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diff --git a/29902-8.txt b/29902-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..58848dd --- /dev/null +++ b/29902-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,22074 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Changing Winds, by St. John G. Ervine + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Changing Winds + A Novel + + +Author: St. John G. Ervine + + + +Release Date: September 4, 2009 [eBook #29902] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHANGING WINDS*** + + +E-text prepared by David Garcia and the Project Gutenberg Online +Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) + + + +CHANGING WINDS + + + * * * * * + + +_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ + + _Novels._ + MRS. MARTIN'S MAN. + ALICE AND A FAMILY. + + _Short Stories._ + EIGHT O'CLOCK AND OTHER STUDIES. + + _Plays._ + FOUR IRISH PLAYS + MIXED MARRIAGE. + THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER. + THE CRITICS. + THE ORANGEMAN. + JANE CLEGG. + JOHN FERGUSON. + + _Political Study._ + SIR EDWARD CARSON AND THE ULSTER MOVEMENT. + + * * * * * + + +CHANGING WINDS + +A Novel + +by + +ST. JOHN G. ERVINE + + + + + + + +New York +The Macmillan Company +1917 + +All rights reserved + +Copyright, 1917, +by St. John G. Ervine. + +Set up and electrotyped. Published February, 1917. Reprinted +March, twice, May, twice, July, August, September, November, 1917. + + + + + TO + + THE MEMORY OF RUPERT BROOKE + + The translations from the Gaelic on pages 77 and 78 were made by the + late P. H. Pearse, who was executed in Dublin for his part in the Easter + Rebellion. The translations appeared in _New Ireland_, and I am indebted + to the Editor of that review for permission to reprint them here. + + + + + THE FIRST BOOK + + OF + + CHANGING WINDS + + There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter, And lit by the + rich skies, all day. And after, Frost, with a gesture, stays the winds + that dance And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white, Unbroken glory, + a gathered radiance, A width, a shining peace, under the night. + + RUPERT BROOKE. + + + + +CHANGING WINDS + + + + +THE FIRST CHAPTER + + +1 + +It would be absurd to say of Mr. Quinn that he was an ill-tempered man, +but it would also be absurd to say that he was of a mild disposition. +William Henry Matier, a talker by profession and a gardener in his +leisure moments, summarised Mr. Quinn's character thus: "He'd ate the +head off you, thon lad would, an' beg your pardon the minute after!" +That, on the whole, was a just and adequate description of Mr. Quinn, +and certainly no one had better qualifications for forming an estimate +of his employer's character than William Henry Matier; for he had spent +many years of his life in Mr. Quinn's service and had, on an average, +been discharged from it about ten times per annum. + +Mr. Quinn, the younger son of a poor landowner in the north of Ireland, +had practised at the Bar without success. His failure to maintain +himself at the law was not due to ignorance of the statutes of the land +or to any inability on his part to distort their meaning: it was due +solely to the fact that he was a Unionist and a gentleman. His Unionism, +in a land where politics take the place of religion, prevented him from +receiving briefs from Nationalists, and his gentlemanliness made it +impossible for him to accept briefs from the Unionists; for if an Irish +lawyer be a Unionist, he must play the lickspittle and tomtoady to the +lords and ladies of the Ascendency and be ready at all times and on all +occasions to deride Ireland and befoul his countrymen in the presence of +the English people. + +"I'd rather eat dirt," Mr. Quinn used to say, "than earn my livin' that +way!" + +He contrived, however, to win prosperity by his marriage to Miss +Catherine Clotworthy, the only daughter of a Belfast mill-owner: a lady +of watery spirit who irked her husband terribly because she affected an +English manner and an English accent. He was very proud of his Irish +blood and he took great pride in using Ulster turns of speech. Mrs. +Quinn, whose education had been "finished" at Brighton, frequently urged +him to abandon his "broad" way of talking, but the principal effect she +had on him was to intensify the broadness of his accent. + +"I do wish you wouldn't say _Aye_," she would plead, "when you mean +_Yes_!" + +And then he would roar at her. "What! Bleat like a damned Englishman! +Where's your wit, woman?" + +Soon after the birth of her son, she died, and her concern, therefore, +with this story is slight. It is sufficient to say of her that she +inherited a substantial fortune from her father and that she passed it +on, almost unimpaired, to her husband, thus enabling him to live in +comfortable disregard of the law as a means of livelihood. He had a +small estate in County Antrim, which included part of the village of +Ballymartin, and there he passed his days in agricultural pursuits. + + +2 + +Mr. Quinn, as has been stated, was a Unionist, and, in spite of his +Catholic name, a Protestant; but he had a poor opinion of his Unionist +neighbours who, so he said, were far more loyal to England than England +quite liked. He hated the English accent ... "finicky bleatin'," he +called it ... and declared, though he really knew better, that all +Englishmen spoke with a Cockney intonation. "A lot of h-droppers," he +called them, adding, "God gave them a decent language, but they haven't +the gumption to talk it!" The Oxford voice, in his opinion, was educated +Cockney, uglier, if possible, than the uneducated brand. + +An Englishman, hearing Mr. Quinn talk in this fashion, might pardonably +have imagined that he was listening to a fanatical Nationalist, a +dynamiting Fenian, but if, being a Liberal, he had ventured to advocate +Home Rule for Ireland in Mr. Quinn's presence, he would speedily have +found that he was in error. "Damn the fear!" Mr. Quinn would say when +people charged him with being a Home Ruler. The motive of his Unionism, +however, was neither loyalty to England nor terror of Rome: it was +wholly and unashamedly a matter of commerce. "The English bled us for +centuries," he would say, "an' it's only fair we should bleed them. +We've got our teeth in their skins, an' they're shellin' out their money +gran'! That's what the Union's for--to make them keep on shellin' out +their money. An' instead of tellin' the people to bite deeper an' get +more money out of them, the fools o' Nationalists is tellin' them to +take their teeth out! Never," he would exclaim passionately, "never, +while there's a shillin' in an Englishman's pocket!" + +Mr. Quinn, of course, treated every Englishman he met with courtesy, for +he was an Irish gentleman, and he had sometimes been heard to speak +affectionately of some person of English birth. The chief result of this +civility, conjoined with the ferocity of his political statements, was +that his English friends invariably spoke of him as "a typical +Irishman." They looked upon him as so much comic relief to the more +serious things of their own lives, and seemed constantly to expect him +to perform some amusing antic, some innately Celtic act of comic folly. +At such times, Mr. Quinn felt as if he could annihilate an Englishman. + +"Ah, well," he would say, restraining himself, "we all know what the +English are like, God help them!" + +It was because of his strong feeling for Ireland and Irish things that +he decided to have his son, Henry, educated in Ireland. "Anyway," he +said to the lad, "you'll have an Irish tongue, whatever else you have!" +He sent the boy to a school in the County Armagh and left him there +until he discovered that he was not being educated at all. He had +questioned Henry on the history and geography of Ireland one day, and +had found to his horror that while Henry could tell him exactly where +Popocatepetl was to be found, and knew that Mount Everest was 29,002 +feet high, and could name the kings of England and the dates of their +accession as easily as he could recite the Lord's Prayer, he had no +knowledge of the whereabouts or character of Lurigedan, a hill in the +County Antrim, and could tell him nothing of the Red Earls and the +beautiful queens of Ireland. He knew something that was true, and much +that was not, of Queen Elizabeth and King Alfred, but nothing, true or +false, of Deirdre and Red Hugh O'Neill. + +"What the hell's the good of knowin' about Popocatepetl," Mr. Quinn +shouted at him, "when you don't know the name of a hill on your own +doorstep!" + +Lurigedan was hardly "on his own doorstep," and Mr. Quinn himself only +knew of it because he had once, very breathlessly, climbed to its +summit, but an Irish hill was of more consequence to him than the +highest mountain in the world; and so he descended upon the master of +the school, a dreepy individual with a tendency to lament the errors of +Rome, and damned him from tip to toe so effectually that the alarmed +pedagogue gladly consented to the immediate termination of Henry's +career at his establishment. Thereafter, Henry was educated in England, +for Mr. Quinn did not propose to sacrifice efficiency to patriotism. + +"An' if you come back talkin' like a damned Cockney," he said to his son +as he bade good-bye to him, "I'll cut the legs off you!" + +When Henry came home in the holidays, Mr. Quinn would spend hours in +testing his tongue. + +"Sound your _r_s," he would say repeatedly, because he regarded one's +ability to say the letter _r_ as a test of a man's control of the +English language. "If you were to listen to an Englishman talkin' on the +telephone, you'd hear him yelpin' _'Ah yoh thah?'_ just like a big buck +nigger, 'til you'd be sick o' listenin' to him! Say, '_Are you there?_', +Henry son!" + +And Henry would say _"Are you there_, father?" very gravely. + +"That's right," the old man would exclaim, listening with delight to the +rolling _r_s. "Always sound your _r_s whatever you do. I'll not own you +if you come home sayin,'_Ah yoh thah?_' when you mean '_Are you there?_' +Do you mind me, now?" + +"Yes, father." + +"Well, be heedin' me, then! Now, how are you on the _h_s. Are you as +steady on them as you were when you were home before?" + +Then Henry would protest. "But, father," he would say, "they don't all +drop their _h_s. It's only the common ones that drop them!... + +"They're all common, Henry ... the whole lot, common as dirt!" Mr. Quinn +retorted once to that, and then began to tell his son how the English +people had lost the habits and instincts of gentlemen in the eighteenth +century ... "where Ireland still is, my son!" ... and had become +money-grubbers. "The English," he said, lying back in his chair and +delivering his sentences as if he were a monarch pronouncing decrees, +"ceased to be gentlemen on the day that Hargreaves invented the +spinnin'-jenny, and landlords gave way to mill-owners." He stopped for a +second or two and then continued as if an idea had only just come into +his head. "An' it was proper punishment for Hargreaves," he said, "that +the English let him die in the workhouse. Proper punishment. What the +hell did he want to invent the thing for?..." + +Henry looked up, startled by the sudden anger that swept over his +father, replacing the oracular banter with which he had begun his +discourse on the decadence of manners in England. + +"But, father," he said, "you aren't against machinery, are you?" + +"Yes, I am," Mr. Quinn replied, banging the arm of his chair with his +fist. "I'd smash every machine in the world, if I were in authority." + +"That's absurd, father. I mean, what would become of progress?" + +Mr. Quinn leaped out of his chair and strode up and down the room. +"Progress! Progress!" he exclaimed. "D'ye think machines are progress? +D'ye think a factory is progress? Some of you young chaps think you're +makin' progress when you're only makin' changes. I tell you, Henry, the +only thing that is capable of progression is the human soul, and +machines can't develop _that_!" He came back to his seat as he said this +and sat down, but he did not lie back as he had done before. He sat +forward, gazing intently at his son, and spoke with a curious passion +such as Henry had never heard him use before. "Look here, Henry!" he +said, "there was a girl in the village once called Lizzie McCamley ... a +fine bit of a girl, too, big and strong, an' full of fun, an' she got +tired of the village. Her father was a labourer, an' all she could see +in front of her was the life of a labourer's wife. Well, it isn't much +of a life, that, an' Lizzie's mother had a poor life even for a +labourer's wife because McCamley boozed. I don't blame Lizzie for +wantin' somethin' better than that. I'd have despised her if she hadn't +wanted somethin' better. But what did she do? She had an uncle in +Belfast workin' in your grandfather's mill, an' she came to me an' she +asked me to use my influence with your grandfather to get her a job in +the mill. An' I did. An' by God, I'm sorry for it! I'll rue it 'til my +dyin' day, I can tell you!" + +"But why, father!" + +"Your grandfather gave her a job in the weavin' room of his mill. Do you +know what that's like, Henry?" Henry shook his head. He had never been +inside a linen-mill. "The linen has to be woven in a moist atmosphere, +or else it'd become brittle an' so it wouldn't be fine," Mr. Quinn went +on; "an' the atmosphere is kept moist by lettin' steam escape from pipes +into the room where the linen is bein' woven--a damp, muggy, steamy +atmosphere, Henry ... an' Lizzie McCamley left this village ... left +work in the fields there to go up to Belfast an' work in that for ten +shillin's a week! An' that's what people calls progress! I wish you +could see her now--half rotten with disease, her that was the healthiest +girl in the place before she went away. She's always sick, that girl, +an' she can't eat anythin' unless her appetite is stimulated with stuff +like pickles. She's anĉmic an' debilitated, an' the last time I saw her, +she'd got English cholera.... She married a fellow that was as sick as +herself, an' she had a child that wasn't fit to be born ... it died, +thank God!... an' then she went back to her work an' became sicker. An' +she'll go on like that 'til she dies, a rotten, worn-out woman, the +mother of rotten children when she ought to have had fine healthy brats, +an' could have had them too, if it hadn't been for this damned progress +we're all makin'!" + +Henry did not reply to his father. He did not know what to reply. His +mind was still in the pliable state, and he found that he was being +infected by his father's passion. But he had been taught at Rumpell's to +believe in Invention, in Progress by the Development of Machinery, and +so his mind reeled a little under this sudden onslaught on his beliefs. + +"Well," said Mr. Quinn. "Is that your notion of progress, Henry! Makin' +fine linen out of healthy girls?" + +"No, father, of course not. Only!..." + +Mr. Quinn stood up, and caught hold of his son's shoulder. "Come over to +the window, Henry!" he said, and they walked across the room together. +"Look out there," he said, pointing towards the fields that stretched to +the foot of the hills. "That's fine, isn't it!" he exclaimed. + +"It's very beautiful, father," Henry replied, looking across the fields +of corn and clover and the pastures where the silken-sided cattle +browsed and flocks of sheep cropped the short grass. + +"It's _land_, Henry!" said Mr. Quinn, proudly. "You can do without +machines in the long run, but you can't do without _that_!" + + +3 + +"An' what do you think a mill-owner'd make of it, Henry!" Mr. Quinn said +as they stood there gazing on the richness of the earth. Near at hand, +they could hear the sound of a lawn-mower, leisurely worked by William +Henry Matier, and while they waited for him to come into view, a great +fat thrush flew down from a tree and seized a snail and beat it against +a stone until its shell was broken.... + +"I suppose he'd spoil it, father!" Henry answered. + +"Spoil it!" Mr. Quinn exclaimed. "Damn it, Henry, he'd desecrate it! +He'd tear up my cornfields and meadows and put factories and mills in +their place! That's what he'd do!" He turned sideways and leant against +the lintel of the window so that he was looking at his son. "There was a +fellow came to see me once," he said, "from London. A speculatin' chap, +an' he wanted me to put capital into a scheme he had on. Do you know +what sort of a scheme it was, Henry?" + +"No, father!" + +"He wanted to develop the mineral resources of the County Wicklow, an' +he wanted me to lend him money to do it. He said that some Germans had +surveyed the whole district, an' there was an immense fortune just +waitin' to be torn out of the earth.... I could hardly keep my feet off +his backside! 'Do you want to turn Glendalough into a place like +Wigan?' I said to him. 'It's all in the interests of progress,' says +he.... No, I didn't give him any of my money. I was as civil to him as I +could be, an' he never knew how near he was to his death that day...." + +Mr. Quinn's anger evaporated, and he began to laugh to himself as he +thought of the difficulty he had had in restraining his rage against the +speculator and how frightened that person would have been had he known +how angry he had made him. + +"He was a little smooth chap," he said, "with smooth hair an' smooth +clothes and a smooth voice. You could hardly tell it was hair, it was +that smooth. You'd nearly think somebody had painted it on his skull. He +couldn't make me out when I said I'd rather starve than let a halfpenny +of my money be used to make a mess of Glendalough, an' he talked about +the necessity of havin' a broad outlook on the world. I suppose he went +away an' told everybody that I was a reactionary an' a bad landlord. Oh, +I can hear him spoutin' away about me ... he got into parliament soon +after that, an' used to denounce landlords an' blether away about +progress. An' I daresay everybody that listens to him thinks I'm a +stupid fellow, standin' in the way of everything. I'm a landlord, an' +so, of course, I'm obsolete and tyrannical an' thick-headed, an' all +that, but I wouldn't treat one of my labourers the way your grandfather +treated his for the wide world. Mind you, he was a religious man ... I +don't mean that he pretended to be religious ... he really was +religious, after a fashion ... wouldn't have missed goin' to church or +sayin' his prayers night _an'_ mornin' for a mint of money ... an' yet +there didn't seem to him to be anything wrong in lettin' men an' women +make money for him in that ... that disgustin' way. I can't understand +that. I'm damned if I can!" + +Something stirred uneasily in Henry's mind. He became acutely conscious +of the principal source of his father's income, and he remembered +things that had been said to him by Gilbert Farlow at Rumpell's. Gilbert +Farlow was his chief friend at Rumpell's, the English school to which he +had been sent after his experience at Armagh, and Gilbert called himself +an hereditary socialist because his father had been a socialist before +him. ("He was one of the first members of the Fabian Society," Gilbert +used to say proudly.) Gilbert had strong, almost violent, views on +Personal Responsibility for General Wrongs. He always referred to rich +people as "oligarchs," or "the rotters who live on rent and interest" +and declared that it was impossible for them to escape from the +responsibility for the social chaos by asserting that they, +individually, had kind hearts and had never been known to underpay or +overwork any one. Remembering Gilbert's views, Henry could not help +thinking that it was all very well for his father to denounce the mill +in that fashion, but after all he was living on the money that was made +in it.... + +"But, father," he said, hesitatingly, "haven't we got grandfather's +money now ... and the mill!..." + +"No, not the mill, Henry. Your grandfather turned that into a limited +company, an' your mother sold her shares in it. I told her to sell +them!" + +Henry's conscience still pricked him. It seemed to him that selling the +shares was very like running away from the responsibility. + +"But all the same," he said, "we've got money that was made out of the +mill by grandfather...." + +"So we have, Henry," Mr. Quinn replied good-temperedly, "an' we're +makin' a better use of it than he did. Some one's got to use it, an' I'm +doin' the best I can with it. You've only got to look at my land to see +how well I've used the money. It's better land than it was when I got +it, isn't it?" Henry nodded his head. Even he knew that much. "I've +enriched it an' drained it an' improved it in ways that'll benefit them +that come after me ... not me, but you an' your children, Henry ... an' +that's a good use to make of it. I've planted trees that I'll never +reap a ha'penny from, an' I've spent money on experiments that did me no +good but helped to increase knowledge about land. Look at the labourers' +cottages I've built, an' the plots of land I've given them. Aren't they +good! Didn't I put up the best part of the money to build the new school +because the old one was lettin' in the wind an' rain?" + +Henry's knowledge of sociology was not sufficient to enable him to cope +with these arguments ... there was no Gilbert Farlow at his elbow to +prompt him ... and so he collapsed. + +"I suppose you're right, father," he said. + +"_Suppose_ I'm right," Mr. Quinn replied. "_Of course_ I'm right!" + +"I know well," he continued after he had fumed for a few moments, +"there's people ... socialists an' radicals an' people like that ... +makes out that landlords are the curse of the world. They think we're +nothin' in comparison with mill-owners an' that sort, but I tell you, +Henry, whatever we are an' whatever we were, we're better than the +people that have taken our place. We didn't tear up the earth an' cover +it with slag-heaps or turn good rivers into stinkin' sewers. We didn't +pollute the rivers with filth an' poison the fish!" He turned suddenly +to Henry and said in a quieter tone, "You've never seen Wigan, have you, +Henry?" + +"No, father." + +"Well, you'd think by the look of it, it was made on the seventh day ... +when God rested. Landlords didn't do that, Henry, or anything as bad as +that. It was mill-owners that did it. Oh, I know well enough that +landlords were not all they ought to have been, but I'm certain of this, +that labourers on the land were healthier under landlords than they are +under mill-owners, and even if we weren't as good to the labourers as we +might have been, at least we had respect for God's world, an' I never +met a mill-owner yet that had respect for anything but a bankbook. I've +been in Lancashire an' I've listened to these mill-owners ... I've +listened to them talkin', an' I've listened to them eatin' an' drinkin' +... an' they talked 'brass' an' they thought 'brass,' an' I'm damned if +they didn't drink 'brass.' That's characteristic of them. They call +money 'brass.' Brass! Do you think they care for the fine look of things +or an old house or a picture or books or anything that's decent? No, +Henry ... all they care for is 'brass,' an' that's what's the matter +with the English ... they think too much about money ... easy money ... +an' they think so much about gettin' it that none of them have any time +to think of how they'll spend it when they do get it. An' they just fool +it away! Eat it away, drink it away! An' then they have to go to Buxton +an' Matlock an' Harrogate to sweat the muck out of their blood!" + +Henry reminded his father of the bloods and bucks and macaronis of the +eighteenth century ... the last of the English gentlemen. + +"After all, father, they weren't so very much better than the lot you're +denouncing!" + +"Yes, they were. They had the tradition of gentlemen behind them. They +were drunkards and gamblers and women-hunters an' Lord knows what not, +but behind it all, Henry, they had the tradition of gentlemen, an' that +saved them from things that a mill-owner does as a matter of course. An' +anyway, their theory was right. They thought more of spendin' money than +of makin' it, an' that was right. It isn't makin' money that matters ... +any fool can do that ... it's spendin' money that matters. You're less +likely to make a mess of the world when you're spendin', than when +you're makin', money, an' the English'll find that out yet. God'll not +forget in a hurry the way they tore up their good land an' made dirty, +stinkin' towns out of it, an' by the Holy O, He'll make them suffer for +it. If I was an Englishman, I wouldn't want any one to see places like +Wigan an' the towns where they dig coal an' make pottery ... I'd ... I'd +be ashamed to look God in the face when I had mind of them...." + + +4 + +Late that night, long after Henry had gone to bed, Mr. Quinn came to his +room and wakened him. + +"What is it, father!" Henry said, starting up in alarm. + +"It's all right, son," Mr. Quinn replied. "I'm sorry I startled you. +I've been thinkin' over what I said to you this afternoon ... about +machinery. You're not to take me too seriously." + +Henry, his eyes still full of sleep, blinked uncomprehendingly at his +father. + +"I mean, son," Mr. Quinn went on, "that it'd be silly to break up every +machine in the world. Of course, it would! You must have thought I was +daft talkin' like that. What I mean is, I'd smash up all the machines +that make a mess of men an' women. That's all. I'm sorry I disturbed +you, Henry, but I couldn't bear to think of you lyin' here mebbe +thinkin' I was talkin' out of the back of my neck. I'm not very clever, +son ... I've a moidhered sort of a mind ... an' I say things sometimes +that aren't what I mean at all. You must be tired out, Henry. Good-night +to you!" + +"Good-night, father!" + +Mr. Quinn walked towards the door of the room, shading the light of the +candle from the draught, but before he had reached it, Henry called to +him. + +"Father," he said. + +"Yes, Henry," Mr. Quinn replied, turning to look at his son. + +"You're a Socialist!" + +"No, I'm not. I'm a Conservative," said Mr. Quinn, and then he went out +of the room, closing the door quietly behind him. + + +5 + +Many things troubled Mr. Quinn, but the thing that troubled him most was +his son's nervousness. Henry, when he was a child, would cry with fright +during a thunderstorm, and he never in after life quite lost the sense +of apprehension when the clouds blackened. He loved horses, but he could +not sit on a horse's back without being haunted by the fear that the +animal would run away or that he would be thrown from his seat. He could +swim fairly well, but he was afraid to dive, and he never swam far out +of his depth without a sensation of alarm that he would not be able to +return in safety. + +"Your mother was like that," Mr. Quinn said to him once. "She never was +in a theatre in her life, 'til I married her. Her father was too +religious to let her go to such a place, an' I had the great job to +persuade her to go with me. I took her to see Henry Irving in Belfast +once, an' all the time she kept whisperin' to me, 'Suppose I was to die +now, where'd I wake up?' That's a fact, Henry! Your mother was terribly +frightened of hell. An' even when she got over that, she was always +wonderin' if it was safe to go to a theatre. She'd imagine the place was +sure to go on fire, an' then she'd be burned alive or get crushed to +death or somethin' like that. I nearly felt scared myself, the way she +went on! I wish you weren't so nervous, Henry!" + +They were at Cushendall when Mr. Quinn said this. They had ridden over +on bicycles intent on a day's picnic by the sea, and soon after they had +arrived, Mr. Quinn itched to be in the water. They had stripped on the +beach, and clambered over the rocks to a place where a deep, broad pool +was separated from the Irish Sea by a thick wedge of rock, covered by +long, yellow sea-weed. There was a swell on the sea, and so Mr. Quinn +decided to swim in the pool. "This is a good place for a dive," he said, +standing on the edge of the flat rock and looking down into the deep +pool, and then he put his hands above his head and, bending forward, +dived down into the water so finely that there was hardly any splash. He +came up, puffing and blowing, shaking the water from his eyes and hair, +and swam up and down the pool, now on his back, now on his side, and +then suddenly with a shout he would curl himself up and dive and swim +beneath the water, and again come up, red and shiny and puffing and +blowing and shouting, "Aw, that's grand! Aw, that's grand!" He could +stand on his hands in the water and turn somersaults and find pennies on +the sandy bottom. He loved all sport, but the sport that he loved best +was swimming. He liked to sit on a rock and let great waves come and hit +him hearty thumps in the back. He liked to bury his face in the water. +He liked the feel of the water on his body. He liked to stand up in the +sunshine and watch the drops of water glistening on his body. He liked +to lie on the sea-weed or the sand after his swim and let the sun dry +him. "It's great health, this!" he would say, kicking and splashing in +the sea. + +"Come on," he shouted to Henry, after he had dived. + +Henry was sitting on the sea-weed, with his arms clutched tightly round +his shins, shivering a little in the wind. + +"You'll catch your death of cold if you sit there instead of jumpin' +in," his father called to him. "Dive, man! That's a grand place!" + +Henry stood up ... and then turned away from the rock. He caught hold of +the sea-weed and slowly lowered himself into the water. + +"That wasn't much of a dive," his father said, swimming up to him. + +Henry did not answer. He swam across the pool and clambered out on the +other side and waited for his father, who followed after him. + +"I wish you weren't so nervous," Mr. Quinn said a second time, as he sat +down on the sea-weed beside his son. + +"So do I, father," Henry replied, "but I can't help it. I try to make +myself not feel afraid, but I just can't. If I could only not think +about it!..." + +"Aye, that's it, Henry. You think too much. Do you mind that bit in +Shakespeare about people that think bein' dangerous. Begod, that's true! +Thin men think, that's what Shakespeare says, an' he's right, though +I've known fat men to think, too, but anyway thin men aren't near the +swimmers that fat men are. Well, I suppose it's no use complainin'. You +can't help thinkin' if you have that kind of a mind ... only I wish it +didn't make a coward of you!" + +A twist of pain passed over the boy's face when his father said +"Coward," and instantly Mr. Quinn was sorry. + +"I didn't mean that exactly," he said very quickly, putting out his hand +and touching Henry's bare back. "I didn't mean _coward_, Henry. I know +you're not that sort at all. It's just nervousness, that's what it is!" + +He scrambled to his feet as he spoke, and stood for a moment or two, +slipping about on the wet sea-weed. He slapped his big, hairy chest with +his hands, and then he swung his arms over his head in order to send the +blood circulating more rapidly through his veins. + +"I wish I were as big and strong as you are, father!" said Henry, gazing +at his father's muscular frame. + +"You're a greedy young rascal," his father answered. "Sure, haven't you +more brains in your wee finger than I have in my whole body, an' what +more do you want! It would be a poor thing if your father hadn't got +something you haven't. Come on, now, an' I'll swim you a race to the end +of the pool an' back, an' then we must go home." + +He plunged into the water and swam about, making a great noise and +splash, and deliberately looking away from his son. He was giving him an +opportunity to slip into the water without being seen to shrink from the +dive. + +"Are you comin', Henry!" he asked, without looking back. + +"Yes, father," the boy replied, standing up and looking fearfully into +the water. He lifted his hands above his head and drew in his breath. He +moved forward, half shutting his eyes, and poised himself on the edge of +the rock, ready for the plunge. Then he put his hands down again and +lowering himself on to the sea-weed, slipped slowly into the water and +struck out. "I'm coming, father!" he said. + +"That's right, my son, that's right!" Mr. Quinn replied, looking round. + + +6 + +He did not speak of Henry's nervousness again, but it troubled him none +the less. He himself was so fearless, so careless of danger, so eager +for adventure that he could not understand his son's shrinking from +peril. + +"I used to think," he said to himself one day, "that boys took their +physique from their mothers an' their brains from their fathers, but it +doesn't seem to have worked out like that with Henry. He doesn't seem to +have got anything from me.... It's a rum business, whatever way you look +at it." + + + + +THE SECOND CHAPTER + + +1 + +Mr. Quinn's horror of the English people was neither consistent nor +rigid. When the Armagh schoolmaster was found wanting, Mr. Quinn +instantly decided to send Henry to Rumpell's, a famous English school, +and here Henry soon made friends of Ninian Graham and Roger Carey and +Gilbert Farlow. Gilbert Farlow was the friend for whom he cared most, +but his affection for Ninian Graham and Roger Carey was very strong. +Henry's soft nature was naturally affectionate, but there had been +little opportunity in his life for a display of affection. His mother +was not even a memory to him, for she had died while he was still a +baby. Old Cassie Arnott had nursed him, but Cassie, at an age when it +seemed impossible for her to feel any emotion for men, had suddenly +married and had gone off to Belfast. His memory of her speedily faded. +Cassie was succeeded by Matilda Turnbull, who drank, and was dismissed +by Mr. Quinn at the end of a fortnight; and then came Bridget Fallon.... +Bridget had the longest hold on his memory, but she, too, disappeared +and was seen no more; for Mr. Quinn came on her suddenly one day and +found her teaching "Master Henry" to say prayers to the Virgin Mary! She +had put a scapular about his neck and had taught him to make the sign of +the cross.... + +"Take that damned rag off my child's neck," Mr. Quinn had roared at her, +"an' take yourself off as soon as you can pack your box!" + +And Bridget, poor, kindly, devout, gentle Bridget, was sent weeping +away. + +Long afterwards, Henry had talked to his father about Bridget, and Mr. +Quinn had expressed regret for what he had said about the scapular. "I +had no call to say it was a damned rag," he said, "though that's all it +was. It meant a lot to her, of course, an' I suppose she was right to +try an' make a Catholic of you. But I'd hate to have a son of mine a +Catholic, Henry. It's an unmanly religion, only fit for women an' ... +an' actors! It's not religion at all ... it's funk, Henry, that's what +it is! I read 'The Garden of the Soul' one time, an' I'd be ashamed to +pray the way that book goes on, with their 'Jesus, Mercy!' 'Mother of +God, pity me!' 