you tell me it's right, that

because of some tragedy like thisbelieve me, it is always a tragedywe should hunt down a woman? That

her fellowwomen should make an outcast of her? That we, who are men, should make a prey of her? If I

thought that...." Again he broke off, staring very hard in front of him. "It is we who make them what they are;

and even if that is not so why! if I thought there was a woman in the world I could not take my hat off

toIIcouldn't sleep at night." He got up from his seat, put on his old straw hat with trembling fingers,

I sat there, horribly disturbed; the words, "One must try to be a gentleman!" haunting me. When I came out,

he was standing by the entrance with one hand on his hip and the other on his dog. In that attitude of waiting

he was such a patient figure; the sun glared down and showed the threadbare nature of his clothes and the

thinness of his brown hands, with their long forgers and nails yellow from tobacco. Seeing me he came up the

"I am glad to have caught you; please forget all that." I asked if he would do me the honour of dining at my

"Dine?" he repeated with the sort of smile a child gives if you offer him a box of soldiers; "with the greatest

pleasure. I seldom dine out, but I think I can muster up a coat. Yesyesand at what time shall I come? At

halfpast seven, and your hotel is? Good! I shall be there. Freda, mia cara, you will be alone this evening.

You do not smoke caporal, I fear. I find it fairly good; though it has too much bite." He walked off with

Once or twice he stopped, as if bewildered or beset by some sudden doubt or memory; and every time he

stopped, Freda licked his hand. They disappeared round the corner of the street, and I went to my hotel to see

"My faith, yes!" he said, with the rosy pessimism characteristic of the French editor. "Man must dine!"

At halfpast six we assembled. My "Cosmopolitan" was in an old frockcoat braided round the edges,

buttoned high and tight, defining more than ever the sharp lines of his shoulders and the slight kink of his

back; he had brought with him, too, a darkpeaked cap of military shape, which he had evidently selected as

We sat down to dinner, and did not rise for two hours. He was a charming guest, praised everything he

atenot with commonplaces, but in words that made you feel it had given him real pleasure. At first,

whenever Jules made one of his caustic remarks, he looked quite pained, but suddenly seemed to make up his

mind that it was bark, not bite; and then at each of them he would turn to me and say, "Aha! that's

goodisn't it?" With every glass of wine he became more gentle and more genial, sitting very upright, and

tightly buttonedin; while the little white wings of his moustache seemed about to leave him for a better

In spite of the most leading questions, however, we could not get him to talk about himself, for even Jules,

most cynical of men, had recognised that he was a hero of romance. He would answer gently and precisely,

and then sit twisting his moustaches, perfectly unconscious that we wanted more. Presently, as the wine went

a little to his head, his thin, high voice grew thinner, his cheeks became flushed, his eyes brighter; at the end

We assured him that he had not been noisy enough. "You're laughing at me," he answered. "Surely I've been

"Mon Dieu!" said Jules, "we have been looking for some fables of your wars; but nothingnothing, not

"To be sure!" he mused. "Let me think! there is that about Colhoun at Gettysburg; and there's the story of

Garibaldi and the Miller." He plunged into a tale, not at all about himself, which would have been extremely

dull, but for the conviction in his eyes, and the way he stopped and commented. "So you see," he ended,

"that's the sort of man Garibaldi was! I could tell you another tale of him." Catching an introspective look in

"Delightful!" the old fellow said: "We shall have a band and the fresh air, and clear consciences for our

He walked out in front of us, smoking with an air of great enjoyment. Jules, glowing above his candid shirt

and waistcoat, whispered to me, "Mon cher Georges, how he is good!" then sighed, and added darkly: "The

We sat down at a little table. Close by, the branches of a plane tree rustled faintly; their leaves hung lifeless,

speckled like the breasts of birds, or black against the sky; then, caught by the breeze, fluttered suddenly.

The old fellow sat, with head thrown back, a smile on his face, coming now and then out of his enchanted

dreams to drink coffee, answer our questions, or hum the tune that the band was playing. The ash of his cigar

grew very long. One of those bizarre figures in Oriental garb, who, night after night, offer their doubtful

wares at a great price, appeared in the white glare of a lamp, looked with a furtive smile at his face, and

glided back, discomfited by its unconsciousness. It was a night for dreams! A faint, halfeastern scent in the

air, of black tobacco and spice; few people as yet at the little tables, the waiters leisurely, the band soft! What

was he dreaming of, that old fellow, whose cigarash grew so long? Of youth, of his battles, of those things

that must be done by those who try to be gentlemen; perhaps only of his dinner; anyway of something gilded

Jules pulled my sleeve: "He sleeps." He had smilingly dropped off; the cigarashthat feathery tower of his

The little tables round us began to fill. One of the bandsmen played a czardas on the czymbal. Two young

Frenchmen, talking loudly, sat down at the adjoining table. They were discussing the lady who had been at

"It's a bet," said one of them, "but there's the present man. I take three weeks, that's enough elle est declassee;

My old friend's cigar fell on the table. "Monsieur," he stammered, "you speak of a lady so, in a public place?"

My guest took up Jules's glove that lay on the table; before either of us could raise a finger, he had swung it

We all jumped to our feet. I left Jules and hurried after him. His face was grim, his eyes those of a creature

who has been struck on a raw place. He made a movement of his fingers which said plainly. "Leave me, if

I went back to the cafe. The two young men had disappeared, so had Jules, but everything else was going on

just as before; the bandsman still twanging out his czardas; the waiters serving drinks; the orientals trying to

sell their carpets. I paid the bill, sought out the manager, and apologised. He shrugged his shoulders, smiled

and said: "An eccentric, your friend, nicht wahr?" Could he tell me where M. Le Ferrier was? He could not. I

left to look for Jules; could not find him, and returned to my hotel disgusted. I was sorry for my old guest, but

vexed with him too; what business had he to carry his Quixotism to such an unpleasant length? I tried to read.

Eleven o'clock struck; the casino disgorged a stream of people; the Place seemed fuller of life than ever; then

slowly it grew empty and quite dark. The whim seized me to go out. It was a still night, very warm, very

black. On one of the seats a man and woman sat embraced, on another a girl was sobbing, on a

thirdstrange sighta priest dozed. I became aware of some one at my side; it was my old guest.

He did not speak again till we reached a seat above the pigeon shooting grounds; there, in a darkness denser

"I owe you an apology," he said; "first in the afternoon, then again this eveningyour guestyour friend's

glove! I have behaved as no gentleman should." He was leaning forward with his hands on the handle of a

"You are very good," he sighed; "but I feel that I must explain. I consider I owe this to you, but I must tell

you I should not have the courage if it were not for another reason. You see I have no friend." He looked at

"You will excuse me if I go back rather far. It was in '74, when I had been ill with Cuban fever. To keep me

alive they had put me on board a ship at Santiago, and at the end of the voyage I found myself in London. I

had very little money; I knew nobody. I tell you, sir, there are times when it's hard for a fighting man to get

anything to do. People would say to me: 'Afraid we've nothing for a man like you in our business.' I tried

people of all sorts; but it was trueI had been fighting here and there since '60, I wasn't fit for anything"

He shook his head. "In the South, before the war, they had a saying, I remember, about a dog and a soldier

having the same value. But all this has nothing to do with what I have to tell you." He sighed again and went

on, moistening his lips: "I was walking along the Strand one day, very disheartened, when I heard my name

called. It's a queer thing, that, in a strange street. By the way," he put in with dry ceremony, "you don't know

my name, I think: it is BruneRoger Brune. At first I did not recognise the person who called me. He had

just got off an omnibusa squareshouldered man with heavy moustaches, and round spectacles. But when

he shook my hand I knew him at once. He was a man called Dalton, who was taken prisoner at Gettysburg;

one of you Englishmen who came to fight with usa major in the regiment where I was captain. We were

comrades during two campaigns. If I had been his brother he couldn't have seemed more pleased to see me.

He took me into a bar for the sake of old times. The drink went to my head, and by the time we reached

Trafalgar Square I was quite unable to walk. He made me sit down on a bench. I was in factdrunk. It's

disgraceful to be drunk, but there was some excuse. Now I tell you, sir" (all through his story he was always

making use of that expression, it seemed to infuse fresh spirit into him, to help his memory in obscure places,

to give him the mastery of his emotions; it was like the piece of paper a nervous man holds in his hand to

help him through a speech), "there never was a man with a finer soul than my friend Dalton. He was not

clever, though he had read much; and sometimes perhaps he was too fond of talking. But he was a gentleman;

he listened to me as if I had been a child; he was not ashamed of meand it takes a gentleman not to be

ashamed of a drunken man in the streets of London; God knows what things I said to him while we were

sitting there! He took me to his home and put me to bed himself; for I was down again with fever." He

stopped, turned slightly from me, and put his hand up to his brow. " Well, then it was, sir, that I first saw her.

I am not a poet and I cannot tell you what she seemed to me. I was delirious, but I always knew when she was

there. I had dreams of sunshine and cornfields, of dancing waves at sea, young treesnever the same

dreams, never anything for long together; and when I had my senses I was afraid to say so for fear she would

go away. She'd be in the corner of the room, with her hair hanging about her neck, a bright gold colour; she

never worked and never read, but sat and talked to herself in a whisper, or looked at me for a long time

together out of her blue eyes, a little frown between them, and her upper lip closed firm on her lower lip,

where she had an uneven tooth. When her father came, she'd jump up and hang on to his neck until he

groaned, then run away, but presently come stealing back on tiptoe. I used to listen for her footsteps on the

stairs, then the knock, the door flung back or opened quietlyyou never could tell which; and her voice,

with a little lisp, 'Are you better today, Mr. Brune? What funny things you say when you're delirious! Father

He got up, paced restlessly to and fro, and sat down again. "I remember every word as if it were yesterday, all

the things she said, and did; I've had a long time to think them over, you see. Well, I must tell you, the first

morning that I was able to get up, I missed her. Dalton came in her place, and I asked him where she was.

'My dear fellow,' he answered, 'I've sent Eilie away to her old nurse's inn down on the river; she's better there

at this time of year.' We looked at each other, and I saw that he had sent her away because he didn't trust me.

I was hurt by this. Illness spoils one. He was right, he was quite right, for all he knew about me was that I

could fight and had got drunk; but I am very quicktempered. I made up my mind at once to leave him. But I

was too weakhe had to put me to bed again. The very next morning he came and proposed that I should go

into partnership with him. He kept a fencingschool and pistol gallery. It seemed like the finger of God; and

perhaps it waswho knows?" He fell into a reverie, and taking out his caporal, rolled himself a cigarette;

having lighted it, he went on suddenly: "There, in the room above the school, we used to sit in the evenings,

one on each side of the grate. The room was on the second floor, I remember, with two windows, and a view

of nothing but the houses opposite. The furniture was covered up with chintz. The things on the bookshelf

were never disturbed, they were Eilie'shalfbroken cases with butterflies, a dead frog in a bottle, a

horseshoe covered with tinfoil, some shells too, and a cardboard box with three speckled eggs in it, and

these words written on the lid: 'Missel thrush from Lucy's treesecond family, only one blown.'" He

"Dalton was wrapped up in her. He was never tired of talking to me about her, and I was never tired of

hearing. We had a number of pupils; but in the evening when we sat there, smokingour talk would sooner

or latercome round to her. Her bedroom opened out of that sittingroom; he took me in once and showed

me a narrow little room the width of a passage, fresh and white, with a photograph of her mother above the

bed, and an empty basket for a dog or cat." He broke off with a vexed air, and resumed sternly, as if trying to

bind himself to the narration of his more important facts: "She was then fifteenher mother had been dead

twelve yearsa beautiful, face, her mother's; it had been her death that sent Dalton to fight with us. Well, sir,

one day in August, very hot weather, he proposed a run into the country, and who should meet us on the

platform when we arrived but Eilie, in a blue sunbonnet and frockflax blue, her favourite colour. I was

angry with Dalton for not telling me that we should see her; my clothes were not quitemy hair wanted

cutting. It was black then, sir," he added, tracing a pattern in the darkness with his stick. "She had a little

donkeycart; she drove, and, while we walked one on each side, she kept looking at me from under her

sunbonnet. I must tell you that she never laughedher eyes danced, her cheeks would go pink, and her hair

shake about on her neck, but she never laughed. Her old nurse, Lucy, a very broad, good woman, had married

the proprietor of the inn in the village there. I have never seen anything like that inn: sweetbriar up to the

roof! And the scentI am very susceptible to scents!" His head drooped, and the cigarette fell from his hand.

A train passing beneath sent up a shower of sparks. He started, and went on: "We had our lunch in the

parlourI remember that room very well, for I spent the happiest days of my life afterwards in that inn....

We went into a meadow after lunch, and my friend Dalton fell asleep. A wonderful thing happened then. Eilie

whispered to me, 'Let's have a jolly time.' She took me for the most glorious walk. The river was close by. A

lovely stream, your river Thames, so calm and broad; it is like the spirit of your people. I was bewitched; I

forgot my friend, I thought of nothing but how to keep her to myself. It was such a day! There are days that

are the devil's, but that was truly one of God's. She took me to a little pond under an elmtree, and we

dragged it, we two, an hour, for a kind of tiny red worm to feed some creature that she had. We found them in

the mud, and while she was bending over, the curls got in her eyes. If you could have seen her then, I think,

sir, you would have said she was like the first sight of spring.... We had tea afterwards, all together, in the

long grass under some fruittrees. If I had the knack of words, there are things that I could say." He bent, as

though in deference to those unspoken memories. "Twilight came on while we were sitting there. A

wonderful thing is twilight in the country! It became time for us to go. There was an avenue of trees close

bylike a church with a window at the end, where golden light came through. I walked up and down it with

her. 'Will you come again?' she whispered, and suddenly she lifted up her face to be kissed. I kissed her as if

she were a little child. And when we said goodbye, her eyes were looking at me across her father's shoulder,

with surprise and sorrow in them. 'Why do you go away?' they seemed to say.... But I must tell you," he went

on hurriedly, "of a thing that happened before we had gone a hundred yards. We were smoking our pipes, and

I, thinking of herwhen out she sprang from the hedge and stood in front of us. Dalton cried out, 'What are

you here for again, you mad girl?' She rushed up to him and hugged him; but when she looked at me, her face

was quite differentcareless, defiant, as one might sayit hurt me. I couldn't understand it, and what one

"Time went on. There was no swordsman, or pistolshot like me in London, they said. We had as many

pupils as we likedit was the only part of my life when I have been able to save money. I had no chance to

spend it. We gave lessons all day, and in the evening were too tired to go out. That year I had the misfortune

to lose my dear mother. I became a rich manyes, sir, at that time I must have had not less than six hundred

"It was a long time before I saw Eilie again. She went abroad to Dresden with her father's sister to learn

French and German. It was in the autumn of 1875 when she came back to us. She was seventeen thena

beautiful young creature." He paused, as if to gather his forces for description, and went on.

"Tall, as a young tree, with eyes like the sky. I would not say she was perfect, but her imperfections were

beautiful to me. What is it makes you loveah! sir, that is very hidden and mysterious. She had never lost

the trick of closing her lips tightly when she remembered her uneven tooth. You may say that was vanity, but

in a young girl and which of us is not vain, eh? 'Old men and maidens, young men and children!'

"As I said, she came back to London to her little room, and in the evenings was always ready with our tea.

You mustn't suppose she was housewifely; there is something in me that never admired housewifelinessa

"No," he resumed, "Eilie was not like that, for she was never quite the same two days together. I told you her

eyes were like the sky that was true of all of her. In one thing, however, at that time, she always seemed

the samein love for her father. For me! I don't know what I should have expected; but my presence seemed

to have the effect of making her dumb; I would catch her looking at me with a frown, and then, as if to make

up to her own natureand a more loving nature never came into this world, that I shall maintain to my dying

dayshe would go to her father and kiss him. When I talked with him she pretended not to notice, but I

could see her face grow cold and stubborn. I am not quick; and it was a long time before I understood that she

was jealous, she wanted him all to herself. I've often wondered how she could be his daughter, for he was the

very soul of justice and a slow man tooand she was as quick as a bird. For a long time after I saw her

dislike of me, I refused to believe itif one does not want to believe a thing there are always reasons why it

should not seem true, at least so it is with me, and I suppose with all selfish men.

"I spent evening after evening there, when, if I had not thought only of myself, I should have kept away. But

"It was a Sunday in February. I always had an invitation on Sundays to dine with them in the middle of the

day. There was no one in the sittingroom; but the door of Eilie's bedroom was open. I heard her voice: 'That

man, always that man!' It was enough for me, I went down again without coming in, and walked about all

"For three weeks I kept away. To the school of course I came as usual, but not upstairs. I don't know what I

told Daltonit did not signify what you told him, he always had a theory of his own, and was persuaded of

"But now I come to the most wonderful days of my life. It was an early spring that year. I had fallen away

already from my resolution, and used to slink upseldom, it's trueand spend the evening with them as

before. One afternoon I came up to the sitting room; the light was failingit was warm, and the windows

were open. In the air was that feeling which comes to you once a year, in the spring, no matter where you

may be, in a crowded street, or alone in a forest; only oncea feeling likebut I cannot describe it.