'Holy Saints, intercede for me!' Catholics don't pray, +Henry; they whine; and I've no use for whinin'. If I can't go to heaven +like a man, I'll go to hell like one. Anyway, if I commit a sin, I'll +not whine about it, an' if God says to me on the last day, 'Did you +commit this sin or that sin?' I'll answer Him to His face an' say, 'Yes, +God, I did, an' if You'd been a man, You'd have done the same +Yourself!'" + +So it was that, in his childhood, no woman made a lasting impression on +Henry's affectionate nature. No one, indeed, filled his affections +except his father. Henry's love for his father was unfathomable. Their +natures were so dissimilar that they never clashed. There were things +about Henry, his nervousness, his sudden accessions of fright, which +puzzled Mr. Quinn, and might, had he been a smaller man than he was, +have made him angry with the boy, contemptuous of him; but when Mr. +Quinn came across some part of Henry's nature which was incomprehensible +to him, he tried first, to understand and then, failing that, to be +tolerant. "We all have our natures," he used to say to himself, "an' +it's no use complainin' because people are different. Sure, that's what +makes them interestin' anyway!" + + +2 + +But Henry's affection for Gilbert Farlow and Ninian Graham and Roger +Carey was a new affection, a thing that came spontaneously to him. There +were other boys at Rumpell's whom he liked and others for whom he felt +neither like nor dislike, but just the ordinary tolerance of temporary +encounters and passing life; and there were a few for whom he felt a +hatred so venomous that it sometimes frightened him. There was Cobain, a +brutal, thick-jawed fellow who thumped small boys whenever they came +near him, and there was Mullally!... He could not describe his feeling +for Mullally! It was so strong that he could not sit still in the same +room with him, could not speak civilly to him. And yet Mullally was +civil enough to him, was anxious even to be friendly with him. There was +something of a flabby sort in Mullally's nature that made Henry +instinctively angry with him: his vague features, his weak, wandering +eyes, peering from behind large glasses, his tow-coloured hair that +seemed to have "washed-out," and above all, his squeaky voice that piped +on one jerky note.... + +It was Gilbert Farlow who gave Mullally his nick-name. (It was the time +of the Boer War, and the nick-name came easily enough.) "He isn't a +man," said Gilbert; "he's a regrettable incident!" + +Gilbert Farlow, though he was the youngest and the slightest of the four +boys, was the leader of them. He had the gift of vivid language. He +could cut a man with a name as sharply as if it were a knife. He +invented new oaths for the delight of Ninian Graham, who had a taste for +strong language but no genius in developing it. It was he who appointed +Roger to the office of Purse-Bearer because Roger was careful. It was he +who decided that their pocket-money, with small exceptions, should be +spent conjointly, and that no money should be spent unless three out +of four consented to the expenditure. ("Damn it, is it my money or is it +not?" said Ninian when the rule was proposed, and "Fined sixpence for +cheek!" Gilbert replied, ordering Roger to collect the sixpence which +was then divided between the three who had not murmured.) It was he who +declared that "Henry" was too long and "Quinn," too short (though Roger +said the words were exactly the same length) and insisted on calling +Henry "Quinny" (which Roger said was actually longer than either of the +displaced words. "Well, it sounds shorter," said Gilbert decisively). + +Gilbert planned their lives for them. "We'll all go to Cambridge," he +said, "and then we'll become Great!" + +"Righto!" said Ninian. + +"If any of our people propose to send us to Oxford, there's to be a row! +Sloppy asses go to Oxford ... fellows like Mullally!" Henry made a +terrible grimace at the mention of Mullally's name and Gilbert, swift to +notice the grimace, pointed the moral, "Well, Quinny, if your guv'nor +tries to send you to Oxford, don't let him. Remember Mullally, the ... +the boiled worm!" he continued, "an' say you won't go!" + +"But my father was at Oxford," said Roger quietly. + +"Your father was a parson and didn't know any better," Gilbert replied. +"And that reminds me, if one of us becomes a parson, the rest of us give +him the chuck. Is that agreed?" + +Ninian held up both his hands. "Carried unanimous!" he said. + +"I don't know!" Henry objected. "I used to think it'd be rather nice to +be a parson ... standing in the pulpit in a surplice and talking like +that to people!" + +Gilbert got up from the grass where they were sitting. "He'll have to be +scragged," he said. + +"Righto!" said Ninian, and the three of them seized Henry and flung him +to the ground and sat on him until he swore by the blood of his +forefathers that he would never, never consent to be a clergyman. "Or +give pi-jaws of any sort!" said Gilbert. + +"Lemme go!" Henry squeaked, struggling to throw them off his back. + +"When you've promised!..." + +"Oh, all right, then!" + +They released him and he stood up and straightened his clothes and +searched his mind for something of a devastating character to say. +"Funny ass!" he said at last, and then they scragged him again for being +cheeky. + +But he would have submitted to any amount of scragging from them because +they were his friends and because he loved Gilbert and because they, +too, in their turn submitted to being scragged. + + +3 + +When Henry had been at Rumpell's for a year, Ninian Graham asked him to +spend the Easter holidays at his home in Devonshire. "I'll get my mater +to write and ask you," he said. Henry hesitated. He had never spent a +holiday away from home, and he knew that his father liked him to return +to Ireland whenever he had the chance to do so. He himself enjoyed going +home, but suddenly, when Henry had finished speaking, he felt a strong +desire to accept this invitation. "I'll have to ask my father," he +replied, and added, "I'd like to, Ninian. Thanks awf'lly!" + +He had heard his father speak so contemptuously of English people that +he was almost afraid to ask him for permission to accept Ninian's +invitation. He wondered how he would explain his father's refusal to +Ninian who was so kind.... But his fears were not warranted, for Mr. +Quinn replied to his letter, urging him to accept the invitation. + +"_Enjoy yourself_," he wrote. "_The English are very hospitable when +you get to know them, and the only way you can get to know them is to go +and live in their homes! But I'll expect you to come here in the summer. +You can bring your friends with you, the whole lot. William Henry says +there'll be a grand lot of strawberries and goosegogs this year and you +can all make yourselves as sick as you like on them._" He signed +himself, "_Your affectionate Father, Henry Quinn._" + +And so Henry had gone that Easter to Boveyhayne, where Mrs. Graham and +her daughter Mary lived. Ninian and he had travelled by train to +Whitcombe where they were met by old Widger and driven over hilly +country to Boveyhayne. There was a long climb out of Whitcombe and then +a long descent into Boveyhayne, after which the road ran on the level to +the end of Hayne lane which led to the Manor. Before they reached the +end of the lane, Old Widger turned to them and, pointing with his whip +in front of him, said, laughingly, "Here be Miss Mary waitin' for 'ee, +Mas'er Ninyan!" + +Ninian stood up in the carriage and looked ahead. "Hilloa, Mary!" he +shouted, waving his hand, and then, before Old Widger had time to pull +up, he jumped into the road and ran on ahead. "Come on, Quinny!" he +shouted, and Henry, suddenly shy, got out of the carriage and followed +after him. + +"You needn't wait for us, Widger!" Ninian shouted again. "We'll walk +home!" + +And Widger, smiling largely, drove on. + + +4 + +Mary Graham was younger than Ninian, nearly two years younger, and very +different from him. He was big in body and bone, and fair and very +hearty in his manner. When Ninian approved of you he did not pat your +back: he punched it so that your bones rattled and your flesh tingled. +All his movements were large, splashy, as Gilbert said, and, his voice +was incapable of whispers. But Mary was slight and small and dark and +her laugh was like the sound of a little silver bell. She was standing +on an earth mound at the entrance to the lane when Henry came up to +Ninian and her, and he wondered to himself how her small, shapely head +could bear the weight of the long dark hair which fell about her +shoulders in a thick, flowing pile. Ninian was chattering to her so +loudly and so rapidly that Henry could hardly hear her replies.... + +"Oh, this is Quinny!" Ninian said, jerking his thumb in Henry's +direction. "His real name is Quinn, Henry Quinn, but we call him +'Quinny.' At least, Gilbert does, so, of course we do too. And he's +Irish, but he isn't a Catholic, and he says Irish people don't keep pigs +in their houses, and they eat other things besides potatoes and ... come +on, Quinny, buck up and be civil!" + +Mary stepped down from the mound, and held out her hand to Henry. "How +do you do!" she said, smiling at him, and he took her hand and said he +was very well and asked her how she did, and she said she was very well, +and then she smiled again, and so Henry smiled too. + +Ninian had moved on up the lane. "Buck up, you two!" he said. "I'm +hungry!" He started to run, thinking of tea, and then he suddenly +checked himself and came back. "I say, Mary," he said, "Quinny's +fearfully gone on wildflowers and birds and ... and Nature ... and that +sort of stuff. Show him the primroses and things, will you? I've got an +awful hunger and I want to see the mater. Oh, Quinny, these are +primroses, these yellow things, and Mary'll show you anything else you +want to see. There's a jolly lot of honeysuckle and hazelnuts in these +hedges later on. So long!" He went off again, running in a heavy, +lumbering fashion because of the ascent and the broken, stony ground. + +Henry stood still, waiting for Mary to make a decision. He could not +think of anything to say and so he just smiled. He began to feel hot and +uncomfortable, and it seemed to him suddenly that Mary must think he +was a frightful fool, maundering about primroses and wild violets and +bluebells, and yet not able to say a word for himself in her presence +... standing there, grinning like ... like anything, and ... and not +saying a word. + +She was standing sideways, with her head turned to look at her brother, +now disappearing round a bend in the lane, and Henry was able to observe +her more closely. He saw that she was wearing a short frock, reaching to +her knees, and he plucked up heart. "She's only a kid," he said to +himself, and then said aloud to her, "It's awf'lly nice here!" + +She turned towards him as he spoke and he saw that her face was still +smiling. "Yes, isn't it?" she answered. "Shall we go on now, or would +you like to gather some primroses. There are lots in this lane, or if +you like to walk up to the copse, there are more there, and we can mix +them with bluebells. I think primroses and bluebells are lovely +together, don't you?" + +He thought it would be nicer to go to the copse, and so they moved on up +the lane. + +"I like these high hedges," he said. "We don't have high hedges in +Ireland. In lots of places we don't have hedges at all--only stone +walls!" + +Mary made a grimace. "I shouldn't like that," she exclaimed. "I love +hedges ... best in the spring because then they're new. There's always +something living in them. I never go by the hedges without hearing +something moving inside ... birds and mice and things. Of course, it's +very stuffy in the lanes in summer because the hedges are so high and +the leaves are so thick and the air can't get through!... Look! Look!" +She climbed on to the bars of a gate, and pointed, and he climbed on to +the bars beside her, and saw the English Channel, shining like a sheet +of silver in the setting sun. + +"Can you see the trawlers coming home?" she said. "Out there! Do you +see? Those are our boats ... the Boveyhayne boats. That one with the +brown sails is Tom Yeo's boat. He's awf'lly nice and his wife's going to +have a baby. He told me so, and they hope it'll be a boy because Jim +Rattenbury--that's Tom Yeo's mate in the boat ... his wife had a +daughter last month, and they all think it would be awf'lly nice if +Tom's son were to grow up and marry Jim's daughter, and I think it +would, and of course it would, wouldn't it?" + +"Would it?" said Henry. + +"Of course it would. It would be so nice for everybody, and then the +boat could be left to Tom's son and it would belong to Jim's daughter, +too. I think that would be _very_ nice! I do hope they've caught a lot +of fish!" She jumped down from the gate and clapped her hands together. +"I know," she said. "We won't pluck primroses now. We'll go home and +simply swallow our tea like lightning, and then we'll tear down to the +beach and see them landing the fish. Come on, let's run!" She started +off and then suddenly checked herself and said, "Oh, I think I'd better +call you 'Quinny,' like Ninian. It'll save a lot of trouble, won't it? +Mother won't call you that. She'll probably call you 'Henry' or 'Harry.' +If we hurry up, we'll be just in time to see the boats beached!" + +She ran off, laughing pleasantly, and he followed after her. + +"That's the copse," she shouted, pointing to the trees on her left. +"We'll soon be there!" + +They reached the top of the lane and crossed a narrow public road, and +then were in a broad avenue, almost arched by trees, at the end of which +was the Manor. It was a squarely-built sixteenth century house, made of +stone, taken from the Roman quarry a mile or two away on the road to +Franscombe. The first Graham to own it received it and the lands +adjacent to it from Henry the Second, and ever since that time a Graham +had been lord of the manor of Boveyhayne. Ninian was the last of his +line. If he were to die, there would be no more Grahams at Boveyhayne. +That was the fear that haunted Mrs. Graham.... + +Mary ran swiftly across the grass in the centre of the avenue and pushed +open the gate that led through a fine stone arch. She held the gate open +for Henry, and then they both passed up the flagged path into the house. + +"Mother, mother!" Mary shouted, quickly entering the drawing-room, +"here's Quinny, and please can we have tea at once because the trawlers +are just coming home and we want to see them being beached and ... oh, I +say, my hands are messy, aren't they. Still, it doesn't matter! I can +wash them afterwards." + +"My dear!" said Mrs. Graham reproachfully, and then she turned to greet +Henry who had become awkward again. "How do you do, Mr. Quinn," she +said, holding her hand out to him. + +Henry flushed deeply. It was the first time any one had ever called him +Mister, and he was very glad that Ninian was not present to hear. He was +quite well, he said. No, he was not a bit tired. Yes, he would rather +like to go to his room.... A maid had followed him into the room, and +Mrs. Graham asked her to show Mr. Quinn to his room, and, flushing +deeper still, he turned to go with her. As he left the room, he heard +Mary saying to Mrs. Graham, "Oh, mother, you mustn't call him _Mr._ +Quinn. He blushed frightfully when you said that. His name is 'Quinny,' +or you can call him 'Henry' if you like!" + +"I think I'll call him 'Henry,' my dear!" said Mrs. Graham. + + +5 + +It seemed to Henry that Mrs. Graham was the most beautiful woman in the +world, and he had a great longing that she would draw him to her, as she +drew Ninian, and put her arms about him and kiss him. Sometimes he had +faint memories of the way in which poor Bridget Fallon had hugged him, +and how she had cried over him once when she told him that his soul +would be damned forever because he was a "black Protestant." ... He +remembered that episode more vividly than any other because he had +howled with fear when she narrated the pains and torments of hell to +him. There had been a Mission at the chapel the previous week, and a +preaching friar had frightened the wits out of her with his description +of "the bad place." He had told the congregation of scared servants and +frightened labourers that they would be laid on red-hot bars in hell and +that the devil would send demons to nip their flesh with burning +pincers.... Henry could not be comforted until she had promised to +rescue him from the Evil One, and when she bade him wear the scapular, +he hurriedly hung it round his neck as if he were afraid that before he +could get it on, the Devil would have him.... Well, Bridget had loved +him very tenderly, and of all the women he had ever known, she seemed to +him to be the most beautiful. But Mrs. Graham was more beautiful than +Bridget, more beautiful than Bridget could ever be. There was something +so exquisite in her movements, her smile (Mary had her smile) and her +soft sweet voice with its slight Devonshire burr, that Henry felt he +wished to sit beside her and walk with her and always be by her. His +sudden, growing love for her made him feel bold, and he lost the shy, +nervous sensation he had had when he first came into her presence and +heard her call him "Mr. Quinn," and so, when Ninian and Mary talked +about the trawlers, he turned to Mrs. Graham quite naturally, and said, +"Won't you come to the beach, too, Mrs. Graham?" Instantly Ninian and +Mary were clamorous that she should go with them, and so she +consented.... + +"We'll have to hurry," said Mary, "because the boats come in awf'lly +quick." + +"My dear, I can't run," Mrs. Graham said. + +It was Ninian who suggested that Widger should harness the pony and that +they should drive down to the beach in the buggy.... + +"Yes, yes," said Mary. + +And Ninian went off to tell Widger to hurry harder than he had ever +hurried before in his life. + +"I'll do that for 'ee, Mas'er Ninyan, sure 'nough!" said Widger. + +But Ninian and Mary were too impatient to wait for the buggy, and so +they set off together, leaving Henry to follow with Mrs. Graham. + +"Quinny'll drive you down, mater," Ninian said. + +Mrs. Graham turned to Henry. "You won't let Peggy run away with me, will +you?" she said, pretending to be alarmed, and Mary and Ninian burst into +laughter at the thought of Peggy ... which was short for Pegasus ... +running away with any one. + +"He's fat and lazy," said Ninian. + +"He goes to sleep in the shafts," Mary added, running out of the +drawing-room on Ninian's heels. + + +6 + +Boveyhayne Bay is a little bay within the very large bay that is guarded +at one end by Portland Bill and at the other end by Start Point. It lies +in the shelter of two white cliffs which keep its water quiet even when +the sea outside is rough, and so it is a fine home for fishermen though +there is no harbour and the trawlers have to be hauled up the shingly +beach every night. Nowhere else on that coast are chalk cliffs to be +found, and the sudden whiteness of Boveyhayne Head and the White Cliff +shining out of the red clay of the adjoining cliffs is a sign to +sailors, passing down the Channel on their homeward beat, that they are +off the coast of Devonshire. Mrs. Graham talked to Henry about the +fishermen as they drove down Bovey Lane towards the village. + +"I love Boveyhayne," she said, "because the people are so fine. They +rely on themselves far more than any other people I know. That's because +they're fishermen, I suppose, and have no employers. They work for +themselves ... and it's frightfully hard work too. People come to +Boveyhayne in the summer, but they can't spoil it because the villagers +don't depend on visitors for a living: they depend on themselves ... and +the sea. There isn't a man in Boveyhayne who is pretending to be a +fisherman and is really a cadger on summer visitors. Some of them won't +be bothered to take people out in rowing-boats--they feel that that is +work for the old. I used to wonder," she went on, "why it was that I +didn't really like the villagers in other places, but I never found out +why until I came to Boveyhayne, and it was simply because I felt +instinctively that they were spongers ... those other people ... that +they hadn't any real work to do, and that they were living on us like +... like ticks on a sheep. The Boveyhayne men are splendid men. It +wouldn't make any difference ... much difference, anyhow ... to them if +another visitor never came to the place. And that is how it ought to be +in every village in England!" + +Henry was not quite certain that he understood all that she was saying, +but he liked to listen to her, and so he did not interrupt her, except +to say "Yes" and "I suppose so" when it seemed that she was waiting for +him to say something. + +"Do you like being in England?" she asked him suddenly. + +"Oh, yes," he answered. + +"Would you rather be in England than in Ireland?" + +He did not know. He liked being at home with his father, but he also +liked being at Rumpell's with Gilbert and Roger and Ninian, and now he +felt that he would like to be at Boveyhayne with Mrs. Graham and Mary. + +"Perhaps you like people better than you like places," Mrs. Graham said. + +"I don't know," he replied. "I hadn't thought about that." + +"You must come again to Boveyhayne. Perhaps, in the summer, Gilbert and +Roger will come, too!" + +Henry thought that that would be awf'lly jolly.... + +They turned down the village street and left Peggy at the foot of it +while they went down the slope leading on to the beach where the +trawlers were now being hauled up by the aid of hand winches. Henry +could see Mary and Ninian in the group of fishermen who were working the +nearest winch. They had hold of one of the wooden bars and were helping +to push it round. + +"We'll go down to the boats," said Mrs. Graham, "and see the fish!" + +She put her hand on his shoulder, and he helped to steady her as they +walked across the shingle to where the boats were slowly climbing out of +the sea over wooden runners on to the high stones. + +One of the boats had already been hauled up, and the fishermen, having +thrown out their gear, were now getting ready to sell their fish. They +threw out a heap of skate and dun-cows,[1] and auctioned them to the +dealers standing by. + +"They're still alive," Henry whispered to Mrs. Graham as he watched the +dun-cows curling their bodies and the skate gasping in the air. He +looked over the side of the trawler and saw baskets of dabs and plaice +and some soles and turbot and a couple of crabs. A plaice flapped +helplessly and fell off the heap in the basket on to the bottom of the +boat, and one of the fishermen trod on it.... "They're _all_ alive," +Henry said, turning again to Mrs. Graham. + +"Yes," she answered. + +"But ... isn't it cruel? Oughtn't they to kill them?" + +"It would take a long time to kill all those fish," she said. "Most of +them are dead already, and the others will be dead soon...." + +But he could not rid himself of the feeling that the fish were suffering +agonies, and he began to feel sick with pity. + +"I think I'll go and see Mary and Ninian," he said to Mrs. Graham, +edging away from the boat. + +"All right," she replied. + +But Ninian and Mary were on their way down to the boats, and so he did +not get far. + +"Come and see them cutting up the skate and dun-cows!" said Ninian, +catching hold of Henry's arm and pulling him back. + +"Yes, let's," Mary added. + +The sick feeling was growing stronger in Henry. He hated the sight of +blood. Once he had been ill in the street because William Henry Matier +had shown a dead rabbit to him, the blood dribbling from its mouth ... +and the sight of a butcher's shop always filled him with nausea. He did +not wish to see the skate cut up, but he felt that Mary would despise +him if he did not go with Ninian and her, so he followed after them. + +The fishermen were sharpening their knives on the stones when they came +up to them, and then one of them seized a dun-cow and struck its head on +the shingle and cut it open, while another fisherman inserted his knife +into the quivering body of a skate and cut out the entrails and the head +in circular pieces. + +"But they're alive," said Henry. + +"Of course, they're alive," said Ninian, seizing a dun-cow and smacking +its head against the beach. "Here you are, Jim," he added, passing the +dun-cow to a fisherman. "Here's another one!" + +Henry could not stay any longer. He turned away quickly and almost ran +up the beach. "Hilloa," Ninian shouted after him, "where are you going?" + +He stopped for a moment and looked back, wondering what excuse he should +make for his running away. "I ... I'm just going to see if ... if +Peggy's all right!" + +_"She's_ all right," Ninian replied. + +"I think I'll just go all the same," said Henry. + +"But you'll miss it all," Mary called to him. + +"I'll ... I'll come back presently," he answered. + + +7 + +He had finished a game of cards with Mary and then Mary had gone off to +bed. She had kissed her mother and Ninian, and then she held out her +hand to him and said "Good-night, Quinny!" and he said "Good-night, +Mary!" and held the door open for her so that she might pass out. + +"Let's go out in a boat to-morrow," she said. "We'll go to the +Smugglers' Cave...." + +"Yes, let's," he answered. + +When she had gone, Mrs. Graham called him to her. "Come and sit here," +she said, pointing to a footstool at her feet. Ninian was trying to +solve a chess problem and was deaf to the whole world.... + +"I suppose you didn't like to see the fish being gutted, Henry?" Mrs. +Graham said. + +He glanced up at her quickly. He had not spoken of his feeling to any of +them because he was ashamed of it. "It's namby-pamby of me," he had said +to himself. He flushed as he looked up, fearing that she must despise +him for his weakness, and he almost denied that he had had any feeling +at all about it; but he did not deny it. "I couldn't bear it, Mrs. +Graham," he said quickly in a low voice. "I felt I should be ill if I +stayed there any longer!" + +"I used to feel like that," she said, patting his shoulder, "but you +soon get used to it. The fishermen aren't really cruel. They are the +kindest men I know!" + +Ninian, having failed to solve his chess problem, got up from the table +and stretched himself and yawned. + +"I'm going to bed, Quinny," he said. "Are you coming?" + +Henry rose and shook hands with Mrs. Graham. "Good-night," he said. + +"Good-night, Henry!" she replied. "I hope you'll sleep well." And then +she turned to kiss Ninian, who pushed a sleepy face against hers. + + +8 + +In the morning, there were fried plaice for breakfast, and Henry ate two +of them. + +"These are some of the fish you saw on the beach last night," said Mrs. +Graham. + +"Oh, yes," said Henry, reaching for the toast, and swallowing a mouthful +of the fish. "And jolly nice, too!" + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 1: Dog-fish.] + + + + +THE THIRD CHAPTER + + +1 + +He stayed at Boveyhayne until the time came to return to Rumpell's, and +the holiday passed so quickly that he could not believe that it was +really over. They had picnicked in the Smugglers' Cave and on Boveyhayne +Common where the gorse was in bloom, and Henry had plucked whinblossoms +to dye Easter eggs when he found that the Grahams did not know that +whinblossoms could be used in this way. "You boil the blossoms and the +eggs together, and the eggs come out a lovely browny-yellow colour. We +always dye our eggs like that in the north of Ireland!" And on the day +they picnicked on Boveyhayne Common, Mrs. Graham took them down the side +of the hill to the big farm at Franscombe and treated them to a +Devonshire tea: bread and butter and raspberry jam and cream, cream +piled thick on the jam, and cake. (But they ate so much of the bread and +butter and jam and cream that they could not eat the cake.) And they +swam every day.... Mary was like a sea-bird: she seemed to swim on the +crest of every wave as lightly as a feather, and was only submerged when +she chose to thrust her head into the body of some wave swelling higher +and higher until its curled top could stay no longer and it pitched +forward and fell in a white, spumy pile on the shore. She would climb +over the stern of a rowing-boat and then plunge from it into the sea +again, and come up laughing with the water streaming from her face and +hair, or dive beneath Ninian and pull his feet until he kicked out.... + +And then the last evening of his visit came. The vicar of Boveyhayne and +his wife were to dine at the Manor that night, and so they were bidden +to put on their company manners and their evening clothes. Ninian +grumbled lustily when he heard the news, for he had made arrangements +with a fisherman to "clean" a skate that evening when the trawlers came +home. "I bet him thruppence I could do it as good as he could, and now +I'll have to pay up. Beastly swizz, that's what it is!" he said to Henry +in the stable where he was busy rubbing down Peggy, although Peggy did +not need or wish to be rubbed down. "I think Mother ought to give me the +thruppence anyhow!..." + +After dinner, Ninian and Henry and Mary had contrived to miss the +drawing-room, whither Mrs. Graham led the Vicar and his wife, and they +went to the room which had been the nursery and was now a work-room, and +lit the fire and sat round it, talking and telling tales and reading +until the time came for Mary to go to bed. + +"We're going soon, too!" said Ninian. "We've got to get up jolly early +to-morrow, blow it! I hate getting up early!" + +Henry yawned and stretched out his hands to the fire. "I wish I weren't +going to-morrow," he said, half reflectively. + +"So do I," Mary exclaimed. + +She was sitting on the floor beside him and he turned to look at her, a +little startled by the suddenness of her speech. + +"I wish you weren't going," she said, sitting up and leaning against him +as she was accustomed to lean against Ninian. "It's been great fun this +Easter!" + +Ninian caught hold of her hair and pulled it. "He isn't a bad chap, old +Quinny," he said. "Soft-hearted, a bit!" + +"Shut up, Ninian!" Henry shouted, punching him in the ribs. + +But Ninian would not shut up. "Blubs like anything if you kill a rabbit +or anything. He eats them all the same!" + +Mary put her hands over Ninian's mouth. "Leave Quinny alone, Ninian," +she said. "He's much nicer than you, and I do think it's horrid of you +to go gutting fish just for fun. The fishermen have to do it, else we +wouldn't get any breakfast, and of course plaice are very nice for +breakfast...." + +"Yahhh!" yelled Ninian. + +"Well, anyhow," she continued, "Quinny's much nicer than you are. Aren't +you, Quinny?" + +"No, he isn't," Ninian asserted stoutly. "I'm ten times nicer than he +is!" + +"No, you're not...." + +Henry, embarrassed at first by Mary's admiration, plucked up his spirits +and joined in. + +"Of course, I'm nicer than you are, Ninian," he said. "Anybody could see +that with half an eye in his head!" + +"All right, then, I'll fight you for it," Ninian replied, squaring up at +him in mock rage. + +"I'll box your ears for you, Ninian Graham!" said Mary, "and I won't let +Quinny fight you, and Quinny, if you dare to fight him, I shan't like +you any more...." + +"Then I won't fight him, Mary. She's saved your life, Ninian," he said, +turning to his friend. + +"Yahhh!" Ninian shouted. + +"I'll get up very early to-morrow morning," said Mary, as she prepared +to leave them, "and perhaps mother'll let me drive to Whitcombe with you +to see you off!" + +"No," Ninian objected, "we don't want you blubbing all over the +platform!..." + +"I shan't blub, Ninian. I never blub!..." + +"Yes, you do. You always blub. You blubbed the last time and made me +feel an awful ass!" he persisted. + +"Well, I shan't blub this time, or if I do, it won't be about you.... +Anyhow, I shall get up early and see Quinny off. I _like_ Quinny!..." + +Ninian pointed at Henry, and burst out laughing. "Oh! Oh, he's blushing! +Look at him! Oh! Oh!!" + +"Shut up, Ninian, you ass!" said Henry, turning away. + +Mary went over to him and took hold of his arm. "Never mind, Quinny," +she said, "I _do_ like you. Good-night!" + +Then she went out and left him alone with Ninian. + +"I suppose," said Ninian when she had gone, "we ought to go down and say +something to the Vicar!" + + +2 + +That night, Henry went to bed in the knowledge that he loved Mary +Graham. "I'll marry her," he said, as he stripped his clothes off. +"That's what I'll do. I'll jolly well marry her!" + +In the excitement of his love, he forgot to wash his hands and face and +clean his teeth, and he climbed into bed and lay there thinking about +Mary. "I suppose," he said, "I ought to tell her about it. That ass, +Ninian'll be sure to laugh if I tell him!" He sat up suddenly in bed. +"Lord," he exclaimed, "I forgot to wash!" He got out of bed and washed +himself. "Beastly fag, cleaning your teeth," he murmured, and then went +back to bed. + +"I know," he said, as he blew out the candle and hauled the clothes well +about his neck. "I'll make Ninian look after the luggage and stuff, and +then I'll tell her. On the platform! I hope she won't be cross about +it!" And then he fell asleep. + + +3 + +In the morning, they went off, Mary with them, and they stood up in the +carriage and waved their hands to Mrs. Graham until the dip in the road +hid her from their view. Ninian, who had been so disdainful of +"blubbers" the night before, sat down in a corner of the carriage and +looked miserable, but neither Mary nor Henry said anything to him. They +drove slowly down the Lane because it was difficult to do otherwise, +but when they had come into the road that leads to Franscombe, Widger +whipped up the horse, and the carriage moved quickly through the +village, past the schools, until they came to the long hill out of the +village ... and there Jim Rattenbury was waiting for them. + +"I brought 'ee a li'l bit o' fish, Mas'er Ninyan," he said, putting a +basket into the carriage. + +"I say, Jim!" Ninian exclaimed, forgetting his misery for a while. They +thanked him for the gift and enquired about the baby Rattenbury and +wished him good-luck in the mackerel fishing, and were about to go on +when Ninian recollected his failure to keep his appointment with Tom Yeo +on the previous evening. "Oh, Jim," he said, "I bet Tom Yeo thruppence +I'd 'clean' a skate as good as he can, but I couldn't come ... so here's +the thruppence. You might give it to Tom for me, will you!" + +Jim Rattenbury waved the money away. "Ah, that be all right, Mas'er +Ninyan," he exclaimed. "You can try your 'and at it nex' time you comes +'ome. I'll tell Tom. 'Er'll be glad to 'ave longer to get ready for it, +'er will!" He laughed at his own joke, and they laughed, too. "Good luck +to 'ee, Mas'er Ninyan," Jim went on, "an' to 'ee too, sir!" he added, +turning to Henry. + +"And me, Jim, _and_ me!" Mary said impetuously. + +"Why, of course, Miss Mary, an' to 'ee, too!" + +They drove on up the hill, from which they could look down on the +village, tucked snugly in the hollow of the rising lands, and along the +top of the ridge, gaining glimpses of the blue Channel, dotted far out +with the sails of trawlers, and down the hair-pin road where the pine +trees stand like black sentinels, through Whitcombe to the station.... + +"I wish we weren't going!..." one or other of them said as they drove +on. + +"I'd love to have another swim," said Ninian. + +"Or go out in a boat," said Henry. + +The carriage entered the station-yard and they got out and walked +towards the platform. There were very few people travelling by that +early train, and Henry was glad because, if he could dispose of Ninian +for a few moments, he thought he could settle his affairs with Mary. + +"Ninian," he said, trying to speak very casually, "you and Widger can +look after the luggage and tickets, can't you!" + +Ninian, who had already induced one of the porters to describe a +thrilling fox-hunt in which the fox took to the river and was killed, +after a hard struggle, in the water, nodded his head and said "Righto!" + +"Let's walk up and down," Henry said to Mary, and they walked towards +the end of the platform. "It's been awf'lly nice here!" he added. + +"Yes, hasn't it?" she replied. "You'll come again, won't you?" + +_"Ra_-ther!" he exclaimed. + +"How long will it be before you can come again?" + +"I don't know. You see, my father'll expect me to go home in the +summer...." + +"Oh!" + +"But I might come for part of the hols. I'd like to!" + +"Yes," she said, sliding one of her feet in front of her and regarding +the tip of her shoe intently. + +They did not speak for a few moments until he remembered that time was +fleeting. "It's an awf'lly nice day," he said, and licked his lips. + +"Yes, isn't it?..." + +"Awf'lly nice," he continued and broke off lamely. + +They could see the train coming into Coly station, and a sense of +despair seized Henry when he thought that it would soon come into +Whitcombe station and then go back again to the junction, carrying +Ninian and him with it. He could feel his nervousness mounting up his +legs until it began to gallop through his body.... He felt frightfully +dry, and when he tried to speak, he could not do anything but cough. +The train had started now from Coly station. He could see the white +smoke rising from the engine's funnel almost in a straight line, so +little wind was there in the valley.... "Oh, Lord!" he said to +himself.... + +"What age are you?" he suddenly demanded of her. + +"Fourteen," she replied. + +"I'm sixteen ... nearly!" he continued. + +"Ninian's over sixteen," Mary said, and added, "I wish I were sixteen!" + +"Why!" + +"Oh, I don't know. I just wish I were. When I'm sixteen, you'll be +eighteen ... nearly!" + +"So I shall. I say, Mary!..." + +"Yes, Quinny?" + +He could hear the rattle of the train on the railway lines, and, turning +towards the other end of the platform, he saw that Ninian, having +settled about the luggage and finished listening to the story of the fox +hunt, was approaching them. "Come on," he said, catching hold of Mary's +arm and drawing her to the other end of the platform. + +"But that's the wrong end," she protested. + +"I say, Mary!..." + +"Yes, Quinny?" + +"Oh, I say, Mary!..." + +"Yes?..." + +"I'd like to marry you awf'lly, if you don't mind!" + +It was out ... oh, Lord, it was out!... + +"Oh, I should love it, Quinny," said Mary, looking up at him and +smiling. + +"Would you really!" + +"Yes. Of course, I would. Let's tell Ninian and Widger!..." + +Her suggestion alarmed him. Ninian would be sure to chaff him about +it.... "Oh, not yet!..." he began, but he was too late. Ninian had come +up to them, grumbling, "I thought you two'd started to leg it to +Rumpell's...." + +Mary seized his arm and pressed it tightly. "Quinny and me are going to +get married," she said. + +"Silly asses," said Ninian. "Come on, here's the train in!" + + +4 + +They climbed into their carriage a few seconds before the train steamed +out of the station again, and jammed themselves in the window to look +out. Ninian was full of instructions to Widger about his terrier and his +ferrets and a blind mouse that was supposed to recognise him with +miraculous ease. There was also some point about the fox-hunt which +required explanation.... + +"Good-bye, Mary!" Henry said, taking hold of her hand and pressing it. +"I suppose," he whispered, "I ought to give you a ring or something. +Chaps always do that!..." + +Mary shook her head. "I don't think mother would like that," she +replied. + +"Well, anyhow, we're engaged, aren't we?" + +"Oh, of course, Quinny!" + +"It's most awf'lly nice of you to have me, Mary!" + +"But I like you!" + +"Do you really?" + +The guard blew his whistle and waved his flag and the train began to +move out of the station. He stood at the window looking back at Mary +standing on the platform, waving her hands to him, until he could see +her no longer. + +"What are you looking at?" Ninian asked, taking down the basket of fish +which Jim Rattenbury had given him and preparing to open it. + +"I'm looking at Mary," he answered. + +"Sloppy ass!" said Ninian, and then he added excitedly, "Oh, I say, +plaice and dabs and a lobster ... a whopping big lobster! It's berried, +too!" He pointed to the red seeds in the lobster's body. "My Heavenly +Father, Quinny!" he exclaimed, "what a tuck-in we'll have to-night!" + +"Eh?" Henry replied vaguely. + + + + +THE FOURTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +Gilbert summoned Roger and Henry and Ninian to a solemn council. "Look +here," he said, "I've made up my mind about myself!" + +"Oh!" they exclaimed. + +"Yes. I'm going to be a dramatist and write plays!" + +"Why?" Ninian asked. + +"I dunno! I went to see a play in the hols, and I thought I'd like to +write one, too. It seems easy enough. You just make up a lot of talk, +and then you get some actors to say it...." + +"I see," said Ninian. + +"And when I was a kid," Gilbert continued, "I used to make up plays for +parties. Jolly good, they were ... at least I thought so!" + +Gilbert, having settled what his own career was to be, was eager that +his friends should settle what their careers were to be. "Roger, of +course," he said, "has made up