"Eilie was sitting there. If you don't know, sir, I can't tell you what it means to be near the woman one loves.

She was leaning on the windowsill, staring down into the street. It was as though she might be looking out for

some one. I stood, hardly breathing. She turned her head, and saw me. Her eyes were strange. They seemed to

ask me a question. But I couldn't have spoken for the world. I can't tell you what I feltI dared not speak, or

think, or hope. I have been in nineteen battlesseveral times in positions of some danger, when the lifting of

a finger perhaps meant death; but I have never felt what I was feeling at that moment. I knew something was

coming; and I was paralysed with terror lest it should not come!" He drew a long breath.

"The servant came in with a light and broke the spell. All that night I lay awake and thought of how she had

"It was three days before I plucked up courage to go again; and then I felt her eyes on me at onceshe was

making a 'cat's cradle' with a bit of string, but I could see them stealing up from her hands to my face. And

she went wandering about the room, fingering at everything. When her father called out: 'What's the matter

with you, Elie?' she stared at him like a child caught doing wrong. I looked straight at her then, she tried to

look at me, but she couldn't; and a minute later she went out of the room. God knows what sort of nonsense I

"Then began our love. I can't tell you of that time. Often and often Dalton said to me: 'What's come to the

child? Nothing I can do pleases her.' All the love she had given him was now for me; but he was too simple

and straight to see what was going on. How many times haven't I felt criminal towards him! But when you're

"Well, sir," he went on, "we were married on her eighteenth birthday. It was a long time before Dalton

"'Eilie has told me, Brune; I forbid it. She's too young, and you'retoo old!' I was then fortyfive, my hair as

black and thick as a rook's feathers, and I was strong and active. I answered him: 'We shall be married within

a month!' We parted in anger. It was a May night, and I walked out far into the country. There's no remedy

for anger, or, indeed, for anything, so fine as walking. Once I stoppedit was on a common, without a house

or light, and the stars shining like jewels. I was hot from walking, I could feel the blood boiling in my

veinsI said to myself 'Old, are you?' And I laughed like a fool. It was the thought of losing herI wished

to believe myself angry, but really I was afraid; fear and anger in me are very much the same. A friend of

mine, a bit of a poet, sir, once called them 'the two black wings of self.' And so they are, so they are...! The

next morning I went to Dalton again, and somehow I made him yield. I'm not a philosopher, but it has often

seemed to me that no benefit can come to us in this life without an equal loss somewhere, but does that stop

"We were married on the 3oth of June 1876, in the parish church. The only people present were Dalton,

Lucy, and Lucy's husbanda big, redfaced fellow, with blue eyes and a golden beard parted in two. It had

been arranged that we should spend the honeymoon down at their inn on the river. My wife, Dalton and I,

went to a restaurant for lunch. She was dressed in grey, the colour of a pigeon's feathers." He paused, leaning

forward over the crutch handle of his stick; trying to conjure up, no doubt, that longago image of his young

bride in her dress "the colour of a pigeon's feathers," with her blue eyes and yellow hair, the little frown

between her brows, the firmly shut red lips, opening to speak the words, "For better, for worse, for richer, for

"At that time, sir," he went on suddenly, "I was a bit of a dandy. I wore, I remember, a blue frockcoat, with

white trousers, and a grey top hat. Even now I should always prefer to be well dressed....

"We had an excellent lunch, and drank Veuve Clicquot, a wine that you cannot get in these days! Dalton

came with us to the railway station. I can't bear partings; and yet, they must come.

"That evening we walked out in the cool under the aspentrees. What should I remember in all my life if not

that nightthe young bullocks snuffling in the gatewaysthe campion flowers all lighted up along the

hedgesthe moon with a halobats, too, in and out among the stems, and the shadows of the cottages as

black and soft as that sea down there. For a long time we stood on the riverbank beneath a limetree. The

scent of the lime flowers! A man can only endure about half his joy; about half his sorrow. Lucy and her

husband," he went on, presently, "his name was Frank Tora man like an old Viking, who ate nothing but

milk, bread, and fruitwere very good to us! It was like Paradise in that innthough the commissariat, I am

bound to say, was limited. The sweetbriar grew round our bedroom windows; when the breeze blew the

leaves across the openingit was like a bath of perfume. Eilie grew as brown as a gipsy while we were

there. I don't think any man could have loved her more than I did. But there were times when my heart stood

still; it didn't seem as if she understood how much I loved her. One day, I remember, she coaxed me to take

her camping. We drifted downstream all the afternoon, and in the evening pulled into the reeds under the

willowboughs and lit a fire for her to cook bythough, as a matter of fact, our provisions were cooked

alreadybut you know how it is; all the romance was in having a real fire. 'We won't pretend,' she kept

saying. While we were eating our supper a hare came to our clearing a big fellowhow surprised he

looked! 'The tall hare,' Eilie called him. After that we sat by the ashes and watched the shadows, till at last

she roamed away from me. The time went very slowly; I got up to look for her. It was past sundown. I called

and called. It was a long time before I found herand she was like a wild thing, hot and flushed, her pretty

frock torn, her hands and face scratched, her hair down, like some beautiful creature of the woods. If one

loves, a little thing will scare one. I didn't think she had noticed my fright; but when we got back to the boat

"Once in the night I wokea waterhen was crying, and in the moonlight a kingfisher flew across. The

wonder on the riverthe wonder of the moon and trees, the soft bright mist, the stillness! It was like another

world, peaceful, enchanted, far holier than ours. It seemed like a vision of the thoughts that come to

onehow seldom! and go if one tries to grasp them. Magicpoetrysacred!" He was silent a minute, then

went on in a wistful voice: "I looked at her, sleeping like a child, with her hair loose, and her lips apart, and I

thought: 'God do so to me, if ever I bring her pain!' How was I to understand her? the mystery and innocence

of her soul! The river has had all my light and all my darkness, the happiest days, and the hours when I've

despaired; and I like to think of it, for, you know, in time bitter memories fade, only the good remain.... Yet

the good have their own pain, a different kind of aching, for we shall never get them back. Sir," he said,

turning to me with a faint smile, "it's no use crying over spilt milk.... In the neighbourhood of Lucy's inn, the

Rose and MaybushCan you imagine a prettier name? I have been all over the world, and nowhere found

names so pretty as in the English country. There, too, every blade of grass; and flower, has a kind of pride

about it; knows it will be cared for; and all the roads, trees, and cottages, seem to be certain that they will live

for ever.... But I was going to tell you: Half a mile from the inn was a quiet old house which we used to call

the 'Convent'though I believe it was a farm. We spent many afternoons there, trespassing in the

orchardEilie was fond of trespassing; if there were a long way round across somebody else's property, she

would always take it. We spent our last afternoon in that orchard, lying in the long grass. I was reading

Childe Harold for the first timea wonderful, a memorable poem! I was at that passagethe

"'Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, The din expands, and expectation mute'

when suddenly Eilie said: 'Suppose I were to leave off loving you?' It was as if some one had struck me in the

face. I jumped up, and tried to take her in my arms, but she slipped away; then she turned, and began

"We went back to London the next day; we lived quite close to the school, and about five days a week Dalton

came to dine with us. He would have come every day, if he had not been the sort of man who refuses to

consult his own pleasure. We had more pupils than ever. In my leisure I taught my wife to fence. I have never

seen any one so lithe and quick; or so beautiful as she looked in her fencing dress, with embroidered shoes.

"I was completely happy. When a man has obtained his desire he becomes careless and selfsatisfied; I was

watchful, however, for I knew that I was naturally a selfish man. I studied to arrange my time and save my

money, to give her as much pleasure as I could. What she loved best in the world just then was riding. I

bought a horse for her, and in the evenings of the spring and summer we rode together; but when it was too

dark to go out late, she would ride alone, great distances, sometimes spend the whole day in the saddle, and

come back so tired she could hardly walk upstairsI can't say that I liked that. It made me nervous, she was

so headlongbut I didn't think it right to interfere with her. I had a good deal of anxiety about money, for

though I worked hard and made more than ever, there never seemed enough. I was anxious to saveI hoped,

of coursebut we had no child, and this was a trouble to me. She grew more beautiful than ever, and I think

was happy. Has it ever struck you that each one of us lives on the edge of a volcano? There is, I imagine, no

one who has not some affection or interest so strong that he counts the rest for nothing, beside it. No doubt a

man may live his life through without discovering that. But some of us! I am not complaining; what

isis." He pulled the cap lower over his eyes, and clutched his hands firmly on the top of his stick. He was

like a man who rushes his horse at some hopeless fence, unwilling to give himself time, for fear of craning at

the last moment. "In the spring of '78, a new pupil came to me, a young man of twentyone who was destined

for the army. I took a fancy to him, and did my best to turn him into a good swordsman; but there was a kind

of perverse recklessness in him; for a few minutes one would make a great impression, then he would grow

utterly careless. 'Francis,' I would say, 'if I were you I should be ashamed.' 'Mr. Brune,' he would answer,

'why should I be ashamed? I didn't make myself.' God knows, I wish to do him justice, he had a heartone

day he drove up in a cab, and brought in his poor dog, who had been run over, and was dying: For half an

hour he shut himself up with its body, we could hear him sobbing like a child; he came out with his eyes all

red, and cried: 'I know where to find the brute who drove over him,' and off he rushed. He had beautiful

Italian eyes; a slight figure, not very tall; dark hair, a little dark moustache; and his lips were always a trifle

partedit was that, and his walk, and the way he drooped his eyelids, which gave him a peculiar, soft, proud

look. I used to tell him that he'd never make a soldier! 'Oh!' he'd answer, 'that'll be all right when the time

comes! He believed in a kind of luck that was to do everything for him, when the time came. One day he

came in as I was giving Eilie her lesson. This was the first time they saw each other. After that he came more

often, and sometimes stayed to dinner with us. I won't deny, sir, that I was glad to welcome him; I thought it

good for Eilie. Can there be anything more odious," he burst out, "than such a selfcomplacent blindness?

There are people who say, 'Poor man, he had such faith!' Faith, sir! Conceit! I was a foolin this world one

"The summer came; and one Saturday in early June, Eilie, I, and FrancisI won't tell you his other

namewent riding. The night had been wet; there was no dust, and presently the sun came outa glorious

day! We rode a long way. About seven o'clock we started backslowly, for it was still hot, and there was all

the cool of night before us. It was nine o'clock when we came to Richmond Park. A grand place, Richmond

Park; and in that halflight wonderful, the deer moving so softly, you might have thought they were spirits.

"Who can say when changes come? Like a shift of the wind, the old passes, the new is on you. I am telling

you now of a change like that. Without a sign of warning, Eilie put her horse into a gallop. 'What are you

doing?' I shouted. She looked back with a smile, then he dashed past me too. A hornet might have stung them

both: they galloped over fallen trees, under low hanging branches, up hill and down. I had to watch that

madness! My horse was not so fast. I rode like a demon; but fell far behind. I am not a man who takes things

quietly. When I came up with them at last, I could not speak for rage. They were riding side by side, the reins

on the horses' necks, looking in each other's faces. 'You should take care,' I said. 'Care!' she cried; 'life is not

all taking care!' My anger left me. I dropped behind, as grooms ride behind their mistresses... Jealousy! No

torture is so ceaseless or so black.... In those minutes a hundred things came up in mea hundred memories,

true, untrue, what do I know? My soul was poisoned. I tried to reason with myself. It was absurd to think

such things! It was unmanly.... Even if it were true, one should try to be a gentleman! But I found myself

laughing; yes, sir, laughing at that word." He spoke faster, as if pouring his heart out not to a live listener, but

to the night. "I could not sleep that night. To lie near her with those thoughts in my brain was impossible! I

made an excuse, and sat up with some papers. The hardest thing in life is to see a thing coming and be able to

do nothing to prevent it. What could I do? Have you noticed how people may become utter strangers without

a word? It only needs a thought.... The very next day she said: 'I want to go to Lucy's.' 'Alone?' 'Yes.' I had

made up my mind by then that she must do just as she wished. Perhaps I acted wrongly; I do not know what

one ought to do in such a case; but before she went I said to her: 'Eilie, what is it?' 'I don't know,' she

answered; and I kissed herthat was all.... A month passed; I wrote to her nearly every day, and I had short

letters from her, telling me very little of herself. Dalton was a torture to me, for I could not tell him; he had a

conviction that she was going to become a mother. 'Ah, Brune!' he said, 'my poor wife was just like that.'

Life, sir, is a somewhat ironical affair...! HeI find it hard to speak his namecame to the school two or

three times a week. I used to think I saw a change, a purpose growing up through his recklessness; there

seemed a violence in him as if he chafed against my blade. I had a kind of joy in feeling I had the mastery,

and could toss the iron out of his hand any minute like a straw. I was ashamed, and yet I gloried in it.

Jealousy is a low thing, sira low, base thing! When he asked me where my wife was, I told him; I was too

"One morning, when I could bear it no longer, I wrote, and said I was coming down. I would not force myself

on her, but I asked her to meet me in the orchard of the old house we called the Convent. I asked her to be

there at four o'clock. It has always been my, belief that a man must neither beg anything of a woman, nor

force anything from her. Women are generousthey will give you what they can. I sealed my letter, and

posted it myself. All the way down I kept on saying to myself, 'She must comesurely she will come!'

"I was in high spirits, but the next moment trembled like a man with ague. I reached the orchard before my

time. She was not there. You know what it is like to wait? I stood still and listened; I went to the point

whence I could see farthest; I said to myself, 'A watched pot never boils; if I don't look for her she will come.'

I walked up and down with my eyes on the ground. The sickness of it! A hundred times I took out my

watch.... Perhaps it was fast, perhaps hers was slowI can't tell you a thousandth part of my hopes and fears.

There was a spring of water, in one corner. I sat beside it, and thought of the last time I had been thereand

something seemed to burst in me. It was five o'clock before I lost all hope; there comes a time when you're

glad that hope is dead, it means rest. 'That's over,' you say, 'now I can act.' But what was I to do? I lay down

with my face to the ground; when one's in trouble, it's the only thing that helpssomething to press against

and cling to that can't give way. I lay there for two hours, knowing all the time that I should play the coward.

At seven o'clock I left the orchard and went towards the inn; I had broken my word, but I felt happy.... I

should see herand, sir, nothingnothing seemed to matter beside that. Tor was in the garden snipping at

his roses. He came up, and I could see that he couldn't look me in the face. 'Where's my wife?' I said. He

answered, 'Let's get Lucy.' I ran indoors. Lucy met me with two letters; the firstmy ownunopened; and

"She told me that a boy had brought a letter for my wife the day before, from a young gentleman in a boat.

When Lucy delivered it she asked, 'Who is he, Miss Eilie? What will Mr. Brune say?' My wife looked at her

angrily, but gave her no answerand all that day she never spoke. In the evening she was gone, leaving this

note on the bed.... Lucy cried as if her heart would break. I took her by the shoulders and put her from the

room; I couldn't bear the noise. I sat down and tried to think. While I was sitting there Tor came in with a

letter. It was written on the notepaper of an inn twelve miles up the river: these were the words.

He went on with a painful evenness of speech. "When I read those words, I had only one thoughtto reach

them; I ran down to the river, and chose out the lightest boat. Just as I was starting, Tor came running. 'You

dropped this letter, sir,' be said. 'Two pair of arms are better than one.' He came into the boat. I took the sculls

and I pulled out into the stream. I pulled like a madman; and that great man, with his bare arms crossed, was

like a huge, tawny bull sitting there opposite me. Presently he took my place, and I took the rudder lines. I

could see his chest, covered with hair, heaving up and down, it gave me a sort of comfortit meant that we

were getting nearer. Then it grew dark, there was no moon, I could barely see the bank; there's something in

the dark which drives one into oneself. People tell you there comes a moment when your nature is

decided'saved' or 'lost' as they call itfor good or evil. That is not true, your self is always with you, and

cannot be altered; but, sir, I believe that in a time of agony one finds out what are the things one can do, and

what are those one cannot. You get to know yourself, that's all. And so it was with me. Every thought and

memory and passion was so clear and strong! I wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill myself. But herno! We

are taught that we possess our wives, body and soul, we are brought up in that faith, we are commanded to

believe itbut when I was face to face with it, those words had no meaning; that belief, those commands,

they were without meaning to me, they werevile. Oh yes, I wanted to find comfort in them, I wanted to

hold on to thembut I couldn't. You may force a body; how can you force a soul? No, nocowardly! But I

wanted to I wanted to kill him and force her to come back to me! And then, suddenly, I felt as if I were

pressing right on the most secret nerve of my heart. I seemed to see her face, white and quivering, as if I'd

stamped my heel on it. They say this world is ruled by force; it may be trueI know I have a weak spot in

me.... I couldn't bear it. At last I Jumped to my feet and shouted out, 'Turn the boat round!' Tor looked up at

me as if I had gone mad. And I had gone mad. I seized the boathook and threatened him; I called him fearful

names. 'Sir,' he said, 'I don't take such names from any one!' 'You'll take them from me,' I shouted; 'turn the

boat round, you idiot, you hound, you fish!...' I have a terrible temper, a perfect curse to me. He seemed

amazed, even frightened; he sat down again suddenly and pulled the boat round. I fell on the seat, and hid my

face. I believe the moon came up; there must have been a mist too, for I was cold as death. In this life, sir, we

cannot hide our facesbut by degrees the pain of wounds grows less. Some will have it that such blows are

"In the early morning I went back to London. I had fever on meand was delirious. I dare say I should have

killed myself if I had not been so used to weaponsthey and I were too old friends, I suppose I can't

explain. It was a long while before I was up and about. Dalton nursed me through it; his great heavy

moustache had grown quite white. We never mentioned her; what was the good? There were things to settle

of course, the lawyerthis was unspeakably distasteful to me. I told him it was to be as she wished, but the

fellow would come to me, with histhere, I don't want to be unkind. I wished him to say it was my fault, but

he saidI remember his smile nowhe said, that was impossible, would be seen through, talked of

collusionI don't understand these things, and what's more, I can't bear them, they aredirty.

"Two years later, when I had come back to London, after the Russo Turkish war, I received a letter from

her. I have it here." He took an old, yellow sheet of paper out of a leathern pocketbook, spread it in his

"In the autumn of that same year she died in childbirth. He had deserted her. Fortunately for him, he was

killed on the Indian frontier, that very year. If she had lived she would have been thirtytwo next June; not a

great age.... I know I am what they call a crank; doctors will tell you that you can't be cured of a bad illness,

and be the same man again. If you are bent, to force yourself straight must leave you weak in another place. I

must and will think well of womeneverything done, and everything said against them is a stone on her

dead body. Could you sit, and listen to it?" As though driven by his own question, he rose, and paced up and

"That, sir, is the reason of my behaviour this afternoon, and again this evening. You have been so kind, I

wanted!wanted to tell you. She had a little daughterLucy has her now. My friend Dalton is dead; there

would have been no difficulty about money, but, I am sorry to say, that he was swindleddisgracefully. It

fell to me to administer his affairshe never knew it, but he died penniless; he had trusted some wretched

fellowshad an idea they would make his fortune. As I very soon found, they had ruined him. It was

impossible to let Lucysuch a dear womanbear that burden. I have tried to make provision; but, you see,"

he took hold of my sleeve, "I, too, have not been fortunate; in fact, it's difficult to save a great deal out of L

190 a year; but the capital is perfectly safe and I get L 47, 10s. a quarter, paid on the nail. I have often been

tempted to reinvest at a greater rate of interest, but I've never dared. Anyway, there are no debtsI've been

obliged to make a rule not to buy what I couldn't pay for on the spot.... Now I am really plaguing youbut I

wanted to tell youin caseanything should happen to me." He seemed to take a sudden scare, stiffened,

twisted his moustache, and muttering, "Your great kindness! Shall never forget!" turned hurriedly away.

He vanished; his footsteps, and the tap of his stick grew fainter and fainter. They died out. He was gone.

The following day I was obliged to go to Nice, and did not return till midnight. The porter told me that Jules

le Ferrier had been to see me. The next morning, while I was still in bed, the door was opened, and Jules

appeared. His face was very pale; and the moment he stood still drops of perspiration began coursing down

"Georges!" he said, "he is dead. There, there! How stupid you look! My man is packing. I have half an hour

before the train; my evidence shall come from Italy. I have done my part, the rest is for you. Why did you

have that dinner? The Don Quixote! The idiot! The poor man! Don't move! Have you a cigar? Listen! When

you followed him, I followed the other two. My infernal curiosity! Can you conceive a greater folly? How

fast they walked, those two! feeling their cheeks, as if he had struck them both, you know; it was funny. They

soon saw me, for their eyes were all round about their heads; they had the mark of a glove on their cheeks."

The colour began to come back, into Jules's face; he gesticulated with his cigar and became more and more

dramatic. "They waited for me. 'Tiens!' said one, 'this gentleman was with him. My friend's name is M. Le

Baron de. The man who struck him was an oddlooking person; kindly inform me whether it is possible

for my friend to meet him?' Eh!" commented Jules, "he was offensive! Was it for me to give our dignity

away? 'Perfectly, monsieur!' I answered. 'In that case,' he said, 'please give me his name and ad dress.... I

could not remember his name, and as for the address, I never knew it...! I reflected. 'That,' I said, 'I am unable

to do, for special reasons.' 'Aha!' he said, 'reasons that will prevent our fighting him, I suppose? 'On the

contrary,' I said. 'I will convey your request to him; I may mention that I have heard he is the best swordsman

and pistolshot in Europe. Good night!' I wished to give them something to dream of, you understand....

Patience, my dear! Patience! I was, coming to you, but I thought I would let them sleep on itthere was

plenty of time! But yesterday morning I came into the Place, and there he was on the bench, with a big dog. I

declare to you he blushed like a young girl. 'Sir,' he said, 'I was hoping to meet you; last evening I made a

great disturbance. I took an unpardonable liberty'and he put in my hand an envelope. My friend, what do

you suppose it containeda pair of gloves! Senor Don Punctilioso, hein? He was the devil, this friend of

yours; he fascinated me with his gentle eyes and his white moustachettes, his humility, his flamespoor

man...! I told him I had been asked to take him a challenge. 'If anything comes of it,' I said, 'make use of me!'

'Is that so?' he said. 'I am most grateful for your kind offer. Let me seeit is so long since I fought a duel.

The sooner it's over the better. Could you arrange tomorrow morning? Weapons? Yes; let them choose.'

Jules took out his watch. "I have sixteen minutes. It is lucky for you that you were away yesterday, or you

would be in my shoes now. I fixed the place, right hand of the road to Roquebrune, just by the railway

cutting, and the timefivethirty of the morning. It was arranged that I should call for him. Disgusting hour;

I have not been up so early since I fought Jacques Tirbaut in '85. At five o'clock I found him ready and

drinking tea with rum in itsingular man! he made me have some too, brrr! He was shaved, and dressed in

that old frockcoat. His great dog jumped into the carriage, but he bade her get out, took her paws on his

shoulders, and whispered in her ear some Italian words; a charm, hein! and back she went, the tail between

the legs. We drove slowly, so as not to shake his arm. He was more gay than I. All the way he talked to me of

you: how kind you were! how good you had been to him! 'You do not speak of yourself!' I said. 'Have you no

friends, nothing to say? Sometimes an accident will happen!' 'Oh!' he answered, 'there is no danger; but if by

any chancewell, there is a letter in my pocket.' 'And if you should kill him?' I said. 'But I shall not,' he

answered slyly: 'do you think I am going to fire at him? No, no; he is too young.' 'But,' I said, 'I 'I am not

going to stand that!' 'Yes,' he replied, 'I owe him a shot; but there is no dangernot the least danger.' We had

arrived; already they were there. Ah bah! You know the preliminaries, the politenessthis duelling, you

know, it is absurd, after all. We placed them at twenty paces. It is not a bad place. There are pinetrees round,

and rocks; at that hour it was cool and grey as a church. I handed him the pistol. How can I describe him to

you, standing there, smoothing the barrel with his fingers! 'What a beautiful thing a good pistol!' he said.

'Only a fool or a madman throws away his life,' I said. 'Certainly,' he replied, 'certainly; but there is no

"There they stood then, back to back, with the mouths of their pistols to the sky. ' Un!' I cried, 'deux! tirez!'

They turned, I saw the smoke of his shot go straight up like a prayer; his pistol dropped. I ran to him. He

looked surprised, put out his hand, and fell into my arms. He was dead. Those fools came running up. 'What

is it?' cried one. I made him a bow. 'As you see,' I said; 'you have made a pretty shot. My friend fired in the

air. Messieurs, you had better breakfast in Italy.' We carried him to the carriage, and covered him with a rug;

the others drove for the frontier. I brought him to his room. Here is his letter." Jules stopped; tears were

running down his face. "He is dead; I have closed his eyes. Look here, you know, we are all of us cadsit is

the rule; but this this, perhaps, was the exception." And without another word he rushed away....

Outside the old fellow's lodging a dismounted cocher was standing disconsolate in the sun. "How was I to

know they were going to fight a duel?" he burst out on seeing me. "He had white hairI call you to witness

he had white hair. This is bad for me: they will ravish my licence. Aha! you will seethis is bad for me!" I

gave him the slip and found my way upstairs. The old fellow was alone, lying on the bed, his feet covered

with a rug as if he might feel cold; his eyes were closed, but in this sleep of death, he still had that air of faint

surprise. At full length, watching the bed intently, Freda lay, as she lay nightly when he was really asleep.

The shutters were half open; the room still smelt slightly of rum. I stood for a long time looking at the face:

the little white fans of moustache brushed upwards even in death, the hollows in his cheeks, the quiet of his

figure; he was like some old knight.... The dog broke the spell. She sat up, and resting her paws on the bed,

licked his face. I went downstairsI couldn't bear to hear her howl. This was his letter to me, written in a

"MY DEAR SIR,Should you read this, I shall be gone. I am ashamed to trouble youa man should surely

manage so as not to give trouble; and yet I believe you will not consider me importunate. If, then, you will

pick up the pieces of an old fellow, I ask you to have my sword, the letter enclosed in this, and the

photograph that stands on the stove buried with me. My will and the acknowledgments of my property are

between the leaves of the Byron in my tin chest; they should go to Lucy Toraddress thereon. Perhaps you

will do me the honour to retain for yourself any of my books that may give you pleasure. In the Pilgrim's

Progress you will find some excellent recipes for Turkish coffee, Italian and Spanish dishes, and washing

wounds. The landlady's daughter speaks Italian, and she would, I know, like to have Freda; the poor dog will

miss me. I have read of old Indian warriors taking their horses and dogs with them to the happy

huntinggrounds. Freda would comenoble animals are dogs! She eats once a daya good large

mealand requires much salt. If you have animals of your own, sir, don't forgetall animals require salt. I

have no debts, thank God! The money in my pockets would bury me decentlynot that there is any danger.

And I am ashamed to weary you with detailsthe least a man can do is not to make a fuss and yet he must

Everything was as he had said. The photograph on the stove was that of a young girl of nineteen or twenty,

dressed in an oldfashioned style, with hair gathered backward in a knot. The eyes gazed at you with a little

frown, the lips were tightly closed; the expression of the face was eager, quick, wilful, and, above all, young.

The tin trunk was scented with dry fragments of some herb, the history of which in that trunk man knoweth

not.... There were a few clothes, but very few, all older than those he usually wore. Besides the Byron and

Pilgrim's Progress were Scott's Quentin Durward, Captain Marryat's Midshipman Easy, a pocket Testament,

and a long and frightfully stiff book on the art of fortifying towns, much thumbed, and bearing date 1863. By

far the most interesting thing I found, however, was a diary, kept down to the preceding Christmas. It was a

pathetic document, full of calculations of the price of meals; resolutions to be careful over this or that; doubts

whether he must not give up smoking; sentences of fear that Freda had not enough to eat. It appeared that he

had tried to live on ninety pounds a year, and send the other hundred pounds home to Lucy for the child; in

this struggle he was always failing, having to send less than the amount the entries showed that this was a

nightmare to him. The last words, written on Christmas Day, were these "What is the use of writing this,

The landlady's daughter and myself were at the funeral. The same afternoon I went into the concertroom,

where I had spoken to him first. When I came out Freda was lying at the entrance, looking into the faces of

every one that passed, and sniffing idly at their heels. Close by the landlady's daughter hovered, a biscuit in

Swithin Forsyte lay in bed. The corners of his mouth under his white moustache drooped towards his double

His twinbrother placed his hand behind his ear. "I can't hear you. They tell me I ought to take a cure. There's

Swithin replied: "You mumble so. I hear my man, Adolph. I trained him.... You ought to have an

There was silence; then James Forsyte, as if galvanised, remarked: "I s'pose you've made your will. I s'pose

you've left your money to the family; you've nobody else to leave it to. There was Danson died the other day,

The hairs of Swithin's white moustache bristled. "My fool of a doctor told me to make my will," he said, "I

hate a fellow who tells you to make your will. My appetite's good; I ate a partridge last night. I'm all the

better for eating. He told me to leave off champagne! I eat a good breakfast. I'm not eighty. You're the same

James Forsyte said: "You ought to have another opinion. Have Blank; he's the first man now. I had him for

Emily; cost me two hundred guineas. He sent her to Homburg; that's the first place now. The Prince was

Swithin Forsyte answered: "I don't get any sleep at night, now I can't get out; and I've bought a new

carriagegave a pot of money for it. D' you ever have bronchitis? They tell me champagne's dangerous; it's

"You ought to have another opinion. Emily sent her love; she would have come in, but she had to go to

Niagara. Everybody goes there; it's the place now. Rachel goes every morning: she overdoes it she'll be

laid up one of these days. There's a fancy ball there to night; the Duke gives the prizes."

Swithin Forsyte said angrily: "I can't get things properly cooked here; at the club I get spinach decently

James Forsyte replied: "You must have done well with Tintos; you must have made a lot of money by them.

Your groundrents must be falling in, too. You must have any amount you don't know what to do with." He

James Forsyte stretched out a cold, damp hand "Goodbye! You ought to have another opinion. I can't keep

the horses waiting: they're a new pairstood me in three hundred. You ought to take care of yourself. I shall

speak to Blank about you. You ought to have himeverybody says he's the first man. Goodbye!"

Swithin Forsyte continued to stare at the ceiling. He thought: 'A poor thing, James! a selfish beggar! Must be

He was ill and lonely. For many years he had been lonely, and for two years ill; but as he had smoked his first

cigar, so he would live his lifestoutly, to its predestined end. Every day he was driven to the club; sitting

forward on the spring cushions of a single brougham, his hands on his knees, swaying a little, strangely

solemn. He ascended the steps into that marble hallthe folds of his chin wedged into the aperture of his

collarwalking squarely with a stick. Later he would dine, eating majestically, and savouring his food,

behind a bottle of champagne set in an icepailhis waistcoat defended by a napkin, his eyes rolling a little

or glued in a stare on the waiter. Never did he suffer his head or back to droop, for it was not distinguished so

Because he was old and deaf, he spoke to no one; and no one spoke to him. The club gossip, an Irishman,

said to each newcomer: "Old Forsyte! Look at 'um! Must ha' had something in his life to sour 'um!" But

For many days now he had lain in bed in a room exuding silver, crimson, and electric light, smelling of

opopanax and of cigars. The curtains were drawn, the firelight gleamed; on a table by his bed were a jug of

barleywater and the Times. He made an attempt to read, failed, and fell again to thinking. His face with its

square chin, looked like a block of pale leather bedded in the pillow. It was lonely! A woman in the room

would have made all the difference! Why had he never married? He breathed hard, staring froglike at the

ceiling; a memory had come into his mind. It was a long time ago forty odd yearsbut it seemed like

It happened when he was thirtyeight, for the first and only time in his life travelling on the Continent, with

his twinbrother James and a man named Traquair. On the way from Germany to Venice, he had found

himself at the Hotel Goldene Alp at Salzburg. It was late August, and weather for the gods: sunshine on the

walls and the shadows of the vineleaves, and at night, the moonlight, and again on the walls the shadows of

the vineleaves. Averse to the suggestions of other people, Swithin had refused to visit the Citadel; he had

spent the day alone in the window of his bedroom, smoking a succession of cigars, and disparaging the

appearance of the passers by. After dinner he was driven by boredom into the streets. His chest puffed out

like a pigeon's, and with something of a pigeon's cold and inquiring eye, he strutted, annoyed at the frequency

of uniforms, which seemed to him both needless and offensive. His spleen rose at this crowd of foreigners,

who spoke an unintelligible language, wore hair on their faces, and smoked bad tobacco. 'A queer lot!' he

thought. The sound of music from a cafe attracted him; he walked in, vaguely moved by a wish for the

distinction of adventure, without the trouble which adventure usually brought with it; spurred too, perhaps, by

an afterdinner demon. The cafe was the bierhalle of the 'Fifties, with a door at either end, and lighted by a

large wooden lantern. On a small dais three musicians were fiddling. Solitary men, or groups, sat at some

dozen tables, and the waiters hurried about replenishing glasses; the air was thick with smoke. Swithin sat

down. "Wine!" he said sternly. The astonished waiter brought him wine. Swithin pointed to a beer glass on

the table. "Here!" he said, with the same ferocity. The waiter poured out the wine. 'Ah!' thought Swithin, 'they

can understand if they like.' A group of officers close by were laughing; Swithin stared at them uneasily. A

hollow cough sounded almost in his ear. To his left a man sat reading, with his elbows on the corners of a

journal, and his gaunt shoulders raised almost to his eyes. He had a thin, long nose, broadening suddenly at

the nostrils; a blackbrown beard, spread in a savage fan over his chest; what was visible of the face was the

colour of old parchment. A strange, wild, haughtylooking creature! Swithin observed his clothes with some

displeasurethey were the clothes of a journalist or strolling actor. And yet he was impressed. This was

singular. How could he be impressed by a fellow in such clothes! The man reached out a hand, covered with

black hairs, and took up a tumbler that contained a darkcoloured fluid. 'Brandy!' thought Swithin. The crash

of a falling chair startled himhis neighbour had risen. He was of immense height, and very thin; his great

beard seemed to splash away from his mouth; he was glaring at the group of officers, and speaking. Swithin

made out two words: "Hunde! Deutsche Hunde!" 'Hounds! Dutch hounds!' he thought: 'Rather strong!' One

of the officers had jumped up, and now drew his sword. The tall man swung his chair up, and brought it down

with a thud. Everybody round started up and closed on him. The tall man cried out, "To me, Magyars!"