his mind to be a barrister, so that's +him, but what about you, Ninian, and what about Quinny?" + +Ninian said that he did not know what he should do. Mrs. Graham was +anxious that he should become a member of parliament and lead the life +of a country gentleman who takes an intelligent interest in his estate +and his country. His Uncle George, the Dean of Exebury, oscillated +between two opinions: one that Ninian should become a parson.... + +Gilbert suddenly proposed a resolution, sternly forbidding their young +friend, Ninian Graham, to become a parson on any conditions whatever. +The resolution was seconded by Henry Quinn, and passed unanimously. + +... and the other that he should enter the Diplomatic Service. The Dean +had talked largely to Ninian on the subject of his career. On the whole +he had inclined towards the Diplomatic Service. He had stood in front of +the fire, his hands thrust through the belt of his apron and talked +magnificently of the glories of diplomacy. "How splendid it would be, +Ninian," he said in that rich, flowing voice which caused ladies to +admire his sermons so much, "if you were to become an ambassador!" +Ninian, feeling that he ought to say something, had murmured that he +supposed it would be rather jolly. "An ambassador!" the Dean continued. +"His Britannic Majesty's Ambassador to the Imperial Court of ... of +Vienna!" He liked the sound of the title so much that he repeated it: +"His Britannic Majesty's Ambassador!..." + +But Ninian had interrupted him. "I don't think I'd like that job very +much, Uncle George!" he said. "You're supposed to have an awful lot of +tact if you're an ambassador, and I'm rather an ass at tact!" + +"Well, then, the Church!" the Dean suggested. "After all, the Church is +still the profession of a gentleman!..." + +But Ninian had as little desire to be a priest as he had to be an +ambassador. He wished to be an engineer! + +"A what?" the Dean had exclaimed in horror. + +"An engineer, uncle!" + +The Dean could not rid himself of the notion that Ninian was a small +boy, and so he imagined that when Ninian said an "engineer" he meant a +man who drives a railway engine.... The Dean was not insensible to the +value of engineers to the community ... in fact, whenever he travelled +by train, he invariably handed any newspapers he might have with him to +the engine-driver at the end of the journey, "because," he said, "I wish +to show my appreciation of the fact that without his care and skill I +might--er--have been--well involved in a collision or something of the +sort!" But, while the occupation of an engine-driver was a very +admirable one ... very admirable one, indeed ... for a member of the +working-class, it could hardly be described as a suitable occupation for +a gentleman. "I think," he said, "that engine-drivers get thirty-eight +shillings per week, or some such amount!" He adjusted his glasses and +beamed pleasantly at Ninian. "My dear boy," he said, "thirty-eight +shillings per week is hardly ... hardly an adequate income for a +Graham!" + +Ninian did not like to ask his uncle George to "chuck it," nor did he +care to tell him that he was making a frightful ass of himself, and so +he did not answer, and the beaming old gentleman felt that he had +impressed the lad.... It was Mrs. Graham who reminded him of the larger +functions of an engineer. + +"I think," she said, "that Ninian wishes to build bridges and railways +and ... and things like that!" + +"Oh!" said the Dean, and his countenance altered swiftly. "Oh, yes, yes, +yes! I was forgetting about bridges. Dear me, yes! I remember meeting +Sir John Aird once. Remarkable man! Very remarkable man! He built the +Assouan Dam, of course. Well, that would be a very nice occupation, +Ninian. Rather different, of course, from the Diplomatic Service ... or +the Church ... but still, very nice, _very_ nice! And profitable, I'm +told!..." + + +2 + +"Anyhow," said Ninian, when he had related the story of his uncle's +views, "I'm going to be an engineer, no matter what Uncle George says, +and I'm not going to be a parson and I'm not going to be a blooming +ambassador, and I'm not going into parliament to make an ass of +myself!..." + +Ninian's chief horror was of "making an ass" of himself. It seemed that +there was less likelihood of him doing this at engineering than at +anything else. + +"And a very good engineer you'll be," Gilbert said encouragingly. +"You're always messing about with the insides of things, and I can't see +what good that habit would be to an ambassador, or a parson, and anyhow +you can't speak French for toffee, and that's the principal thing an +ambassador has to do! Well, Quinny," he continued, turning to Henry, +"what about you?" + +"I used to think I'd like to be a clergyman," Henry answered. + +"Oh, did you?..." + +"And then," he went on rapidly, "I thought I'd like to be an actor!..." + +They rose at him simultaneously. "A what?" they shouted. + +"An actor," he repeated. + +They gaped at him for a few moments without speaking. Then Ninian +expressed their views. "You're balmy!" he said. + +"Clean off your chump!" Gilbert added. + +"It seems an odd choice," Roger said, quietly. + +Henry blushed. "Of course," he hurried to say, "I've given up the idea. +It was just a notion that came into my head!" + +He went on to say that as Gilbert had resolved to be a writer, he did +not see any reason why he should not become one too. "I've read an awful +lot of books," he said, "so I daresay I could write one. I used to write +things when I was a youngster, just like you, Gilbert!" + +They gazed dubiously at Henry. A fellow who could make such choices of +profession ... a parson or an actor ... was a rum bird, in their +opinion, and they told him so. Gilbert said that the conjunction of +_actor_ with _parson_ showed that all Henry cared about was the chance +to show off. "All you want is to get yourself up," he said. "If you were +a parson, you could get yourself up in a surplice!..." + +"He'd turn High Churchman," Roger interrupted, "and trot about in +chasubles and copes!..." + +"And if he were an actor, he could get himself up in terrific style!..." +Gilbert continued. + +Henry got up and walked away from them. "It isn't fair," he said, as he +went, "to chip me like that. I'm not going to be a parson and I'm not +going to be an actor!..." + +Gilbert followed him and brought him back to the council. + +"All right, Quinny," he said, "we won't chip you any more. Only, don't +talk like a soppy ass again, will you? Sit down and listen to me!..." + +He forced Henry to sit beside him and then he proceeded to plan their +lives for them. + +"We'll all go to Cambridge," he said. "That's settled. I arranged that +before, didn't I? Well, we all go to the same college, and we all +promise to swot hard. We've got to Do Well, d'ye hear?" He said "do +well" as if each word had a capital letter. "We've got to be the Pride +of our College, d'ye hear, and work so that the dons will shed tears of +joy when they hear our names mentioned. I draw the particular attention +of Ninian Graham to what I am saying, and I warn him that if he goes on +whittling a stick while I'm talking, I shall clout his fat head for him. +I also trust that our young friend, Quinny, will make up his mind to +work hard. He's Irish, of course, and we must make allowances for +him!..." + +There was almost a row when Gilbert said that, and it was not completely +averted until Gilbert had admitted that the English had their faults. + +"I need not say anything on the subject of hard work to our young +friend, Roger," Gilbert continued, when the peace was restored, "beyond +warning him of the danger of getting brain-fever. That's all I have to +say about that. We're friends, we four, and we've got to do each other +credit. Now, when we come down from Cambridge, my proposal is that we +all live together in London. We can take a house and get some old girl +to look after us. I know one who'll do. She lives in Cornwall, and she +can cook ... like anything. Is that agreed?" + +"Carried unanimous," said Ninian. + +"Good egg!" Gilbert said. + + +3 + +But the plan was not carried out as Gilbert had made it. He and Ninian +and Roger Carey went to Cambridge, but Henry did not go with them. It +was Mr. Quinn who upset the plan. He suddenly gave notice to Rumpell's +that Henry would not return to the school. + +_You're getting to be too English in your ways, Henry,_ he wrote to his +son, _and I want you at home for a while. There's a young fellow called +Marsh who can tutor you until you go to the University. I met him in +Dublin a while since, and I like him. He's a bit cranky, but he's clever +and he'll teach you a lot about Ireland. He's up to his neck in Irish +things, and speaks Gaelic and wears an Irish kilt. At least he used to +wear one, but he's left it off now, partly because he gets cold in his +knees and partly because he's not sure now that the ancient Irish ever +wore kilts. I think you'll like him!..._ + +"My God," said Gilbert when Henry read this letter to him, "fancy being +tutored by a chap who wears petticoats!" + +"You ought to talk pretty plainly to your guv'nor, Quinny!" Ninian said. +"I don't think you ought to let him do that sort of thing. Here we've +settled that we're all going to Cambridge together, and your guv'nor +simply lumps in and upsets everything!" + +Henry declared that he would talk to his father and compel him to be +sensible, but his attempt at compulsion was ineffective. Mr. Quinn had +made up his mind that Henry was to spend several months at home, under +the tutelage of John Marsh, and then proceed to Trinity College, +Dublin. + +"Trinity College, Dublin!" Henry exclaimed. "But I want to go to +Cambridge!..." + +"Well, you can't go then. You'll go to T.C.D. or you'll go nowhere. I'm +a T.C.D. man, an' your gran'da was a T.C.D. man, an' so was his da +before him, an' a damned good college it is, too!" Mr. Quinn had always +called his father his "da" when Mrs. Quinn was alive because she +disliked the word and tried to insist on "papa"; and now he used the +word as a matter of habit. "What do you want to go to an English college +for?" he demanded. "You might as well want to go to that Presbyterian +hole in Belfast!" + +"I want to go to Cambridge," Henry replied a little angrily and +therefore a little precisely, "because all my friends are going there. +They're going up next year, and I want to go with them. They're my best +friends!..." + +"Make friends in Ireland, then!" Mr. Quinn interrupted. "You don't make +friends with Englishmen ... you make money out of them. That's all +they're fit for!" + +He began to laugh when he said that, but Henry still scowled. "I hate to +hear you talking like that, father!" he said. "I know you don't mean +it...." + +"Don't I, begod?..." + +"No, you don't, but even in fun, I hate to hear you saying it. I like +English people. I'm very fond of Gilbert Farlow!..." + +"A nice fellow!" Mr. Quinn murmured, remembering how he had liked +Gilbert when he had visited Rumpell's once to see Henry. + +"And Ninian Graham and Roger Carey, I like them, too, and so do you. You +liked them, didn't you?" + +"Very nice fellows, both of them, very nice ... for all they're +English!" + +Henry wanted to go on ... to talk of Mrs. Graham and of Mary ... but +shyness held his tongue for him. + +"It's a habit I've got into," Mr. Quinn said, talking of his +denunciation of the English, "but don't mind me, Henry. Sure, I'm like +all the Ulstermen: my tongue's more bitter nor my behaviour. All the +same, my son, you're goin' to T.C.D., an' that's an end of it. T.C.D.'ll +make a man of you, but Oxford 'ud only make a snivellin' High Church +curate of you ... crawlin' on your belly to an imitation altar an' +lettin' on to be a Catholic!..." + +"But I don't want to go to Oxford, father. I want to go to Cambridge!" + +"It's all the same, Henry. Oxford'll make a snivellin' parson out of +you, an' Cambridge'll turn you into a snivellin' atheist. I know them +places well, Henry. I'm acquainted with people from both of them. All +the Belfast mill-owners send their sons there, so's they can be made +into imitation Englishmen. An' I tell you there's no differs between +Cambridge an' Oxford. You crawl on your belly to the reredos at Oxford, +an' you crawl on your belly to Darwin an' John Stuart Mill at Cambridge. +They can't do without a priest of some sort at them places, an' I'm a +Protestant, Henry, an' I want no priest at all. Now, at Trinity you'll +crawl on your belly to no one but your God, an' you'll do damn little of +that if you're any sort of man at all!" + +Henry had reminded his father of the history and tradition of T.C.D., an +ungracious institution which had taught men to despise Ireland. + +"Well, you needn't pay any heed to the Provost, need you," Mr. Quinn +retorted. "Is a man to run away from his country because a fool of a +schoolmaster hasn't the guts to be proud of it? Talk sense, son! We want +education in Ireland, don't we, far more nor any other people want it, +an' how are we goin' to get it if all the young lads go off to Englan' +an' let the schoolmasters starve in Ireland!" + +Henry still maintained his position. "But, father," he said, "you +yourself have often told me that Dr. Daniell is an imitation +Englishman...." Dr. Daniell was the Provost of Trinity. + +"He is, and so is his whole family. I know them well ... lick-spittles, +the lot of them, an' the lad that's comin' after him, oul' Beattie, is +no better ... a half-baked snob ... I'll tell you a story about him in a +minute ... but all the same, it's not them that matter ... it's the +place and the tradition an' the feel of it all ... do you make me out?" + +"Yes, father, I know what you mean!" + +"You'd be like a foreigner at Cambridge ... like one of them fellows +that come from India or Germany or places like that ... but at Trinity +you'd be at home, in your own country, Henry, where people with brains +are badly needed!" + +He went on like that until he wore down Henry's desire to go to +Cambridge. "I'd rather you didn't go to a university at all," he said, +"than not have you go to T.C.D." + +"Very well, father!" said Henry, consenting. + +"That's right, my son," the old man said, patting his son on the back. +"An' now I'll tell you that yarn about Beattie. It'll make you split +your sides!" + +It appeared that Mr. Quinn had dined at a house in Dublin where Dr. +Beattie was also a guest, and the don was telling tales as was his +custom, of his acquaintances in high places. The poor old clergyman had +a weakness for the company of kings and queens, and liked to tell people +of what he had said to an emperor or of what a prince had said to him. + +"I was talking to my friend, the Queen of Spain, a short time ago," Dr. +Beattie had said, "and I made a joke which pleased her majesty. It was +about my friend, the Kaiser, who was present at the time. The Kaiser +heard us laughing, her majesty and me, and he came over to ask us why we +were laughing so heartily, the Queen and me. The Queen was very +embarrassed because, of course, I had been making fun of the Kaiser, but +I did not lose my self-possession. I turned to the Emperor and said, +'Sir, the Queen and I have known each other for a few moments only, but +already we have a secret between us!'" The Kaiser was very tickled by +my retort ... very tickled ... and the Queen told me afterwards that it +was very adroit of me to get out of it like that. She said it was my +Irish wit!... + +It was at this point that Mr. Quinn had interrupted. "An' what did your +friend God say?" he had demanded innocently. + +Mr. Quinn sat back in his chair, when he had finished telling the story, +and roared loudly with laughter. "You ought to have seen the oul' snob +turnin' red, white an' blue with rage," he shouted at Henry. "Such a +take-down! My God, what a take-down! There he was, the oul' wind-bag, +bletherin' about his friend, the Queen of Spain, an' his friend, the +Emperor of Germany, an' there was me, just waitin' for him, just +waitin', Henry, an' the minute he shut his gob, I jumped in, an' says I +to him, 'An' what did your friend God say?' By the Holy O, that was a +good one! I never enjoyed myself so much as I did that night, an' +everybody else that was there was nearin' burstin' with tryin' not to +laugh. Do you mind Lady Galduff?" + +"Yes, father!" + +"You mind her rightly, don't you? Well, when you go up to Dublin, you're +to call on her, do you hear? Never mind about her manners. Ask her to +tell you about me an' Dr. Beattie ... the way I asked him about his +friend God. Oh, Holy O!..." + +He could proceed no further, for his sides were shaking with laughter +and the tears were streaming down his cheeks and his cheeks were the +colour of beetroot. + +"You'll hurt yourself, father," said Henry, "if you laugh like that!" + + +4 + +"Of course," said Mr. Quinn, after a while, "the man's a great scholar, +an' I mebbe did wrong to take him down like that. But I couldn't help +it, Henry. You see, he's always makin' little of Irish things, an' I +have no use for a man like that. Not but what some people think too much +of Ireland an' too little of other places. Many's a time I get ragin' +mad when I hear some of the Nationalists bleatin' about Ireland as if a +bit of bog in the Atlantic were worth the rest of the world put +together. Do you know what, I'm goin' to say somethin' that'll surprise +you. I don't believe Irishmen'll think properly about Ireland 'til they +stop thinkin' about it altogether. We're too self-conscious. We haven't +enough pride an' we've too much conceit. That's the truth. You daren't +say a word of criticism about Ireland for fear you'd have the people +jumpin' down your throat--an' that's a sign of weakness, Henry. Do you +know why the English are as strong as they are? It's because they'll let +you criticise them as much as you like, an' never lose their temper with +you. The only time I ever knew them to be flabby and spineless was when +the Boer War was on ... an' they'd scream in your face if you didn't say +they were actin' like angels. They were only like that _then_, but we're +like it _all_ the time. The fools don't know that the best patriot is +the man that has the courage to own up when his country's in the +wrong!..." + +Mr. Quinn suddenly sat up stiffly in his seat and gaped at his son for a +few moments. + +"Begod, Henry," he said, "I'm preachin' to you!" + +"Yes, father, you are," Henry replied. "But I don't mind. It's rather +interesting!" + +But the force had gone out of Mr. Quinn. The thought that he had been +preaching a sermon, delivering a speech, filled him with self-reproach. + +"I never meant to start off like that," he said. "I only meant to tell +you what was in my mind. You see, Henry, I love Ireland an' I want to +see her as fine as ever she was ... but she'll never be fine again 'til +she gets back her pride an' her self-respect. The English people have +stolen that from us ... yes, they have, Henry! I knew Arthur Balfour +when he was a young man ... I liked him too ... but I'll never forget +that it was him that turned us into a nation of cadgers. I'm not much of +a thinker, Henry, but the bit of brain I have'll be used for Ireland, +whatever happens. You've got more brains than I have, an' I'd like you +to use them for Ireland, too." + + +5 + +"This is the way I look at things," Mr. Quinn said later on. "The +British people are the best people in the world, an' the Irish people +are the best people in the British Empire, an' the Ulster people are the +best people in Ireland!" He glanced about him for a few moments as if he +were cogitating, and then he gave a chuckle and winked at his son. "An' +begod," he said, "I sometimes think I'm the best man in Ulster!" He +burst out laughing when he had finished. "Ah," he said, half to himself, +as he stroked his fine beard, "I'm the quare oul' cod, so I am!" + +"All the same," he went on, speaking soberly, "I'm not coddin' entirely. +The Irish have plenty of brains, but they haven't any discipline, an' +brains are no good unless you can control them. We need knowledge and +experience, Henry, more nor anything else, an' the more knowledge we +bring into the country, the better it'll be for us all. Too much +imagination an' not enough knowledge ... that's what's the matter with +us. The English have knowledge, but they've small imagination!... I +declare to my goodness, the best thing that could happen to the two of +us, the English and the Irish, would be for some one to pass a law +compellin' every Irishwoman to marry an Englishman, an' every +Englishwoman to marry an Irishman. We'd get some stability into Ireland +then ... an' mebbe we'd get some intelligence into England." + + +6 + +Henry acquiesced in his father's wishes, but he did so reluctantly. +Gilbert's plan for their future had attracted him greatly. He saw +himself passing pleasant years at Cambridge in learning and in argument. +There was to be scholarship and company and curiosity and enquiry. They +were to furnish their minds with knowledge and then they were to seek +adventures in the world: a new order of Musketeers: Athos, Porthos, +Aramis and D'Artagnan.... He let the names of the Musketeers slide +through his mind in order, wondering which of them was his prototype ... +but he could not find a resemblance to himself in any of them. He felt +that he would shrink from the deeds which they sought.... His mind went +back again to thoughts of Cambridge. At all events, in the tourneys of +the mind his part would be valiant. He would never shrink from combat +with an intellect.... He supposed it would be possible to do at T.C.D. +some of what he had proposed to do at Cambridge, but somehow T.C.D. did +not interest him. It mattered as little to him as a Welsh University. It +had no hold whatever on his mind. He knew that it was on the level of +Oxford and Cambridge, but that knowledge did not console him. "It +doesn't matter in the way that they do," he said to himself, and then he +remembered something that Gilbert Farlow had said. "T.C.D. isn't Irish +in the way that Oxford and Cambridge are English. It's _in_ Ireland, but +it isn't _of_ Ireland!" Gilbert could always get at the centre of a +thing. "Oxford and Cambridge have lots of faults," Gilbert had said, +"but they're English faults. T.C.D. has lots of faults, but they're not +Irish faults. Do you see what I mean, Quinny? It's ... it's like a +garrison in an unfriendly country ... like ... what d'ye call it? ... +that thing in Irish history ... the Pale! That's it! It's the Pale still +going on being a Pale long after the need for it had ceased. I don't +think that kind of place is much good to Irishmen. You'd better come to +Cambridge!..." + +"I can't, Gilbert. My father's set his heart on my going to Trinity, and +I must go. I'd give the world to go with you and Ninian and Roger, but +I'll have to do what he wants. Anyhow, I can join you in London when you +come down, and we can spend our holidays together. I'll get my father to +ask you all to Ireland the first vac. after you've gone up, and perhaps +Mrs. Graham'll ask us all to Boveyhayne...." + + +7 + +Remembering what he had said to Gilbert about Boveyhayne, he remembered +Mary Graham. He had not seen her since he had been to Boveyhayne at +Easter, but he had written several times to her, lengthy letters, and +had received short, shy replies from her; and sometimes he had tried to +induce Ninian to talk about her. But "She isn't a bad little flapper!" +was all that Ninian would say of his sister, and there was little +comfort to be derived from that speech. Now, standing here in this +window-corner, looking over the fields that stretched away to the Antrim +mountains, Henry felt that Mary was slipping swiftly out of his life. It +might be a very long time before he saw her again. ... How beautiful she +had looked that day when she stood on Whitcombe platform and waved her +hand to him as the train steamed out of the station! He _must_ marry +her. Mrs. Graham _must_ ask him to spend the next summer at Boveyhayne +so that he could meet Mary again. Anyhow he would write to her. He would +tell her all he was doing. He would describe his life at Trinity to her. +He would remind her continually of himself, and perhaps she would not +forget him. Girls, of course, were very odd and they changed their minds +an awful lot. Ninian might invite some chap from Cambridge to +Boveyhayne.... That would be like Ninian, to go and spoil everything +without thinking for a moment of what he was doing.... If only Mary and +he were a few years older, they could become formally engaged, and then +everything would be all right, but Mary was so young ... + + + + +THE FIFTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +Soon after Henry had returned to Ballymartin, John Marsh came to Mr. +Quinn's house to prepare him for Trinity. "He'll put you in the way of +knowin' more about Ireland nor I can tell you, Henry," Mr. Quinn said to +his son on the evening before Marsh arrived, "an' a lot more nor you'll +learn at Rumpell's, or, for that matter, at Trinity." + +"Then why do you want me to go to Trinity?" Henry asked, still unable to +conceal his disappointment at not being sent to Cambridge with his +friends. + +"I've told you that already," Mr. Quinn replied firmly, closing his lips +down tightly. "I want you to have Irish friends as well as English +friends, and I've learned this much from livin', that a man seldom makes +friends ... _friends,_ mind you ... after he's twenty-five. You only +make acquaintances after that age. I'd like well to think there were +people in Ireland that had as tight a hold on your friendship, Henry, as +Gilbert Farlow and them other lads have.... An' there's another thing," +he went on, leaning forward as he spoke and wagging his forefinger at +Henry. "If you go to Trinity with a kindly feelin' for Ireland, it'll be +something to think there's one man in the place that has a decent +thought for his country an' isn't an imitation Englishman. Who knows +what good you might do there?" He let his speculations consume him. "You +might change the character of the whole college. You ... you might make +it Irish. You ... you might be the means of turnin' the Provost into an +Irishman an' start him takin' an interest in his country. The oul' lad +might turn Fenian an' get transported or hung!..." + +When he had ceased to speculate on what might happen if Henry began an +Irish crusade in Trinity, he spoke again of Marsh. + +"You'll like him," he said. "I know you will. He's a bit off his head, +of course, but that's neither here nor there. The man's a scholar an' I +think he writes bits of poetry. I've never seen any of his pieces, but +somebody told me he wrote things. I'd like well to have a poet in the +house!" + +"Is he a Catholic?" Henry asked. + +His father nodded his head. "An' very religious, too, I believe," he +said. "Still, that's neither here nor there. I met him up in Dublin. +Ernest Harper told me about him!" + +Ernest Harper was the painter-poet who had influenced so many young men +in Ireland, and Mr. Quinn had come into the circle of his friends +through the Irish co-operative movement. He had made a special visit to +Dublin to consult Harper about the education of his son, telling him of +his desire that Henry should have a strong national sense ... "but none +of your damned theosophy, mind!..." and Harper had recommended John +Marsh to him. Marsh had lately taken his B.A. degree and he was anxious +to earn money in circumstances that would enable him to proceed to his +M.A. + +"That lad'll do rightly," said Mr. Quinn, and he arranged to meet Marsh +in the queer, untidy room in Merrion Square where Harper edited his +weekly paper. "He has the walls of the place covered with pictures of +big women with breasts like balloons," Mr. Quinn said afterwards when he +tried to describe Ernest Harper's office, "an' he talks to you about +fairies 'til you'd near believe a leprechaun 'ud hop out of the +coalscuttle if you lifted the lid!" + +Soon afterwards, they met, and Mr. Quinn explained his purpose to Marsh. +"I'm not a Nationalist, thank God, nor a Catholic, thank God again, but +I'm Irish an' I want my son to know about Ireland an' to feel as Irish +as I do myself!" + +Marsh talked about Nationalism and Freedom and English Misrule, but Mr. +Quinn waved his hands before his face and made a wry expression at him. +"All your talk about the freedom of Ireland is twaddle, John Marsh ... +if you don't mind, I'll begin callin' you John Marsh this minute ... an' +I may as well tell you I don't believe in the tyranny of England. The +English aren't cruel--they're stupid. That's what they are--Thick! As +thick as they can be, an' that's as thick as God thinks it's decent to +let any man be! But they're not cruel. They do cruel things sometimes +because they don't know any better, an' they think they're doin' the +right things when they're only doin' the stupid thing. That's where we +come in! Our job is to teach the English how to do the right thing." +They smiled at him. "An' I'm not coddin,'" he went on. "I mean every +word I say. It's not Home Rule for Ireland that's needed--it's Irish +Rule for England; an' I'll maintain that 'til my dyin' day.... But +that's neither here nor there. I think you're a fool, John Marsh, to go +about dreamin' of an Irish Republic ... you don't mind me callin' you a +fool, do you? ... but you love Ireland, and I'd forgive a man a great +deal for that, so if you'll come an' be tutor to my son, I'll be obliged +to you!" + +And John Marsh, smiling at Mr. Quinn, had consented. + +"That's right," Mr. Quinn said, gripping the young man's hand and +wringing it heartily. "I like him," he added, turning to Ernest Harper, +"an' he'll be good for Henry, an' I daresay I'll be good for him. You've +an awful lot of slummage in your skull," he continued, addressing Marsh +again, "but begod I'll clear that out!" + +"Slummage?" Marsh asked questioningly. + +"Aye. Do you not know what slummage is?" + +He described it as a heap of steamy, flabby grain that is rejected by +distillers after the spirit has been extracted from it. "An' it's only +fit to feed pigs with," he said, ending his description. "An' the kind +of stuff you're lettin' out of you now is only fit for pub-patriots. +How soon can you come to Ballymartin. The sooner the better!" + +He tried to drop the discussion of politics, but was so fond of it +himself that before he had settled the date of Marsh's appearance at +Ballymartin, he was in the middle of another discussion. His head was +full of theories about Ireland and about the world, and he loved to let +his theories out of his head for an airing. He very earnestly desired to +keep Ireland different from England. "Ireland's the 'country' of this +kingdom, an' England's the 'town,'" he sometimes said, or when his mood +was bitter, he would say that he wished to preserve Ireland as a place +in which gentlemen could live in comfort, leaving England to be the +natural home of manufacturers and mill-owners. + +"But it's no good talkin' of separatin' the two countries," he said to +Marsh, "an' it's no good talkin' of drivin' the English out of Ireland +because you can't tell these times who is English an' who is Irish. +We've mingled our blood too closely for any one to be able to tell who's +what. If you started clearin' out the English, you'd mebbe clear me out, +for my family was planted here by William of Orange ... an' the +damnedest set of scoundrels they were, too, by all accounts!... an' +mebbe, Marsh, you yourself 'ud be cleared out!... Aye, an' you, too, +Ernest Harper, for all you're waggin' your oul' red beard at me. You're +Scotch, man, Scotch, to the backbone!..." + +Harper rose at him, wagging his red beard, and filling the air with +terrible prophecies!... + +"Ah, quit, man!" said Mr. Quinn, and he turned and winked at Marsh. "Do +you know what religion he is?" he said, pointing his finger at Harper. +"He's a Nonconformin' Theosophist!" And he roared at his own joke. + +"You can no more separate the destinies of England an' Ireland in the +world," he went on, "nor you can separate the waters of the Liffey an' +the Mersey in the Irish Sea. Bedam, if you can!" + +Mr. Quinn liked to throw out these aphorisms, and he spent a great deal +of time in inventing them. Once he flung a company of Dublin gossips +into a rage because he declared that Dublin was called "the whispering +gallery" and "the city of dreadful whispers" because it was populated by +the descendants of informers and spies. That, he declared, was why +Dublin people were so fond of tittle-tattle and tale-bearing and +scandal-mongering. "The English hanged or transported every +decent-minded man in the town, an' left only the spies an' informers, +an' the whole of you are descended from that breed. That's why you can't +keep anything to yourselves, but have to run abut the town tellin' +everybody all the secrets you know!" And he charged them with constantly +giving each other away. He repeated this generalisation about the Dublin +people to John Marsh. "An' I tell you what'll happen to you, young +fellow, one of these days. You'll be hanged or shot or transported or +somethin', an' half the people of this place'll be runnin' like +lightnin' to swear an information against you, as sure as Fate. If ever +you think of startin' a rebellion, John Marsh, go up to Belfast an' +start it. People'll be loyal to you there, but in this place they'd sell +you for a pint of Guinness!" + +He was half serious in his warning to Marsh, but ... "I should be glad +to die for Ireland," Marsh replied, and it was said so simply that there +was no priggishness in it. "I can think of no finer fate for an +Irishman." + +Mr. Quinn made a gesture of impatience. "It 'ud be a damn sight better +to live for Ireland," he exclaimed angrily. + + +2 + +Henry was in the garden when John Marsh arrived, accompanied by Mr. +Quinn. Two letters had come to him that morning from England--one from +Gilbert Farlow and the other from Mary Graham, and he was reading them +again for the seventh or eighth time when the dogcart drove up to the +house. + + _My dear old ass,_ Gilbert wrote, _why grizzle and grouse at the + Bally Awful! That's my name now for things which can't be helped. + I've taught it to Ninian, but he persists in calling it the Bloody + Awful, which is low. He says that doesn't matter because he is low. + Roger and I have had to clout his head rather severely lately ... + it took two of us to do it.... Roger held his arms while I clouted + him ... because he has become fearfully democratic, meaning by + that, that anybody who knows more than his alphabet is an enemy of + the poor. Roger and I are dead nuts on aristocracy at present. We + go about saying, "My God, I'm a superman!" and try to look like + Bernard Shaw. Roger only succeeds in looking like Little Lord + Fauntleroy. But all this is away from the point, which is, why + grizzle and grouse at the Bally Awful. If your papa will send you + to T.C.D., you must just grin and bear it, my lad. I've never met + anybody from Trinity.... I suppose people do come out of it after + they get into it ... but if you're careful and remember the example + of your little friends, Gilbert and Ninian and Roger, you'll come + to no harm. And when you do come to London, we'll try to improve + what's left of your poor mind. It would be splendid to go to + Ballymartin for the summer. Tell your papa that Ninian and Roger + and I solemnly cursed him three times for preventing you from + coming to Cambridge, and then gave him three cheers for asking us + to Ireland. The top of the morning to you, my broth of a boy, and + the heavens be your bed, bedad and bejabers, as you say in your + country, according to Punch. Yours ever, Gilbert._ + + _P.S. What about that two bob you owe me?