Swithin grinned. The tall man fighting such odds excited his unwilling admiration; he had a momentary

impulse to go to his assistance. 'Only get a broken nose!' he thought, and looked for a safe corner. But at that

moment a thrown lemon struck him on the jaw. He jumped out of his chair and rushed at the officers. The

Hungarian, swinging his chair, threw him a look of gratitudeSwithin glowed with momentary admiration

of himself. A sword blade grazed hisarm; he felt a sudden dislike of the Hungarian. 'This is too much,' he

thought, and, catching up a chair, flung it at the wooden lantern. There was a crashfaces and swords

vanished. He struck a match, and by the light of it bolted for the door. A second later he was in the street.

Swithin looked round, and saw the tall Hungarian holding out his hand. He took it, thinking, 'What a fool I've

been!' There was something in the Hungarian's gesture which said, "You are worthy of me!'

It was annoying, but rather impressive. The man seemed even taller than before; there was a cut on his cheek,

the blood from which was trickling down his beard. "You English!" he said. "I saw you stone HaynauI saw

you cheer Kossuth. The free blood of your people cries out to us." He looked at Swithin. "You are a big man,

you have a big souland strong, how you flung them down! Ha!" Swithin had an impulse to take to his

heels. "My name," said the Hungarian, "is Boleskey. You are my friend." His English was good.

'Bulshkaiee, Burlshkaiee,' thought Swithin; 'what a devil of a name!' "Mine," he said sulkily, "is

"You've had a nasty jab on the cheek," said Swithin; the sight of the matted beard was making him feel sick.

The Hungarian put his fingers to his cheek, brought them away wet, stared at them, then with an indifferent

The Hungarian bowed. "Thank you!" he said; "I couldn't think of it! Thank you a thousand times!"

"Take it!" growled Swithin; it seemed to him suddenly of the first importance. He thrust the handkerchief into

the Hungarian's hand, and felt a pain in his arm. 'There!' he thought, 'I've strained a muscle.'

The Hungarian kept muttering, regardless of passersby, "Swine! How you threw them over! Two or three

'Touchy beggar!' thought Swithin. "Of course," he stammered, "if you put it in that way"

They had not gone a dozen steps before a youth, with a beardless face and hollow cheeks, accosted them.

"Master, look here!" Tearing open his coat, the youth displayed his skin, and a leather belt drawn tight round

it. Again Swithin felt that desire to take to his heels. He was filled with horrid forebodingsa sense of

Swithin looked at them askance, and followed. By a dim light they groped their way up some stairs into a

large room, into which the moon was shining through a window bulging over the street. A lamp burned low;

there was a smell of spirits and tobacco, with a faint, peculiar scent, as of rose leaves. In one corner stood a

czymbal, in another a great pile of newspapers. On the wall hung some old fashioned pistols, and a rosary of

yellow beads. Everything was tidily arranged, but dusty. Near an open fireplace was a table with the remains

of a meal. The ceiling, floor, and walls were all of dark wood. In spite of the strange disharmony, the room

had a sort of refinement. The Hungarian took a bottle out of a cupboard and, filling some glasses, handed one

to Swithin. Swithin put it gingerly to his nose. 'You never know your luck! Come!' he thought, tilting it

The youth tossed off his wine. And Swithin this time did the same; he pitied this poor devil of a youth now.

"Come round tomorrow!" he said, "I'll give you a shirt or two." When the youth was gone, however, he

"I said," answered BoLeskey, "'You have eaten and drunk; and now you are my enemy!'"

"You do not understand," the Hungarian replied politely. "While he was a beggarI, too, have had to beg"

(Swithin thought, 'Good God! this is awful!'), "but now that he is no longer hungry, what is he but a German?

His nostrils, as it seemed to Swithin, had distended in an unpleasant fashion; and a wholly unnecessary

raucousness invaded his voice. "I am an exileall of my blood are exiles. Those Godless dogs!" Swithin

"Rozsi!" said the Hungarian. A young girl came in. She was rather short, with a deliciously round figure and

a thick plait of hair. She smiled, and showed her even teeth; her little, bright, wideset grey eyes glanced

from one man to the other. Her face was round, too, high in the cheekbones, the colour of wild roses, with

brows that had a twistup at the corners. With a gesture of alarm, she put her hand to her cheek, and called,

"Margit!" An older girl appeared, taller, with fine shoulders, large eyes, a pretty mouth, and what Swithin

described to himself afterwards as a "pudding" nose. Both girls, with little cooing sounds, began attending to

'This is what comes of interfering,' he thought sulkily; 'I might have had my neck broken!' Suddenly a soft

palm was placed in his, two eyes, halffascinated, halfshy, looked at him; then a voice called, "Rozsi!" the

door was slammed, he was alone again with the Hungarian, harassed by a sense of soft disturbance.

"Your daughter's name is Rosy?" he said; "we have it in Englandfrom rose, a flower."

"Rozsi (Rozgi)," the Hungarian replied; "your English is a hard tongue, harder than French, German, or

"What?" said Swithin, "six languages?" Privately he thought, 'He knows how to lie, anyway.'

"If you lived in a country like mine," muttered the Hungarian, "with all men's hands against you! A free

Swithin could not imagine what he was talking of. This man's face, with its linen bandage, gloomy eyes, and

great black wisps of beard, his fierce mutterings, and hollow cough, were all most unpleasant. He seemed to

be suffering from some kind of mental dogbite. His emotion indeed appeared so indecent, so uncontrolled

and open, that its obvious sincerity produced a sort of awe in Swithin. It was like being forced to look into a

furnace. Boleskey stopped roaming up and down. "You think it's over?" he said; "I tell you, in the breast of

each one of us Magyars there is a hell. What is sweeter than life? What is more sacred than each breath we

draw? Ah! my country!" These words were uttered so slowly, with such intense mournfulness, that Swithin's

Swithin smiled. Then suddenly, as though something had hurt him, he grunted, "The 'Froggies'? Let 'em try!"

"Drink!" said Boleskey"there is nothing like it"; he filled Swithin's glass. "I will tell you my story."

Swithin rose hurriedly. "It's late," he said. "This is good stuff, though; have you much of it?"

"My name is BoleskeyStefan," the Hungarian said, raising his head; "of the Komorn Boleskeys." The

simplicity of this phraseas who shall say: What need of further description?made an impression on

Swithin; he stopped to listen. Boleskey's story went on and on. "There were many abuses," boomed his deep

voice, "much wrong done much cowardice. I could see clouds gatheringrolling over our plains. The

Austrian wished to strangle the breath of our mouthsto take from us the shadow of our libertythe

shadowall we had. Two years agothe year of '48, when every man and boy answered the great

voicebrother, a dog's life!to use a pen when all of your blood are fighting, but it was decreed for me!

My son was killed; my brothers takenand myself was thrown out like a dogI had written out my heart, I

had written out all the blood that was in my body!" He seemed to tower, a gaunt shadow of a man, with

Swithin rose, and stammered, "Much obligedvery interesting." Boleskey made no effort to detain him, but

continued staring at the wall. "Goodnight!" said Swithin, and stamped heavily downstairs.

When at last Swithin reached the Goldene Alp, he found his brother and friend standing uneasily at the door.

Traquair, a prematurely driedup man, with whiskers and a Scotch accent, remarked, "Ye're airly, man!"

Swithin growled something unintelligible, and swung up to bed. He discovered a slight cut on his arm. He

was in a savage temperthe elements had conspired to show him things he did not want to see; yet now and

then a memory of Rozsi, of her soft palm in his, a sense of having been stroked and flattered, came over him.

During breakfast next morning his brother and Traquair announced their intention of moving on. James

Forsyte, indeed, remarked that it was no place for a "collector," since all the "old" shops were in the hands of

Jews or very grasping personshe had discovered this at once. Swithin pushed his cup aside. "You may do

James Forsyte replied, tumbling over his own words: "Why! what do you want to stay here for? There's

nothing for you to do herethere's nothing to see here, unless you go up the Citadel, an' you won't do that."

Swithin growled, "Who says so?" Having gratified his perversity, he felt in a better temper. He had slung his

arm in a silk sash, and accounted for it by saying he had slipped. Later he went out and walked on to the

bridge. In the brilliant sunshine spires were glistening against the pearly background of the hills; the town had

a clean, joyous air. Swithin glanced at the Citadel and thought, 'Looks a strong place! Shouldn't wonder if it

were impregnable!' And this for some occult reason gave him pleasure. It occurred to him suddenly to go and

About noon, after a hunt of two hours, he was gazing about him blankly, pale with heat, but more obstinate

than ever, when a voice above him called, "Mister!" He looked up and saw Rozsi. She was leaning her round

chin on her round hand, gazing down at him with her deepset, clever eyes. When Swithin removed his hat,

she clapped her hands. Again he had the sense of being admired, caressed. With a careless air, that sat

grotesquely on his tall square person, he walked up to the door; both girls stood in the passage. Swithin felt a

confused desire to speak in some foreign tongue. "Maam'selles," he began, "erbong jourer, your

Swithin swallowed a misgiving, and entered. The room had a worn appearance by daylight, as if it had

always been the nest of tragic or vivid lives. He sat down, and his eyes said: "I am a stranger, but don't try to

get the better of me, pleasethat is impossible." The girls looked at him in silence. Rozsi wore a rather short

skirt of black stuff, a white shirt, and across her shoulders an embroidered yoke; her sister was dressed in

dark green, with a coral necklace; both girls had their hair in plaits. After a minute Rozsi touched the sleeve

"Father fought with a chair, but you had no chair," she said in a wondering voice.

He doubled the fist of his sound arm and struck a blow at space. To his amazement she began to laugh.

Nettled at this, he put his hand beneath the heavy table and lifted it. Rozsi clapped her hands. "Ah I now I

seehow strong you are!" She made him a curtsey and whisked round to the window. He found the quick

intelligence of her eyes confusing; sometimes they seemed to look beyond him at something invisiblethis,

too, confused him. From Margit he learned that they had been two years in England, where their father had

"We wait," suddenly said. Rozsi; and Margit, with a solemn face, repeated, "We wait."

Swithin's eyes swelled a little with his desire to see what they were waiting for. How queer they were, with

their eyes that gazed beyond him! He looked at their figures. 'She would pay for dressing,' he thought, and he

tried to imagine Rozsi in a skirt with proper flounces, a thin waist, and hair drawn back over her ears. She

would pay for dressing, with that supple figure, fluffy hair, and little hands! And instantly his own hands,

face, and clothes disturbed him. He got up, examined the pistols on the wall, and felt resentment at the faded,

dusty room. 'Smells like a pothouse!' he thought. He sat down again close to Rozsi.

"Do you love to dance?" she asked; "to dance is to live. First you hear the musichow your feet itch! It is

wonderful! You begin slow, quickquicker; you flyyou know nothingyour feet are in the air. It is

"Ah!" continued Rozsi, her eyes fixed on him, "when I am dancingout there I see the plainsyour feet go

She stretched herself, a shiver seemed to pass all down her. "Margit! dance!" and, to Swithin's consternation,

the two girls their hands on each other's shouldersbegan shuffling their feet and swaying to and fro.

Their heads were thrown back, their eyes half closed; suddenly the step quickened, they swung to one side,

then to the other, and began whirling round in front of him. The sudden fragrance of rose leaves enveloped

him. Round they flew again. While they were still dancing, Boleskey came into the room. He caught Swithin

"Brother, welcome! Ah! your arm is hurt! I do not forget." His yellow face and deepset eyes expressed a

Swithin bowed to a man with a small forehead, who had appeared softly, and stood with his gloved hands

touching his waist. Swithin conceived a sudden aversion for this catlike man. About Boleskey there was that

which made contempt impossiblethe sense of comradeship begotten in the fight; the man's height;

something lofty and savage in his face; and an obscure instinct that it would not pay to show distaste; but this

Kasteliz, with his neat jaw, low brow, and velvety, volcanic look, excited his proper English animosity.

"Your friends are mine," murmured Kasteliz. He spoke with suavity, and hissed his s's. A long, vibrating

twang quavered through the room. Swithin turned and saw Rozsi sitting at the czymbal; the notes rang under

the little hammers in her hands, incessant, metallic, rising and falling with that strange melody. Kasteliz had

fixed his glowing eyes on her; Boleskey, nodding his head, was staring at the floor; Margit, with a pale face,

'What can they see in it?' thought Swithin; 'it's not a tune.' He took up his hat. Rozsi saw him and stopped; her

lips had parted with a faintly dismayed expression. His sense of personal injury diminished; he even felt a

little sorry for her. She jumped up from her seat and twirled round with a pout. An inspiration seized on

Swithin. "Come and dine with me," he said to Boleskey, "tomorrow the Goldene Alpbring your

friend." He felt the eyes of the whole room on himthe Hungarian's fine eyes; Margit's wide glance; the

narrow, hot gaze of Kasteliz; and lastlyRozsi's. A glow of satisfaction ran down his spine. When he

emerged into the street he thought gloomily, 'Now I've done it!' And not for some paces did he look round;

then, with a forced smile, turned and removed his hat to the faces at the window.

Notwithstanding this moment of gloom, however, he was in an exalted state all day, and at dinner kept

looking at his brother and Traquair enigmatically. 'What do they know of life?' he thought; 'they might be

here a year and get no farther.' He made jokes, and pinned the menu to the waiter's coattails. "I like this

place," he said, "I shall spend three weeks here." James, whose lips were on the point of taking in a plum,

On the day of the dinner Swithin suffered a good deal. He reflected gloomily on Boleskey's clothes. He had

fixed an early hourthere would be fewer people to see them. When the time approached he attired himself

with a certain neat splendour, and though his arm was still sore, left off the sling....

Nearly three hours afterwards he left the Goldene Alp between his guests. It was sunset, and along the

riverbank the houses stood out, unsoftened by the dusk; the streets were full of people hurrying home.

Swithin had a hazy vision of empty bottles, of the ground before his feet, and the accessibility of all the

world. Dim recollections of the good things he had said, of his brother and Traquair seated in the background

eating ordinary meals with inquiring, acid visages, caused perpetual smiles to break out on his face, and he

steered himself stubbornly, to prove that he was a better man than either' of his guests. He knew, vaguely,

that he was going somewhere with an object; Rozsi's face kept dancing before him, like a promise. Once or

twice he gave Kasteliz a glassy stare. Towards Boleskey, on the other hand, he felt quite warm, and recalled

with admiration the way he had set his glass down empty, time after time. 'I like to see him take his liquor,' he

thought; 'the fellow's a gentleman, after all.' Boleskey strode on, savagely inattentive to everything; and

Kasteliz had become more like a cat than ever. It was nearly dark when they reached a narrow street close to

the cathedral. They stopped at a door held open by an old woman. The change from the fresh air to a heated

corridor, the noise of the door closed behind him, the old woman's anxious glances, sobered Swithin.

They passed into a large room, crowded with men all women; Swithin noticed that they all looked fit him. He

stared at them in turn they seemed of all classes, some in black coats or silk dresses, others in the clothes

of workpeople; one man, a cobbler, still wore his leather apron, as if he had rushed there straight from his

work. Laying his hand on Swithin's arm, Boleskey evidently began explaining who he was; hands were

extended, people beyond reach bowed to him. Swithin acknowledged the greetings with a stiff motion of his

head; then seeing other people dropping into seats, he, too, sat down. Some one whispered his nameMargit

"Welcome!" said Margit; but Swithin was looking at Rozsi. Her face was so alive and quivering! 'What's the

excitement all about?' he thought. 'How pretty she looks!' She blushed, drew in her hands with a quick tense

movement, and gazed again beyond him into the room. 'What is it?' thought Swithin; he had a longing to lean

back and kiss her lips. He tried angrily to see what she was seeing in those faces turned all one way.