_ + +Mary's letter was shorter than Gilbert's. + + _I think it's awfully horrid of your father not to let you go to + Cambridge with Ninian and the others. I was so looking forward to + going up in May Week and so was Mother. Of course, we shall go + anyhow, but it would have been much nicer if you had been there. + You would love Boveyhayne if you were here now. The hedges are full + of wild roses and hazelnuts and there is a lovely lot of valaria on + our wall. Old Widger says there will be a lovely lot of + blackberries in September if everything goes well. I went out in a + boat yesterday with Tom Yeo and I caught six dozen mackerel. You + would have blubbed if you'd seen them flopping about in the bottom + of the boat and looking so nice, and they were nice to eat. I love + mackerel, don't you? Mother sends her love. Do write soon. I love + getting letters and you write such nice ones. Your affectionate + friend, Mary Graham. P.S. Love._ + +Mary always signed herself his affectionate friend. He had tried to make +her sign herself his loving sweetheart, but she said she did not like to +do that. + + +3 + +He hurriedly put the letters away, and rose to greet John Marsh who came +across the lawn to him, talking to Mr. Quinn. + +"This is John Marsh, Henry," Mr. Quinn said when he came up to him, and +Henry and Marsh shook hands and murmured greetings to each other. "I'll +leave you both here to get acquainted with each other," Mr. Quinn +continued. "I've a few things to do about the house!" He went off at +once, leaving them together, but before he had gone far he turned and +shouted to Henry, "You can show him through the grounds! He'll want to +stretch his legs after bein' so long in the train!" + +"Very well, father!" Henry answered, and turned to Marsh. + +His first impression of his tutor was one of insignificance. Marsh's +clothes were cheap and ready-made, and they seemed to be a size too +large for him. That, indeed, was characteristic of him, that he should +always seem to be wearing things which were too big for him. His tie, +too, was rising over the top of his collar.... But the sense of +insignificance disappeared from Henry's mind almost immediately after +Marsh had offered his hand to him and had smiled; and following the +sense of insignificance came a feeling of personal shame that was +incomprehensible to him until he discovered that his shame was caused +because he had thought slightingly of Marsh, even though he had done so +only for a few moments, and had allowed his mind to be concerned about +the trivialities of clothes when it should have been concerned with the +nature of the man who wore them. Henry's mind was oddly perverse; he had +been as fierce in his denunciation of convention as ever Gilbert Farlow +had been, but nevertheless he clung to conventional things with +something like desperation. It was characteristic of him that he should +palliate his submission to the conventional thing by inventing a +sensible excuse for it. He would say that such things were too trivial +to be worth the trouble of a fight or a revolt, and declare that one +should save one's energies for bigger battles; but the truth was that he +had not the moral courage to flout a convention, and he had a queer, +instinctive dislike of people who had the courage to do so.... He knew +that this habit of his was likely to distort his judgments and make him +shrink from ordeals of faith, and very often in his mind he tried to +subdue his cowardly fear of conventional disapproval ... without +success. But John Marsh had the power to conquer people. The gentleness +of him, the kindly smile and the look of high intent, made men of meaner +motive feel unaccountably ashamed. + +He was a man of middle height and slender build. His high, broad brow +was covered by heavy, rough, tufty hair that was brushed cleanly from +his forehead and cut tidily about the neck so that he did not look +unkempt. His long, straight nose was as large as the nose of a +successful business man, but it was not bulbous nor were the nostrils +wide and distended. It was a delicately-shaped and pointed nose, with +narrow nostrils that were as sensitive as the nostrils of a racehorse: +an adventurous, pointing nose that would lead its owner to valiant +lengths, but would never lead him into low enterprises. He had grey eyes +that were quick to perceive, so that he understood things speedily, and +the kindly, forbearing look in them promised that his understanding +would not be stiffened by harshness, that it would be accompanied by +sympathy so keen that, were it not for the hint of humour which they +also held, he might almost have been mawkish, a sentimentalist too +easily dissolved in tears. His thick eyebrows clung closely to his eyes, +and gave him a look of introspection that mitigated the shrewdness of +his pointing nose. There was some weakness, but not much, in the full, +projecting lower lip and the slightly receding chin that caused his +short, tightened upper lip to look indrawn and strained; and the big, +ungainly, jutting ears consorted oddly with the serious look of high +purpose that marked his face in repose. It was as though Puck had turned +poet and then had turned preacher. One looked at the fleshy lower lip +and the jutting ears, and thought of a careless, impish creature; one +looked at the shapely, pointing nose and the kindly, unflinching eyes, +and thought of a man reckless of himself in the pursuit of some fine +purpose. One saw immediately that he was a man who could be moved easily +when his sympathies were touched ... but that he could hardly be +dissuaded from the fulfilment of his good intent. His Nationalism was +like a cleansing fire; it consumed every impure thing that might +penetrate his life. It was so potent that he did ridiculous things in +asserting it.... It was typical of him that he should gaelicise his +name, and equally typical of him that he should be undecided about the +correct spelling of "John" in the ancient Irish tongue. He had called +himself "Sean" Marsh, and then had called himself "Shane" and "Shaun" +and "Shawn." Once, for a while, he transformed "John" into "Eoin" and +then, tiring of it, had reverted to "Sean." But this restlessness over +his name was not a sign of general instability of purpose. He might vary +in the expression of his belief, but the belief itself was as immovable +as the mountains. + + +4 + +It was said of him that on one occasion he had taken a cheque to a bank +in Dublin to be cashed. An English editor had printed one of his poems +and had paid for it ... and he was not accustomed to receiving money for +his poems, which were printed mostly in little Irish propaganda +journals! He had endorsed the cheque in Gaelic, and the puzzled bank +manager had demanded that it should be endorsed in English.... Marsh had +given him a lecture on Irish history that lasted for the better part of +half-an-hour ... and then, because the manager looked so frightened, he +had consented to sign his name in English. + + +5 + +They left the garden and walked slowly to the top of an ascending field +where an old farm-horse, quit now of work, grazed in peace. It raised +its head as they walked towards it, and gazed at them with blurred eyes, +and then ambled to them. They stood beside it for a few moments while +Marsh patted its neck with one hand and allowed it to nuzzle in the palm +of the other. "I love beasts," he said, "Dogs and cats and birds and +horses and cows ... I think I love cows best because they've got such +big, soft eyes and look so stupid and reproachful ... except that dogs +are very nice and companionable and faithful ... but so are cats...." + +"Faithful? Cats?" Henry asked. + +"Oh, yes ... quite faithful if they like you. Why should they be +faithful if they don't? Poor, old chap! Poor, old chap!" he murmured, +thrusting his fingers through the horse's worn mane. "Of course, horses +are very nice, too," he went on. "And birds! ... I suppose one loves +all animals. One has to be very brutal to hurt an animal; hasn't one?" + +Henry laughed. "The Irish are cruel to animals," he said, "but the +English aren't!" + +Marsh flushed. "I've never been in England," he replied, looking away. + +"Never?" Henry exclaimed. + +"No, and I shall never go there!" + +There was a sudden ferocity in his voice that startled Henry. "But why?" +he asked. + +"Why?..." Marsh's voice changed its note and became quiet again. "I'm +Irish," he said. "That's why! I don't think that any Irishman ought to +put his foot in England until Ireland is free!" + +Henry snapped at him impatiently. "I hate all that kind of talk," he +said. + +Marsh looked at him in astonishment. "You hate all ... what talk?" he +asked. + +"All that talk about Ireland being free!" + +"But don't you want Ireland to be free?" Marsh asked. + +They had walked on across the field until they came to a barred gate, +and Marsh climbed on to the top bar and perched himself there while +Henry stood with his back against the gate and fondled the muzzle of the +horse which had followed after them. + +"I don't know what you mean when you say you want Ireland to be free!" +Henry exclaimed. + +"Don't know what I mean!..." Marsh's voice became very tense again, and +he slipped down from the gate and turned quickly to explain his meaning +to Henry, but Henry did not wait for the explanation. "No," he +interrupted quickly. "Of course, I don't know much about these things, +but I've read some books that father gave me, and I've talked to my +friends ... one of them, Gilbert Farlow, is rather clever and he knows a +lot about politics ... he argues with his father about them ... and I +can't see that there's much difference between England and Ireland. +People here don't seem to me to be any worse off than people over +there!" + +"It isn't a question of being worse off or better off," Marsh replied. +"It's a question of being _free._ The English are governed by the +English. The Irish aren't governed by the Irish. That's the difference +between us. What does it matter what your condition is so long as you +know that you are governed by a man of your own breed and blood, and +that at any minute you may be in his place and he in yours, and yet +you'll be men of the same breed and blood? I'd rather be governed badly +by men of my own breed than be governed well by another breed...." + +Henry remembered Ulster and his father and all his kinsmen scattered +about the North who had sworn to die in the last ditch rather than be +governed by Nationalists. "That's all very well," he said, "but there +are plenty of people in Ireland who don't want to be governed by your +breed, well or bad!" + +"They'd consent if they thought we had the ability to govern well," +Marsh went on. "Anyhow, we couldn't govern Ireland worse than the +English have governed it!" + +"Some people think you could!..." + +But Marsh was in no mood to listen to objections. "You can't be free +until you are equal with other people, and we aren't equal with the +English. We aren't equal with anybody but subject people. And they look +down on us, the English do. We're lazy and dirty and ignorant and +superstitious and priest-ridden and impractical and ... and comic!... My +God, _comic_! Whenever I see an Englishman in Ireland, running round and +feeling superior, I want to wring his damned neck ... and I should hate +to wring any one's neck." + +Henry tried to interject a remark, but Marsh hurried on, disregarding +his attempt to speak. + +"How would they like it if we went over to their country and made +remarks about them?" he exclaimed. "My brother went to London once and +he saw people making love in public ... fellows and girls hugging each +other in the street and sprawling about in the parks ... all over each +other ... and no one took any notice. It wasn't decent.... How would +they like it if we went over there and made remarks about _that?_ ..." + +Henry insisted on speaking. "But why should you hate the English?" he +demanded, and added, "I don't hate them. I like them!" + +"I didn't say I hated the English," Marsh replied. "I don't. I don't +hate any race. That would be ridiculous. But I hate the belief that the +English are fit to govern us, when they're not, and that we're not fit +to govern ourselves, when we are. I'd rather be governed by Germans than +be governed by the English!..." Henry moved away impatiently. "Yes, I +would," Marsh continued. "At all events, the Germans would govern us +well...." + +"You'd hate to be governed by Germans!" + +"I'd hate to be governed by any but Irishmen; but the Germans wouldn't +make the muddles and messes that the English make!..." + +"You don't know that," Henry said. + +But Marsh would not take up the point. He swung off on a generalisation. +"There won't be any peace or happiness in Ireland," he said, "until the +English are driven out of it. Even the Orangemen don't like them. +They're always making fun of them!..." + +Henry repeated his assertion that he liked the English, conscious that +there was something feeble in merely repeating it. He wished that he +could say something as forceful as Marsh's statement of his dislike of +England, but he was unable to think of anything adequate to say. "I like +the English," he said again, and when he thought over that talk, there +seemed to be nothing else to say. How could he feel about the English as +John Marsh, who had never lived in England, felt? How could he dislike +them when he remembered Gilbert Farlow and Roger Carey and Ninian +Graham and Mrs. Graham and Old Widger and Tom Yeo and Jim Rattenbury ... +and Mary Graham. His father had always spoken contemptuously of +Englishmen, but he had never been moved by this violent antipathy to +them which moved Marsh ... and most of his talk against England was only +talk, intended to sting the English out of their complacency ... and he +was eager to preserve the Union between the two countries. But Marsh +wished to be totally separate from England. He was vague, very vague, +about points of defence, and he boggled badly when Henry, trying to +think like a statesman, talked of an Army and a Navy ... his mind +wandered into the mists of Tolstoyianism and then he ended by suggesting +that England would attend to these matters in self-defence. He could not +satisfy Henry's superficial enquiries about the possibilities of trade +conducted in Gaelic ... but he was positive about the need for +separation, complete and irremediable separation, from England. + +"We're separated from them physically," he said, "and I want us to be +separated from them politically and spiritually. They're a debased +people!..." Henry muttered angrily at that, for his mind was still full +of Mary Graham. "They're a debased people ... that's why I want to get +free of them ... and all the debasing things in Ireland are part of the +English taint. We've nothing in common with them. They're a race of +factory-hands and manufacturers; we're a race of farmers and poets; and +you can never reconcile us. All you can do is to make us like them ... +or worse!" + +Henry remembered how his father had fulminated against the smooth +Englishman who had proposed to turn Glendalough into a place like the +Potteries or Wigan. + +"But isn't there some middle course?" he said weakly. "Isn't there some +way of getting at the minerals of Wicklow without making Glendalough a +place like Wigan?" + +"Not if the English have anything to do with it," Marsh answered. "I +don't know what Wigan is like.... I suppose it's horrible ... but it's +natural to Englishmen. They trail that sort of place behind them +wherever they go. Slums and sickness and fat, rich men! If they had +anything to do with developing Wicklow they'd make it stink!..." + +"Well, I don't know," Henry said wearily, for he soon grew tired of +arguments in which he was an unequal participator. "I like the English +and I can't see any good in just hating them!" + +"They found a decent, generous race in Ireland," Marsh exclaimed, "and +they've turned it into a race of cadgers. Your father admits that. Ask +him what he thinks of Arthur Balfour and his Congested Districts +Board!..." + +They went back to the house, and as they went, they talked of books, and +as they talked of books, Marsh's mind became assuaged. He had lately +published a little volume of poems and he spoke of it to Henry in a shy +fashion, though his eyes brightened and gleamed as he repeated something +that Ernest Harper had said of them ... but then Ernest Harper always +spoke kindly of the work of young, sincere men. + +"I'll give you a copy if you like," Marsh said to Henry. + +"Oh, thank you!" Henry exclaimed. "I should love to have it. I suppose," +he went on, "it's very exciting to have a book published." + +"I cried when I first saw my book," Marsh answered very simply. "I +suppose women do that when they first see their babies!..." + +But Henry did not know what women do when they first see their babies. + + + + +THE SIXTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +All through the summer, Henry and John Marsh worked together, making +Irishry, as Marsh called it. They studied the conventional subjects in +preparation for T. C. D. but their chief studies were of the Irish +tongue and Irish history. Marsh was a Gaelic scholar, and he had made +many translations of Gaelic poems and stories, some of which seemed to +Henry to be of extraordinary beauty, but most of which seemed to him to +be so thoughtless that they were merely lengths of words. There appeared +to be no connexion between these poems and tales and the life he himself +led--and Marsh's point was that the connexion was vital. One evening, +Henry, who had been reading "The Trojan Women" of Euripides, turned to +Marsh and said that the Greek tragedy seemed nearer to him than any of +the Gaelic stories and poems. He expressed his meaning badly, but what +it came to was this, that the continuity of life was not broken in the +Euripidean plays: the life of which Henry was part flowed directly from +the life of which Euripides was part; he had not got the sensation that +he was a stranger looking on at alien things when he had read "The +Trojan Women," "I can imagine all that happening now," he said, "but I +can't imagine any of that Gaelic life recurring. I don't feel any life +in it. It's like something ... something odd suddenly butting into +things ... and then suddenly butting out again ... and leaving no +explanation behind it!" + +He tried again, with greater success, to explain what he meant. "It's +like reading topical references in old books," he said. "They mean +nothing to us even when there are footnotes to explain them!" + +Marsh had listened patiently to him, though there was anger in his +heart. "You think that all that life is over!" he said, and Henry nodded +his head. + +"Listen," said Marsh, taking a letter from his pocket, "here is a poem, +translated from Irish, that was sent to me by a friend of mine in +Dublin. His name is Galway, and I'd like you to know him. Listen! It's +called 'A Song for Mary Magdalene.'" + +He read the poem in a slow, crooning voice that seemed always on the +point of becoming ridiculous, but never did become so. + + O woman of the gleaming hair + (Wild hair that won men's gaze to thee), + Weary thou turnest from the common stare, + For the Shuiler[2] Christ is calling thee. + + O woman with the wild thing's heart, + Old sin hath set a snare for thee: + In the forest ways forespent thou art, + But the hunter Christ shall pity thee. + + O woman spendthrift of thyself, + Spendthrift of all the love in thee, + Sold unto sin for little pelf, + The captain Christ shall ransom thee. + + O woman that no lover's kiss + (Tho' many a kiss was given thee) + Could slake thy love, is it not for this + The hero Christ shall die for thee? + +They were quiet for a while, and then Marsh turned to Henry and said, +"Is that alien to you?" + +"No," he answered, "but I did not say that it was all alien!..." + +"Or this?" Marsh interrupted, taking up the manuscript again. "Galway +sent these translations to me so that I might be the first to see them. +He always does that. This one is called 'Lullaby of a Woman of the +Mountain.'" + + Little gold head, my house's candle, + You will guide all wayfarers that walk this country. + + Little soft mouth that my breast has known, + Mary will kiss you as she passes. + + Little round cheek, O smoother than satin, + Iosa will lay His hand upon you. + + Mary's kiss on my baby's mouth, + Christ's little hand on my darling's cheek! + + House, be still, and ye little grey mice, + Lie close to-night in your hidden lairs. + + Moths on the window, fold your wings, + Little black chafers, silence your humming. + + Plover and curlew fly not over my house, + Do not speak, wild barnacle, passing over this mountain. + + Things of the mountain that wake in the night time, + Do not stir to-night till the daylight whitens. + +"That's alive, isn't it?" Marsh, now openly angry, demanded. "Do you +think that song doesn't kindle the hearts of mothers all over the +world?... I can imagine Eve crooning it to little Cain and Abel, and I +can imagine a woman in the Combe crooning it to her child!..." The Combe +was a tract of slum in Dublin. "It's universal and everlasting. You +can't kill that!" + +"Then why has it got lost?" + +"It isn't lost--it's only covered up. Our task is to dig it out. It's +worth digging out, isn't it? The people in the West still sing songs +like that. Isn't it worth while to try and get all our people to sing +them instead of singing English music-hall stuff?..." + + +2 + +It was in that spirit that Marsh started the Gaelic class in +Ballymartin. "And the Gaelic games," he said to Henry, "we'll revive +them too!" Twice a week, he taught the rudiments of the Irish language +to a mixed class of boys and girls, and every Saturday he led the +Ballymartin hurley team into one of Mr. Quinn's fields.... + +There had been difficulty in establishing the mixed classes. The farmers +and the villagers, having first declared that Gaelic was useless to +them--"they'd be a lot better learnin' shorthand!" said John +McCracken--then declared that they did not care to have their daughters +"trapesin' about the loanies, lettin' on to be learnin' Irish, an' them +only up to devilment with the lads!" But Marsh overcame that difficulty, +as he overcame most of his difficulties, by persistent attack; and in +the end, the Gaelic class was established, and the Ballymartin boys and +girls were set to the study of O'Growney's primer. Henry was employed as +Marsh's monitor. His duty was to supervise the elementary pupils, +leaving the more advanced ones to the care of Marsh. It was while he was +teaching the Gaelic alphabet to his class, that Henry first met Sheila +Morgan. + +She came into the schoolroom one night out of a drift of rain, and as +she stood in the doorway, laughing because the wind had caught her +umbrella and almost torn it out of her hands, he could see the +raindrops glistening on her cheeks. She put the umbrella in a corner of +the room, leaving it open so that it might dry more quickly, and then +she shook her long dark hair back and wiped the rain from her face. He +waited until she had taken off her mackintosh and hung it up in the +cloakroom, and then he went forward to her. + +"Have you come to join the class?" he asked, and she smiled and nodded +her head. "It's a coarse sort of a night," she added, coming into the +classroom. + +He did not know her name, and he wondered where her home was. He knew +everybody in Ballymartin, and many of the people in the country outside +it, but he had never seen Sheila Morgan before. + +"I thought I might as well come," she said, "but I'm only here for a +while!" + +Then she did not belong to the village. "Yes?..." he said. + +"It's quaren dull in the country," she continued, "an' the classes'll +help to pass the time. I wish it was dancin', but!" + +Dancing! They had not made any arrangements for dancing, though the +Gaels were very nimble on their feet. He glanced at Marsh reproachfully. +Why had Marsh omitted to revive the Gaelic dances? + +"Perhaps," he said to Sheila, "we can have dancing classes later on...." + +"I'll mebbe be gone before you have them," she answered. + +"How long are you staying for?" he asked. + +"I don't know. I'm stopping with my uncle Matthew ... it's him has +Hamilton's farm ... an' I'm stoppin' 'til he knows how his health'll be. +He's bad...." + +He remembered Matthew Hamilton. "Is he ill?" he said. + +"Aye. He's been sick this while past, an' now he's worse, an' my aunt +Kate asked me to come an' stop with them to help them in the house. He's +not near himself at all. You'd think a pity of him if you seen the way +he's failed next to nothin'.... Is it hard to learn Irish?" + +"You'd better come an' try for yourself," he replied, and then he led +her up to Marsh and told him that a new pupil had come to join the +class. There was some awkwardness about names.... "Och, I never told you +my name," she said, laughing as she spoke. "Sheila Morgan!" she +continued. "I live in County Down, but I'm stayin' with my uncle +Matthew," she explained to Marsh. + +"Do you know any Gaelic at all?" Marsh asked. + +"No," she replied. "I never learned it. Are you goin' to have any +dancin' classes?" + +Henry insisted that they ought to have had dancing classes as well as a +hurley team. "The hurley's all right for the boys," he said, "but we've +nothing for the girls...." + +"But you'd want boys at the dancin' as well," Sheila interrupted. "I +can't bear dancin' with girls!" + +"No, of course not," said Henry. + +Marsh considered. "Who's to teach the dancing?" he asked, adding, "I +can't!" + +"I'd be willin' to do that," Sheila said. "Mebbe you'd join the class +yourself, Mr. Marsh?" + +Marsh laughed, but did not answer. + +"It'll be great value," she went on. "There's nothin' to do in the +evenin's ... nothin' at all ... an' it's despert dull at night with +nothin' to do!..." + +"I'll think about it," said Marsh. "You can begin your Gaelic study +now," he added. "Mr. Quinn'll give you a lesson!..." + + +3 + +It was Jamesey McKeown who caused the decision to hold the dancing +classes to be made as quickly as it was. Jamesey was one of the pupils +in the advanced section of the Gaelic class ... a bright-witted boy of +thirteen, with a quick, sharp way. One day, Marsh and Henry had climbed +a steep hill outside the village, and when they reached the top of it, +they found Jamesey lying there, looking down on the fields beneath. His +chin was resting in the cup of his upturned palms. + +"God save you, Jamesey!" said Marsh, and "God save you kindly!" Jamesey +answered. + +The greeting and the reply are not native to Ulster, but Marsh had made +them part of the Gaelic studies, and whenever he encountered friends he +always saluted them so. His pupils, falling in with his whim, replied +to his salute as he wished them to reply, but the older people merely +nodded their heads or said "It's a soft day!" or "It's a brave day!" or, +more abruptly, "Morra, Mr. Marsh!" The Protestants among them suspected +that the Gaelic salutation was a form of furtive Popery.... + +They sat down beside the boy. "I suppose you'll be leaving school soon, +Jamesey?" Marsh asked. + +"Aye, I will in a while," Jamesey answered. + +"What class are you in?" + +"I'm a monitor, Mr. Marsh. I'm in my first year!..." + +Henry sat up and joined in the conversation. "Then you're going to be a +teacher?" he said. + +"No, I'm not," Jamesey replied. "My ma put me in for the monitor to get +the bit of extra education. That's all!" + +"What are you going to be, Jamesey? A farmer?" said Marsh. + +"No. I wouldn't be a farmer for the world!..." + +"But why?" + +The boy changed his position and faced round to them. "Sure, there's +nothin' to do but work from the dawn till the dark," he said, "an' you +never get no diversion at all. I'm quaren tired of this place, I can +tell you, an' my ma's tired of it too. She wudden be here if she could +help it, but sure she can't. It's terrible in the winter, an' the win' +fit to blow the head off you, an' you with nothin' to do on'y look after +a lot of oul' cows an' pigs an' things. I'm goin' to a town as soon as +I'm oul' enough!..." + +They talked to him of the beauty of the country.... + +"Och, it's all right for a holiday in the summer," he said. + +... and they talked to him of the fineness of a farmer's life, but he +would not agree with them. A farmer's life was too hard and too dull. He +was set on joining his brother in Glasgow.... + +"What does your brother do, Jamesey?" Marsh asked. + +"He's a barman." + +"A barman!" they repeated, a little blankly. + +"Aye. That's what I'm goin' to be ... in the same place as him!" + +They did not speak for a while. It seemed to both of them to be +incredible that any one could wish to exchange the loveliness of the +Antrim country for a Glasgow bar.... + +"What hours does your brother work?" Marsh asked drily. + +"He works from eight in the mornin' till eight at night, an' it's later +on Saturdays, but he has a half-day a week til himself, an' he has all +day Sunday. They don't drink on Sunday in Glasgow!" + +Marsh smiled. "Don't they?" he said. + +"It's long hours," Jamesey admitted, "but he has great diversion. D'ye +know this, Mr. Marsh!" he continued, rolling over on his side and +speaking more quickly, "he can go to a music-hall twice on the one night +an' hear all the latest songs for tuppence. That's all it costs him. He +goes to the gallery an' he hears gran', an' he can go to two music-halls +in the one night ... _in the one night_, mind you ... for fourpence! +Where would you bate that? You never get no diversion of that sort in +this place ... only an oul' magic-lantern an odd time, or the Band of +Hope singin' songs about teetotallers!..." + +That was the principal burden of Jamesey's complaint, that there was no +diversion in Ballymartin. "If you were to go up the street now," he +said, "you'd see the fellas stan'in' at the corner, houl'in' up the +wall, an' wonderin' what the hell to do with themselves, an' never +gettin' no answer!..." + +"You never hear noan of the latest songs here," he complained again. "I +got a quare cut from my brother once, me singin' a song that I thought +was new, an' he toul' me it was as oul' as the hills. It was more nor a +year oul', anyway!..." + + +4 + +They came away from the hill in a mood of depression. It seemed to Henry +that the Gaelic Movement could never take root in that soil. What was +the good of asking Jamesey McKeown to sing Gaelic songs and till the +land when his heart was hungering for the tuppeny excitements of a +Glasgow music-hall? What would Jamesey McKeown make of Galway's +translations? Would + + O woman of the gleaming hair + (Wild hair that won men's gaze to thee), + Weary thou turnest from the common stare, + For the Shuiler Christ is calling thee. + +bind him to the nurture of the earth when + + What ho! she bumps + +called him to Glasgow? + +"We must think of something!" Marsh was saying, but Henry was busy with +his own thoughts and paid no heed to him. + +What, after all, had a farm to offer a quick-witted man or woman? That +girl, Lizzie McCamley of whom his father had spoken once, she had +preferred to go to Belfast and work in a linen mill and live in a slum +rather than continue in the country; and Jamesey McKeown, who was so +quick and eager and anxious to succeed, had weighed farms and fields and +hills and valleys in the balance and found them of less weight and value +than a Glasgow bar and a Glasgow music-hall. Henry remembered that his +father was more interested in the land than most men--and he resolved to +ask for his opinion. What was the good of all this co-operation, this +struggle to discover the best way of making the earth yield up the means +of life, this effort to increase and multiply, when nothing they could +do seemed to make the work attractive to those who did it?... + +Marsh was still murmuring to him. "I see," he was saying, "that +something must be done. That girl ... what's her name?... Sheila +something?..." + +"Sheila Morgan!" Henry said. + +"Yes. Sheila Morgan ... she said something about dancing classes, didn't +she? We'll start a dancing class ... we'll teach them the Gaelic +dances!..." + +It suddenly seemed funny to Henry that Marsh should propose to solve the +Land Problem ... the real Land Problem ... by means of dancing classes. + +"They'll want more than that," he said. "They can't always be dancing!" + +"No," Marsh answered, "but we can begin with that!" + +Marsh's depression swiftly left him. He began to speculate on the future +of the countryside when the Gaelic revival was complete. There would be +Gaelic games, Gaelic songs, Gaelic dances and a Gaelic literature. "I +don't see why we shouldn't have a theatre in every village, with village +actors and village plays.... There must be a great deal of talent hidden +away in these houses that never comes out because there is no one to +bring it out.... I wish you were older, Henry, and were quit of Trinity. +You and I ... and Galway ... of course, we must have Galway ... might +start the Movement on a swifter course than it has now!..." He broke off +and made a gesture of impatience. "Oh, my God, why can't a man do more!" +he said. + + +5 + +Henry put the question to his father, and Mr. Quinn considered it for a +while. + +"I don't know," he answered, "what to say. You'd think people would find +more to interest them in the land than in anything else ... but they +don't. There's so much to do, an' it's so varied, an' you have it all +under your own eye ... you begin it an' carry it on and you end it ... +an' yet somehow!... An' then the whole family understands it and can +take an interest in it. You'd think that that would hold them. There +isn't any other trade in the world that'll take up a whole family an' +give them all somethin' to talk about an' think over an' join in. But +I've never known a bright boy or girl on a farm that wasn't itchin' to +get away from it to a town!" + +"But something'll have to be done, father!" Henry urged. "We must have +farmers!..." + +"Aye, something'll have to be done, but I'm damned if I know what. I +suppose when they've developed machinery more an' can make transit +easier ... but sometimes I half think we'll have to breed people for the +land ... thick people, slow-witted people, clods ... an' just let them +root an' dig and grub an' ... an' breed!" He got up as he spoke, and +paced about the room. "No, Henry, I've got no remedy for you! The +Almighty God'll have to think of a plan, _I_ can't!" + + +6 + +Sheila Morgan did not know any of the ancient Gaelic dances, nor did any +one in Ballymartin. She knew how to waltz and she could dance the polka +and the schottishe. "An' that's all you need!" she said. There were two +old women in the village who danced a double reel, and Paddy Kane was a +great lad at jigs.... + +"Perhaps later on," Marsh said, "we can get some one to teach them +Gaelic dances!" + +And so the classes began. Marsh had announced at the Language class that +the first of the Dancing Classes would be held on the following Thursday +... and on Thursday every boy and girl and young man and woman in +Ballymartin had crowded into the schoolroom where the class was to be +held. + +"There are more here than come to the Language class," Marsh exclaimed +in astonishment when he entered the room. + +"Dancing seems to be more popular than Gaelic," Henry replied. + +"I don't know how we shall teach them all," Marsh went on. "I can't +dance ... and she can't possibly teach them all!" + +But there was no need to teach them to dance--they had all learned to +dance "from their cradles," as some one said, and in a little while the +room was full of dancing couples. + +Sheila Morgan had gone smilingly to John Marsh as he entered the room. +"We're all ready," she said, and waited. + +"Oh, yes!" he replied, a little vaguely. + +She looked at him for a few moments, and then went on. "If you were to +lead off," she suggested. + +"Me? But I can't dance!..." + +"You can't dance!" + +"No," he continued. "Somehow, I've never learnt to dance!" She looked +disappointed. "I thought mebbe you an' me 'ud lead off," she said. + +"I'm sorry," he replied. "Perhaps Mr. Quinn can dance!..." + +Henry gave his arm to her and they walked off, to begin the slow +procession round the room until all the couples were ready. + +"I think Mr. Marsh is the only one in the place that can't dance," +Sheila said, as she placed her hand on Henry's shoulder. + +He put his arm round her waist and they moved off in the dance. "I +suppose he is," he answered. + + +7 + +He danced with her several times. Her cheeks were glowing and the lustre +of her eyes was like the sparkle of the stars. Her lips were slightly +parted, and now and then her breath came quickly. As they swung round +and round, she sometimes closed her eyes and then slowly opened them +again. He became aware of some strange emotion that he had never known +before. + +"I love dancin'," she murmured, half to herself. + +"Yes," he replied, scarcely knowing that he was speaking. + +"I love dancin'," she said again, and again he said "Yes" and no +more.... + +He led her to a seat at the side of the room and sat down on the chair +next to it. They did not speak, but sat there watching the swift +movements of the other dancers. Marsh was somewhere at the other end of +the room, looking on ... a little puzzled, a little disturbed ... but +pleased, too, because the dancers were pleased. He was wondering why the +interest in the Gaelic language was not so strong as the interest in the +waltz. "A foreign dance, too ... not Gaelic at all!" + +But Henry had forgotten the Gaelic movement, and was conscious only of +the girl beside him and her glowing cheeks and her bright eyes and the +softness of her.... She was older than he was, a couple of years and he +noticed that she had just "put up" her hair. It had been hanging loosely +when he first saw her, and he wondered which he liked better, the loose, +hanging hair, or the hair bound round her head. Her slender white neck +was revealed now that her hair was up, and it was very beautiful, but he +thought that after all, his first sight of her, as she stood in the +doorway, the raindrops still on her face, and flung back the long, loose +strands of dark hair that lay about her shoulders ... he still thought +that was the loveliest vision of her he had seen.... + +Then he remembered Mary Graham. She, too, had long loose hair that lay +in dark lengths about her shoulders, and her eyes, too, could shine ... +but she was a girl, and Sheila was a woman!... He was engaged to Mary, +of course ... well, was it an engagement? They had been sweethearts and +he had told her he loved her and she had said that she would marry him +... and all that ... but they were kids when that happened. Ninian had +called him a sloppy ass!... This was different. His feeling for Sheila +Morgan was different from his feeling for Mary Graham. He had never felt +for any one as he felt for Sheila. He seemed unaccountably to be more +aware of Sheila than he was of Mary. He could not altogether understand +this difference of sensation ... but sometimes when he had been with +Mary, he had forgotten that she was a girl ... she was just some one +with whom he was playing a game or going for a walk or taking a bathe in +the sea. But he could not forget that Sheila was a woman. When he had +danced with her and his arm was about her waist and her fingers were in +his ... he seemed to grow up. He felt as if something at which he had +been gazing uncomprehendingly for a long time, had suddenly become known +to him. He recognised something ... understood something which had +puzzled him. + +"Let's dance again," he said, standing up before her. + +"All right," she answered, rising and going to him. + +"I love dancing," he said to her. + +"Yes," she murmured in reply. + + +8 + +When the dance was over, he took her to her uncle's farm. Marsh, +overcome by headache, had gone home before the dance was ended, and +Henry felt glad of this. He waited in the porch of the schoolhouse while +Sheila put on her coat and wrap, and wondered why his feeling for her +was so different from his feeling for Mary Graham, and while he +wondered, she came to him, gathering up her skirts. + +"Isn't the sky lovely?" she said, glancing up at the stars, as they +walked out of the school-yard into the road. + +He glanced up too, but did not answer. + +"Millions an' millions of them," she said. "You'd wonder the sky 'ud +hold them all!" + +"Yes," he said. + +"Many's a time I wonder about the stars," she went on. "Do you ever +wonder about them?" + +"Sometimes." + +"Do you think there's people in them, the same as there is on the +earth?" + +"I don't know," he answered. + +"This is a star, too, isn't it?" she asked. + +"Yes." + +"An' shines just like them does?" + +"Yes, I think so!" + +"That's quare!" She walked on for a few yards without speaking, and her +eyes were fixed steadily on the starry fields. "It's funny," she said, +"to think mebbe there's people up there lookin' at us an' them mebbe +thinkin' about this place what we're thinkin' of them. Wouldn't you love +to be able to fly up to one of them an' just see if it's true?..." + +He laughed at her and she laughed in response. "I'm talkin' blether," +she said, stumbling over a stone in the road. + +"Mind!" he warned her, putting out his hand to steady her. + +"I was nearly down that time," she said. "These roads is awful in the +dark ... you can't see where you're goin' or what's in the way!" + +"No," he replied. + +Her arms were crooked because she was holding her skirts about her +ankles, and as she stumbled against him a second time, he put out his +hand and caught hold of her arm, and this time he did not withdraw it. +He slipped his arm inside hers and drew her close to him, and so they +walked on in the starlight up the rough road that led to Matthew +Hamilton's farm. + +"It's quaren late," she said, moving nearer to him. + +"Yes," he answered. + +There was a rustle in the trees as the night wind blew through the +branches, and they could hear the silken murmur of the corn as it bent +before the breeze. Now and then there was a flutter of wings in a hedge +as they passed by, and the low murmurs of cattle and sheep came from the +fields. + +"I wish it were next Thursday," he said. + +"So do I," she replied. + +"I wish we could have two dancing-classes in the week instead of one!" + +"So do I," she said. + +"But we can't manage that," he continued. "You see we have two nights +for the Language class!..." + +"You could have one night for the Language class," she said, "and two +nights for dancing!" + +"I don't think Marsh would like that," he answered. + +They walked on for a while, thinking of what Marsh would say, and then +she broke the silence. + +"I don't see the good of them oul' language classes," she said. + +"Don't you?" + +"No. I'd rather be dancin' any day!..." + + +9 + +He left her at the gate that led into the farmyard. + +"Good-night," he said, holding out his hand to her. + +"Good-night!" she replied. + +But still he did not move away nor did she open the gate and pass into +the yard. + +"I shall look forward to Thursday," he said. + +"So shall I!" + +"Good-night!" + +"Good-night!" + +He still held her hand in his and as she made a movement to draw it +away, he suddenly pulled her to him and put his arms about her and +kissed her. + +"Sheila!" he said. + +"Let me go!" she whispered. + +She drew away from him, and stood looking at him for a few moments. Then +she pushed the gate open and walked into the yard. + +"Good-night!" she said. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 2: Shuiler: a tramp or beggar.] + + + + +THE SEVENTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +His habit had been to work in the morning with Marsh, and then, after +light luncheon, they walked through the country during the afternoon, +climbing hills or tramping heavily through the fields or, going off on +bicycles, to bathe at Cushendall. Sometimes, Mr. Quinn accompanied them +on these expeditions, and then they had fierce arguments about Ireland, +but more often Marsh and Henry went off together, leaving Mr. Quinn +behind to ponder over some problem of agriculture or to wrangle with +William Henry Matier on what was and what was not a fair day's work. But +now, Henry began to scheme to be alone. On the day after he had taken +Sheila Morgan to her uncle's farm, he had been so restless and +inattentive during his morning's work that Marsh had asked him if he +were ill. + +"I'm rather headachy," he had answered, and had gladly accepted the +offer to quit work for the day. + +"Would you like to go out for a walk?" Marsh had asked. "The fresh +air!..." + +And Henry had replied, "No, thanks! I think I'll just go up to my room!" + +He had gone to his room and then, listening until he had heard Marsh go +out, he had descended the stairs and, almost on tiptoe, had gone out of +the house by a side-door, and, slipping through the paddock as if he +were anxious not to be seen, had run swiftly through the meadows and +cornfields until he reached the road that led to Hamilton's farm. He had +not decided what he was going to do when he had reached the farm. Sheila +would probably be busy about the house or she might have work to do in +the farmyard. Now that her uncle was ill, some of his labour would have +to be done by others. But he would be less in the way, he thought, in +the morning than he would be in the evening when the cows were being +milked ... though he might offer to help her to strain the milk and +churn it, if she did that, and he could scald the milk-pans and ... do +lots of things! The evening, however, was still a long way off, but the +morning was ... _now!_ And he wished very much to be with Sheila ... now +... this moment! + +He saw her before she saw him. She had her back to him, and she was +bending over her uncle who was sitting at the door of the farmhouse, +with a rug wrapped round his legs. Henry, suddenly shy, stood still in +the "loanie," looking at her and trying to think of something to say to +her which would make his appearance there at that hour natural; but +before he had thought of something that was suitable, she turned and saw +him, and so he went forward, tongue-tied and awkward. + +"Here's Mr. Quinn!" she said to her uncle ... she had never known him as +Master Henry, and she had not yet learned to call him by his Christian +name alone. + +The farmer looked up. "You mane Mr. Henry," he said, and Henry, +listening to him, felt that at last he was near manhood, for people were +shedding the "Master." + +"Good-morning, Hamilton!" he said, holding out his hand to the farmer. +"How're you to-day?" + +"Middlin', sir ... only middlin'. This is the first I've been out of the +house this long while, but the day's that warm, I just thought I'd like +to get a heat of the sun, bad or no bad. It's a terrible thing to be +helpless like this ... not able to do a han's-turn for yourself!..." + +"Ah, quit, Uncle Matt!" Sheila interjected. "Sure, you'll soon be all +right an' runnin' about like a two-year oul'!" She turned to Henry. +"He's an awful man for wantin' to be doin' things, an' it's sore work +tryin' to get him to sit still the way the doctor says he's to sit. +Always wantin' to be up an' doin' somethin'! Aren't you, Uncle Matt?" + +"Ay, daughter, I am. I was always the lad for work!..." + +"You're a terrible oul' provoker, so you are. You're just jealous, +that's it, an' you're heart-feard we'll mebbe all learn how to look +after the farm better nor you can!" + +The old man smiled and took hold of her hand and fondled it. "You're the +right wee girl," he said affectionately. "Always doin' your best to keep +a man's heart up!" + +"Indeed, then," she said briskly, "you gimme enough to do to keep your +heart up. You're worse nor a cradleful of childher!... Here, let me wrap +this shawl about your shoulders! Aren't you the oul' footer to be +lettin' it slip down like that?... There now!" + +He lay back in his chair while she folded the shawl about him, and +smiled at her. "God content you, daughter!" he murmured. + + +2 + +"Well!" she said to Henry as they moved towards the byre. + +He had sat with the farmer for a while, talking of the weather and the +crops and the prospects of the harvest, and then, seeing Sheila going +across the yard, he had followed her. + +"Well?" she said, looking at him quizzically. + +He did not know what to say, so he stood there smiling at her. Her arms +were bare to the bend, and the neck of her blouse was open so that he +saw her firm, brown throat. + +"Well!" he replied, still smiling, and "Well?" she said again. + +She went into the byre, and he followed her to the door, and stood +peering into the dark interior where a sick cow lay lowing softly. + +"Is that all you have to say for yourself?" Sheila called to him. + +"I have a whole lot to say," he replied, "but I don't know how to say +it!" + +She laughed at that, and he liked the strong, quick sound of her +laughter. "You're the quare wee fella," she exclaimed. + +_Wee fellow!_ He flushed and straightened himself. + +"I was passing along the road," he said stiffly, "and I thought I'd come +up and see your uncle!..." + +"Oh!" she answered. + +"Yes. My father was wondering yesterday how he was getting on, so I just +thought I'd come over and see him. I suppose you're busy?" + +"You suppose right!" + +He moved a step or two away from the door of the byre. "Then I won't +hinder you in your work," he said. + +"You're not hinderin' me," she replied, coming out of the dark byre as +she spoke. "It would take the quare man to hinder _me_! Where's Mr. +Marsh this mornin'?" + +"Oh, somewhere!" + +"I thought you an' him was always thegether. You're always about +anyway!" + +He felt strangely boyish while she was talking. Last night, when he had +drawn her to him and had kissed her soft, moist lips, he had felt +suddenly adult. While his arms were about her, he was conscious of +manhood, of something new in his life, something that he had been +growing to, but until that moment had not yet reached ... and now, +standing in the strong sunlight and looking into her firm, laughing +eyes, his manhood seemed to have receded from him, and once more he was +... a wee fellow, a schoolboy, a bit of a lad.... His vexation must have +been apparent in his expression, for she said "What ails you?" to him. + +"Nothing," he replied, turning away. + +It was she who was making him feel schoolboyish again. She looked so +capable and so assured, standing outside the byre-door, with a small +crock in her hands, that he felt that she was many years older than he +was, that she knew far more than he could hope to know for a long +time.... + +She put the crock down and came close to him and took hold of his arm. +"What ails you?" she said again, peering up into his face and smiling at +him. + +He looked at her with sulky eyes. "You're making fun of me," he said. + +She shook his arm and pushed him. "G'long with you!" she said. "A big +lump of a fella like you, actin' the chile!..." She picked up the crock +and handed it to him. "Here," she said, "carry that into the house, will +you, an' ask me aunt Kate to give you the full of it with yella male, +an' then hurry back. I'll be up in the hayloft," she added, moving off. + + +3 + +He laid the crock of yellow meal down on a wooden box in the barn, and +then climbed up the ladder to the hayloft. + +"Wheesht," she said, holding up her hand. "There's a hen sittin' here, +an' I don't want her disturbed!" He climbed into the loft as quietly as +he could. "They'll soon be out now," she went on, "the lovely wee +things!... What did you come here for, the day?" + +"To see you!" he answered. + +"Then that was a lie about comin' to see my Uncle Matt?" + +He nodded his head. + +"I thought as much. Sit down here by the side of me!" + +He sat down on the hay where she bade him. "Are you angry with me?" he +asked, making a wisp of hay. + +"What would I be angry for?" + +He did not know. Last night, perhaps, when he had kissed her? + +"Oh, that!" she said. "Sure, that's nothin'!" + +"Nothing?" + +Why, then, had she left him so suddenly? She must have known how much he +had to say to her.... + +"Look at the time it was!" she exclaimed. "An' me havin' to get up at +five an' let the cows out.... _You_ weren't up at no five, I'll bet!" He +had risen at eight. "Eight!" she exclaimed. "That's no hour of the day +to be risin'. If you were married to me, I'd make you skip long before +that hour!" + +Married to her!... + +"Sheila," he whispered, taking hold of her arm. + +"Well?" she said, thrusting a hay-stalk into his hair. + +"I love you, Sheila!" he whispered, coming closer to her. + +"Do you, indeed?" she answered. + +"I do, Sheila, I do...." + +He raised himself so that he was kneeling in front of her. His shyness +had left him now, and the words were pouring rapidly out of his mouth. + +"The minute I saw you in the door of the schoolroom that night, I was in +love with you. I was, indeed!" + +"Were you?" + +"Yes. I couldn't help it, Sheila, and the worst of it was I didn't know +what to say to you. And then, last night ... when we were walking up the +'loanie' together and I was holding your arm ... you know!... like +this...." He took hold of her arm as he spoke and pressed it in his.... +"I felt like ... like...." + +"Like what?" + +"I don't know. Like anything. You _will_ marry me, Sheila? You _do_ love +me?..." + +She withdrew her arm from his and struck him lightly with a wisp of hay. +"You're in a terrible hurry all of a sudden!" she said. "One minute you +hardly know me, an' the next minute you're gettin' ready to be married +to me. You're a despert wee fella!" + +_Wee fellow_ again! + +"I'm not so very young," he said. + +"What age are you?" she asked. + +"I'm nearly seventeen," he replied. + +She jumped up and stood over him. "God save us," she said, "that's the +powerful age. You'd nearly bate Methusaleh!" + +He stood up beside her. "Now, you're laughing at me again," he +complained. + +"No, I'm not," she answered. + +She laid her hand on his shoulder and gripped it firmly, and stood thus, +looking at him intently. Then she drew him into her arms and kissed him. +"I like you quaren well," she said, holding him to her. + +"Do you, Sheila?" + +"Aye, of course I do, or I wouldn't be huggin' you like this, would I? +Did you bring the yella male?" + +He nodded his head. "It's down below," he said. + +"Dear, oh, dear," she sighed. "I've wasted a terrible lot of time on +you, Mr. Quinn!..." + +"Call me 'Henry,'" he said. + +"I'll call you 'Harry,'" she answered. + +"You can call me anything you like!..." + +She pinched his cheek. "You're a dear wee fella," she said. He did not +mind being called a "wee fella" now. "But you're keepin' me from my +work," she went on. + +He seized her hand impetuously. "Take a day off," he said, "and we'll go +for a long walk together!" + +She laughed at him. "You quality people is the great ones for talk," she +replied. "An' how could I take a day off an' me with my work to do?" + +"Well, this evening then," he urged. + +"There'll be the cows to milk!..." + +"I'll come and help you." + +"But sure you can't milk!" + +"No, I can't milk, of course, but I can do anything else you want done. +I can hold things and ... and run messages ... and just help you. Can't +I? And then, when you've finished your work, we'll go and sit in the +clover field...." + +"An' get our death of cold sittin' on the damp ground. Dear O, but men +talks quare blether!" + +He tried to persuade her that dew was not damping. ... "Ah, quit!" she +exclaimed ... and then he begged for her company in a walk along the +Ballymena Road. + +"I suppose I'll have to give in to you," she said. "You're a terrible +fella for coaxin'!" + +She moved towards the trap where the head of the ladder showed, and +prepared to descend from the loft. + +"What time will I come for you?" he asked, following her. + +"Half-seven," she answered, going down the ladder. "I'll be well done my +work then!" + +He stood above her, looking down through the trap. "We generally have +dinner at half-past seven," he said. + +"You should have your dinner in the middle of the day, like us," she +answered, and added, decisively, "It's half-seven or never!" + +"All right," he exclaimed, stooping down carefully and putting his feet +on a rung of the ladder. "I'll come for you then. I'll manage it +somehow." + + +4 + +He told his father that he did not want any dinner. John Marsh had +enquired about his headache, and Henry had said that it was better, but +that he thought he would like to be quiet that evening. He said, too, +that he had made up his mind to go for a long, lonely walk. "But what +about your dinner?" Mr. Quinn had said, and he had answered that he did +not want any. "If I'm hungry," he added, "I can have something before I +go to bed." + +He felt vaguely irritated with John Marsh who first pestered him ... +that was the word Henry used in his mind ... with sympathy and then +lamented that his headache would prevent him from helping that evening +at the Gaelic language class. "Still, I suppose well manage," he ended +regretfully. + +"I don't suppose there'll be many at the class," Henry replied almost +sneeringly. + +"Why?" said Marsh. + +"Oh, well," Henry went on, "after last night!..." + +"You mean that they think more of dancing than they do of the language?" +Marsh interrupted, and there was so much of anxiety in the tone of his +voice that Henry regretted that he had sneered at him. + +"Well, that's natural," he said, trying to think of some phrase that +would mitigate the unkindness of what he was saying, and failing to +think of it. "After all, it _is_ much more fun to dance than to learn +grammar...." + +"But this is the _Irish_ language," Marsh persisted, as if the Irishness +of the tongue transcended the drudgery of learning grammar. + +Mr. Quinn crumpled the _Northern Whig_ and threw it at Marsh's head. +"You an' your oul' language!" he exclaimed. "What good'll it do anybody +but a lot of professors. Here's the world tryin' to get Latin an' Greek +out of the universities, an' here's you tryin' to get another dead +language into them!" + +There followed an argument that developed into a wrangle, in the midst +of which Henry, flinging a consolatory speech to Marsh, escaped from the +house. "You'll get all the keen ones to-night," he said. "That'll be +some consolation to you!" + +It was too soon to go up to Hamilton's farm. The dairy work would hardly +be done, and there would be the evening meal to prepare, and he knew +that he would not be welcome in the middle of that activity. He did not +wish to return to the room where his father and John Marsh were arguing +about the Irish language, nor did he wish to go and sit in his own room +until the time came to go and meet Sheila. If Hannah were to make some +sandwiches for him, in case he should feel hungry, he would go to the +bottom fields and lie in the long grass by the brook until it was time +to meet Sheila. He went downstairs to the kitchen and found Hannah busy +with the night's dinner. + +"Well, Master Henry!" she said. + +He told her of his headache and his desire for a solitary walk, and +asked her to cut sandwiches for him. + +"I will with a heart an' a half," she said, "when I've strained these +potatoes. Sit down there a while an' content yourself till I've +done...." + +He took the sandwiches from her and went off to the bottom fields. The +sky was full of mingled colours and long torn clouds that looked like +flights of angels, and hidden in the fold of one great white strip of +cloud that stretched up into the heavens, the sickle moon shone faintly, +waiting for the setting sun to disappear so that she should shine out +with unchallenged refulgence. He stood a while to look at the glory of +the sky, and munched his sandwiches while he looked. He had always had a +sensuous love of fine shapes and looks; the big bare branches of an old +tree showing darkly against a winter sky or the changing colour of +clouds at sunset, transfused at one moment to the look of filmy gold as +the sun sent his rays shining upwards, darkened at the next, when the +sun had vanished, so that they had the colour of smoke and made a stain +as if God had drawn a sooty thumb across the sky; but now his +sensuousness had developed, and he found himself full of admiration for +things which hitherto he had not observed. That evening, when the +cart-horses were led home, he had suddenly perceived that their great +limbs were beautiful. He had stood still in the lane to watch them going +by, and had liked the heavy plunging sound of their hoofs on the rough +road, and the faded look of the long hair that hung about their houghs; +but more than these he had liked the great round limbs of them, so full +of strength. He remembered that once at Boveyhayne, Mary Graham and he +had argued about the sea-gulls. She had "just loved" them, but he had +qualified his admiration. He liked the long, motionless flight of the +gulls as they circled through the air, and the whiteness of their +shapely bodies and the grey feathers on their backs, but he disliked the +small heads they had and the long yellow beaks and the little black eyes +and the harsh cry ... and he had almost sickened when he saw them +feeding on the entrails that were thrown to them by the fishermen.... +But now, since he had fallen in love with Sheila Morgan, it seemed to +him that everything in the world was beautiful; and lying here in the +long grass, he yielded himself to the loveliness of the earth. He lay +back and closed his eyes and listened to the sounds that filled the air, +the noise of pleased, tired things at peace and the subdued songs of +roosting birds. He could hear shouts from the labourers in the distant +hayfields and, now and then, the slow rattle of a country cart as it +moved clumsily along the uneven roads that led from the fields to the +farmyards. There was a drowsy buzz of insects that mingled oddly with +the burble of the stream and the lowing of the cattle.... He lay there +and listened to a lark as it flew up from the ground with a queer, +agitated flutter of wings, watching it as it ascended high and higher +until it became a tiny speck, and then he sat up and watched it as it +descended again, still flying with that queer, agitated flutter of +wings, until it came near the earth, when its song suddenly ceased and +it changed its flight and fell swiftly to its nest. + +He rose up from the grass and walked over to the stream and dipped his +hands into it, splashing the water on to the grass beside him. The +sunlight shone on his hand and made the wet hairs shine like golden +threads.... + + +5 + +He was kneeling there at the side of the stream, looking at the wet glow +of his hand when the fear of death came to him, and instantly he was +terrified when he thought that he might die. The consciousness of life +was in him and the desire to continue and to experience and to know were +quickening and increasing. It seemed to him then that if he were to die +at that moment, he would have been cheated of his inheritance, that he +would have a grievance against God for all eternity.... He moved away +from the brook and sank back into the grass, shaken and disconcerted. +Until that moment, he had never thought of death except as a vague, +inevitable thing that came to all creatures some time ... generally when +they were old and had lost the savour of life. He had never seen a dead +man or woman and he was unfamiliar with the rites of burial. He knew, +indeed, that people die before they grow old, that children die, but +until that moment, death had not become a personal thing, a thing that +might descend on _him_.... + +He shut his eyes and tried to dose the thought of death out of his mind, +but it would not go away. He began to sing disconnected staves of songs +in the hope that he would forget that he was mortal.... There was a song +that Bridget Fallon had taught him when he was a child, and now after +many years, he was singing it again: + + There were three lords came out of Spain, + They came to court my daughter Jane. + My daughter Jane, she is too young, + And cannot bear your flatt'ring tongue. + So fare you well, make no delay, + But come again another day.... + +But the thought of death still lay heavy on his mind, and so he got up +and left the field and hurried along the road that led to Hamilton's +farm. + +"Oh, my God," he cried to himself, "if I were to die now, just when I'm +beginning to know things!..." + +He began to run, as if he would run away from his own thoughts. The torn +strips of clouds, that had looked like molten gold, were now darkening, +and their darkness seemed ominous to him. The steepness of the "loanie" +made him pant and presently he slackened his pace and slowed-down to +walking. His eyes felt hot and stiff in their sockets and when he put +his hand on his forehead, he felt that it was wet with sweat. + +"I'm frightened," he said to himself. "Scared!..." + +He wiped his forehead and then crumpled his handkerchief in his hot +palms. + +"I'm rattled," he went on to himself. "That's what I am. Oh, my God, I +_am_ scared!..." + +He looked about him helplessly. He could see a man tossing hay in a +field near by, and he watched the rhythmical movement of his fork as it +rose and fell. + +"I couldn't die now," he thought. "I _couldn't_. It wouldn't be fair. I +wouldn't let myself die ... I wouldn't!" + +And as suddenly as the fear of death had fallen on him, it left him. + +"Good Lord!" he said aloud, "what an ass I am!" + + +6 + +Sheila was sitting on a stool in front of the door. Her uncle had gone +to bed, and her aunt, tired after her day's work and her attendance on +the sick man, was lying on the sofa, dosing. + +"I wondered were you comin'," Sheila said as he came up to her. + +"You knew I'd come," he answered. + +"I didn't know anything of the sort," she exclaimed, getting up from the +stool. "Fellas has disappointed me before this." + +"Have you had other sweethearts?" he asked, frowning. + +She laughed at him. "I've had boys since I was that high," she replied, +holding out her hand to indicate her height when she first had a +sweetheart. "What are you lookin' so sore about? D'ye think no one never +looked at me 'til you came along? For dear sake!" + +She rallied him. Was she the first girl he had ever loved? Was she? Ah, +he was afraid to answer. As if she did not know! Of course, she was not +the first, and dear knows she might not be the last.... + +"I'll never love any one but you, Sheila!..." + +"Wheesht will you, or my aunt'll hear you!" + +"I don't care who hears me!..." + +"Well, I do then. Come on down the loanie a piece, an' you can say what +you like. I love the way you talk ... you've got the quare nice English +accent!" + +He followed her across the farmyard and through the gate into the +"loanie." + +"My father wouldn't like to hear you saying that," he said. + +"Why?" she asked. "Does he not like the English way of talkin'?" + +"Indeed, he does not. He loves the way you talk, the way all the Ulster +people talk!..." + +"What! Broad an' coarse like me?" she interrupted. + +Henry nodded his head. "He doesn't think it's coarse," he said. "He +thinks it's fine!" + +Sheila pondered on this for a few moments. "He must be a quare man, your +da!" she said. + +They walked to the foot of the "loanie" and then turned along the +Ballymena road. + +"Does he know you come out with me?" she said. + +"Who?" he answered. + +"Your da." + +"No. You see!..." He did not know what to say. It had not occurred to +him to talk about Sheila to his father, and he realised now that if it +had, he probably would not have done so. + +"But if you're goin' to marry me?..." Sheila was saying. + +"Oh, of course," he replied. "Of course, I shall have to tell him about +you, won't I? I just didn't think of it.... Then you're going to marry +me, Sheila?" he demanded, turning to her quickly. + +"Och, I don't know," she answered. "I'm too young to be married yet, an' +you're younger nor me, an' mebbe we'd change our minds, an' anyway +there's a quare differs atween us." + +"What difference is there between us?" he said, indignantly. + +"Aw, there's a quare deal of differs," she maintained. "A quare deal. +You're a quality-man!..." + +"As if that matters," he interrupted. + +"It matters a quare lot," she said. + +They sat down on a bank by the roadside and he took hold of her hand and +pressed it, and then he put his arm about her and drew her head down on +to his shoulder. + +"Somebody'll see you," she whispered. + +"There's no one in sight," he replied. + +"Do you love me an awful lot?" she asked, looking up at him. + +"You know I do." + +"More nor anybody in the world?" + +He bent over and kissed her. "More than anybody in the world," he +answered. + +"You're not just lettin' on?" she continued. + +"Letting on!" + +"Aye. Makin' out you love me, an' you on'y passin' the time, divertin' +yourself?" + +He was angry with her. How could she imagine that he would pretend to +love her?... + +"I do love you," he insisted, "and I'll always love you. I feel that ... +that!..." + +He fumbled for words to express his love for her, but could not find +any. + +"Ah, well," she said, "it doesn't matter whether you're pretendin' or +not. I'm quaren happy anyway!" + +She struggled out of his embrace and put her arms round his neck and +kissed him. She remained thus with her arms round him and her face close +to his, gazing into his eyes as if she were searching for something.... + +"What are you thinkin', Sheila?" he asked. + +"Nothin'," she said, and she drew him to her and kissed him again. + +"I wish I was older," he exclaimed presently. + +"Why?" + +"Because I could marry you, then, and we'd go away and see all the +places in the world...." + +"I'd rather go to Portrush for my honeymoon," she said. "I went there +for a trip once!" + +"We'd go to Portrush too. We'd go to all the places. I'd take you to +England and Scotland and Wales, and then we'd go to France and Spain and +Italy and Africa and India and all the places." + +"I'd be quaren tired goin' to all them places," she murmured. + +"And then when we'd seen everything, we'd come back to Ireland and start +a farm...." + +She sat up and smiled at him. "An' keep cows an' horses," she said. + +"Yes, and pigs and sheep and hens and ... all the things they have. +Ducks and things!" + +"I'd love that," she said, delighted. + +"We'd go up to Belfast every now and then, and look at the shops and buy +things!...." + +"An' go to the theatre an' have our tea at an eatin'-house?" + +"We'd go to an hotel for our tea," he said. + +"Oh, no, I'd be near afeard of them places. I wasn't reared up to that +sort of place, an' I wouldn't know what to do, an' all the people +lookin' at me, an' the waiters watchin' every bite you put in your +mouth, 'til you'd near think they'd grudged you your food!" + +They made plans over which they laughed, and they mocked each other, +teasing and pretending to anger, and he pulled her hair and kissed her, +and she slapped his cheeks and kissed him. + +"I'd give the world," she said, "to have my photograph took in a +low-neck dress. Abernethy does them grand!..." She stopped suddenly and +turned her head slightly from him in a listening attitude. + +"What's up?" he asked. + +"Wheesht!" she replied, and then added, "D'ye hear anything?" + +He listened for a moment or two, and then said, "Yes, it sounds like a +horse gallopin'...." They listened again, and then she proceeded. "You'd +near think it was runnin' away," she said. + +The sound of hooves rapidly beating the ground and the noise of +quickly-revolving wheels came nearer. + +"It _is_ runnin' away," she said, getting up from the bank and moving +into the middle of the road where she stood looking in the direction +from which the sound came. + +"Don't stand in the road," Henry shouted to her. "You might get hurt." + +She did not move nor did she appear to hear what he was saying. He had a +strange sensation of shrinking, a desire not to be there, but he subdued +it and went to join her in the middle of the road. + +"Here it is," she said, turning to him and pointing to where the road +made a sudden swerve. + +He looked and saw a galloping horse, head down, coming rapidly towards +them. There was a light cart behind it, bumping and swaying so that it +seemed likely to be overturned, but there was no driver. It was still +some way off, and he had time to think that he ought to stop the +frightened animal. If it were allowed to go on, it might kill some one +in the village. There would be children playing about in the street.... + +"I'll stop it," he said to himself, and half-consciously he buttoned his +coat. + +He tried to remember just what he ought to do. William Henry Matier had +told, him not to stand right in front of a runaway horse, but to move to +the side so that he could run with it. He would do that, and then he +would spring at its head and haul the reins so tightly that the bit +would slip back into the horse's mouth.... He moved from the middle of +the road, and was conscious that Sheila had moved, too. His breath was +coming quickly, and he felt again that sense of shrinking, that curious +desire to run away. He saw a wheel of the cart lurch up as it passed +over a stone in the road, and instantly panic seized him. "My God," he +thought, "if that had been me!... He saw himself flung to the ground by +the maddened horse and the wheel passing over his body, crunching his +flesh and bones. He had the sensation of blood gushing from his mouth, +and for a moment or two he felt as if he had actually suffered the +physical shock of being broken beneath the cart wheel.... + +"I can't!" he muttered, and then he turned and ran swiftly to the side +of the road and climbed on to the bank, struggling to break through the +thorn hedge at the top of it. His hands were torn and bleeding and once +he slipped and fell forward and his face was scratched by the thorns.... + + +7 + +He had thrown himself over the hedge and had lain there, with his eyes +closed, trembling. He was crying now, not with fright, but with remorse. +He had failed in courage, and perhaps the horse had dashed into the +village and killed a child.... He wondered what Sheila would say, and +then he started up, his eyes wide with horror, thinking that perhaps +Sheila had been killed. He climbed up the bank, and jumped over the low +hedge into the roadway. There were some men approaching him, coming +from the direction in which the horse had come, but he did not pay any +heed to them. He began to run towards the village. A little distance +from the place where he and Sheila had stood to watch the oncoming +animal, the road made another bend, and when he had reached this bend, +he met Sheila. + +"You needn't hurry _now_," she said. + +He did not hear the emphasis she laid on the word "now." "Are you all +right?" he asked anxiously. + +She did not answer, but strode on past him. + +"Are you all right?" he repeated, following after her. + +"It's a bit late to ask that," she said, turning and facing him. "I +might 'a' been killed for all you cared, so long as you were safe +yourself!" + +He shrank back from her, unable to answer, and the men came up, before +she could say anything else to him. + +"Did ye see the horse runnin' away?" one of them said to her. + +"You'll find it down the road a piece," she replied. "It's leg's broke. +It tum'led an' fell. Yous'll have to shoot it, I s'pose!" + +They supposed they would. The driver had been drinking and in his +drunkenness he had thrashed the poor beast. ... "But he'll never thrash +another horse, the same lad," said the man who told them of the +circumstances. "He was pitched out on his head, an' he wasn't worth +picking up when they lifted him. Killed dead, an' him as drunk as a +fiddler! Begod, I wouldn't like to die that way! It 'ud be a quare thing +to go afore your Maker an' you stinkin' wi' drink!" + +The men went on, leaving Sheila and Henry together. She stood watching +the men, oblivious seemingly of Henry's presence, until he put out his +hand and touched hers. + +"Sheila!" he said. + +She snatched her hand away from him. "Lave me alone!" she exclaimed, and +moved to the side of the road further from him. + +"I meant to try and stop it," he said, "but somehow I couldn't I ... I +did my best!" + +He had followed her and was standing before her, pleading with her, but +she would not look at him. He stood for a while, thinking of something +to say, and then put out his hand again and touched hers. "Sheila," he +said. + +She swung round swiftly and struck him in the face with her clenched +fist. + +"How dare you touch me!" she cried and her eyes were full of fury. + +"Sheila!" + +"Don't lay a finger on me ... you ... you coward you! You were afeard to +stop it, an' you run away, cryin' like a wee ba!" He tried to come to +her again, but she shrunk away from him. "Don't come a-near me," she +shouted at him. "I couldn't thole you near me. I'd be sick!..." + +She stopped in her speech and walked away from him. He stared after her, +unable to think or move. He could feel the smart of her blow tingling in +his face, and he put his hand up mechanically to his cheek, and as he +did so, he saw that his hand was still trembling. He could see her +walking quickly on, her head erect and her hands clenched tightly by her +side. He wanted to run after her, but he could not move. He tried to +call to her, but his lips would not open.... + +The light was fading out of the sky, and the night was covering up the +hills and fields, but still he stood there, staring up the road along +which she had passed out of his sight. People passed him in the dusk and +greeted him, but he did not answer, nor was he aware when they turned to +look at him. Once, he was conscious of a loud report and a clatter of +feet, but he did not think of it or of what it meant. In his mind, +smashing like the blows of a hammer, came ceaselessly the sound of +Sheila's voice, calling him a coward.... + + +8 + +It was quite dark when he moved away. His mouth was very dry and his +eyes were hot and sore, and his legs dragged as he walked. He was tired +and miserable and he had a frightful sense of age. That morning he had +wakened to manhood, full of pleasure in the beauty of living and growing +things; now, he was like an old man, longing for death but afraid to +lose his life. There were stars above him, but no moon, and the tall +trunks of the trees stood up like black phantoms before him, moaning and +crying in the wind. He could hear the screech-owls hooting in the dark, +and the lonely yelp of a dog on a farm. + +He began to hurry, walking quickly and then running, afraid to look +back, almost afraid to look forward ... and as he ran, suddenly he fell +on something soft. His hands slipped on wetness that smelt.... + +In the darkness he had fallen over the body of the horse which had been +shot