Boleskey rose to speak. No one moved; not a sound could be heard but the tone of his deep voice. On and on

he went, fierce and solemn, and with the rise of his voice, all those facesfair or swarthy seemed to be

glowing with one and the same feeling. Swithin felt the white heat in those facesit was not decent! In that

whole speech he only understood the one word"Magyar" which came again and again. He almost dozed

off at last. The twang of a czymbal woke him. 'What?' he thought, 'more of that infernal music!' Margit,

leaning over him, whispered: "Listen! Racoczy! It is forbidden!" Swithin saw that Rozsi was no longer in her

seat; it was she who was striking those forbidden notes. He looked roundeverywhere the same unmoving

faces, the same entrancement, and fierce stillness. The music sounded muffled, as if it, too, were bursting its

heart in silence. Swithin felt within him a touch of panic. Was this a den of tigers? The way these people

listened, the ferocity of their stillness, was frightful...! He gripped his chair and broke into a perspiration; was

there no chance to get away? 'When it stops,' he thought, 'there'll be a rush!' But there was only a greater

silence. It flashed across him that any hostile person coming in then would be torn to pieces. A woman

sobbed. The whole thing was beyond words unpleasant. He rose, and edged his way furtively towards the

doorway. There was a cry of "Police!" The whole crowd came pressing after him. Swithin would soon have

been out, but a little behind he caught sight of Rozsi swept off her feet. Her frightened eyes angered him. 'She

doesn't deserve it,' he thought sulkily; 'letting all this loose!' and forced his way back to her. She clung to him,

and a fever went stealing through his veins; he butted forward at the crowd, holding her tight. When they

"Afraid!" muttered Swithin; "I should think so." No longer touching her, he felt his grievance revive.

She slid her hand under his arm; the soft curves of her form brushed him gently, each touch only augmented

his illhumour. He burned with a perverse rage, as if all the passions in him were simmering and ready to

boil over; it was as if a poison were trying to work its way out of him, through the layers of his stolid flesh.

He maintained a dogged silence; Rozsi, too, said nothing, but when they reached the door, she drew her hand

"Angry," muttered Swithin; "no! How d'you make that out?" He had a torturing desire to kiss her.

Swithin also waited, wedged against the wall. Once or twice, for his sight was sharp, he saw her steal a look

at him, a beseeching look, and hardened his heart with a kind of pleasure. After five minutes Boleskey,

Margit, and Kasteliz appeared. Seeing Rozsi they broke into exclamations of relief, and Kasteliz, with a

glance at Swithin, put his lips to her hand. Rozsi's look said, "Wouldn't you like to do that?" Swithin turned

All night he hardly slept, suffering from fever, for the first time in his life. Once he jumped out of bed, lighted

a candle, and going to the glass, scrutinised himself long and anxiously. After this he fell asleep, but had

frightful dreams. His first thought when he woke was, 'My liver's out of order!' and, thrusting his head into

cold water, he dressed hastily and went out. He soon left the house behind. Dew covered everything;

blackbirds whistled in the bushes; the air was fresh and sweet. He had not been up so early since he was a

boy. Why was he walking through a damp wood at this hour of the morning? Something intolerable and

unfamiliar must have sent him out. No fellow in his senses would do such a thing! He came to a dead stop,

and began unsteadily to walk back. Regaining the hotel, he went to bed again, and dreamed that in some wild

country he was living in a room full of insects, where a housemaidRozsiholding a broom, looked at him

with mournful eyes. There seemed an unexplained need for immediate departure; he begged her to forward

his things; and shake them out carefully before she put them into the trunk. He understood that the charge for

sending would be twentytwo shillings, thought it a great deal, and had the horrors of indecision. "No," he

muttered, "pack, and take them myself." The housemaid turned suddenly into a lean creature; and he awoke

His eye fell on his wet boots. The whole thing was scaring, and jumping up, he began to throw his clothes

into his trunks. It was twelve o'clock before he went down, and found his brother and Traquair still at the

table arranging an itinerary; he surprised them by saying that he too was coming; and without further

explanation set to work to eat. James had heard that there were saltmines in the neighbourhoodhis

proposal was to start, and halt an hour or so on the road for their inspection; he said: "Everybody'll ask you if

you've seen the saltmines: I shouldn't like to say I hadn't seen the saltmines. What's the good, they'd say, of

your going there if you haven't seen the saltmines?" He wondered, too, if they need fee the second

A discussion followed; but Swithin ate on glumly, conscious that his mind was set on larger affairs. Suddenly

on the far side of the street Rozsi and her sister passed, with little baskets on their arms. He started up, and at

that moment Rozsi looked roundher face was the incarnation of enticement, the chin tilted, the lower lip

thrust a little forward, her round neck curving back over her shoulder. Swithin muttered, "Make your own

arrangementsleave me out!" and hurried from the room, leaving James beside himself with interest and

When he reached the street, however, the girls had disappeared. He hailed a carriage. "Drive!" he called to

the man, with a flourish of his stick, and as soon as the wheels had begun to clatter on the stones he leaned

back, looking sharply to right and left. He soon had to give up thought of finding them, but made the

coachman turn round and round again. All day he drove about, far into the country, and kept urging the driver

to use greater speed. He was in a strange state of hurry and elation. Finally, he dined at a little country inn;

Returning late in the evening he found a note written by Traquair. "Are you in your senses, man?" it asked;

"we have no more time to waste idling about here. If you want to rejoin us, come on to Danielli's Hotel,

Venice." Swithin chuckled when he read it, and feeling frightfully tired, went to bed and slept like a log.

Three weeks later he was still in Salzburg, no longer at the Goldene Alp, but in rooms over a shop near the

Boleskeys'. He had spent a small fortune in the purchase of flowers. Margit would croon over them, but

Rozsi, with a sober "Many tanks!" as if they were her right, would look long at herself in the glass, and pin

one into her hair. Swithin ceased to wonder; he ceased to wonder at anything they did. One evening he found

Swithin experienced a faint, unavoidable emotion; but looking at the Count's trousers, he thought: 'Doesn't

look much like one!' And with an ironic bow to the silent girls, he turned, and took his hat. But when he had

reached the bottom of the dark stairs he heard footsteps. Rozsi came running down, looked out at the door,

and put her hands up to her breast as if disappointed; suddenly with a quick glance round she saw him.

Swithin caught her arm. She slipped away, and her face seemed to bubble with defiance or laughter; she ran

up three steps, stopped, looked at him across her shoulder, and fled on up the stairs. Swithin went out

'What was she going to say to me?' he kept thinking. During these three weeks he had asked himself all sorts

of questions: whether he were being made a fool of; whether she were in love with him; what he was doing

there, and sometimes at night, with all his candles burning as if he wanted light, the breeze blowing on him

through the window, his cigar, halfsmoked, in his hand, he sat, an hour or more, staring at the wall. 'Enough

of this!' he thought every morning. Twice he packed fullyonce he ordered his travelling carriage, but

countermanded it the following day. What definitely he hoped, intended, resolved, he could not have said. He

was always thinking of Rozsi, he could not read the riddle in her faceshe held him in a vice,

notwithstanding that everything about her threatened the very fetishes of his existence. And Boleskey!

Whenever he looked at him he thought, 'If he were only clean?' and mechanically fingered his own welltied

cravatte. To talk with the fellow, too, was like being forced to look at things which had no place in the light

'Why can't he settle down at some business,' he thought, 'instead of all this talk?' Boleskey's sudden

diffidences, selfdepreciation, fits of despair, irritated him. "Morbid beggar!" he would mutter; "thank God I

haven't a thin skin." And proud too! Extraordinary! An impecunious fellow like that! One evening, moreover,

Boleskey had returned home drunk. Swithin had hustled him away into his bedroom, helped him to undress,

and stayed until he was asleep. 'Too much of a good thing!' he thought, 'before his own daughters, too!' It was

after this that he ordered his travelling carriage. The other occasion on which he packed was one evening,

when not only Boleskey, but Rozsi herself had picked chicken bones with her fingers.

Often in the mornings he would go to the Mirabell Garden to smoke his cigar; there, in stolid contemplation

of the statuesrows of half heroic men carrying off halfdistressful femaleshe would spend an hour

pleasantly, his hat tilted to keep the sun off his nose. The day after Rozsi had fled from him on the stairs, he

came there as usual. It was a morning of blue sky and sunlight glowing on the old prim garden, on its

yewtrees, and seriocomic statues, and walls covered with apricots and plums. When Swithin approached

To his surprise Rozsi put her little soft hand down and touched his; then, without a word, sprang up and

rushed away. It took him a minute to recover. There were people present; he did not like to run, but overtook

"You shouldn't have done that," he said; "you shouldn't have run away from me, you know."

Rozsi laughed. Swithin withdrew his arm; a desire to shake her seized him. He walked some way before he

Rozsi bent her head, scurrying along. "No," she murmured, "if you do not goI do not wish."

Swithin drew her hand back within his arm. How round and soft it was! He tried to see her face. When she

was nearly home he said goodbye, not wishing, for some dark reason, to be seen with her. He watched till she

had disappeared; then slowly retraced his steps to the Mirabell Garden. When he came to where she had been

sitting, he slowly lighted his cigar, and for a long time after it was smoked out remained there in the silent

A crowd of people wandered round the booths, and Swithin found himself obliged to give the girls his arms.

'Like a little Cockney clerk!' he thought. His indignation passed unnoticed; they talked, they laughed, each

sight and sound in all the hurlyburly seemed to go straight into their hearts. He eyed them ironicallytheir

eager voices, and little coos of sympathy seemed to him vulgar. In the thick of the crowd he slipped his arm

out of Margit's, but, just as he thought that he was free, the unwelcome hand slid up again. He tried again, but

again Margit reappeared, serene, and full of pleasant humour; and his failure this time appeared to him in a

comic light. But when Rozsi leaned across him, the glow of her round cheek, her curving lip, the inscrutable

grey gleam of her eyes, sent a thrill of longing through him. He was obliged to stand by while they parleyed

with a gipsy, whose matted locks and skinny hands inspired him with a not unwarranted disgust. "Folly!" he

muttered, as Rozsi held out her palm. The old woman mumbled, and shot a malignant look at him. Rozsi

drew back her hand, and crossed herself. ' Folly!' Swithin thought again; and seizing the girls' arms, he

This time Rozsi looked hurriedly round, and slipped away into the crowd. After a hunt they found her, and

Swithin, who was scared, growled: "You shouldn't do such thingsit's not respectable."

On higher ground, in the centre of a clear space, a military band was playing. For the privilege of entering

this charmed circle Swithin paid three kronen, choosing naturally the best seats. He ordered wine, too,

watching Rozsi out of the corner of his eye as he poured it out. The protecting tenderness of yesterday was all

lost in this medley. It was every man for himself, after all! The colour had deepened again in her cheeks, she

laughed, pouting her lips. Suddenly she put her glass aside. "Thank you, very much," she said, "it is enough!"

Margit, whose pretty mouth was all smiles, cried, "Lieber Gott! is it not goodlife?" It was not a question

Swithin could undertake to answer. The band began to play a waltz. "Now they will dance. Lieber Gott! and

are the lights not wonderful?" Lamps were flickering beneath the trees like a swarm of fireflies. There was a

hum as from a gigantic beehive. Passersby lifted their faces, then vanished into the crowd; Rozsi stood

The space was soon full of whirling couples. Rozsi's head began to beat time. "O Margit!" she whispered.

Swithin's face had assumed a solemn, uneasy expression. A man raising his hat, offered his arm to Margit.

She glanced back across her shoulder to reassure Swithin. "It is a friend," she said.

Swithin looked at Rozsiher eyes were bright, her lips tremulous. He slipped his hand along the table and

touched her fingers. Then she flashed a look at himappeal, reproach, tenderness, all were expressed in it.

Was she expecting him to dance? Did she want to mix with the riftraff there; wish him to make an

exhibition of himself in this hurlyburly? A voice said, "Goodevening!" Before them stood Kasteliz, in a

"You are not dancing, Rozsi Kozsanony?" (Miss Rozsi). "Let me, then, have the pleasure." He held out his

arm. Swithin stared in front of him. In the very act of going she gave him a look that said as plain as words:

"Will you not?" But for answer he turned his eyes away, and when he looked again she was gone. He paid the

score and made his way into the crowd. But as he went she danced by close to him, all flushed and panting.

She hung back as if to stop him, and he caught the glistening of tears. Then he lost sight of her again. To be

deserted the first minute he was alone with her, and for that jackanapes with the small head and the volcanic

glances! It was too much! And suddenly it occurred to him that she was alone with Kastelizalone at night,

and far from home. ' Well,' he thought, 'what do I care?' and shouldered his way on through the crowd. It

served him right for mixing with such people here. He left the fair, but the further he went, the more he

nursed his rage, the more heinous seemed her offence, the sharper grew his jealousy. "A beggarly baron!"

A figure came alongsideit was Boleskey. One look showed Swithin his condition. Drunk again! This was

Unfortunately Boleskey had recognised him. He seemed violently excited. "Wherewhere are my

Swithin brushed past, but Boleskey caught his arm. "Listen brother!" he said; "news of my country! After

"Keep it to yourself!" growled Swithin, wrenching his arm free. He went straight to his lodgings, and, lying

on the hard sofa of his unlighted sittingroom, gave himself up to bitter thoughts. But in spite of all his anger,

Rozsi's supplymoving figure, with its pouting lips, and roguish appealing eyes, still haunted him.

Next morning there was not a carriage to be had, and Swithin was compelled to put off his departure till the

morrow. The day was grey and misty; he wandered about with the strained, inquiring look of a lost dog in his

Late in the afternoon he went back to his lodgings. In a corner of the sittingroom stood Rozsi. The thrill of

triumph, the sense of appeasement, the emotion, that seized on him, crept through to his lips in a faint smile.

Rozsi made no sound, her face was hidden by her hands. And this silence of hers weighed on Swithin. She

was forcing him to break it. What was behind her hands? His own face was visible! Why didn't she speak?

Suddenly Rozsi dropped her hands; her flushed face was quiveringit seemed as though a word, a sign,

He walked over to the window. 'I must give her time!' he thought; then seized by unreasoning terror at this

silence, spun round, and caught her by the arms. Rozsi held back from him, swayed forward and buried her

Half an hour later Swithin was pacing up and down his room. The scent of rose leaves had not yet died away.

A glove lay on the floor; he picked it up, and for a long time stood weighing it in his hand. All sorts of

confused thoughts and feelings haunted him. It was the purest and least selfish moment of his life, this

moment after she had yielded. But that pure gratitude at her fiery, simple abnegation did not last; it was

followed by a petty sense of triumph, and by uneasiness. He was still weighing the little glove in his hand,

The Hungarian seemed suffering from excitement. Why had Swithin left his charges the night before? What

Swithin, very like a bulldog at that moment, answered: What business was it of his?

The business of a gentleman! What right had the Englishman to pursue a young girl?

"Insult!" sneered Swithin; d'you mean to tell me you weren't in the street just now?"

Kasteliz answered with a hiss, "If you do not leave the city I will make you, with my sworddo you

For some minutes Kasteliz spoke in pure Hungarian while Swithin waited, with a forced smile and a fixed

"If you are still in the city tomorrow evening," said Kasteliz at last in English, " I will spit you in the street."

Swithin turned to the window and watched his visitor's retiring back with a queer mixture of amusement,

stubbornness, and anxiety. 'Well,' he thought, 'I suppose he'll run me through!' The thought was unpleasant;

and it kept recurring, but it only served to harden his determination. His head was busy with plans for seeing

Swithin was long in deciding to go forth next day. He had made up his mind not to go to Rozsi till five

o'clock. 'Mustn't make myself too cheap,' he thought. It was a little past that hour when he at last sallied out,

and with a beating heart walked towards Boleskey's. He looked up at the window, more than half expecting to

see Rozsi there; but she was not, and he noticed with faint surprise that the window was not open; the plants,

too, outside, looked singularly arid. He knocked. No one came. He beat a fierce tatto. At last the door was

opened by a man with a reddish beard, and one of those sardonic faces only to be seen on shoemakers of

The cobbler shrugged his shoulders, and Swithin rushed upstairs. The rooms were empty. The furniture

remained, but all signs of life were gone. One of his own bouquets, faded, stood in a glass; the ashes of a fire

were barely cold; little scraps of paper strewed the hearth; already the room smelt musty. He went into the

bedrooms, and with a feeling of stupefaction stood staring at the girls' beds, side by side against the wall. A

bit of ribbon caught his eye; he picked it up and put it in his pocketit was a piece of evidence that she had

once existed. By the mirror some pins were dropped about; a little powder had been spilled. He looked at his

The shoemaker's voice aroused him. "Tausend Teufel! Eilen Sie, nur! Zeit is Geld! Kann nich' Langer

"Where have they gone?" asked Swithin painfully. "A pound for every English word you speak. A pound!"

But in Swithin a sullen anger had begun to burn. "If you don't tell me," he said, "it'll be the worse for you."

A batteredlooking woman came hurrying down the passage, calling out in German, "Don't let him go!"

"Forgive me"it ran"that I leave you and do not say goodbye. To day our father had the call from our

dear Fathertown so long awaited. In two hours we are ready. I pray to the Virgin to keep you ever safe, and

When Swithin read it his first sensation was that of a man sinking in a bog; then his obstinacy stiffened. 'I

won't be done,' he thought. Taking out a sovereign he tried to make the woman comprehend that she could

earn it, by telling him where they had gone. He got her finally to write the words out in his pocketbook,

gave her the sovereign, and hurried to the Goldene Alp, where there was a waiter who spoke English. The

"At three o'clock they start in a carriage on the road to Linzthey have bad horsesthe Herr also rides a

Swithin at once hailed a carriage and started at full gallop on the road to Linz. Outside the Mirabell Garden

he caught sight of Kasteliz and grinned at him. 'I've sold him anyway,' he thought; 'for all their talk, they're no

His spirits rose, but soon fell again. What chance had he of catching them? They had three hours' start! Still,

the roads were heavy from the rain of the last two nightsthey had luggage and bad horses; his own were

good, his driver bribedhe might overtake them by ten o'clock! But did he want to? What a fool he had been

not to bring his luggage; he would then have had a respectable position. What a brute he would look without

a change of shirt, or anything to shave with! He saw himself with horror, all bristly, and in soiled linen.

People would think him mad. 'I've given myself away,' flashed across him, 'what the devil can I say to them?'

and he stared sullenly at the driver's back. He read Rozsi's letter again; it had a scent of her. And in the

growing darkness, jolted by the swinging of the carriage, he suffered tortures from his prudence, tortures

It grew colder and dark. He turned the collar of his coat up to his ears. He had visions of Piccadilly. This

wildgoose chase appeared suddenly a dangerous, unfathomable business. Lights, fellowship, security!

'Never again!' he brooded; 'why won't they let me alone?' But it was not clear whether by 'they' he meant the

conventions, the Boleskeys, his passions, or those haunting memories of Rozsi. If he had only had a bag with

him! What was he going to say? What was he going to get by this? He received no answer to these questions.

The darkness itself was less obscure than his sensations. From time to time he took out his watch. At each

village the driver made inquiries. It was past ten when he stopped the carriage with a jerk. The stars were

bright as steel, and by the side of the road a reedy lake showed in the moonlight. Swithin shivered. A man on

a horse had halted in the centre of the road. "Drive on!" called Swithin, with a stolid face. It turned out to be

Boleskey, who, on a gaunt white horse, looked like some winged creature. He stood where he could bar the

'Theatrical beggar!' thought Swithin, with a nervous smile. He made no sign of recognition. Slowly Boleskey

brought his lean horse up to the carriage. When he saw who was within he showed astonishment and joy.

"You?" he cried, slapping his hand on his attenuated thigh, and leaning over till his beard touched Swithin.

"You throw in your lot with us. Is it possible? Youyou are a knighterrant then!"

"Good God!" said Swithin. Boleskey, flogging his dejected steed, cantered forward in the moonlight. He

came back, bringing an old cloak, which he insisted on wrapping round Swithin's shoulders. He handed him,

"How cold you look!" he said. "Wonderful! Wonderful! you English!" His grateful eyes never left Swithin

for a moment. They had come up to the heels of the other carriage now, but Swithin, hunched in the cloak,

did not try to see what was in front of him. To the bottom of his soul he resented the Hungarian's gratitude.

Arrived at the inn where they were to pass the night, Swithin waited, hoping to get into the house without a

"scene," but when at last he alighted the girls were in the doorway, and Margit greeted him with an admiring

murmur, in which, however, he seemed to detect irony. Rozsi, pale and tremulous, with a halfscared look,

gave him her hand, and, quickly withdrawing it, shrank behind her sister. When they had gone up to their

room Swithin sought Boleskey. His spirits had risen remarkably. "Tell the landlord to get us supper," he said;

"we'll crack a bottle to our luck." He hurried on the landlord's preparations. The window of the, room faced a

wood, so near that he could almost touch the trees. The scent from the pines blew in on him. He turned away

from that scented darkness, and began to draw the corks of winebottles. The sound seemed to conjure up

Boleskey. He came in, splashed all over, smelling slightly of stables; soon after, Margit appeared, fresh and

"Where is your sister?" Swithin said. Rozsi, it seemed, was tired. "It will do her good to eat," said Swithin.

And Boleskey, murmuring, "She must drink to our country," went out to summon her, Margit followed him,

while Swithin cut up a chicken. They came back without her. She had "a megrim of the spirit."

Swithin's face fell. "Look here!" he said, "I'll go and try. Don't wait for me."

"Yes," answered Boleskey, sinking mournfully into a chair; "try, brother, tryby all means, try."

Swithin walked down the corridor with an odd, sweet, sinking sensation in his chest; and tapped on Rozsi's

Still she did not speak, but suddenly stretched out to him her bare arm. Swithin pressed his face to it. With a

Swithin stealthily retraced his steps, and paused a minute outside the sittingroom to regain his selfcontrol.

"She is coming," he said. And very soon she did come, her thick hair roughly twisted in a plait.

Swithin sat between the girls; but did not talk, for he was really hungry. Boleskey too was silent, plunged in

"You will come to our Fathertown? We shall have things to show you. Rozsi, what things we will show

him!" Rozsi, with a little appealing movement of her hands, repeated, "What things we will show you!" She

seemed suddenly to find her voice, and with glowing cheeks, mouths full, and eyes bright as squirrels', they

chattered reminiscences of the "dear Fathertown," of "dear friends," of the "dear home."

'A poor place!' Swithin could not help thinking. This enthusiasm seemed to him common; but he was careful

to assume a look of interest, feeding on the glances flashed at him from Rozsi's restless eyes.

As the wine waned Boleskey grew more and more gloomy, but now and then a sort of gleaming flicker

"Let us not forget," he said, "that we go perhaps to ruin, to death; in the face of all this we go, because our

country needsin this there is no credit, neither to me nor to you, my daughters; but for this noble

Englishman, what shall we say? Give thanks to God for a great heart. He comesnot for country, not for

fame, not for money, but to help the weak and the oppressed. Let us drink, then, to him; let us drink again and

again to heroic Forsyte!" In the midst of the dead silence, Swithin caught the look of suppliant mockery in

Rozsi's eyes. He glanced at the Hungarian. Was he laughing at him? But Boleskey, after drinking up his wine,

had sunk again into his seat; and there suddenly, to the surprise of all, he began to snore. Margit rose and,

bending over him like a mother, murmured: "He is tiredit is the ride!" She raised him in her strong arms,

and leaning on her shoulder Boleskey staggered from the room. Swithin and Rozsi were left alone. He slid his

hand towards her hand that lay so close, on the rough tablecloth. It seemed to await his touch. Something

gave way in him, and words came welling up; for the moment he forgot himself, forgot everything but that he

was near her. Her head dropped on his shoulder, he breathed the perfume of her hair. "Goodnight!" she

whispered, and the whisper was like a kiss; yet before he could stop her she was gone. Her footsteps died

away in the passage, but Swithin sat gazing intently at a single bright drop of spilt wine quivering on the

table's edge. In that moment she, in her helplessness and emotion, was all in all to himhis life nothing; all

the real thingshis conventions, convictions, training, and himselfall seemed remote, behind a mist of

passion and strange chivalry. Carefully with a bit of bread he soaked up the bright drop; and suddenly he

thought: 'This is tremendous!' For a long time he stood there in the window, close to the dark pinetrees.

In the early morning he awoke, full of the discomfort of this strange place and the medley of his dreams.

Lying, with his nose peeping over the quilt, he was visited by a horrible suspicion. When he could bear it no

longer, he started up in bed. What if it were all a plot to get him to marry her? The thought was treacherous,

and inspired in him a faint disgust. Still, she might be ignorant of it! But was she so innocent? What innocent

girl would have come to his room like that? What innocent girl? Her father, who pretended to be caring only

for his country? It was not probable that any man was such a fool; it was all part of the gamea scheming

rascal! Kasteliz, toohis threats! They intended him to marry her! And the horrid idea was strengthened by

his reverence for marriage. It was the proper, the respectable condition; he was genuinely afraid of this other

sort of liaisonit was somehow too primitive! And yet the thought of that marriage made his blood run cold.

Considering that she had already yielded, it would be all the more monstrous! With the cold, fatal clearness

of the morning light he now for the first time saw his position in its full bearings. And, like a fish pulled out

of water, he gasped at what was disclosed. Sullen resentment against this attempt to force him settled deep

He seated himself on the bed, holding his head in his hands, solemnly thinking out what such marriage

meant. In the first place it meant ridicule, in the next place ridicule, in the last place ridicule. She would eat

chicken bones with her fingersthose fingers his lips still burned to kiss. She would dance wildly with other

men. She would talk of her "dear Fathertown," and all the time her eyes would look beyond him, some

where or other into some dd place he knew nothing of. He sprang up and paced the room, and for a

They meant him to marry her! Even sheshe meant him to marry her! Her tantalising inscrutability; her

sudden little tendernesses; her quick laughter; her swift, burning kisses; even the movements of her hands;

her tearsall were evidence against her. Not one of these things that Nature made her do counted on her

side, but how they fanned his longing, his desire, and distress! He went to the glass and tried to part his hair

with his fingers, but being rather fine, it fell into lank streaks. There was no comfort to be got from it. He

drew his muddy boots on. Suddenly he thought: 'If I could see her alone, I could arrive at some arrangement!'

Then, with a sense of stupefaction, he made the discovery that no arrangement could possibly be made that

would not be dangerous, even desperate. He seized his hat, and, like a rabbit that has been fired at, bolted

from the room. He plodded along amongst the damp woods with his head down, and resentment and dismay

in his heart. But, as the sun rose, and the air grew sweet with pine scent, he slowly regained a sort of

equability. After all, she had already yielded; it was not as if...! And the tramp of his own footsteps lulled him

'Look at the thing practically,' he thought. The faster he walked the firmer became his conviction that he

could still see it through. He took out his watchit was past sevenhe began to hasten back. In the yard of

Swithin turned away. 'In ten minutes,' he thought, 'I shall be in that carriage again, with this going on in my

head! Driving away from England, from all I'm used todriving towhat?' Could he face it? Could he face all

that he had been through that morning; face it day after day, night after night? Looking up, he saw Rozsi at

her open window gazing down at him; never had she looked sweeter, more roguish. An inexplicable terror

seized on him; he ran across the yard and jumped into his carriage. "To Salzburg!" he cried; "drive on!" And

rattling out of the yard without a look behind, he flung a sovereign at the hostler. Flying back along the road

faster even than he had come, with pale face, and eyes blank and staring like a pugdog's, Swithin spoke no

single word; nor, till he had reached the door of his lodgings, did he suffer the driver to draw rein.

Towards evening, five days later, Swithin, yellow and travelworn, was ferried in a gondola to Danielli's

Hotel. His brother, who was on the steps, looked at him with an apprehensive curiosity.

James replied, "I thought you wouldn't leave your friends!" Then, with a jerk of suspicion, "You haven't

He appeared at dinner that night, but fell asleep over his coffee. Neither Traquair nor James asked him any

further question, nor did they allude to Salzburg; and during the four days which concluded the stay in Venice

Swithin went about with his head up, but his eyes halfclosed like a dazed man. Only after they had taken

ship at Genoa did he show signs of any healthy interest in life, when, finding that a man on board was

That winter in London he behaved much as usual, but fits of moroseness would seize on him, during which

One evening when he was walking with a friend in Piccadilly, a girl coming from a sidestreet accosted him

in German. Swithin, after staring at her in silence for some seconds, handed her a fivepound note, to the

great amazement of his friend; nor could he himself have explained the meaning of this freak of generosity.

This, then, was the substance of what he remembered as he lay ill in bed. Stretching out his hand he pressed

the bell. His valet appeared, crossing the room like a cat; a Swede, who had been with Swithin many years; a

little man with a dried face and fierce moustache, morbidly sharp nerves, and a queer devotion to his master.

"Why do you stand there like a cow?" asked Swithin; "can't you see I'm very bad?"

"Yes, sir!" The valet's face twitched as though it masked the dance of obscure emotions.

"Very likely I shall have a nap. Bring up hot water at halfpast six and shave me before dinner."

"He said you ought to have another doctor; two doctors, he said, better than one. He said, also, he would look

The valet turned away his eyes. "Mrs. Thomas Forsyte came last Monday fortnight."

Adolf's face was covered suddenly with crow'sfeet. "You have no business to ask me question like that! I

Adolf took a bottle of champagnefrom a cupboard and held nippers to it. He fixed his eyes on Swithin.

Adolf removed the cork. He wiped a glass elaborately, filled it, and bore it scrupulously to the bedside.

Suddenly twirling his moustaches, he wrung his hands, and burst out: "It is poison."

'He forgot himself!' thought Swithin. Slowly he raised the glass, slowly put it back, and sank gasping on his

He dreamed that he was at his club, sitting after dinner in the crowded smokingroom, with its bright walls

and trefoils of light. It was there that he sat every evening, patient, solemn, lonely, and sometimes fell asleep,

his square, pale old face nodding to one side. He dreamed that he was gazing at the picture over the fireplace,

of an old statesman with a high collar, supremely finished face, and sceptical eyebrowsthe picture, smooth,

and reticent as sealingwax, of one who seemed for ever exhaling the narrow wisdom of final judgments. All

round him, his fellow members were chattering. Only he himself, the old sick member, was silent. If fellows

only knew what it was like to sit by yourself and feel ill all the time! What they were saying he had heard a

hundred times. They were talking of investments, of cigars, horses, actresses, machinery. What was that? A

foreign patent for cleaning boilers? There was no such thing; boilers couldn't be cleaned, any fool knew that!

If an Englishman couldn't clean a boiler, no foreigner could clean one. He appealed to the old statesman's

eyes. But for once those eyes seemed hesitating, blurred, wanting in finality. They vanished. In their place

were Rozsi's little deepset eyes, with their wide and faroff look; and as he gazed they seemed to grow

bright as steel, and to speak to him. Slowly the whole face grew to be there, floating on the dark background

of the picture; it was pink, aloof, unfathomable, enticing, with its fluffy hair and quick lips, just as he had last

seen it. "Are you looking for something?" she seemed to say: "I could show you."

He felt the touch of fingers on his forehead. 'I'm dreaming,' he thought in his dream.

She had vanished; and far away, from behind the picture, came a sound of footsteps.

Again he heard the rustling of those light footsteps, and close in his ear a sound, like a sob. He awoke; the sob

was his own. Great drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. 'What is it?' he thought; 'what have I lost?'

Slowly his mind travelled over his investments; he could not think of any single one that was unsafe. What

was it, then, that he had lost? Struggling on his pillows, he clutched the wineglass. His lips touched the

wine. 'This isn't the "Heidseck"!' he thought angrily, and before the reality of that displeasure all the dim

vision passed away. But as he bent to drink, something snapped, and, with a sigh, Swithin Forsyte died above

When James Forsyte came in again on his way home, the valet, trembling took his hat and stick.

On the bed Swithin's body was doubled like a sack; his hand still grasped the glass.

James Forsyte paused. "Swithin!" he said, and with his hand to his ear he waited for an answer; but none

In a car of the Naples express a mining expert was diving into a bag for papers. The strong sunlight showed

the fine wrinkles on his brown face and the shabbiness of his short, rough beard. A newspaper cutting slipped

from his fingers; he picked it up, thinking: 'How the dickens did that get in here?' It was from a colonial print

of three years back; and he sat staring, as if in that forlorn slip of yellow paper he had encountered some

These were the words he read: "We hope that the setback to civilisation, the check to commerce and

development, in this promising centre of our colony may be but temporary; and that capital may again come

to the rescue. Where one man was successful, others should surely not fail? We are convinced that it only

needs...." And the last words: "For what can be sadder than to see the forest spreading its lengthening

shadows, like symbols of defeat, over the untenanted dwellings of men; and where was once the merry

On an afternoon, thirteen years before, he had been in the city of London, at one of those emporiums where

mining experts perch, before fresh flights, like seagulls on some favourite rock. A clerk said to him: "Mr.

Scorrier, they are asking for you downstairsMr. Hemmings of the New Colliery Company."