while he was standing where Sheila had left him. He gaped at it +with distended eyes, and then, with a loud cry, he jumped up and fled +home, with fear raging in his heart. + + + + +THE EIGHTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +He fell asleep, after a long, wakeful night, and did not hear the maid +who called him. Mr. Quinn, when he was told of the heaviness of Henry's +slumber, said "Let him lie on!" and so it was that he did not rise until +noon. He came down heavy-eyed and irritable, and wandered about the +garden in which he took no pleasure. Marsh came to him while he was +there, full of enthusiasm because more pupils had attended the Language +class than he had anticipated. + +"That girl, Sheila Morgan, wasn't there!" + +"Oh!" said Henry. + +"I thought she'd be certain to come. She seemed so anxious to join the +class. Perhaps she was prevented. I hope you'll be able to come +to-night, Henry!..." + +Henry turned away impatiently. "I don't think I shall go again," he said +in a surly voice. + +Marsh stared at him. "Not go again!" he exclaimed. + +"No." + +"But!..." + +"Oh, I'm sick of the class. I'm sick of the whole thing. I'm sick of +Irish!..." + +Marsh walked away from him, walked so quickly that Henry knew that he +was trying to subdue the sudden rage that rose in him when people spoke +slightingly of Irish things, and for a few moments he felt sorry and +ready to follow him and apologise for what he had said; but the sorrow +passed as quickly as it came. + +"It's absurd of him to behave like that," he said to himself, and went +on his way about the garden. + +Presently he saw Marsh approaching him, and he stood still and waited +for him. + +"I'm sorry, Henry," Marsh said when he had come up to him. + +"It was my fault," Henry replied. + +"I ought not to have walked off like that ... but I can't bear to hear +any one talking!..." + +"I know you can't," Henry interrupted. "That's why I ought not to have +said what I did!" + +But Marsh insisted on bearing the blame. "I ought to have remembered +that you're not feeling well," he said, reproaching himself. "I get so +interested in Ireland that I forget about people's feelings. That's my +chief fault. I know it is. I must try to remember.... I suppose you +didn't really mean what you said?" + +"Yes, I did," Henry replied quickly. + +"But why?" + +"I don't know. I just don't want to. What's the good of it anyhow?..." + +Good of it! Henry ought to have known what a passion of patriotism his +scorn for the Language would provoke. + +"Oh, all right, John!" he said impatiently. "I've heard all that before, +and I don't want to hear it again. You can argue as much as you like, +but I can't see any sense in wasting time on what's over. And the Irish +language is over and done with. Father's quite right!" + +Marsh's anger became intensified. "That's the Belfast spirit in you," he +exclaimed. "The pounds, shillings and pence mood! I know what you think +of the language. You think, what is the commercial value of it? Will it +enable a boy to earn thirty shillings a week in an office? Is it as +useful as Pitman's Shorthand? That's what you're thinking!..." + +"No, it's not, but if it were, it would be very sensible!" + +"My God, Henry, can't you realise that a nation's language is the sound +of a nation's soul? Don't you understand, man, that if we can't speak +our own language then our souls are silent, dumb, inarticulate?... don't +you see what I mean?... and all the time we're using English, we're like +people who read translations. I don't care whether it is commercially +valuable or not. That's not the point. The point is that it's _us_, that +it's _our_ tongue, _our_ language, that it distinguishes us from the +English, insists on our difference from them. Do you see what I mean, +Henry? We _are_ different, aren't we? You realise that, don't you? We +_are_ different from the English, and nothing will ever make us like +them. My God, I'd hate to be like them!..." + +Henry fled from him, and, scarcely knowing what he was doing, ran across +the fields towards Hamilton's farm. As he went up the "loanie," he +remembered that Sheila had struck him in the face in her rage at his +cowardice, and he stopped and wondered whether he should go on or not. +And while he was waiting in the "loanie," she came out of a field, +driving a cow before her. + + +2 + +She did not speak, though he waited for her to say something. The cow +ambled up the "loanie," and Sheila, glancing at him as if she did not +recognise him, passed on, following it. + +"Sheila!" he called after her, but she did not answer, nor did she turn +round. + +"I want to speak to you," he said, going after her. + +"I don't want to speak to you," she replied, without looking at him. + +"But you must!..." He thrust himself in front of her, and tried to take +hold of her hands, but she eluded him. She lifted the sally rod she had +in her hand and threatened him with it. "I'll lash your face with this +if you handle me," she said. + +"All right," he answered, dropping his hands and waiting for her to beat +his face with the slender branch. + +She looked at him for a few moments, and then she threw the sally rod +into the hedge. + +"What do you want?" she asked, and the tone of her voice was quieter. + +The cow, finding that it was not being followed, cropped the grass in +the hedge and as they stood there, facing each other, they could hear +the soft munch-munch as it tore the grass from the ground. + +"What do you want?" Sheila said again. + +"I want to speak to you!..." + +"Well, speak away!" + +But he did not know what to say to her. He thought that perhaps if he +were to explain, she would forgive, but now that the opportunity to +explain was open to him, he did not know what to say. + +"Are you turned dummy or what?" she asked, and the cruelty in her voice +was deliberate. + +"Sheila," he began, hesitatingly. + +"Well?" + +"I'm sorry about last night!" + +"What's the good of bein' sorry?..." + +"I meant to stop it!..." + +"I daresay," she said, laughing at him. + +"I did. I did, indeed. I can't help feeling nervous. I've always been +like that. I want to do things ... I try to do them ... but something +inside me runs away ... that's what it is, Sheila ... it isn't me that +runs away ... it's something inside me!" + +"Bosh," she said. + +"It's true, Sheila. My father could tell you that. I always funk things, +not because I want to funk them, but because I can't help it. I'd give +the world to be able to stop a horse, like that one last night, but I +can't do it. I get paralysed somehow!..." + +"I never heard of any one like that before," she exclaimed. + +"No, I don't suppose you have. If you knew how ashamed I feel of myself, +you'd feel sorry for me. I was awake the whole night!" + +"Were you?" + +"Yes. I kept on thinking you were angry with me and that I was a coward, +and I could feel your fist in my face!..." + +"I'm sorry I hit you, Henry!" + +"It doesn't matter," he replied. "It served me right. And then when I +did sleep, I kept on dreaming about it. Do you know, Sheila, I fell over +the horse last night in the dark ... they left it lying in the road +after they shot it ... and my hands slithered in the blood!..." + +"Aw, the poor baste!" she said, and she began to cry. "The poor dumb +baste!" + +"And I kept on dreaming of that ... my hands dribbling in blood.... +och!..." + +He could not go on because the recollection of his dreams horrified him. +They had moved to the side of the "loanie" and he mechanically stopped +and plucked a long grass and began to wind it round his fingers. + +"I think and think about things," he murmured at last. + +She put out her hand and touched his arm. "Poor Henry," she said. + +He threw the grass away and seized her hand in his. + +"Then you'll forgive me?" he said eagerly. + +She nodded her head. + +"And you'll still be my sweetheart, won't you, and go for walks with +me?..." + +She withdrew her hand from his. "No, Henry," she said, "you an' me can't +go courtin' no more!" + +"But why?" + +"Because I couldn't marry a man was afeard of things. I'd never be happy +with a man like that. I'd fall out with you if you were a collie, I know +I would, an' I'd be miserable if my man hadn't the pluck of any other +man. I'm sorry I bate you last night, but I'd do it again if it happened +another time ... an' there'd be no good in that!" + +"But you said you'd marry me!..." + +"Och, sure, Henry, you know well I couldn't marry you. You wouldn't be +let. I'm a poor girl, an' you're a high-up lad. Whoever heard tell of +the like of us marryin', except mebbe in books. I knew well we'd never +marry, but I liked goin' about with you, an' listenin' to your crack, +an' you kissin' me an' tellin' me the way you loved me. You've a quare +nice English voice on you, an' you know it well, an' I just liked to +hear it ... but didn't I know rightly, you'd never marry the like of +me!" + +"I will, Sheila, I will!" + +"Ah, wheesht with you. What good 'ud a man like you be to a girl like +me. I'll have this farm when my Uncle Matt dies, an' what use 'ud you be +on it, will you tell me, you that runs away cryin' from a frightened +horse?" + +"You could sell the farm!..." + +"Sell the farm!" she exclaimed. "Dear bless us, boy, what are you sayin' +at all? Sell this farm, an' it's been in our family these generations +past! There's been Hamiltons in this house for a hundred an' fifty years +an' more. I wouldn't sell it for the world!" + +"But I must have you, Sheila. I must marry you!" + +"Why must you?" + +"I just must!..." + +She turned to look at the grazing cow, and then turned back to him. +"That's chile's talk," she said. "You must because you must. Away on +home now, an' lave me to do my work. Sure, you're not left school yet!" +She left him abruptly, and walked up to the cow, slapping its flanks and +shouting "Kimmup, there! Kimmup!" and the beast tossed its head, and ran +forward a few paces, and then sauntered slowly up the "loanie" towards +the byre. + +"Good-bye, Henry!" Sheila called out when she had gone a little way. + +"Will you be at the class to-night!" he shouted after her. + +"I will not," she answered. "I'm not goin' to the class no more!" + +He watched her as she went on up the "loanie" after the cow, hoping that +she would turn again and call to him, but she did not look round. He +could hear her calling to the beast, "Gwon now! Gwon out of that now!" +and then he saw the cow turn into the yard, and in a moment or two +Sheila followed it. He thought that she must turn to look at him then, +and he was ready to wave his hand to her, but she did not look round. +"Gwon now! Gwon up out of that!" was all that he heard her saying. + + +3 + +His father was standing at the front door when he returned home. Mr. +Quinn's face was set and grave looking, and he did not smile at his son. + +"I want you, Henry," he said, beckoning to him. + +"Yes, father?" Henry replied, looking at his father in a questioning +fashion. "Is anything wrong?" + +Mr. Quinn did not answer. He turned and led the way to the library. + +"Sit down," he said, when Henry had entered the room and shut the door. + +"What is it, father?" + +"Henry, what's between you an' that niece of Matt Hamilton's?" + +"Between us!" + +"Aye, between you. You were out on the Ballymena road with her last +night when I thought you were in bed with a sore head." + +All the romance of his love for Sheila Morgan suddenly died out, and he +was conscious of nothing but his father's stern look and the stiff set +of his lips as he sat there at his writing-table, demanding what there +was between Henry and Sheila. + +"I'm in love with her, father!" he answered. + +"Are you?" + +"Yes, father, but she's not in love with me. She's just told me so." + +"You've seen her this mornin' again?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, I'm glad she has more sense nor you seem to have. Damn it, Henry, +are you a fool or what? The whole of Ballymartin's talkin' about the +pair of you. Do you think that you can walk up the road with a +farm-girl, huggin' her an' kissin' her an' doin' God knows what, an' the +whole place not know about it?" + +"I didn't think of that, father!..." + +"Didn't think of it!... Look here, Henry, Sheila Morgan's a respectable +girl, do you hear? an' I'll not have you makin' a fool of her. I know +there's some men thinks they have a right to their tenants' daughters, +but by God if you harmed a girl on my land, Henry, I'd shoot you with my +own hands. Do you hear me?" + +Henry looked at his father uncomprehendingly. "Harm her, father!" he +said. + +"Aye, harm her! What do you think a girl like that, as good-lookin' as +her, gets out of goin' up the road with a lad like you that's born above +her! A bellyful of pain, that's all!" + +"I don't know what you mean, father!" + +"Well, it's time you learned. I'll talk to you plumb an' plain, Henry. +I'll not let you seduce a girl on my land, do you hear? They can do that +sort of thing in England, if they like ... it's nothin' to me what the +English do ... but by God I'll not have a girl on my land ruined by you +or by anybody else!" + +Mr. Quinn's voice was more angry than Henry had ever heard it. + +"Father," Henry said, "I want to marry Sheila!..." + +"What?" + +Mr. Quinn's fist had been raised as if he were about to bang his desk to +emphasise his words, but he was so startled by Henry's speech that he +forgot his intention, and he sat there, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, with +his fist still suspended in the air, so that Henry almost laughed at his +comical look. + +"What's that you say?" he said, when he had recovered + +"I want to marry her, but she won't have me!" + +Mr. Quinn's anger left him. He leant back in his revolving chair and +laughed. + +"By God, that's good!" he said. "By God, it is! Marry her! Oh, dear, oh, +dear!" + +"I don't know why you're laughing, father!..." + +"An' I thought you up to no good. Oh, ho, ho!" He took out his +handkerchief and rubbed his eyes. "Well, thank God, the girl's got more +wit nor you have. In the name of God, lad, what would you marry her +for?" + +"Because I love her, father!" + +"My backside to that for an answer!" Mr. Quinn snapped. "You know well +you couldn't marry her, a girl like that!" + +"I don't know it at all!..." + +"Well, I'll tell you why then. Because you're a gentleman an' she isn't +a lady, that's why. There's hundreds of years of breedin' in you, Henry, +an' there's no breedin' at all in her, nothin' but good nature an' good +looks!..." + +"The Hamiltons have lived at their farm for more than a hundred and +fifty years, father!" + +"So they have, an' decent, good stock they are, but that doesn't put +them on our level. Listen, Henry, the one thing that's most important in +this world is blood an' breedin'. There's people goes about the world +sayin' everybody's as good as everybody else, but you've only got to +see people when there's bother on to find out who's good an' who isn't. +It's at times like that that blood an' breedin' come out!..." + +It was then that Henry told his father of his cowardice when the horse +ran away. He told the whole story, and insisted on Sheila's scorn for +him. Mr. Quinn did not speak while the story was being told. He sat at +the desk with his chin buried in his fingers, listening patiently. Once +or twice he looked up when Henry hesitated in his recital, and once he +seemed as if he were about to put out his hand to his son, but he did +not do so. He did not speak or move until the story was ended. + +"I'm glad you told me, Henry," he said quietly when Henry had finished. +"I'm sorry I thought you were meanin' the girl an injury. I beg your +pardon for that, Henry. The girl's a decent girl, a well-meant girl ... +a well-meant girl!... I wish to God, you were at Trinity, my son! Come +on, now, an' have somethin' to ate. Begod, I'm hungry. I could ate a +horse. I could ate two horses!..." He put his arm in Henry's and they +left the library together. "You'll get over it, my son, you'll get over +it. It does a lad good to break his heart now an' again. Teaches him the +way the world works! Opens his mind for him, an' lets him get a notion +of the feel of things!..." + +They were just outside the dining-room when he said that. Mr. Quinn +turned and looked at Henry for a second or two, and it seemed to Henry +that he was about to say something intimate to him, but he did not do +so: he turned away quickly and opened the door. + +"I suppose John Marsh is eatin' all the food," he said with +extraordinary heartiness. "Are you eatin' all the food, John Marsh? I'll +wring your damned neck if you are!..." + + +4 + +That evening, after dinner, Mr. Quinn and John Marsh were sitting +together. Henry had gone out of the room for a while, leaving Mr. Quinn +to smoke a cigar while John Marsh corrected some exercises by the +students of the Language class. + +"Marsh!" Mr. Quinn said suddenly, after a long silence. + +Marsh looked up quickly. "Yes, Mr. Quinn!" he replied. + +"Henry's in love!..." + +"Is he?" + +"Yes. With that girl. Sheila Morgan, Matt Hamilton's niece!" + +Marsh put his exercises aside. "Dear me!" he exclaimed. + +There did not appear to be anything else to say. + +"So I'm goin' to send him away," Mr. Quinn went on. + +"Away?" + +"Yes. I don't quite know where I shall send him. It's too soon yet to +send him up to Trinity. I've a notion of sendin' you an' him on a +walkin' tour in Connacht. The pair of you can talk that damned language +'til you're sick of it with the people that understands it!" + +Marsh was delighted. He thought that Mr. Quinn's proposal was excellent, +and he was certain that it would be very good for Henry to come into +contact with people to whom the language was native. + +"Wheesht a minute, Marsh!" Mr. Quinn interrupted. "I want to talk to you +about Henry. It's a big thing for a lad of his age to fall in love!" + +"I suppose it is." + +"There's no supposin' about it. It is! He's just at the age when women +begin to matter to a man, an' I don't want him to go an' get into any +bother over the head of them!" + +"Bother?" + +"Aye. Do you never think about women, John Marsh?" + +"Oh, yes. Sometimes. One can't help it now and then!..." + +"No, begod, one can't!" Mr. Quinn exclaimed. "Do you know this, John +Marsh, I never can make out whether God did a good day's work the day He +made women! They're the most unsettlin' things in the world. You'd think +to look at me, I was a fairly quiet sort of a steady man, wouldn't you? +Well, I'm not. There's whiles when a woman makes my head buzz ... just +the look of her, an' the way she turns her head or moves her legs. I'm a +hefty fellow, John Marsh, for all I'm the age I am, an' I know what it +is to feel damn near silly with desire. But all the same, I can keep +control of myself, an' I've never wronged a woman in my life. That's a +big thing for any man to be able to say, an' there's few that can say +it, but I tell you it's been a hell of a fight!..." + +He lay back in the chair and puffed smoke above his head for a while. "A +hell of a fight," he murmured, and then did not speak for a while. + +"Yes?" said John Marsh. + +"I've been down the lanes of a summer night, an' seen young girls from +the farms about, with fine long hair hangin' down their backs, an' them +smilin' an' lovely ... an' begod, I've had to hurry past them, hurry +hard, damn near run!... Mind you, they were good girls, John Marsh! I +don't want you to think they were out lookin' for men. They weren't. But +they were young, an' they were just learnin' things, an' I daresay I +could have had them if I'd tried ... an' I don't think there's any real +harm in men an' women goin' together ... but we've settled, all of us, +that, real or no real, there is _some_ sort of harm in it, an' we've +agreed to condemn that sort of thing, an' so I submit to the law. Do you +follow me?" + +"No, not quite. Those sort of things don't arise for me. I'm a Catholic +and I obey the Church's laws!..." + +"I know you do. But I'm a man, not a Catholic!... Now, don't lose your +temper. I couldn't help lettin' that slip out.... What I mean is this. +There's a lot of waywardness in all of us, that's pleasant enough if +it's checked when it gets near the limit of things, but there has to be +a check!" + +"Yes?" Marsh said. "And in my case the check is the Church, the +expression on earth of God's will!..." + +"Well, in my case it isn't. In my case it's my sense of responsibility +as a gentleman. We've got ourselves into crowds that must be controlled +somehow, and there isn't much room for wayward people in a crowd. That's +why geniuses get such a rotten time. Now, my notion of a gentleman is a +man who controls the crowd by controllin' himself. D'you follow me? He +knows that the crowd'll bust up an' become a dirty riot if it's let out +of control, an' he knows that he can influence it best an' keep the whip +hand of it, if it knows that he isn't doin' anything that he tells it +not to do. D'you see?" + +"Yes," Marsh said. "That's the Catholic religion!..." + +"I know as well as I'm livin'," Mr. Quinn went on, "that I have enough +power over myself to know when to stop an' when to go on. That's been +bred in me. That's why I'm a gentleman. But I know that if I let myself +do things that I can control, I'll be givin' an example to hundreds of +other people who aren't gentlemen an' can't control themselves ... don't +know when to stop an' when to go on ... an' so I don't do them. An' +that's a gentleman's job, John Marsh, an' when gentlemen stop that, then +begod it's good-bye to a decent community. That's why England's goin' to +blazes ... because her gentlemen have forgotten the first job of the +gentleman: to keep himself in strict control, to be reticent, to conceal +his feelings!" + +But John Marsh would not agree with him. "England is going to blazes," +he said, "because England has lost her religion. If England were +Catholic, England would be noble again!..." + +"Just like France and Spain and Italy," Mr. Quinn replied. "Bosh, John +Marsh, bosh! I tell you, the test of a nation is this question of +gentlemen!..." + +"The test of a nation is its belief in God ... its church," said John +Marsh. + +"Well, Ireland believes in God, doesn't it? The Catholic Church is +fairly strong here, isn't it? An' what sort of a Church is it? A +gentleman's church or a peasant's church? Look at the priests, John +Marsh, look at them! My God, _what_ bounders! Little greedy, grubbin' +blighters, livin' for their Easter offerin's, an' doin' damn little for +their money. What do you think takes them into the church? Love of God? +Love of man? No, bedam if it is. Conceit an' snobbery an' the desire for +a soft job takes about nine out of ten of them.... Well, well, I'm +runnin' away from myself. What I want to say is this: the Catholic +church'll never be worth a damn in Ireland or anywhere else, 'til its +priests are gentlemen. No church is worth a damn unless its priests are +gentlemen!" + +"But what do you mean by gentlemen, Mr. Quinn?" + +"I mean men who are keepin' a tight hold on themselves. Mortifyin' their +flesh ... all that sort of stuff ... so that they won't give the mob an +excuse for breakin' loose!" + +Marsh wondered why Mr. Quinn was talking in this strain and tried to +draw him back to the subject of Henry's love of Sheila. + +"I'm comin' to that," said Mr. Quinn, pointing his cigar at him. +"Listen, John, there were two men that might have done big things in +Irelan' and Englan'--Parnell an' Lord Randolph Churchill, an' they +didn't because they weren't gentlemen. They couldn't control themselves. +There isn't a house in Ulster that hasn't got the photographs of those +two men in some album...." + +"Parnell?" Marsh exclaimed. + +"Aye, Parnell. Him an' Randy Churchill side by side in the one album! +Lord bless me, John Marsh, the Ulster people took great pride in +Parnell, even the bitterest Orangeman among them, because he was a man, +an' not a gas-bag like Dan O'Connell. Of course, he was a +Protestant!... But he couldn't keep from nuzzlin' over a woman ... an' +up went everything. An' Randy Churchill ... I mind him well, a +flushed-lookin' man.... I heard him talkin' in Belfast one time ... he +bust up everything because he would not control himself. If he'd been a +gentleman ... but he wasn't ... the Churchills never were.... Nor was +Parnell. Well, now, I don't want Henry to go to bits like that. Henry's +got power of some sort, John ... I don't know what sort ... but there's +power in him ... and I want it to come out right. He's the sort that'll +go soft on women if he's not careful. He'd be off after every young, +nice-lookin' girl he meets if he were let ... an' God knows what the end +of that would be. There's this girl, Sheila Morgan ... you've seen +her?..." + +Marsh nodded his head, and said, "She comes to the Language class." + +"Well, you know the sort she is: fine, healthy, good-lookin', lusty +girl. That sort stirs the blood in a lad like Henry. I want him to get +into the state in which he can look at her an' lave her alone! Do you +follow me?" + +"Yes." + +"He's not in that state now. He's soft, oh, he's damned soft. Look here, +John Marsh, do you know what I think about young fellows? I think +they're the finest things in the world. Youth, I mean. An' I figure it +out this way, that Youth has the right to three things: love an' work +an' fun; an' it ought to have them about equally. The only use of old +people like me is to see that the young 'uns don't get the proportions +all wrong, too much love an' not enough work, or the other way round. +Henry's very likely to get them all wrong, an' I want to see that he +doesn't. Now, you understand me, don't you? I'm a long-winded man, an' +it's hard to make out what I'm drivin' at, but that can't be helped. +Everybody has a nature, an' I have mine, an' bedam to it!" + +"What do you want me to do?" Marsh asked, putting his exercises +together. + +"I want you to try an' put some big wish into his heart," Mr. Quinn +replied. "Try an' make him as eager about Irelan' as you are. I want him +to spend himself for something that's bigger than he is, instead of +spendin' himself on something that's smaller than he is." + +"But why not do that yourself, Mr. Quinn?" + +Mr. Quinn got up from his chair and walked about the room. "It's very +hard for a man to talk to his son in the way that a stranger can," he +said. "An' besides I ... I love Henry, John Marsh, an' my love for him +upsets my balance!" + +"Can't you control that, Mr. Quinn?" Marsh asked. + +"Control it! Begod, John Marsh, if you were a father you wouldn't ask +such a damn silly question. Here, have a cigar! Henry's comin' back!" + +When Henry entered the room, his father was lying back in his chair, +puffing smoke into the air, while John Marsh was cutting the end of his +cigar. + +"The post's come in," he said. + +"Anything for me?" his father asked. + +"No. There was only one letter. For me. It's from Ninian Graham!" + +"Nice chap, Ninian Graham," Mr. Quinn murmured. + +"He wants me to go over to Boveyhayne for a while." + +"Does he?" + +"Yes. Gilbert Farlow's staying with them. I should like to go." + +"Well, we'll see about it in the morning," said Mr. Quinn. "I was +thinking of sending you on a walking tour with John here. To Connacht!" + +"You could talk to the people in Irish, Henry," John added. + +Henry twirled Ninian's letter in his fingers. "I'd like to go to +Boveyhayne," he said. "I want to see Ninian and Gilbert again!..." + +"But the language, Henry!..." + +"I hate the damned language!" Henry exclaimed passionately. "I'm sick of +Ireland. I'm sick of!..." + +Mr. Quinn got up and put his hand on Henry's shoulder. + +"All right, Henry," he said. "You can go to Boveyhayne!" + + +5 + +Up in his bedroom, Henry re-read Ninian's letter, and then he replied to +it. Ninian wrote: + +_Blighter:_ + +_Gilbert's here. He's been here for a week, and he says you ought to be +here, too. So do I. Can't you come to Boveyhayne for a fortnight anyhow? +If you can stay longer, do. Gilbert says it's awful to think that you're +going to that hole in Dublin where there isn't even a Boat Race, and the +least you can do is to come and have a good time here. I can't think why +Irish people want to be Irish. It seems so damn silly. Gilbert's writing +a play. He has done about a page and a half of it, and it's most awful +bilge. He keeps on reading it out to me. He read some of it to me last +night when I was brushing my teeth which is a damn dangerous thing to +do, and I had to clout his head severely for him. He is a chap. He got +poor Mary into a row on Sunday. We took him to church with us, and when +the Vicar was reading the first lesson, all about King Solomon swanking +before the Queen of Sheba and showing off his gold plate, Gilbert turned +to Mary and said out loud, "Ostentatious chap, Solomon! Anybody could +see he was a Jew!" and Mary burst out laughing. The Vicar was +frightfully sick about it, and jawed Gilbert after the service, and the +mater told Mary the truth about herself. I must say it was rather funny. +I very nearly laughed myself. Do be a decent chap and come over soon. +You'll just be in time for the mackerel fishing. Gilbert and Mary and I +went out with Jim Rattenbury yesterday and caught dozens._ + + _Your affectionate friend,_ + + _Ninian Graham._ + +Henry's reply was: + +_Dear Ninian:_ + +_Thanks awfully. I'll come as soon as I can get away. I spoke to my +father to-night, and he says I can go to Boveyhayne. I'll send a +telegram to you, telling you when to expect me. I'm looking forward to +reading Gilbert's play. I hope he'll have more of it written by the time +I get to Boveyhayne. A page and a half isn't much, is it? and I don't +wonder you get sick of hearing it over and over. I shall have to write +something, too, but I don't know what to write about. We can talk of +that when we meet. It is awfully kind of Mrs. Graham to have me again. +Please thank her for me, and give my love to Mary and Gilbert, and tell +him not to be an old ass, yapping like that in church. No wonder the +vicar was sick._ + + _Your affectionate friend,_ + + _Henry Quinn._ + + + + +THE NINTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +Three days later, Henry left Ballymartin and travelled to Belfast in the +company of John Marsh. In Belfast they were to separate: Marsh was to +return to Dublin and Henry was to cross by the night boat to Liverpool, +and proceed from there to London, and then on from Waterloo to +Boveyhayne. Marsh, a little sad because the Ballymartin classes must now +collapse, but greatly glad to return to the middle of Irish activities +in Dublin, had turned over in his mind what Mr. Quinn had said about +Henry's future, and he was wondering exactly what he should say to +Henry. They had several hours to spend in Belfast, and Marsh proposed +that they should visit the shipyards and, if they had time, inspect a +linen mill; and Henry, who had always felt great pride when he saw the +stocks and gantries of the shipyards and reflected that out of the +multitudinous activities of Ulster men the greatest ships in the world +were created, eagerly assented to Marsh's proposal. Mr. Quinn had given +them a letter of introduction to a member of the great firm of Harland +and Wolff, and Mr. Arthurs, because of his friendship for Mr. Quinn, +conducted them through the yard himself. + +They stayed so long in the shipyard that there was no time left for the +visit to the linen mill, and so, when they had had tea, they set off to +the Great Northern Railway station where Marsh was to catch his train to +Dublin. + +Mr. Arthurs' immense energy and his devotion to his work and his +extraordinary pride not only in the shipyard but in the men who worked +in it had made a deep impression on Marsh and Henry. He seemed to know +the most minute details of the vast complication of functions that +operated throughout the works. While they were passing through one of +the shops, a horn had blown, and instantly a great crowd of men and lads +had poured out of the yard on their way to their dinner, and Mr. +Arthurs, standing aside to watch them, and greeting here one and there +another, turned to Marsh and said, "Those are my pals!" Thousands of +men, grimy from their work, each of them possessed of some peculiar +skill or great strength, thousands of them, "pals" of this one man whose +active brain conceived ships of great magnitude and endurance! Mr. +Arthurs had passed through the shipyard from apprenticeship to +directorship: he had worked in this shop and in that, just as the men +worked, and had learned more about shipbuilding than it seemed possible +for any man to learn. "He knows how many rivets there are in the +_Oceanic_," one of the foremen in the yard said to Marsh when they were +being shown round. "He's the great boy for buildin' boats!" + +Marsh, until then, had never met a man like Mr. Arthurs. His life had +been passed in Dublin, among people who thought and talked and +speculated, but seldom did; and he had been habituated to scoffing talk +at Belfast men ... "money-grubbers" ... mitigated, now and then, by a +grudging tribute to their grit and great energy and resource. Mr. +Arthurs had none of the money-grubbing spirit in him; his devotion to +his work of shipbuilding was as pure as the devotion of a Samurai to the +honour of Japan; and Marsh, who was instantly sensitive to the presence +of a noble man, felt strongly drawn to him. + +"I wish we could get him on our side, Henry!" he said, as they sat in +the station, waiting for the train to draw up to the platform. "I'd give +all the lawyers we've got for that one man!" + +"Father thinks Tom Arthurs is the greatest shipbuilder that's ever +lived," Henry answered. + +"He might be the greatest Irishman that's ever lived," Marsh rejoined, +"if he'd only give a quarter of the devotion to Ireland that he gives to +ships." + +"I suppose he thinks he's giving all his devotion to Ireland now ... and +he is really. Isn't he, John? His firm is famous all over the world, and +he's one of the men that have made it famous. It must be very fine for +him to think that he's doing big things for his country!" + +Marsh nodded his head. "We're rather foolish about Belfast in Dublin," +he said. "After all, real work is done here, isn't it? And the chief +industry of Dublin ... what is it? Absolutely unproductive! Porter! +Barrels and barrels of it, floating down the Liffey and nothing, +_nothing real_, floating back! I like that man Arthurs. I wish to heaven +we had him on our side!" + +"He's a Unionist," Henry replied. + +It occurred to Marsh, in the middle of his reflections on Tom Arthurs, +that he should ask Henry what he proposed to do for Ireland. + +"I'd like to do work as big and fine as Arthurs does," he said. +"Wouldn't you, Henry?" + +"Yes." + +"What _do_ you propose to do, Henry?" + +"I don't know. I haven't thought definitely about that sort of thing +yet. I've just imagined I'd like to do _something_. I'm afraid I can't +build ships!..." + +"There are other things besides ships, Henry!" + +"I know that. John, I'm going to say something that'll make you angry, +but I can't help that. When Tom Arthurs was showing us over the Island, +I couldn't help thinking that all that Gaelic movement was a frightful +waste of time!" Marsh made a gesture, but Henry would not let him speak. +"No, don't interrupt me, John," he said. "I must say what I feel. Look +at the Language class at Ballymartin. What's been the good of all the +work you put into it?" + +"We've given them a knowledge of a national separateness, haven't we?" + +"Have we? They were keener on the dances, John. I don't believe we've +done anything of the sort, and if we had, I think it would be a pity!" + +"A pity! A pity to make the Irish people realise that they're Irish and +different from the English!" + +"Oh, you won't agree, I know, John, but I think Tom Arthurs is doing +better work for Ireland than you are," Henry retorted. + +"He's doing good work, very good work, but not better work than I am. +He's establishing an Irish industry, but I'm helping to establish an +Irish nation, an Irish soul!..." + +"That's what you want to do, but I wonder whether it's what you are +doing," said Henry. + +They were silent for a while, and before they spoke again, the train +backed into the station, and they passed through the barriers so that +Marsh could secure his seat. + +"Well, what do _you_ propose to do for Ireland?" Marsh asked again, when +he had entered his carriage. + +"The best I can, I suppose. I don't know yet!..." + +Marsh turned quickly to Henry and put his hand on his shoulder. "Henry," +he said, "I hope you don't mind ... I know about Sheila Morgan and +you!..." + +"You know?..." + +"Yes. I'm sorry about that. I don't think you should let it upset you!" + +Henry did not reply for a few moments, but sat still staring in front of +him. In a sub-conscious way, he was wondering why it was that the +carriages were not cleaner.... + +"I'm frightfully miserable, John," he said at last. + +"But why, Henry?" + +"Oh, because of everything. I don't know. I'm a fool, I suppose!" + +"You're not going to pieces just because you've fallen in love with a +girl and it's turned out wrong? My dear Henry, that's a poor sort of a +spirit!" + +"I know it is, but I'm a sloppy fellow!..." + +"This affair with Sheila Morgan is all the more reason why you should +think of something big to do. I wish you were coming to Dublin with me +now. Dublin's very beautiful in the summer, and we could go up into the +mountains and talk about things." + +"Oh, well, we shall meet in Dublin fairly soon," Henry replied, smiling +at Marsh. It had been settled that he was to enter Trinity a little +earlier than his father had previously planned. + +"Yes, that's true!" + +The hour at which the train was due to depart came, and Henry got out of +the carriage and stood on the platform while Marsh, his head thrust +through the window, talked to him. + +"You might write to me," he said. "We ought not to drift away from each +other, Henry!..." + +"We won't do that. We'll see each other in Dublin." + +"Yes, of course. You must meet Galway when you come back. He's a +schoolmaster and a barrister and a poet and heaven knows what not. He's +a splendid fellow. Perhaps he'll persuade you to take more interest in +Irish things!" + +"Perhaps!" + +The guard blew his whistle, and the train began to move out of the +station. + +"Don't get too English, Henry!" Marsh shouted, waving his hand in +farewell. + +Henry smiled at him, but did not answer. + +"Good-bye!" Marsh called to him. + +"Good-bye!" Henry answered. + +The train swung round a bend and disappeared on its way south, and +Henry, strangely desolate, turned and walked away from the station. + + +2 + +In the excitement of leaving Ballymartin and sightseeing in the +shipyard, he had almost forgotten Sheila Morgan, but now, his mind +stimulated by his talk with Marsh and his spirit depressed by his +loneliness, his thoughts returned to her, and it seemed to him that he +detested her. She had insulted him, struck him, humiliated and shamed +him. When he remembered that he had told her of his love for her and had +asked her to marry him, and had been told in reply that she wanted a +man, not a coward, he felt that he could not bear to return to Ireland +again. His mood was mingled misery and gladness. At Boveyhayne, thank +heaven, he would be free of Sheila and probably he would never think of +her again. Gilbert and Ninian would fill his mind, and of course there +would be Mrs. Graham and Mary. Mary! It was strange that he should have +let Mary slip out of his thoughts and let Sheila slip into them. He had +actually proposed to Mary and she had accepted him, and then he had left +her and forgotten her because of Sheila. He remembered that he had not +replied to the letter she had written to him before John Marsh came to +Ballymartin. He had intended to write, but somehow he had not done so +... and then Sheila came, and it was impossible to write to her. He +wondered what he should say to her when they met. Would she come to +Whitcombe station to meet him? What was he to say to her?... + +He had treated her shabbily. Of course, she was only a kid, as Ninian +himself would say, but then he had made love to her, and anyhow she +would be less of a kid now than she was when he last saw her.... He got +tired of walking about the streets, and he made his way to the quays and +passed across the gangway on to the deck of the steamer. A cool air was +blowing up the Lagan from the Lough, and when he leaned over the side of +the ship he could see the dark skeleton shape of the shipyard. His +thoughts were extraordinarily confused, rambling about his father and +Sheila Morgan and John Marsh and Mary Graham and Tom Arthurs and Ireland +and ships and England and Gilbert Farlow and Ninian and Roger.... + +"I ought never to have thought of any one but Mary," he said to himself +at last. "I _really_ love her. I was only ... only passing the time with +Sheila!" + +"Well, thank God I'll soon be in Devonshire," he went on, "and out of +all this. If only my Trinity time were over, and I were settled in +London with Gilbert and the others, I'd be happy again!" He thought of +John Marsh, and as he leant over the side of the boat, looking down on +the dark water flowing beneath him, he seemed to see Marsh's eager face, +framed in the window of the railway carriage. He almost heard Marsh +saying again, "Well, what do _you_ propose to do for Ireland?..." + +"Oh, damn Ireland," he said out loud. + +He walked away from the place where he had imagined he had seen Marsh's +face peering at him out of the water, and as he walked along the deck, +he could hear the noise of hammering in the shipyard made by the men on +the night-shift. Tom Arthurs's brain was still working, though Tom +Arthurs was now at home. + +"That's real work," Henry murmured to himself, "and a lot better than +gabbling about Ireland's soul as if it were the only soul in the world! +Poor old John! I disappoint him horribly...." He was standing in the +bows of the boat, looking towards the Lough. "I wonder," he said to +himself, "whether Mary'll be at Whitcombe station!" + + +3 + +The peculiar sense of isolation which overwhelms an Irishman when he is +in England, fell upon Henry the moment he climbed into the carriage at +Lime Street station. None of the passengers in his compartment spoke to +each other, whereas in Ireland, every member of the company would have +been talking like familiars in a few minutes. About an hour after the +train had left Liverpool, some one leant across to the passenger facing +him and asked for a match, and a box of matches was passed to him +without a word from the man who owned them. "Thanks!" said the passenger +who had borrowed the box, as he returned it. No more was said by any one +for half an hour, and then the man opposite to Henry stretched himself +and said, "We're getting along!" and turned and laid his head against +the window and went to sleep. + +"We _are_ different!" Henry thought to himself. "We're certainly +different ... only I wonder does the difference matter much!" + +He tried to make conversation with his neighbour, but was unsuccessful, +for his neighbour replied only in monosyllables, and sometimes did not +even articulate at all, contenting himself with a grunt.... + +"Well, why should he talk to me?" Henry thought to himself. "He isn't +interested in me or my opinions, and perhaps he wants to read or +think!..." + +Marsh would have denied that the man wanted to think. He would have +denied that the man had the capacity to think at all. Henry remembered +how Marsh had generalised about the English. "They live on their +instincts," he had said. "They never live on their minds!" and he had +quoted from an article in an English newspaper in which the writer had +lamented over the decline and fall of intellect among his countrymen. +The writer declared that no one would pay to see a play that made a +greater demand upon the mind than is made in a musical comedy, and that +even this slight demand was proving to be more than many people could +bear: the picture palace was destroying even the musical comedy. + +"But are we any better than that?" Henry had asked innocently, and +Marsh, indignant, had declared that the Irish were immeasurably better +than _that_. + +"But are we?" Henry asked himself as the train swiftly moved towards +London. + +And through his mind there raced a long procession of questions for +which he could not find answers. His mind was an active, searching mind, +but it was immature, and there were great gaps in it that could only be +filled after a long time and much experience. He had not the knowledge +which would enable him to combat the opinions of Marsh, but some +instinct in him caused him to believe that Marsh's views of England and +Ireland were largely prejudiced views. "I don't feel any less friendly +to Gilbert and Ninian and Roger than I do to John Marsh or any other +Irishman, and I don't feel that John understands me better than they +do!" That was the pivot on which all his opinions turned. He could only +argue from his experience, and his experience was that this fundamental +antagonism between the Irish and the English, on which John Marsh +insisted, did not exist. When Marsh declared passionately that he did +not wish to see Ireland made into a place like Lancashire, he was only +stating something that many Englishmen said with equal passion about the +unindustrialised parts of England. Gilbert Farlow denounced mill-owners +with greater fury than Mr. Quinn denounced them.... It seemed to Henry +that he could name an English equivalent for every Irish friend he had. + +"There are differences, of course," he said to himself, remembering the +silent company of passengers who shared his compartment, "but they don't +matter very much!" + +"I wish," he went on, "John Marsh weren't so bitter against the English. +Lots of them would like him if he'd only let them!" + +He looked out of the window at the wide fields and herds of cattle and +comfortable farmhouses, built by men whose lives were more or less +secure, and ... "Of course!" he exclaimed in his mind. "That's the +secret of the whole thing! When our people have had security for life as +long as these people have had it, their houses will be as good as these +are, and their farms as rich and clean and comfortable!" + +One had only to remember the history of Ireland to realise that many of +the differences between the English and the Irish were no more than the +differences between the hunter and the hunted, the persecutor and the +persecuted. How could the Irish help having a lower standard of life +than the English when their lives had been so disrupted and disturbed +that it was difficult for them to have a standard of life at all? Now, +when the disturbance was over and security of life had been obtained +(after what misery and bitterness and cruel lack of common +comprehension!) the Irish would soon set up a level of life that might +ultimately be higher than that of the English. + +"Of course," said Henry, remembering something that his father had said, +"there'll be a Greedy Interval!" + +The Greedy Interval, the first period of prosperity in Ireland when the +peasants, coming suddenly from insecurity and poverty to safety and +well-being, would claw at money like hungry beasts clawing at food, had +been the subject of many arguments between Mr. Quinn and John Marsh, Mr. +Quinn maintaining that greed was the principal characteristic of a +peasant nation, inherent in it, inseparable from it. + +"Look at the French," he had said on one occasion. "By God, they buried +their food in their back-gardens rather than let their hungry soldiers +have it in the Franco-German War! Would an aristocrat have done that, +John Marsh? They saw their own countrymen who had been fighting for +them, starving, and they let them starve!..." + +It was the same everywhere. "I never pass a patch of allotments," he +said, "without thinkin' that their mean, ugly, _little_ look is just +like a peasant's mind, an' begod I'm glad when I'm past them an' can see +wide lands again!" Peasants were greedy, narrow, unimaginative, lacking +in public spirit. In France, in Belgium, in Holland and Russia, in all +of which countries Mr. Quinn had travelled much, there was a peasant +spirit powerfully manifested, and almost invariably that manifestation +was shown in a mean manner. + +"That's what your wonderful Land Laws are going to do for Ireland!" Mr. +Quinn had exclaimed scornfully. "_We're_ to be thrown out of our land, +an' louts like Tom McCrum are to be put in our place!..." + +Henry had sympathised with his father then, but he felt that the best of +the argument was with John Marsh who had replied that the Irish +landlords would never have been dispossessed of their land, if they had +been worthy of it. "If they'd thought as much about their +responsibilities as they thought about their rights, they'd still have +their rights!" he said. + +"I suppose that's so," Henry said to himself, picking up a paper that he +had bought in Liverpool and beginning to read. "I must talk to Gilbert +about it!" + + +4 + +Ninian and Gilbert met him at Whitcombe station. As he stood on the +little platform of the carriage, he could see that Mary was not with +them, and he felt disappointed. She might have come, too!... + +"Here he is," he heard Gilbert shout to Ninian as the train drew up. +"Hilloa, Quinny!" + +"Hilloa, Gilbert!" + +"Hop out quickly, will you!" + +He hopped out as quickly as he could and said "Hilloa!" to Ninian, who +said "Hilloa!" and slapped his back and called him an old rotter. + +"Widger'll take your luggage," Gilbert said, taking control of their +movements as he always did. "Hang on to this, Widger," he added, taking +a handbag from Henry and throwing it into Widger's arms. "Show him the +rest of your stuff, Quinny, and let's hook off. We're going to walk to +Boveyhayne. You'll need a stretch after sitting all that time, and +Ninian's getting disgustingly obese, so we make him run up and down the +road over the cliff three times so's to thin him down!..." + +"Funny ass!" said Ninian. + +"Mrs. Graham wanted Mary to come with us, but we wouldn't let her. We're +tired of females, Ninian and I, and Mary's very femaley at present. +She's started to read poetry!..." + +"Out loud!" Ninian growled. "I'm sick of people who read out loud to me. +When Mary's not spouting stuff about 'love' and 'dove' and 'heaven +above' and that sort of rot, Gilbert's reading his damn play to me!" + +"I'll read it to you, Quinny!" Gilbert said, linking his arm in Henry's. + +They had left the station, and were now walking along the unfinished +road above the shingle. There was a heat haze hanging over the smooth +blue sea, so that sky and water merged into each other imperceptibly. In +front of them, they could see the white cliffs of Boveyhayne shining in +the descending sun. There were great stalks of charlock, standing out of +the grass on the face of the cliffs, giving them a golden head. + +"If Marley's on Whitcombe beach, we'll row over to Boveyhayne," said +Ninian. "You'd like to get on to the sea, wouldn't you, Quinny?" + +Henry nodded his head. + +"No," said Gilbert, "we won't. We'll sit here for a while, and I'll read +my play to Quinny. I carry it about with me, Quinny, so that I can read +it to Ninian whenever his spirits are low!" + +"I never saw such a chap!" Ninian mumbled. + +"This great, hairy, beefy fellow," Gilbert went on, seizing hold of +Ninian's arm with his disengaged hand, "does not love literature!..." + +Ninian broke free from Gilbert's grip. "Marley is on the beach," he +said, and ran ahead to engage the boat. + +"Well, Quinny!" said Gilbert, when Ninian had gone. + +"Well, Gilbert!" Henry replied. + +"How's Ireland? Still making an ass of itself?" + +Henry made no answer to Gilbert's question because he knew that an +answer was not expected. Had any one else spoken in that fashion to him, +any other Englishman, he would probably have angered instantly, but +Gilbert was different from all other people in Henry's eyes, and was +privileged to say whatever he pleased. + +"Gilbert," he said, "I want to have a long jaw with you about +something!..." + +The English way of speaking came naturally to him, and he said "a long +jaw about something" as easily as if he had never been outside an +English public school. + +"What?" Gilbert said. + +"Oh, everything. Ireland and things!" + +"All right, my son!" + +"You see!..." + +"Wait though," said Gilbert, "until we catch up with Ninian. He ought to +hear it, too. He has a wise old noddle, Ninian, although he's such a fat +'un.... My God, Quinny, isn't he getting big? If he piles up any more +muscle, hell have to go to Trinity Hall and join the beefy brutes and +get drunk and all that kind of manly thing!" They came up with Ninian as +he spoke. "Won't you, Ninian?" + +"Won't I what?" Ninian replied. + +"Have to go to Trinity Hall if you go on being a beefy Briton. Hilloa, +Marley!" + +"Good-evenin', sir!" said old Marley. + +They got into the boat, and Ninian rowed them round the white cliff to +Boveyhayne beach, where they left the boat and walked up the village +street to the lane that led to Boveyhayne Manor. + +"Henry wants to talk about the world, Ninian!" said Gilbert as they left +the beach. "We'd better have a good old gabble after dinner to-night, +hadn't we?" + +"It doesn't matter what I say," said Ninian, "you'll gabble anyhow. +Anything to keep him from reading his blooming play to me!" he added, +turning to Henry. + + +5 + +He had a sense of disappointment when he met Mary. In his reaction from +Sheila Morgan, he had imagined Mary coming to greet him with something +of the alert youthfulness with which she had met him when he first +visited Boveyhayne, but when she came into the hall, a book in +her hand, he felt that there was some stiffness in her manner, a +self-consciousness which had not been there before. + +"How do you do?" she said, offering her hand to him like any well-bred +girl. + +She did not call him "Quinny" or show in her manner or speech that he +was particularly welcome to her. + +"I suppose," he thought to himself, "she's cross because I didn't answer +her letter!" + +He resolved that he would bring her back to her old friendliness.... + +"I expect you're tired," she said. "We'll have tea in a minute or two. +Mother's lying down. She's not very well!" + +She would have said as much to a casual acquaintance, Henry thought. + +"Not well!" he heard Ninian saying. "What's the matter with her?" + +"She's tired. I think she's got a headache. There was a letter from +Uncle Peter!" Mary answered, and her tone indicated that the letter from +Uncle Peter accounted for everything. + +"Oh!" said Ninian, scowling and turning away. + +They went into the drawing-room to tea, and Henry had a sense of +intruding on family affairs, mingled with his disappointment because +Mary was not as he had expected her to be. It might be, of course, that +the letter from Uncle Peter had affected Mary almost as much as it +seemed to have affected Mrs. Graham, and that presently she would be as +natural as she had been that other time ... but then he remembered that +Gilbert had said that she was "being very femaley at present." She +poured out tea for them as if she were a new governess, and she reproved +Ninian once for saying "Damn!" when he dropped his bread and butter.... + +"Mary's turned pi!" said Ninian. + +She frowned at him and told him not to be silly. + +"She calls the Communion Service the Eucharist, and crosses herself and +flops and bows!..." + +"You're very absurd, Ninian!" she said. + +Almost unconsciously, he began to compare her to Sheila Morgan. He +remembered the free, natural ways of Sheila, and liked them better than +these new, mannered ways of Mary. How could any one prefer this +stiltedness to that ease, this self-consciousness to that state of being +unaware of self?... In Belfast, when he had left John Marsh, and in his +loneliness had thought of the way Sheila had humiliated him, he had had +a sharp sense of revulsion from her, a loathing for her, a desire never +to see her again; but now, sitting here looking at Mary and oppressed by +her youngladyishness, his longing for Sheila came back to him with +greater strength, and he resolved that he would write to her that night +and beg her to forgive him for his cowardice and let him be her +sweetheart again.... + +"Will you have some more tea!" Mary was saying to him, and he started at +the sound of her voice. + +"Oh, thanks!" he said, passing his cup to her. + +"Thinking, Quinny?" Gilbert exclaimed, reaching for a bun. + +"Eh? Oh, yes! I was thinking!" he answered. "What time does the evening +post go out?" he said to Ninian. + +"Six-twenty-five," Ninian answered. + +"Thanks. I just want to write to Ireland!..." + +"It'll get there just as soon if you post it to-morrow," said Gilbert. + +Mary left them. "I'm going up to mother," she said, as she got up from +the tea table. "She's awfully sorry she couldn't be down to welcome +you," she added to Henry who had moved to open the door for her. + +"I hope she'll soon be better," he answered. + +When she had gone, Ninian got up and cursed lustily. + +"Damn and blast him," he said. + +They did not speak. They knew that Ninian's anger had some relation to +Mrs. Graham's headache and the letter from Uncle Peter, and they felt +that it was not their business to speak, even though Ninian had drawn +them into the affair. + +"I'm sorry," said Ninian, sitting down again. "I ought not to have +broken out like that before you chaps, but I couldn't help it." + +Henry coughed as if he were clearing his throat, but he did not speak, +and Gilbert sat still and gazed at the toe of his shoe. + +"He always upsets mother, damn him!" Ninian looked up at them. "My Uncle +Peter married a girl in a confectioner's shop at Cambridge. He's that +kind of ass! He never writes to mother except when he's in a mess, and +he always expects her to get him out of it. I can't stand a man who does +that sort of thing. She's an awful bitch, too ... his wife! We had them +here once!... My God!" + +Ninian lay back in his seat and remained silent for a while as if he +were contemplating in his mind the picture of Uncle Peter and his wife +on that awful visit to Boveyhayne. They waited for him to continue. + +"I used to feel ashamed to go into the village," he said at last. "The +way she talked to the fishermen--one minute snubbing them, and the next, +talking to them as if she were a servant-girl. They didn't like it. Jim +Rattenbury hated it, I know. She wasn't one of us and she wasn't one of +them. A damned in-between, that's what she was. And Uncle Peter used to +get drunk!... I'm awfully sorry, you chaps, I oughtn't to be boring you +like this!" + +"That's all right," said Gilbert. + +"I was jolly glad when they went," Ninian went on. "Jolly glad! Poor +mother had a hell of a time while they were here!" + +"I suppose so," Henry murmured, hardly knowing what to say. + +"I can't understand a man marrying a woman like that," Ninian said. "I +mean, I can understand a fellow ragging about with a girl, but I can't +understand him marrying her and ... and upsetting things!" + +It was on the tip of Henry's tongue to say something about +Ninian's belief in democracy, for he remembered that Gilbert, +in one of his letters, had declared that Ninian had become a +I'm-as-good-as-you-and-a-damn-sight-better-politician, but he did not +say it. + +"The girl isn't happy. Anybody can see she isn't happy, and Uncle Peter +isn't happy, and between them they make us damn miserable. That kind of +marriage is bound to fail, _I_ think. People ought to marry in their own +class!..." + +"Unless they're big enough to climb out of it," said Gilbert. + +"_She_ isn't!" + +It came to Henry suddenly that he was proposing to do what Ninian's +Uncle Peter had done: marry a girl who was not of his class. He listened +to Ninian and Gilbert as they talked of this intimate mingling of +classes, and wondered what they would say if they knew of Sheila. +Gilbert and Ninian were agreed that on the whole it was foolish for a +man to marry that kind of girl. "It doesn't work," said Gilbert, and he +told a story of a man whom his father had known, an officer in the +Indian army who developed communist beliefs when he retired and had +married his cook. "It's a ghastly failure," said Gilbert. + +"I'm all for equality," Ninian said, "but it's silly to think that we're +always equal now. We're not!..." + +"And never will be," Gilbert interjected. + +"I don't agree with you, Gilbert. I think that things like habits and +manners can be fairly equalised!..." + +"Minds can't!" + +"No, of course not; but decent behaviour can, and it's silly to start +mingling classes until you've done that. You rub each other the wrong +way over little things that don't really matter, but that irritate like +blazes. I've talked about it with mother. She used to think I was the +sort of chap who'd do what Uncle Peter did. Uncle Peter frightened me +off that kind of thing!" + +It was absurd, Henry thought, to think that all women were like Uncle +Peter's wife. Sheila was not that sort of girl at all. She would not +make a man feel ashamed!... + +He broke off in the middle of his thoughts to listen to Gilbert who was +enunciating a doctrine that was new to Henry. + +"There are aristocrats and there are plebs," said Gilbert, "and they +won't mingle. That's all about it. I believe that the majority of the +working people are different from us, not only in their habits ... +that's nothing ... just the veneer ... but in their nature. We've been +achieved somehow ... evolution and that sort of thing ... because they +needed people to look after them and direct them and control them. We're +as different from working people as a race-horse is from a cart-horse. +Things that are quite natural to us are simply finicky fussy things to +them. I wish to God talking like this didn't make a fellow feel like a +prig!..." + +He broke off almost angrily. + +"Let's go out," he said. "I want to smoke!" + +"But it's true all the same," he went on when they got outside, almost +as if he had not broken his speech. "Whether we tried for it or not, +we've got people separated into groups, and we'll never get them out of +them. Some of us are servants and some of us are bosses, and we've +developed natures like that, and we can't get away from them!" Henry +reminded them of men who had climbed from low positions to high +positions. "They're the accidents," Gilbert went on. "They prove +nothing, and I'm certain that if you could go back into their ancestry, +you'd find they sprang from people like us, who had somehow slithered +down until the breed told and a turn up was taken!..." + +They argued round and round the subject, admitting here, denying +there.... + +"Anyhow," Gilbert ended, "it is true that a man who marries a village +girl makes a mistake, isn't it?" + +"Not always," Henry replied. + +"Nearly always," said Gilbert. + +"Uncle Peter made a mistake anyhow," Ninian said. + + +6 + +He went to his room, pleading that he was tired, to write his letter to +Sheila before dinner. As he was going upstairs, Mary began to descend, +and he saw that her look was brighter. + +"Go back," she called to him, waving her hand as if to thrust him down +the stairs again. "It's unlucky to pass people on the stairs. Don't you +know that?" + +He descended again as she bade him, laughing as he did so, and waited +until she had come down. + +"Mother's much better now," she said when she had reached his side. +"She's coming down to dinner." + +"I'm awfully glad," he replied. He hesitated for a second or two, +standing with one foot on the last step of the stairs. "I say, Mary," he +said. + +"Yes, Quinny!" she answered, turning to him. + +So she had not forgotten that she had called him by his nick-name. + +"I say, Mary," he said again, still undecided as to whether he should +speak his mind or not. + +"Yes?" she repeated. + +He went up a step or two of the stairs. "Oh, I don't know," he +exclaimed. "I only wanted to say how nice it is to be here again!" + +"Oh, yes!" Mary said, and he imagined that her tone was one of +disappointment. + +"I'll be down presently," he went on, and then he ran up the stairs to +his room. + +"I don't know," he said to himself, as he closed his door. "I'm damned +if I know!" + +He sat down at the writing-table and spread a sheet of notepaper in +front of him. "I wish I knew!..." he murmured, and he wrote down the +date. "Mary is awfully nice, and I like her of course, but Sheila!..." + +He put the pen down again and sat back in his chair and stared out of +the window. Out in the farmyard, he could hear the men bedding the +horses, and there was a clatter of cans from the dairy where the women +were turning the milk into cream. He could hear a horse whinnying in its +stall ... and as he listened he seemed to see Sheila, as he had seen her +on her uncle's farm before he had failed in courage, standing outside +the byre with a crock in her hands and a queer, teasing look in her +eyes. "You're the quare wee fella!" she was saying, and then, "I like +you quaren well!..." + +He seized the pen again and began to write. + + +7 + +He had almost finished the letter when Gilbert knocked on his door and +shouted, "Can I come in, Quinny?" + +He put the letter under the blotting paper, and called, "Yes, Gilbert!" +in reply. + +"Aren't you ready yet?" Gilbert asked. + +"No, not yet, but I won't be long changing!" + +"Righto!" said Gilbert, going to the other window and looking across the +fields. "Rum go about Ninian's uncle, isn't it?" he said, playing with +the tassle of the blind. + +"Eh?" said Henry. + +"There must be something low in a man who marries a woman like that, +don't you think?" + +"Oh, I don't know. Why should there be?" + +"Obvious, isn't it? I mean, there can't be much in common otherwise, can +there? Unless the man's a sentimental ass. It's as if you or I were to +marry one of the girls out there in the yard, milking the cows. She'd be +awfully useful for that job ... milking cows ... but you wouldn't want +her to be doing it all the time. It depends, I suppose, on what you want +to do. If you've got any ambition!..." + +He did not finish the sentence, but Henry understood and nodded his head +as if he agreed with him. + +"I must trot off," Gilbert said suddenly, going towards the door. "I'm +keeping you!..." He paused with his fingers on the handle of the door. +"I say, Quinny," he said, "do you know anything about women?" + +"No, not much," Henry answered. "Do you?" + +"No. Funny, isn't it?" he replied, and then he went out of the room. + +Henry sat still for a moment, staring at the closed door, and then +turned back to the writing-table and took the letter to Sheila from +beneath the blotting-paper. He read it through and sat staring at it +until the writing became a dancing blur.... He got up, carrying the +letter in his hand, and went to the door and opened it. He tried to call +"Gilbert!" but the name came out in a whisper, and before he could call +again, he heard the noise of laughter and then the sound of a young +voice singing. Mary was downstairs, teasing Ninian. He could hear +Ninian, half laughing, half growling, as he shouted, "Don't be an old +ass, Mary!" + +He shut the door and went back to the writing-table, still holding the +letter in his hand, and while he stood there, a gong was sounded in the +hall. + +"Lord!" he said, "I shall have to hurry!" and he tore up the letter and +put it in the waste-paper basket. + + +8 + +They passed their time in bathing and boating and walking, and sometimes +Mary was with them, but mostly she was not. They went out in the +mornings, soon after breakfast, taking food with them, and seldom +returned until the evening. They took long tramps to Honiton and Lyme +Regis and Sidmouth, and once they walked to Exeter and returned home by +train. Mary liked boating and bathing, but she did not care for walking, +and the distances they travelled were beyond her strength; and so it +came about that gradually, during Henry's stay at Boveyhayne, she ceased +to take part in their outings. It seemed odd to him that she did not +make any reference to their love-making. She called him "Quinny" and was +friendly enough, but she called Gilbert by his Christian name and was as +friendly with him as she was with Henry. He felt hurt when he thought of +her indifference to him. "You'd think she'd forgotten about it!" he said +to himself one evening when he was sitting alone with her in the garden, +and he oscillated between the desire to ignore her and the desire to +have it out with her; but he dallied so long between one desire and the +other that Gilbert and Ninian and Mrs. Graham had joined them before he +had made a decision. He could not understand Mary. She seemed to have +grown shy and quiet and much less demonstrative than she had been when +he first knew her. + +"Mary's growing up," Mrs. Graham said to him one evening, irrelevantly; +and of course she was, but she had not grown up so much that there +should be all this difference between Mary now and Mary then. + +"Oh, well!" he generally concluded when his thoughts turned to her, +"she's only a kid!" + +And sometimes that explanation seemed to satisfy him. There were other +times when it failed to satisfy him, and he told himself that Mary was +justly cold to him because he had not been loyal to their compact. He +had not answered her letters and he had made love to Sheila Morgan. "I +suppose," he said to himself, "I'd be at Ballymartin now, making love to +Sheila, if it hadn't been for that horse!" + +He tried on several occasions to talk to Mary about her unanswered +letter, to invent some explanation of his neglect, but always he failed +to say anything, too nervous to begin, too afraid of being snubbed, too +eager to leave the explanation over until the next day; and so he never +"had it out" with her. + +"I am a fool!" he would say to himself in angry rebuke, but even while +he was reproaching himself, his mind was devising an excuse for his +behaviour. "We're really too young," he would add. "It's silly of me to +think of this sort of thing at all, and Mary's still a schoolgirl!..." + +"I'll just say something to her before I go away," he thought. +"Something that will ... explain everything!" + +Then Mr. Quinn wrote to him to say that he was in London on business. He +was anxious that Henry should come to town so that they could return to +Ireland together. "We'll go to Dublin," he wrote, "and I'll leave you +there. You needn't come to Ballymartin until the end of the first term." + +He felt strangely chilled by his father's letter. This jolly holiday at +Boveyhayne was to be the end of one life, and the journey to Dublin was +to be the beginning of another; and he did not wish to end the one life +or begin the other. He could feel growing within him, an extraordinary +hatred of Trinity College, and he almost wrote to his father to say that +he would rather not go to a University at all than go to T. C. D. It was +cruel, he told himself, to separate him from his friends and compel him +to go to a college that meant nothing on earth to him. + +"I shan't know any one there," he said to Gilbert and Ninian, "and I +probably won't want to know any one. It's a hole, that's what it is, a +rotten hole. If the dons were any good, they'd be at Oxford or +Cambridge!..." + +"You're not much of a patriot," Ninian said. + +"I don't want to be a damned patriot. I want to be with people I like. I +don't see why I should be compelled to go and live with a lot of people +I don't know and don't care about, just because I'm Irish and they're +Irish, when I really want to be with you and Gilbert and Roger.... I +haven't seen Roger since I left Rumpell's and I don't suppose I shall +see him for a long time!" + +Gilbert tried to mock him out of his anger. "This emotion does you +credit, young Quinny!" he said, "and we are touched, Ninian and I. +Aren't we, Ninian! But you must be a man, Quinny! Four years hence, we +shall all meet in London, _Deo volente_, and we'll be able to compare +the education of Ireland with the education of England. Oh, Lordy God, I +sometimes wish we hadn't got minds at all. I think it must be lovely to +be a cow ... nothing to do but chew the damned cud all day. No soul to +consider, no mind to improve, no anything!..." + +Gilbert and he left Boveyhayne together, but Gilbert was only going as +far as Templecombe with him, where he was to change on his way to +Cheltenham. Ninian and Mary saw them off at Whitcombe, and when he +remembered the circumstances in which she had seen him off before, Henry +had a longing to take hold of her arm and lead her to the end of the +platform, as he had done then, and tell her that he was sorry for +everything and beg her to start again where they had left off that day +... but Gilbert was there and Ninian was there, and there was no +opportunity, and the train went off, leaving the explanation unmade. + + +9 + +"Good-bye, Quinny!" Gilbert said at Templecombe. + +"Good-bye, Gilbert!" Henry answered in a low tone. + +"I suppose you'll write to me some day?" + +"I suppose so. Yes, of course!..." + +"Ripping day, isn't it? Shame to be wasting it in a blooming train!" + +"Yes!" + +He wished that the train would break down so that he need not part from +Gilbert yet, but while he was wishing, it began to move. Gilbert stood +back from the carriage and waved his hand to him, and Henry leant with +his head through the window of his carriage, smiling.... + +"Damn Trinity," he said, sitting back in his seat, and letting +depression envelop him. "Damn and blast Trinity!..." + + + + +THE SECOND BOOK + +OF + +CHANGING WINDS + + + I write of Youth, of Love, and have Accesse + By these, to sing of cleanly-Wantonnesse. + + HERRICK. + + + + +THE FIRST CHAPTER + + +1 + +Henry Quinn climbed into a carriage at Amiens Street station and sat +back in his seat and puffed with pleasure, blowing out his breath with a +long "poo-ing" sound. He was quit of Trinity College at last! Thank God, +he was quit of it at last! The hatred with which he had entered Trinity +had, in his four years of graduation, been mitigated ... there were even +times when he had kindly thoughts of Trinity ... but every letter he +received from Gilbert Farlow or Ninian Graham or Roger Carey stirred the +resentment he felt at his separation from his friends who had gone to +Cambridge, and so, in spite of the kindlier feeling he now had for the +College, he was happy to think that he was quitting it for the last +time. "But it isn't Irish," he insisted when his father complained of +his lack of love for Trinity. "It's ... it's a hermaphrodite of a +college, neither one thing nor another, English nor Irish. I always +feel, when I step out of College Green into Trinity, that I've stepped +right out of Ireland and landed on the point of a rock in the middle of +the Irish Sea ... and the point pricks and is damned uncomfortable!" + +"You've got the English habit of damning everything, Henry!" his father +replied at a tangent. + +But Henry would not be drawn away from his argument. + +"The atmosphere of the place is all wrong," he went on. "The Provost +looks down the side of his nose at you if he thinks you take an interest +in Ireland!" + +Mr. Quinn, in his eagerness to defend his College from reproaches which +he knew to be deserved, reminded Henry that the Provost had a +considerable reputation as a Greek scholar, but his effort only +delivered him more completely into Henry's hands. + +"But, father," Henry said, "you yourself used to say what's the good of +knowing all about Greece when you don't know anything about Ireland. I +don't care about Greece and all those rotten little holes in the Ĉgean +... that's dead and done with ... but I do care about Ireland which +isn't dead and done with!" + +It was then that Mr. Quinn found consolation. "Well, anyway, you've +learned to love Ireland," he said. "Trinity's done that much for you!" + +"Trinity hasn't done it for me," Henry answered, "I did it for myself." + +Lying back in his seat, waiting for the train to steam out of the +station on its journey to Belfast, Henry remembered that conversation +with his father, and his mind speculated freely on his attitude towards +Trinity. "I don't care," he said, "if I never put my foot inside the +gates again!" + +Something that Patrick Galway said to him once, when he and John Marsh +were talking of Trinity, came back to his memory. "The College is living +on Oliver Goldsmith and Edmund Burke," Galway said, and added, "It's +like a maiden lady in a suburb giving herself airs because her +great-grandfather knew somebody who was great. It hasn't produced a man +who's done anything for Ireland, except harm, not in the last hundred +years anyhow. Lawyers and parsons and officials, that's the best Trinity +can do! If you think of the Irishmen who've done anything fine for +Ireland, you'll find that, when they came from universities at all, they +came from Oxford or Cambridge, anywhere on God's earth but Trinity. +Horace Plunkett was at Oxford...." + +"Eton, too!" Marsh had interjected. + +"Yes, Eton!" Galway went on. "Think of it! An Irish patriot coming from +Eton where you'd think only Irish oppressors would come from! If +Plunkett had been educated in an Irish school and sent to Trinity, do +you think he'd have done anything decent for Ireland?" + +"Yes," Henry had replied promptly. "He's that kind of man!" + +"No, he wouldn't," Galway retorted. "They'd have educated the decency +out of him, and he'd have been a ... a sort of Lord Ashtown!" + +But Henry would have none of that. He would not believe that a man's +nature can be altered by pedagogues. + +"Horace Plunkett would have been a good Irishman if he'd been born and +reared and educated in an Orange Lodge," he said. + +"I'm not talking about natures," Galway replied. "I'm talking about +beliefs. They'd have told him it was no good trying to build up an Irish +nation...." + +"He wouldn't have believed them," Henry retorted. "Damn it, Galway, do +you think a man like Plunkett would let a lot of fiddling schoolmasters +knock him off his balance?" + +"I'm a schoolmaster," Galway answered, "and I know what schoolmasters +can do!" His voice changed, deepening, as he spoke. "I know what the +young teachers in Ireland mean to do!" + +"What do they mean to do?" Henry had asked jokingly. + +"Make Irishmen," Galway answered. + +"If only Trinity would make Irishmen," he went on, "we'd all be saved a +deal of trouble. But it won't, and when a man of family, like Plunkett, +is born with good will for Ireland, he has to go to England to be +educated. And he ought to be educated in Ireland, and he would be if +Trinity were worth a damn. I wish I were Provost, I'd teach Irishmen to +be proud of their birth!" + +"Well, when we've made Ireland a nation," said Henry, chaffing him, +"we'll make you Provost of Trinity!" and Galway, though he knew that +Henry was jesting, smiled with pleasure. + +"When Ireland is a nation!" Marsh murmured dreamily. + + +2 + +It was extraordinary, Henry thought, how little at home he had felt in +Dublin. He had the feel of Ballymartin in his bones. He had kinship with +the people in Belfast. At Rumpell's and at Boveyhayne he had had no +sensation of alien origin. He had stepped into the life of the school as +naturally as Gilbert Farlow had done, and at Boveyhayne, even when he +still had difficulty in catching the dialect of the fishermen, he had +felt at home. But in Dublin, he had an uneasy feeling that after all, he +was a stranger. In his first year at Trinity, he had been brutally +contemptuous of the city and its inhabitants. "They can't even put up +the names of the streets so that people can read them," he said to John +Marsh soon after he arrived in Dublin. "They're so _damned_ +incompetent!" And Marsh had told him to control his Ulster blood. +"You're right to be proud of Ulster," he had said, "but you oughtn't to +go about talking as if the rest of Ireland were inhabited by fools!" + +"I know I oughtn't," Henry replied, "but I can't help it when I see the +way these asses are letting Dublin down!" + +That was how he felt about Dublin and the Dublin people, that Dublin was +being "let down" by her citizens. His first impression of the city was +that it was noble, even beautiful, in spite of its untidiness, its +distress. He would wander about the streets, gazing at the fine old +Georgian houses, tumbling into decay, and feel so much anger against the +indifferent citizens that sometimes he felt like hitting the first +Dublin man he met ... hitting him hard so that he should bleed!... + +"I feel as if Dublin were like an old mansion left by a drunken lord in +the charge of a drunken caretaker," he said to Marsh. "It's horrible to +see those beautiful houses decaying, but it's more horrible to think +that nobody cares!" + +Marsh had taken him one Sunday to a house where there were ceilings +that were notable even in Dublin which is full of houses with beautiful +ceilings. + +"If we had houses like that in Belfast," Henry had said, as they came +away, "we wouldn't let them become slums!" + +"No," retorted Marsh, unable to restrain himself from sneering, "you'd +make peep-shows out of them and charge for admission!" + +"Well, that would be better than turning them into slums," Henry +answered good-humouredly. + +"Would it?" Marsh replied. + +"_Would it?