Scorrier took up the speaking tube. "Is that you, Mr. Scorrier? I hope you are very well, sir, I

In two minutes he appeared, Christopher Hemmings, secretary of the New Colliery Company, known in the

Citybehind his backas "Downby thestarn" Hemmings. He grasped Scorrier's handthe gesture was

deferential, yet distinguished. Too handsome, too capable, too important, his figure, the cut of his irongrey

beard, and his intrusively fine eyes, conveyed a continual courteous invitation to inspect their infallibilities.

He stood, like a City "Atlas," with his legs apart, his coattails gathered in his hands, a whole globe of

financial matters deftly balanced on his nose. "Look at me!" he seemed to say. "It's heavy, but how easily I

"I hope I see you well, Mr. Scorrier," he began. "I have come round about our mine. There is a question of a

fresh field being opened upbetween ourselves, not before it's wanted. I find it difficult to get my Board to

take a comprehensive view. In short, the question is: Are you prepared to go out for us, and report on it? The

fees will be all right." His left eye closed. "Things have been very erdicky; we are going to change our

Scorrier murmured, with a feeling of vague resentment: "Oh yes. He's not a mining man!"

Hemmings replied: "We think that he will do." 'Do you?' thought Scorrier; 'that's good of you!'

He had not altogether shaken off a worship he had felt for Pippin "King" Pippin he was always called,

when they had been boys at the Camborne Grammarschool. "King" Pippin! the boy with the bright colour,

very bright hair, bright, subtle, elusive eyes, broad shoulders, little stoop in the neck, and a way of moving it

quickly like a bird; the boy who was always at the top of everything, and held his head as if looking for

something further to be the top of. He remembered how one day "King" Pippin had said to him in his soft

way, "Young Scorrie, I'll do your sums for you"; and in answer to his dubious, "Is that all right?" had replied,

"Of courseI don't want you to get behind that beast Blake, he's not a Cornishman" (the beast Blake was an

Irishman not yet twelve). He remembered, too, an occasion when "King" Pippin with two other boys fought

six louts and got a licking, and how Pippin sat for half an hour afterwards, all bloody, his head in his hands,

rocking to and fro, and weeping tears of mortification; and how the next day he had sneaked off by himself,

"Downbythestarn" Hemmings replied with a sort of fearful sprightliness: "There's a good fellow! I will

send instructions; so glad to see you well." Conferring on Scorrier a lookfine to the verge of vulgarityhe

withdrew. Scorrier remained, seated; heavy with insignificance and vague oppression, as if he had drunk a

The "King" Pippin of his schooldays was now a man of fortyfour. He awakened in Scorrier the uncertain

wonder with which men look backward at their uncomplicated teens; and staggering up and down the decks

in the long Atlantic roll, he would steal glances at his companion, as if he expected to find out from them

something about himself. Pippin had still "King" Pippin's bright, fine hair, and dazzling streaks in his short

beard; he had still a bright colour and suave voice, and what there were of wrinkles suggested only subtleties

of humour and ironic sympathy. From the first, and apparently without negotiation, he had his seat at the

captain's table, to which on the second day Scorrier too found himself translated, and had to sit, as he

During the voyage only one incident impressed itself on Scorrier's memory, and that for a disconcerting

reason. In the forecastle were the usual complement of emigrants. One evening, leaning across the rail to

watch them, he felt a touch on his arm; and, looking round, saw Pippin's face and beard quivering in the

lamplight. "Poor people!" he said. The idea flashed on Scorrier that he was like some fine wire

'Suppose he were to snap!' he thought. Impelled to justify this fancy, he blurted out: "You're a nervous chap.

Pippin hustled him along the deck. "Come, come, you took me off my guard," he murmured, with a sly,

He found it a continual source of wonder that Pippin, at his age, should cut himself adrift from the

associations and security of London life to begin a new career in a new country with dubious prospect of

success. 'I always heard he was doing well all round,' he thought; 'thinks he'll better himself, perhaps. He's a

The morning of arrival at the mines was grey and cheerless; a cloud of smoke, beaten down by drizzle, clung

above the forest; the wooden houses straggled dismally in the unkempt semblance of a street, against a

background of endless, silent woods. An air of blank discouragement brooded over everything; cranes jutted

idly over empty trucks; the long jetty oozed black slime; miners with listless faces stood in the rain; dogs

fought under their very legs. On the way to the hotel they met no one busy or serene except a Chinee who

The late superintendent, a cowed man, regaled them at lunch with his forebodings; his attitude toward the

situation was like the food, which was greasy and uninspiring. Alone together once more, the two newcomers

"Oh dear!" sighed Pippin. "We must change all this, Scorrier; it will never do to go back beaten. I shall not go

back beaten; you will have to carry me on my shield;" and slyly: "Too heavy, eh? Poor fellow!" Then for a

long time he was silent, moving his lips as if adding up the cost. Suddenly he sighed, and grasping Scorrier's

arm, said: "Dull, aren't I? What will you do? Put me in your report, 'New Superintendentsad, dull

dognot a word to throw at a cat!'" And as if the new task were too much for him, he sank back in thought.

The last words he said to Scorrier that night were: "Very silent here. It's hard to believe one's here for life.

But I feel I am. Mustn't be a coward, though!" and brushing his forehead, as though to clear from it a cobweb

Scorrier stayed on the veranda smoking. The rain had ceased, a few stars were burning dimly; even above the

squalor of the township the scent of the forests, the interminable forests, brooded. There sprang into his mind

the memory of a picture from one of his children's fairy booksthe picture of a little bearded man on tiptoe,

with poised head and a great sword, slashing at the castle of a giant. It reminded him of Pippin. And

suddenly, even to Scorrier whose existence was one long encounter with strange placesthe unseen

presence of those woods, their heavy, healthy scent, the little sounds, like squeaks from tiny toys, issuing out

of the gloomy silence, seemed intolerable, to be shunned, from the mere instinct of selfpreservation. He

thought of the evening he had spent in the bosom of "Downbythestarn" Hemmings' family, receiving his

last instructionsthe security of that suburban villa, its discouraging gentility; the superior acidity of the

Miss Hemmings; the noble names of large contractors, of company promoters, of a peer, dragged with the

lightness of guncarriages across the conversation; the autocracy of Hemmings, rasped up here and there, by

some domestic contradiction. It was all so nice and safeas if the whole thing had been fastened to an

anchor sunk beneath the pink cabbages of the drawingroom carpet! Hemmings, seeing him off the premises,

had said with secrecy: "Little Pippin will have a good thing. We shall make his salary L. He'll be a great

Scorrier shook the ashes from his pipe. 'Salary!' he thought, straining his ears; 'I wouldn't take the place for

five thousand pounds a year. And yet it's a fine country,' and with ironic violence he repeated, 'a dashed fine

Ten days later, having finished his report on the new mine, he stood on the jetty waiting to go abroad the

"God bless you!" said Pippin. "Tell them they needn't be afraid; and sometimes when you're at home think of

Scorrier, scrambling on board, had a confused memory of tears in his eyes, and a convulsive handshake.

It was eight years before the wheels of life carried Scorrier back to that disenchanted spot, and this time not

on the business of the New Colliery Company. He went for another company with a mine some thirty miles

away. Before starting, however, he visited Hemmings. The secretary was surrounded by pigeonholes and

finer than ever; Scorrier blinked in the full radiance of his courtesy. A little man with eyebrows full of

"You know Mr. Booker," said Hemmings"one of my directors. This is Mr. Scorrier, sirwho went out for

These sentences were murmured in a way suggestive of their uncommon value. The director uncrossed his

legs, and bowed. Scorrier also bowed, and Hemmings, leaning back, slowly developed the full resources of

"So you are going out again, Scorrier, for the other side? I tell Mr. Scorrier, sir, that he is going out for the

The little director asked explosively: "See our last dividend? Twenty per cent; eh, what?"

Hemmings moved a finger, as if reproving his director. "I will not disguise from you," he murmured, "that

there is friction between us andthe enemy; you know our position too welljust a little too well, eh? 'A

His diplomatic eyes flattered Scorrier, who passed a hand over his browand said: "Of course."

"Pippin doesn't hit it off with them. Between ourselves, he's a leetle too big for his boots. You know what it is

Scorrier caught himself searching on the floor for a sight of Hemmings' boots; he raised his eyes guiltily. The

secretary continued: "We don't hear from him quite as often as we should like, in fact."

The secretary smiled. "Very good! Mr. Scorrier says, sir, it's a silent place; haha! I call that very good!" But

suddenly a secret irritation seemed to bubble in him; he burst forth almost violently: "He's no business to let it

But Scorrier made no reply, and soon after took his leave: he had been asked to convey a friendly hint to

Pippin that more frequent letters would be welcomed. Standing in the shadow of the Royal Exchange, waiting

to thread his way across, he thought: 'So you must have noise, must youyou've got some here, and to

On his arrival in the new world he wired to Pippin asking if he might stay with him on the way up country,

A week later he arrived (there was now a railway) and found Pippin waiting for him in a phaeton. Scorrier

would not have known the place again; there was a glitter over everything, as if some one had touched it with

a wand. The tracks had given place to roads, running firm, straight, and black between the trees under

brilliant sunshine; the wooden houses were all painted; out in the gleaming harbour amongst the green of

islands lay three steamers, each with a fleet of busy boats; and here and there a tiny yacht floated, like a

seabird on the water. Pippin drove his longtailed horses furiously; his eyes brimmed with subtle kindness,

as if according Scorrier a continual welcome. During the two days of his stay Scorrier never lost that sense of

glamour. He had every opportunity for observing the grip Pippin had over everything. The wooden doors and

walls of his bungalow kept out no sounds. He listened to interviews between his host and all kinds and

conditions of men. The voices of the visitors would rise at firstangry, discontented, matteroffact, with

nasal twang, or guttural drawl; then would come the soft patter of the superintendent's feet crossing and

recrossing the room. Then a pause, the sound of hard breathing, and quick questionsthe visitor's voice

again, again the patter, and Pippin's ingratiating but decisive murmurs. Presently out would come the visitor

with an expression on his face which Scorrier soon began to know by heart, a kind of pleased, puzzled,

helpless look, which seemed to say, "I've been done, I knowI'll give it to myself when I'm round the

Pippin was full of wistful questions about "home." He wanted to talk of music, pictures, plays, of how

London looked, what new streets there were, and, above all, whether Scorrier had been lately in the West

Country. He talked of getting leave next winter, asked whether Scorrier thought they would "put up with him

at home"; then, with the agitation which had alarmed Scorrier before, he added: "Ah! but I'm not fit for home

now. One gets spoiled; it's big and silent here. What should I go back to? I don't seem to realise."

Scorrier thought of Hemmings. "'Tis a bit cramped there, certainly," he muttered.

Pippin went on as if divining his thoughts. "I suppose our friend Hemmings would call me foolish; he's above

the little weaknesses of imagination, eh? Yes; it's silent here. Sometimes in the evening I would give my head

for somebody to talk toHemmings would never give his head for anything, I think. But all the same, I

couldn't face them at home. Spoiled!" And slyly he murmured: "What would the Board say if they could hear

Scorrier blurted out: "To tell you the truth, they complain a little of not hearing from you."

Pippin put out a hand, as if to push something away. "Let them try the life here!" he broke out; "it's like

sitting on a live volcano what with our friends, 'the enemy,' over there; the men; the American

Scorrier felt with remorse and wonder that he had spoken the truth. The following day he left for his

inspection, and while in the camp of "the enemy" much was the talk he heard of Pippin.

"Why!" said his host, the superintendent, a little man with a face somewhat like an owl's, "d'you know the

name they've given him down in the capital'the King'good, eh? He's made them 'sit up' all along this

coast. I like him well enoughgoodhearted man, shocking nervous; but my people down there can't stand

him at any price. Sir, he runs this colony. You'd think butter wouldn't melt in that mouth of his; but he always

gets his way; that's what riles 'em so; that and the success he's making of his mine. It puzzles me; you'd think

he'd only be too glad of a quiet life, a man with his nerves. But no, he's never happy unless he's fighting,

something where he's got a chance to score a victory. I won't say he likes it, but, by Jove, it seems he's got to

do it. Now that's funny! I'll tell you one thing, though shouldn't be a bit surprised if he broke down some day;

and I'll tell you another," he added darkly, "he's sailing very near the wind, with those large contracts that he

makes. I wouldn't care to take his risks. Just let them have a strike, or something that shuts them down for a

spelland mark my words, sir it'll be all up with them. But," he concluded confidentially, "I wish I had

his hold on the men; it's a great thing in this country. Not like home, where you can go round a corner and get

another gang. You have to make the best you can out of the lot you have; you won't, get another man for love

or money without you ship him a few hundred miles." And with a frown he waved his arm over the forests to

Scorrier finished his inspection and went on a shooting trip into the forest. His host met him on his return.

"Just look at this!" he said, holding out a telegram. "Awful, isn't it?" His face expressed a profound

commiseration, almost ludicrously mixed with the ashamed contentment that men experience at the

The telegram, dated the day before, ran thus "Frightful explosion New Colliery this morning, great loss of life

He took leave of his host, who called after him: "You'd better wait for a steamer! It's a beastly drive!"

Scorrier shook his head. All night, jolting along a rough track cut through the forest, he thought of Pippin.

The other miseries of this calamity at present left him cold; he barely thought of the smothered men; but

Pippin's struggle, his lonely struggle with this hydra headed monster, touched him very nearly. He fell

asleep and dreamed of watching Pippin slowly strangled by a snake; the agonised, kindly, ironic face peeping

out between two gleaming coils was so horribly real, that he awoke. It was the moment before dawn:

pitchblack branches barred the sky; with every jolt of the wheels the gleams from the lamps danced,

fantastic and intrusive, round ferns and tree stems, into the cold heart of the forest. For an hour or more

Scorrier tried to feign sleep, and hide from the stillness, and overmastering gloom of these great woods. Then

softly a whisper of noises stole forth, a stir of light, and the whole slow radiance of the morning glory. But it

brought no warmth; and Scorrier wrapped himself closer in his cloak, feeling as though old age had touched

Close on noon he reached the township. Glamour seemed still to hover over it. He drove on to the mine. The

windingengine was turning, the pulley at the top of the headgear whizzing round; nothing looked unusual.

'Some mistake!' he thought. He drove to the mine buildings, alighted, and climbed to the shaft head. Instead

of the usual rumbling of the trolleys, the rattle of coal discharged over the screens, there was silence. Close

by, Pippin himself was standing, smirched with dirt. The cage, coming swift and silent from below, shot open

its doors with a sharp rattle. Scorrier bent forward to look. There lay a dead man, with a smile on his face.

Pippin answered: "Eightyfour brought upfortyseven still below," and entered the man's name in a

An older man was taken out next; he too was smilingthere had been vouchsafed to him, it seemed, a taste

of more than earthly joy. The sight of those strange smiles affected Scorrier more than all the anguish or

despair he had seen scored on the faces of other dead men. He asked an old miner how long Pippin had been

"Thirty hours. Yesterday he wer' below; we had to nigh carry mun up at last. He's for goin' down again, but

the chaps won't lower mun;" the old man gave a sigh. "I'm waiting for my boy to come up, I am."

Scorrier waited toothere was fascination about those dead, smiling faces. The rescuing of these men who

would never again breathe went on and on. Scorrier grew sleepy in the sun. The old miner woke him, saying:

"Rummy stuff this here chokedamp; see, they all dies drunk!" The very next to be brought up was the chief

engineer. Scorrier had known him quite well, one of those Scotsmen who are born at the age of forty and

remain so all their lives. His facethe only one that wore no smileseemed grieving that duty had deprived

Late in the afternoon the old miner touched Scorrier's arm, and said: "There he isthere's my boy!" And he

As the sun set, the gang below came up. No further search was possible till the fumes had cleared. Scorrier

Another answered him: "'Tis a gude enough bag for me!" They passed him, the whites of their eyes gleaming

Pippin drove him home at a furious pace, not uttering a single word. As they turned into the main street, a

young woman starting out before the horses obliged Pippin to pull up. The glance he bent on Scorrier was

ludicrously prescient of suffering. The woman asked for her husband. Several times they were stopped thus

by women asking for their husbands or sons. "This is what I have to go through," Pippin whispered.

When they had eaten, he said to Scorrier: "It was kind of you to come and stand by me! They take me for a

god, poor creature that I am. But shall I ever get the men down again? Their nerve's shaken. I wish I were one

Scorrier felt the futility of his presence. On Pippin alone must be the heat and burden. Would he stand under

it, or would the whole thing come crashing to the ground? He urged him again and again to rest, but Pippin

only gave him one of his queer smiles. "You don't know how strong I am!" he said.

He himself slept heavily; and, waking at dawn, went down. Pippin was still at his desk; his pen had dropped;

He stole away again with a sense of indignation that no one could be dragged in to share that fight. The

London Boardroom rose before his mind. He imagined the portentous gravity of Hemmings; his face and

voice and manner conveying the impression that he alone could save the situation; the six directors, all men

of commonsense and certainly humane, seated behind large turretshaped inkpots; the concern and irritation

in their voices, asking how it could have happened; their comments: "An awful thing!" "I suppose Pippin is

doing the best he can!" "Wire him on no account to leave the mine idle!" "Poor devils!" "A fund? Of course,

what ought we to give?" He had a strong conviction that nothing of all this would disturb the commonsense

with which they would go home and eat their mutton. A good thing too; the less it was taken to heart the

better! But Scorrier felt angry. The fight was so unfair! A fellow all nerves with not a soul to help him!

Well, it was his own lookout! He had chosen to centre it all in himself, to make himself its very soul. If he

gave way now, the ship must go down! By a thin thread, Scorrier's heroworship still held. 'Man against

nature,' he thought, 'I back the man.' The struggle in which he was so powerless to give aid, became intensely

The next day they went down again to the pithead; and Scorrier himself descended. The fumes had almost

cleared, but there were some places which would never be reached. At the end of the day all but four bodies

had been recovered. "In the day o' judgment," a miner said, "they four'll come out of here." Those unclaimed

bodies haunted Scorrier. He came on sentences of writing, where men waiting to be suffocated had written

down their feelings. In one place, the hour, the word "Sleepy," and a signature. In another, "A. F.done for."

When he came up at last Pippin was still waiting, pocketbook in hand; they again departed at a furious pace.

Two days later Scorrier, visiting the shaft, found its neighbourhood desertednot a living thing of any sort

was there except one Chinaman poking his stick into the rubbish. Pippin was away down the coast engaging

an engineer; and on his return, Scorrier had not the heart to tell him of the desertion. He was spared the effort,

for Pippin said: "Don't be afraidyou've got bad news? The men have gone on strike."

Breathing quickly, he added: "As if I didn't know! 'Manage this somehow'a little hard!"

"You see I am commanded!" Pippin answered bitterly. "And they're quite right; we must keep workingour

The miners' meeting was held the following day on the outskirts of the town. Pippin had cleared the place to

make a public recreation grounda sort of feather in the company's cap; it was now to be the spot whereon

The sky to the west was crossed by a single line of cloud like a bar of beaten gold; tree shadows crept

towards the groups of men; the evening savour, that strong fragrance of the forest, sweetened the air. The

miners stood all round amongst the burnt treestumps, cowed and sullen. They looked incapable of

movement or expression. It was this dumb paralysis that frightened Scorrier. He watched Pippin speaking

from his phaeton, the butt of all those sullen, restless eyes. Would he last out? Would the wires hold? It was

like the finish of a race. He caught a baffled look on Pippin's face, as if he despaired of piercing that terrible

paralysis. The men's eyes had begun to wander. 'He's lost his hold,' thought Scorrier; 'it's all up!'

Pippin was leaning forward, his voice had risen, the words fell like a whiplash on the faces of the crowd:

"You shan't throw me over; do you think I'll give up all I've done for you? I'll make you the first power in the

colony! Are you turning tail at the first shot? You're a set of cowards, my lads!"

Each man round Scorrier was listening with a different motion of the handsone rubbed them, one clenched

them, another moved his closed fist, as if stabbing some one in the back. A grislybearded, beetle browed,

twinklingeyed old Cornishman muttered: "A'hm not troublin' about that." It seemed almost as if Pippin's

object was to get the men to kill him; they had gathered closer, crouching for a rush. Suddenly Pippin's voice

The old miner next Scorrier called out suddenly: "Anny that's Cornishmen here to stand by the

superintendent?" A group drew together, and with murmurs and gesticulation the meeting broke up.

In the evening a deputation came to visit Pippin; and all night long their voices and the superintendent's

footsteps could be heard. In the morning, Pippin went early to the mine. Before supper the deputation came

again; and again Scorrier had to listen hour after hour to the sound of voices and footsteps till he fell asleep.

Just before dawn he was awakened by a light. Pippin stood at his bedside. "The men go down tomorrow,"

Two years later, Scorrier heard once more of Pippin. A note from Hemmings reached him asking if he could

make it convenient to attend their Board meeting the following Thursday. He arrived rather before the

appointed time. The secretary received him, and, in answer to inquiry, said: "Thank you, we are doing

The secretary frowned. "Ah, Pippin! We asked you to come on his account. Pippin is giving us a lot of

trouble. We have not had a single line from him for just two years!" He spoke with such a sense of personal

grievance that Scorrier felt quite sorry for him. "Not a single line," said Hemmings, "since that

explosionyou were there at the time, I remember! It makes it very awkward; I call it personal to me."

"We gettelegrams. He writes to no one, not even to his family. And why? Just tell me why? We hear of

him; he's a great nob out there. Nothing's done in the colony without his finger being in the pie. He turned out

the last Government because they wouldn't grant us an extension for our railwayshows he can't be a fool.

It turned out that the question on which Scorrier's opinion was desired was, whether Hemmings should be

sent out to see what was the matter with the superintendent. During the discussion which. ensued, he was an

unwilling listener to strictures on Pippin's silence. "The explosion," he muttered at last, "a very trying time!"

Mr. Booker pounced on him. "A very trying time! So it wasto all of us. But what excuse is thatnow, Mr.

Scorrier, gazing round that neat Boardroom, nodded. A deaf director, who had not spoken for some months,

said with sudden fierceness: "It's disgraceful!" He was obviously letting off the fume of longunuttered

disapprovals. One perfectly neat, benevolent old fellow, however, who had kept his hat on, and had a single

vice that of coming to the Boardroom with a brown paper parcel tied up with stringmurmured: "We

must make all allowances," and started an anecdote about his youth. He was gently called to order by his

secretary. Scorrier was asked for his opinion. He looked at Hemmings. "My importance is concerned," was

written all over the secretary's face. Moved by an impulse of loyalty to Pippin, Scorrier answered, as if it

were all settled: " Well, let me know when you are starting, HemmingsI should like the trip myself."

As he was going out, the chairman, old Jolyon Forsyte, with a grave, twinkling look at Hemmings, took him

aside. "Glad to hear you say that about going too, Mr. Scorrier; we must be carefulPippin's such a good

Scorrier did in fact go out with Hemmings. The secretary was sea sick, and his prostration, dignified but

noisy, remained a memory for ever; it was sonorous and finethe prostration of superiority; and the way in

which he spoke of it, taking casual acquaintances into the caves of his experience, was truly interesting.

Pippin came down to the capital to escort them, provided for their comforts as if they had been royalty, and

He was a little stouter, brighter of colour, greyer of beard, more nervous perhaps in voice and breathing. His

manner to Hemmings was full of flattering courtesy; but his sly, ironical glances played on the secretary's

armour like a fountain on a hippopotamus. To Scorrier, however, he could not show enough affection:

The first evening, when Hemmings had gone to his room, he jumped up like a boy out of school. "So I'm

going to get a wigging," he said; "I suppose I deserve it; but if you knewif you only knew...! Out here

they've nicknamed me 'the King'they say I rule the colony. It's myself that I can't rule"; and with a sudden

burst of passion such as Scorrier had never seen in him: "Why did they send this man here? What can he

know about the things that I've been through?" In a moment he calmed down again. "There! this is very

stupid; worrying you like this!" and with a long, kind look into Scorrier's face, he hustled him off to bed.

Pippin did not break out again, though fire seemed to smoulder behind the bars of his courteous irony.

Intuition of danger had evidently smitten Hemmings, for he made no allusion to the object of his visit. There

were moments when Scorrier's commonsense sided with Hemmings these were moments when the

'After all,' he told himself, 'it's a little thing to askone letter a month. I never heard of such a case.' It was

wonderful indeed how they stood it! It showed how much they valued Pippin! What was the matter with him?

What was the nature of his trouble? One glimpse Scorrier had when even Hemmings, as he phrased it,

received "quite a turn." It was during a drive back from the most outlying of the company's trial mines, eight

miles through the forest. The track led through a belt of trees blackened by a forest fire. Pippin was driving.

The secretary seated beside him wore an expression of faint alarm, such as Pippin's driving was warranted to

evoke from almost any face. The sky had darkened strangely, but pale streaks of light, coming from one knew

not where, filtered through the trees. No breath was stirring; the wheels and horses' hoofs made no sound on

the deep fern mould. All around, the burnt treetrunks, leafless and jagged, rose like withered giants, the

passages between them were black, the sky black, and black the silence. No one spoke, and literally the only

sound was Pippin's breathing. What was it that was so terrifying? Scorrier had a feeling of entombment; that

nobody could help him; the feeling of being face to face with Nature; a sensation as if all the comfort and

security of words and rules had dropped away from him. Andnothing happened. They reached home and

During dinner he had again that old remembrance of a little man chopping at a castle with his sword. It came

at a moment when Pippin had raised his hand with the carvingknife grasped in it to answer some remark of

Hemmings' about the future of the company. The optimism in his uplifted chin, the strenuous energy in his

whispering voice, gave Scorrier a more vivid glimpse of Pippin's nature than he had perhaps ever had before.

This new country, where nothing but himself could help a manthat was the castle! No wonder Pippin was

impatient of control, no wonder he was out of hand, no wonder he was silentchopping away at that! And

suddenly he thought: 'Yes, and all the time one knows, Nature must beat him in the end!'

That very evening Hemmings delivered himself of his reproof. He had sat unusually silent; Scorrier, indeed,

had thought him a little drunk, so portentous was his gravity; suddenly, however he rose. It was hard on a

man, he said, in his position, with a Board (he spoke as of a family of small children), to be kept so short of

information. He was actually compelled to use his imagination to answer the shareholders' questions. This

was painful and humiliating; he had never heard of any secretary having to use his imagination! He went

furtherit was insulting! He had grown grey in the service of the company. Mr. Scorrier would bear him out

when he said he had a position to maintainhis name in the City was a high one; and, by George! he was

going to keep it a high one; he would allow nobody to drag it in the dustthat ought clearly to be

understood. His directors felt they were being treated like children; however that might be, it was absurd to

suppose that he (Hemmings) could be treated like a child...! The secretary paused; his eyes seemed to bully

"If there were no London office," murmured Pippin, "the shareholders would get the same dividends."

"What help did I get from London when I first came here? What help have I ever had?"

Hemmings swayed, recovered, and with a forced smile replied that, if this were true, he had been standing on

his head for years; he did not believe the attitude possible for such a length of time; personally he would have

thought that he too had had a little something to say to the company's position, but no matter...! His irony was

crushing.... It was possible that Mr. Pippin hoped to reverse the existing laws of the universe with regard to

limited companies; he would merely say that he must not begin with a company of which he (Hemmings)

happened to be secretary. Mr. Scorrier had hinted at excuses; for his part, with the best intentions in the

world, he had great difficulty in seeing them. He would go further he did not see them! The explosion...!

Pippin shrank so visibly that Hemmings seemed troubled by a suspicion that he had gone too far.

"No one can say," Hemmings resumed soothingly, "that we have not dealt liberally." Pippin made a motion of

the head. "We think we have a good superintendent; I go further, an excellent superintendent. What I say is:

Let's be pleasant! I am not making an unreasonable request!" He ended on a fitting note of jocularity; and, as

In the course of the next day Pippin said to Scorrier: "It seems I have been very wicked. I must try to do

better"; and with a touch of bitter humour, "They are kind enough to think me a good superintendent, you

Scorrier broke in: "No man could have done so much for them;" and, carried away by an impulse to put

things absolutely straight, went on "But, after all, a letter now and thenwhat does it amount to?"

Pippin besieged him with a subtle glance. "You too?" he said "I must indeed have been a wicked man!"

Scorrier felt as if he had been guilty of brutality; sorry for Pippin, angry with himself; angry with Pippin,

sorry for himself. He earnestly desired to see the back of Hemmings. The secretary gratified the wish a few

days later, departing by steamer with ponderous expressions of regard and the assurance of his goodwill.

Pippin gave vent to no outburst of relief, maintaining a courteous silence, making only one allusion to his late

A month passed, and Scorrier stillremained Pippin's guest. As each mailday approached he experienced a

queer suppressed excitement. On one of these occasions Pippin had withdrawn to his room; and when

Scorrier went to fetch him to dinner he found him with his head leaning on his hands, amid a perfect fitter of

"I can't do it," he said, "I feel such a hypocrite; I can't put myself into leadingstrings again. Why should I

ask these people, when I've settled everything already? If it were a vital matter they wouldn't want to

Scorrier said nothing, but thought privately 'This is a mad business!' What was a letter? Why make a fuss

about a letter? The approach of mailday seemed like a nightmare to the superintendent; he became

feverishly nervous like a man under a spell; and, when the mail had gone, behaved like a respited criminal.

And this had been going on two years! Ever since that explosion. Why, it was monomania!

One day, a month after Hemmings' departure, Pippin rose early from dinner; his face was flushed, he had

been drinking wine. "I won't be beaten this time," he said, as he passed Scorrier. The latter could hear him

writing in the next room, and looked in presently to say that he was going for a walk. Pippin gave him a

It was a cool, still evening: innumerable stars swarmed in clusters over the forests, forming bright

hieroglyphics in the middle heavens, showering over the dark harbour into the sea. Scorrier walked slowly. A

weight seemed lifted from his mind, so entangled had he become in that uncanny silence. At last Pippin had

broken through the spell. To get that, letter sent would be the laying of a phantom, the rehabilitation of

commonsense. Now that this silence was in the throes of being broken, he felt curiously tender towards

Pippin, without the heroworship of old days, but with a queer protective feeling. After all, he was different

from other men. In spite of his feverish, tenacious energy, in spite of his ironic humour, there was something

of the woman in him! And as for this silence, this horror of controlall geniuses had "bees in their bonnets,"

He looked back at the town. Brilliantly lighted it had a thriving airdifficult to believe of the place he

remembered ten years back; the sounds of drinking, gambling, laughter, and dancing floated to his ears.

With this queer elation on him he walked slowly back along the street, forgetting that he was simply an oldish

mining expert, with a look of shabbiness, such as clings to men who are always travelling, as if their "nap"

were for ever being rubbed off. And he thought of Pippin, creator of this glory.

He had passed the boundaries of the town, and had entered the forest. A feeling of discouragement instantly

beset him. The scents and silence, after the festive cries and odours of the town, were undefinably oppressive.

Notwithstanding, he walked a long time, saying to himself that he would give the letter every chance. At last,

Pippin had finished. His forehead rested on the table, his arms hung at his sides; he was stonedead! His face

The letter, closely, beautifully written, lay before him. It was a fine document, clear, masterly, detailed,

nothing slurred, nothing concealed, nothing omitted; a complete review of the company's position; it ended

Scorrier took possession of it. He dimly understood that with those last words a wire had snapped. The

borderline had been overpassed; the point reached where that sense of proportion, which alone makes life

possible, is lost. He was certain that at the moment of his death Pippin could have discussed bimetallism, or

any intellectual problem, except the one problem of his own heart; that, for some mysterious reason, had been

too much for him. His death had been the work of a moment of supreme revolta single instant of madness

on a single subject! He found on the blottingpaper, scrawled across the impress of the signature, "Can't

stand it!" The completion of that letter had been to him a struggle ungraspable by Scorrier. Slavery? Defeat?

A violation of Nature? The death of justice? It were better not to think of it! Pippin could have toldbut he

would never speak again. Nature, at whom, unaided, he had dealt so many blows, had taken her revenge...!

In the night Scorrier stole down, and, with an ashamed face, cut off a lock of the fine grey hair. 'His daughter

He waited till Pippin was buried, then, with the letter in his pocket, started for England.

He arrived at Liverpool on a Thursday morning, and travelling to town, drove straight to the office of the

company. The Board were sitting. Pippin's successor was already being interviewed. He passed out as

Scorrier came in, a middleaged man with a large, red beard, and a foxy, compromising face. He also was a

As an unsentimental man, who had a proper horror of emotion, whose living depended on his good sense, to

look back on that interview with the Board was painful. It had excited in him a rage of which he was now

heartily ashamed. Old Jolyon Forsyte, the chairman, was not there for once, guessing perhaps that the Board's

view of this death would be too small for him; and little Mr. Booker sat in his place. Every one had risen,

shaken hands with Scorrier, and expressed themselves indebted for his coming. Scorrier placed Pippin's letter

on the table, and gravely the secretary read out to his Board the last words of their superintendent. When he

had finished, a director said, "That's not the letter of a madman!" Another answered: "Mad as a hatter;

nobody but a madman would have thrown up such a post." Scorrier suddenly withdrew. He heard Hemmings

The Naples "express" rolled round the outskirts of the town. Vesuvius shone in the sun, uncrowned by

smoke. But even as Scorrier looked, a white puff went soaring up. It was the footnote to his memories.