_" Henry wondered. The train was now on its way to Belfast, +and, looking idly out of the window, he could see the waves of the Irish +Sea breaking on the sands at Malahide, heaving suddenly into a +glassy-green heap, and then tumbling over into a sprawl of white foam. +Would it? he wondered, thinking again of what Marsh had said about the +Georgian houses with their wide halls and lovely Adams ceilings. There +was no beauty of building at all in Belfast, and no one there seemed +anxious that there should be: in all that city, so full of energy and +purpose and grit and acuteness of mind, there did not appear to be one +man of power who cared for the fine shape or the good look of things; +but, after all, was that so very much worse than the state of mind of +the Dublin people who, knowing what beauty is, carelessly let it decay? +He began to feel bitterly about Ireland and her indifference to culture +and beauty. He told himself that Ireland was the land of people who do +not care.... + +"They've got to be made to care!" he said aloud. + +But how was it to be done?... + +His sense of being an alien in Dublin had persisted all the time that he +had lived there. The Dublin people were gregarious and garrulous, and he +was solitary and reflective. Marsh and Galway had taken him to houses +where people met and talked without stopping, and much conversation with +miscellaneous, casually-encountered people bored Henry. He had no gift +for ready talk and he disliked crowds and he was unable to carry on +a conversation with people whom he did not know, of whose very names he +was ignorant. Sometimes, he had envied Marsh and Galway because of the +ease with which they could converse with strangers. Marsh would talk +about himself and his poems and his work with an innocent vanity that +made people like him; but Henry, self-conscious and shy, could not talk +of himself or his intentions to any but his intimates. Sitting here, in +this carriage, from which, even now, he could see in the distance, +veiled in clouds, the high peaks of the Mourne mountains, he tried to +explain this difference between Marsh and himself. Why was it that these +Dublin men were so lacking in reticence, so eager to communicate, while +he and Ulstermen were reserved and eager to keep silent? He set his +problem in those terms. He identified himself as a type of the +Ulsterman, and began to develop a theory, flattering to himself, to +account for the difference between Dublin people and Ulstermen ... until +he remembered that Ernest Harper was an Ulsterman. Mr. Quinn had taken +Henry to see Harper on the first Sunday evening after they had arrived +in Dublin from England, and Harper had received him very charmingly and +had talked to him about nationality and co-operation and the Irish drama +and the strange inability of Lady Gregory to understand that it was not +she who had founded the Abbey Theatre, until Henry, who had never heard +of Lady Gregory, began to feel tired. He had waited patiently for a +chance to interpolate something into the monologue until hope began to +leave him, and then, with a great effort he had interrupted the flow of +Harper's vivid talk and had made a reference to a picture hanging on the +wall beside him. It showed a flaming fairy in the middle of a dark +wood.... + +"Oh, yes," Harper said, "that's the one I saw!" + +"You saw?" Henry had exclaimed in astonishment. + +And then he remembered that Harper spoke of fairies as intimately as +other men speak of their friends.... + +"Good God!" he thought, "_where am I?_" and wondered what Ninian Graham +would make of Ernest Harper. + +Harper was an Ulsterman, and so was George Russell, whom people called +"A. E." Marsh and Galway, now almost inseparable, had taken Henry to +hear George Russell speaking on some mystical subject at the Hermetic +Club, and Henry, bewildered by the subject, had felt himself +irresistibly attracted to the fiery-eyed man who spoke with so little +consciousness of his audience. After the meeting was ended, he had +walked part of the way home with Russell and had listened to him as he +said the whole of his lecture over again ... and he left him with a +feeling that Russell was unaware of human presences, that the company of +human beings was not necessary to him, that his speech was addressed, +not to the visible audience or the visible companion, but to an audience +or a companion that no one but himself could see. Was there any one on +earth less like the typical Ulsterman than George Russell, who preached +mysticism and better business, or Ernest Harper who took penny tramrides +to pay visits to the fairies? + +No, this theory of some inherent difference between Ulstermen and other +Irishmen would not work. There must be some other explanation of Henry's +dislike of crowds, his silence in large companies, his inability to +assert himself in the presence of strangers. Why was it that he was +unable to talk about himself and the things he had done and the things +he meant to do as Marsh talked? It was not because he was more modest, +had more humility, than Marsh; for in his heart, Henry was vain.... And +while he was asking himself this question, suddenly he found the answer. +It was because he was afraid to talk about himself, it was because he +had not got the courage to be vain and self-assertive in crowds. His +inability to talk among strangers, to make people cease their own +conversation in order to listen to him, was part of that cowardice that +had prevented him from diving into the sea when he went with his father +to swim at Cushendall and had sent him shivering into the shelter of +the hedge when the runaway horse came galloping down the Ballymena +road.... + +This swift, lightning revelation made him stand up in the carriage and +gape at the photographs of Irish scenery in front of him. + +"Oh, my God!" he said to himself, "am I always to be tortured like +this?" + + +4 + +He sat back in his seat and lay against the cushions without moving. He +saw himself now very clearly, for he had the power to see himself with +the closest fidelity. He knew now that all his explanations were +excuses, that the bitter things he had sometimes said of those who had +qualities which he had not, were invented to prevent him from admitting +that he was without courage. Any fight, mental or physical, unnerved him +when it brought him into personal contact with his opponents. He could +write wounding things to a man, but he could not say them to him without +losing possession of himself and his tongue; and so he passed from the +temper of a cool antagonist to that of an enraged shrew. He had tried to +explain the garrulity of the Dublin people by saying that they were +obliged to talk and to persist in talking because "otherwise they'd +start to think!" but he knew now that that was not an accurate +explanation, that it was an ill-natured attempt to cover up his own lack +of force. + +"And that's worse than cowardice," he said to himself, "to excuse my own +funkiness by pretending that courage isn't courage!" + +He remembered that he had invented a bitter phrase about Yeats one night +when he had seen the poet in a house in Dublin. "Yeats is behaving as if +he were the archangel Gabriel making the Annunciation!" he had said, and +the man to whom he had said it had laughed and asked what Henry thought +Yeats was announcing. + +"A fresh revision of one of his lyrics," he had replied.... + +"And I'd give the world," he said now, "to be able to put on his +pontifical air!" + +He had a shrinking will; his instinct in an emergency was to back away +from things. He had not got the capacity to compel men to do his bidding +by the simple force of his personality. If he succeeded in persuading +people to do things which he suggested to them he was only able to do so +after prolonged discussion, sometimes only after everything else had +failed. At Rumpell's, Gilbert had made suggestions as if they were +commands that must instantly be obeyed ... and they had been instantly +obeyed; but when Henry made suggestions, either people did not listen to +them or, having listened to them, they acted on some other suggestion, +until at last, Henry, disheartened, seldom proposed anything until the +last moment, and then he made his proposal in a way which seemed to +indicate that he thought little of it; and when some of his suggestions +were accepted and had proved, in practice, to be good, his attitude had +been, not that of the man who is absolutely sure of himself, but rather +of the man who gasps with relief because something that he thought was +very likely to be a failure, had proved to be a success. + +Depression settled on him so heavily that he began to believe that he +was bound to fail in everything that he undertook to do, and when he +thought of the bundle of manuscript in his portmanteau, he had a sudden +inclination to take it out and fling it through the window of the +carriage. He had not spoken of his writing to any one except John Marsh, +and to him, he had only said that he intended to write a novel some day. +Once, indeed, he had said, "I've written quite a lot of that novel I +told you about!" but Marsh, intent on something else, had answered +vaguely, "Oh, yes!" and had changed the conversation, leaving Henry to +imagine that he had little faith in his power to write. He had been so +despondent after that, that he had gone back to College and, having +re-read what he had written, had torn the manuscript in pieces and +thrown it into the grate because it seemed so dull and tasteless. He had +not written a word after that for more than a month, and he might not +have written anything for a longer period had he not heard from Gilbert +Farlow that he had finished a comedy in three acts and had sent it to +Mr. Alexander. The news stimulated him, and in a little while he was +itching to write again. In the evening, he began to re-write the story +and thereafter it went on, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, until it +was finished. His feelings about it changed with remarkable rapidity. He +read it over, in its unfinished state, many times, feeling at one time +it was excellent, and at another time that it was poor, flatulent stuff, +without colour or vivacity. + +Writing did not give pleasure to him: it gave him pain. He felt none of +that exultation in creating characters which he had been told was part +of the pleasures of an author. There were times, indeed, when he felt a +mitigated joy in writing because his ideas were fluent and words fell +easily off his pen, but even on those occasions, the labour of writing +hurt him and exhausted him. The times of pleasurable writing were short +interludes between the long stretches of painful writing, little oases +that made the journey across the desert just possible. And then there +were those periods of appalling misery when, having ended a chapter, he +wondered what he should make his people do next. He would leave them, +landed neatly at the end of some adventure or emotional crisis, feeling +that the story was going on splendidly and that his power to write was +full and strong, and then, having written the number of the next +chapter, he would reach forward to write the first word ... and suddenly +there was devastation in his mind, and "My God! I don't know what to +make them do now!" he would say. + +He had read in a literary journal that some authors planned their +stories before they began to write them. They prepared a summary of the +tale, and then enlarged the summary. They knew exactly what was to +happen in each chapter. A character could not move or rise or sit down +or turn pale or look pleased without the author having known about it +long before the act was performed. It was as if the author could count +the very hairs on the heads of his people. "Just like God!" Henry had +said to himself when he had finished reading the article.... He had +tried to make a plan, and, after much labour, had completed one; but it +was useless to him, for when he came to write out the story, his +characters kicked it aside and insisted on behaving in some other way +than he had planned that they should behave. It was as if they had taken +their destinies into their own hands and insisted on living their lives +in accordance with their own wishes instead of living them in accordance +with his.... It was fortunate then that he began to read "Tristram +Shandy," for when he saw how Sterne's pen, refusing to obey him, had +filled some of his pages with curly lines and dots and confusions, had +even declined to fill a chapter at all, impudently skipping it, he +realised that authors are but creatures in the hands of some force that +wills them to create things which they cannot control and sometimes +cannot understand. + +Writing his book had given him one pleasure. On the day on which he +wrote the last word of it, he felt joy. Before he began to write, he had +read in Forster's "Life of Dickens" that the great novelist had parted +from his characters with pain. Henry parted from his characters with +pleasure. "Thank God," he said, as he put down his pen, "I've finished +with the brutes!" + +He had enjoyed reading the story in its finished state, and when he had +packed the manuscript into his portmanteau, he had felt that the story +was good, and had sat in a chair dreaming of the success it would make +and the praise he would receive for it. He tried to calculate the number +of copies that would be sold, basing his calculations on the total +population of the British Isles. "There are over forty millions of +people in England and Wales alone," he said to himself, "and another +ten millions, say, in Scotland and Ireland ... about fifty millions in +all. I ought to sell a good many copies ... and then there's America!" +He thought that ten per cent. of the population might buy the story, and +believed that his estimate was modest until he remembered that ten per +cent. of fifty millions is five millions!... + +And that made him laugh. Even he, in his wildest imaginings, did not +dream of selling five million copies of his novel. + + +5 + +He wished now that he had asked John Marsh and Patrick Galway to read +the story and tell him what they thought of it. They were honest men, +and would criticise his work frankly. At that moment, he had an +insatiable longing to know the truth, mingled with a strange fear of +knowing it. What he wished to know was whether or not he had the +potentialities of a great author in him. He knew that his story was not +commonplace stuff, but he was afraid that it might only be middling +writing, and he did not wish to be a middling writer. If he could not be +a great writer, he did not wish to be a writer at all. There were +thousands and thousands of novels in the world which did no more for men +than enable them to put their minds to sleep. Henry did not wish to add +a book to their number. There were other books, fewer in number than +those, which showed that their authors had some feeling for life, but +not enough, and these authors went on, year after year, producing one or +more novels, each of which "showed promise," but never showed +achievement. The life these men pursued always eluded them. It was +impossible for Henry to join the crowd of people who produced books +which perished with the generation that they pleased. That much he knew. +But he was eager that he should not fall into the ranks of the +semi-great, the half-clever; and his fear was that his place was in +their midst. + +While he was ruminating in this manner, he remembered that Gilbert +Farlow had written to him a few days before he left Dublin, and he +ceased to think of his career as a writer and began to search his +pockets for Gilbert's letter. + +"I'll show the manuscript to Gilbert," he said to himself. "Old Gilbert +loves telling people the truth!" + +He found the letter and began to read it. "_Quinny_," it began, for +Gilbert had abandoned "dears" because, he said, he sometimes had to +write to people who were detestable: + +_"Quinny: How soon can you get quit of that barrack in Dublin where your +misguided father thinks you are being taught to be Irish? Cast your eyes +on the address at the head of this notepaper. It is a noble house that +Roger and I have discovered. Ninian has seen it and he approves of it. I +said I'd break his blighted neck for him if he disapproved of it, which +may have had something to do with his decision, though not much, for +Ninian has become a very muscular young fellow and I shouldn't have +liked the job of breaking his neck very much. Roger and I have been here +for a week now, and Ninian joins us at the end of the month. He's down +at Boveyhayne at present, catching lobsters and sniffing the air, all of +which he says is very good for him and would be better for me. And you. +And Roger. There is a tablet on the front wall of the house, fixed by +the London County Council, which says that Lord Thingamabob used to live +here sometime in the eighteenth century. The landlord tried to raise the +rent on that account, but we said we were Socialists and would expect +the rent to be decreased because of the injury to our principles caused +by residence in a house that had been inhabited by a member of the +cursed, bloated and effete aristocracy. He begged our pardon and said +that in the circumstances, he wouldn't charge anything extra, but he had +us in the end, the mouldy worm, for he said that it was the custom to +make Socialists pay a quarter's rent in advance. The result was that +Roger had to stump up ... I couldn't for I was broke ... which made dear +little Roger awfully unpleasant to live with for a whole day. I offered +to go back and tell the man that we weren't Socialists at all, but +Improved Tories, but he said I'd done enough harm. It's a pity that old +Roger hasn't got a better sense of humour._ + +_We have chosen two rooms for you, one to work in, and the other to +sleep in. We're each to have two rooms, so that we can go and be morose +in comfort if we want to; but I daresay in the evenings we'll want to be +together. I've thought out a scheme of decoration for your room--all +pink rosebuds and stuff like that. Roger asked me not to be an ass when +I told him of it. His notion is a nice quiet distemper. Perhaps you'd +better see to the decoration yourself although I must say I always +thought your taste was perfectly damnable._ + +_By-the-way, there's a ghost in this house. It's supposed to be the +ghost of Lord Thingamabob, and I believe it is. I saw it myself three +nights ago, and it was as drunk as a fiddler. My God, Quinny, it's a +terrible thing to see an intoxicated spook. Roger wouldn't believe me +when I told him about it afterwards. He said I was drunk myself and that +he heard me tumbling up the stairs to bed. Which is a lie. I did see it, +and it was drunk. I heard it hiccough! I wouldn't say it was drunk if it +wasn't. De mortuis nil nisi bonum, Quinny, and it would be a very dirty +trick to slander a poor bogey that can't defend itself. It looked very +like its descendant, Lord Middleweight, and it had the same soppy grin +that he has when he thinks he's said something clever. Damned ass, that +chap!_ + +_Alexander sent my comedy back. He sent a note along with it and told me +what a clever lad I am and more or less hinted that when I've grown up, +I can send him another play. I suppose he thinks I'm a kid in +knickerbockers. The result of this business is that I'm going to try and +get a job as a dramatic critic. If I do, God help the next play he +produces. I'm a hurt man, and I shall let the world know about it. I'm +half-way through another piece which will take some place by storm, I +hope. It's a very bright play, much better than the muck Oscar Wilde +wrote, not so melodramatic, and tons better than anything Bernard Shaw +has written. It's all about me._ + +_We've got an old woman called Clutters to housekeep for us. I chose her +on account of her name, and it is a piece of good luck that she cooks +extraordinarily well. There is also a maid, but we don't know her name, +so we call her Magnolia. I'm really writing all this rot to get myself +into the "twitter-twitter" mood. One of the characters in my new comedy +talks like a character in a book by E. F. Benson, and I have to work +myself up into a state of babbling fatuity before I can write her lines +for her._ + +_Come to London as soon as you can._ + + _Gilbert."_ + + +6 + +The prospect of settling in London in the society of his schoolfriends +pleased him. Marsh and Galway had tried to persuade him to make his home +in Dublin, pleading that it was the duty of every educated Irishman to +live in Ireland. "We haven't got many educated men on our side," Marsh +said, "not a hundred in the whole of Ireland, and we need people like +you!" They talked of political schemes that must be prepared for the +parliament that would some day be re-established in College Green. "And +they can only be prepared by educated men," Marsh said. + +Henry would not listen to them. His longing was to be with Gilbert and +Roger and Ninian in London. Dublin made very little appeal to him, and +the job of regenerating Ireland was so immense that it frightened him. +"I haven't got a common ground with you people," he said to Marsh and +Galway. "You're Catholic to start off with, and I'm like my father, I +think the Catholic religion is a contemptible religion. And you're not +interested in anything but Ireland and the Gaelic movement. I'm +interested in everything!" + +"Don't you want to do _anything_ for Ireland then?" John Marsh had +asked. + +"Oh, yes! I'll vote for Home Rule when I get a vote," he had replied. + +"I know what your end will be," Patrick Galway added in a sullen voice. +"You'll become a Chelsea Nationalist ... willing to do anything for +Ireland but live in it!" + +Well, who would want to live in Ireland with its penny-farthing +politics! London for him! London and a sense of bigness, of wide ideas +and the constant interplay of many minds! + +He would talk to his father about Gilbert's proposal. There would be all +sorts of subjects to discuss with him, that and the question of an +allowance and the question of a career.... + +The train ran swiftly through the suburbs of Belfast and presently +pulled up at the terminus. He descended from his carriage and called a +jarvey who drove him across the city to the Northern Counties station +where he took train again. It was late that night when he arrived at +Ballymartin. + + + + +THE SECOND CHAPTER + + +1 + +Mr. Quinn had become more absorbed in the Irish Agricultural +Co-Operative Movement, and he used the home farm for experiments in +scientific cultivation. His talk, when Henry returned home, was mainly +about a theory of tillage which he called "continuous cropping," and it +was with difficulty that Henry could persuade him to talk about +Gilbert's proposal that he should join the household in Bloomsbury. + +"I'm glad you've come home, Henry," he said after breakfast on the +morning following Henry's return. "This system of continuous cropping is +splendid, but it wants careful attention. You've got to adjust it +continually to circumstances ... you can't follow any rules about it ... +and if you'll just stay here and help me with it, we'll be able to do +wonders with the home farm!" + +Henry did not wish to settle in Ballymartin, at all events not for a +long time. + +"I want to go to London, father!" he said. + +"London! What for?" Mr. Quinn exclaimed, and then before Henry could say +why he wished to go to London, he added, "You'll have to settle on +something, Henry. I always meant you to take over the estate fairly +soon, to work things out with me. Don't you want to do that?" + +"Not particularly, father!" + +"Well, what's to become of you, then? Do you want to go into the Army? +It's a bit late!..." + +"No, father!" + +"Or the Navy? But you should have gone to Osborne long ago if you wanted +to do that!" + +Henry shook his head. + +"Well, what do you want to do. Are you thinkin' of the law?" + +"I don't care about the law, father!..." + +"I don't care about it myself, Henry. I was no good at it, an' mebbe +that's the reason I think so little of it. But we have to have lawyers +all the same. It would be a good plan now to sentence criminals to be +lawyers, wouldn't it? 'The sentence of the Court is that you be taken +from this place an' made to practise at the Bar for the rest of your +natural life, an' may the Lord have mercy on your soul!' Begod, Henry, +that's a great notion!" + +Henry interrupted his father's fancy. "I want to write," he said. + +"Write!" Mr. Quinn exclaimed. "Write what?" + +"Books. Novels, I think!..." + +Mr. Quinn put down his paper and gaped at his son. "Good God," he said, +"an author!" + +"Yes, father." + +"You're daft, Henry!" + +Henry got up from his chair, and went across to his father and took hold +of his shoulder affectionately. "No, father, I'm not," he answered. + +"Yes, you are, I tell you. You're clean cracked!..." + +"I've written one novel already." + +Mr. Quinn threw out his hands in a despairing gesture. "Oh, well," he +said, "if you've committed yourself.... Where is it?" + +"It's upstairs in my room. The manuscript, I mean. Of course, it hasn't +been published yet." + +A servant came into the room to clear away the remains of the breakfast, +and Mr. Quinn got up from his chair and walked through the open window +on to the terrace. + +"What's it about?" he said to Henry who had followed him. + +"Oh, love!" Henry answered, seating himself beside his father. + +Mr. Quinn grunted. "Huh!" he said, gazing intently at the gravel. "Is it +sloppy?" + +"I don't think so, father. At least, I hope it isn't!" + +"Or dirty?" + +"No, it isn't dirty. I _know_ it isn't dirty," Henry said very +emphatically. + +Mr. Quinn did not answer for a while. He got up from his seat and walked +to the end of the terrace where he busied himself for a few moments in +tending to a rosebush. Then he returned to the seat where Henry had +remained, and said, "Will you let me read it, Henry?" + +"Why, yes, father. Of coarse, I will," Henry answered, rising and moving +towards the house. "I'd like you to read it," he added. "Perhaps you'll +tell me what you think of it?" + +"I will," Mr. Quinn replied, closing his lips down tightly. + +"I'll just go and get it," Henry said, and he went into the house. + +Mr. Quinn remained seated on the terrace, looking rigidly in front of +him, until Henry returned, carrying a pile of manuscript. He took the +paper from him without speaking, and glanced at the first sheet on which +Henry had written in a large, clear hand: + + DRUSILLA: A NOVEL + BY + HENRY QUINN. + +and then he turned the page and read what was written on the second +sheet: + + TO + MY FATHER + +He looked at the dedication for a longer time than he had looked at the +title-page, and his hand trembled a little as he held the paper. + +"I thought you wouldn't mind, father!" Henry said. + +"Mind!" Mr. Quinn replied. "No, I don't, Henry. I ... I like it, my son. +Thanks, Henry. I ..." He got up and moved quickly towards the window. +"I'll just go in an' start readin' it now," he said. + + +2 + +He returned the manuscript to Henry on the following afternoon. "I've +read worse," he said. + +He walked to the end of the terrace and then walked back again. Then he +shouted for William Henry Matier, who came running to him. He pointed to +a daisy on the lawn and asked the gardener what the hell he meant by not +keeping the weeds down. + +"Ah, sure, sir!..." + +"Root the damn thing up," Mr. Quinn shouted at him, "an' don't let me +see another about the place or I'll shoot the boots off you! I don't +know under God what I keep you for!" + +"Now, you don't mean the half you say, sir!..." + +"You're not worth ninepence a week!" + +"Aw, now," said Matier, who knew his master, "I'm worth more'n that, +sir!" + +"How much are you worth? Tell me that, William Henry Matier!" + +William Henry rooted up the daisy, and then said that he wouldn't like +to put too high a price on himself.... + +"You'd be a fool if you did," Mr. Quinn interrupted. + +" ... but I'd mebbe be worth about double what you named yourself, sir!" + +"Eighteenpence!" Mr. Quinn exclaimed. + +"Aye, that or a bit more. Were you wantin' anything else, sir!" He +winked heavily at Henry as he turned away. + +"You're not worth the food you eat," Mr. Quinn said. + +"Aw, now, sir, you never know what anybody's worth 'til you have need of +them," Matier replied. "A man mightn't be worth a damn to you one day, +an' he'd mebbe be worth millions to you the next!" + +"There's little fear of you bein' worth millions to any one. Run on now +an' do your work if you've any work to do!" Mr. Quinn turned to Henry as +the gardener went off. "I suppose you'll be wantin' to live in London +for the rest of your life?" + +"I should like to go there for a while anyway, father!" + +"Huh! All you writin' people seem to think there's no life to be seen +anywhere but in London. As if people hadn't got bowels here as well as +in town!" + +"I don't think that, father!..." + +"Oh, well, it doesn't matter whether you think it or not, you'll not be +happy 'til you get to London, I suppose. You'll stay here a wee while +anyway, won't you? You've only just come home, an' it's a long time +since I saw you last!" + +"I'll stay as long as you like, father." + +"Very well, then. I'll tell you when I've had enough of your company an' +then you can go off to your friends. How much money do you think you'll +need in London? Don't ask for too much. I need every ha'penny I have for +the work. You've no notion what a lot it costs to experiment wi' land, +an' I'm not as rich as you might imagine!" + +Henry hesitated. He had never talked about money with his father, and he +had a curious shyness about doing so now. "I don't know," he replied. +"Would two hundred a year be too much?..." + +"I'll spare you two hundred an' fifty!" + +"Thank you, father. It's awfully good of you!" + +"Ah, wheesht with you! Sure, why wouldn't a man be good to his own son. +I suppose now you want to hear what I think of your book?" + +Henry smiled self-consciously. "Yes, I should like to know your opinion +of it. I thought at first you didn't think much of it. You didn't say +anything!..." + +"I'll give you a couple of years to improve it," Mr. Quinn answered. +"If you can't make it better in that time, you're no good!" + +"I suppose not." + +"An' don't hurry over it. Go out an' look about you a bit. There's a lot +of stuff in your story that wouldn't be there if you had any gumption. +Get gumption, Henry!" + +"I'll try, father. Of course, I know I'm very inexperienced...." + +"You are, my son, an' what's more you're tellin' everybody how little +you know in that book of yours. Man, dear, women aren't like that!... +Well, never mind! You'll find out for yourself soon enough. Mind, I +don't mean to say that there aren't some good things in the book. There +are ... plenty! If there weren't, I wouldn't waste my breath talkin' to +you about it. But there are things in it that are just guff, Henry, just +guff. The kind of romantic slush that a young fellow throws off when he +first realises that women are ... well, women, damn it! ... I wish to +God, you would write a book about continuous croppin'! Now, there's a +subject for a good book! There's none of your damned love about +that!..." + + +3 + +He had not seen Sheila Morgan since the morning after he had failed to +stop the runaway horse. Many times, indeed, she had been in his mind, +and often at Trinity, in the long sleepless nights that afflict a young +man who is newly conscious of his manhood, he had turned from side to +side of his bed in an impotent effort to thrust her from his thoughts. +He made fanciful pictures of her in his imagination, making her very +beautiful and gracious. He saw her, then, with long dark hair that had +the lustre of a moonless night of stars, and he imagined her, sitting +close to him, so that her hair fell about his head and shoulder and he +could feel the slow movement of her breasts against his side. He would +close his eyes and think of her lips on his, and her heart beating +quickly while his thumped so loudly that it seemed that every one must +hear it ... and thinking thus, he would clench his fists with futile +force and swear to himself that he would go to her and make her marry +him. Once, when he had spent an afternoon at the Zoo in the Phoenix +Park, he had lingered for a long while in the house where the tigers are +caged because, suddenly, it seemed to him that the graceful beast with +the bright eyes resembled Sheila. It moved so easily, and as it moved, +its fine skin rippled over its muscles like running water.... + +"I don't suppose she'd like to be called a tigress," he had thought to +himself, laughing as he did so, "but that's what she's like. She's +beautiful...." + +And later in that afternoon, he thought he saw a resemblance between +Mary Graham and a brown squirrel that sat on a branch and cracked nuts, +throwing the shells away carelessly ... the Mary he had known when he +first went to Boveyhayne, not the Mary he had seen on his last visit. + +He wondered whether Sheila had altered much, and then he wondered what +change four years had made in Mary Graham. Sheila, who had been dominant +in his mind in his first year at Trinity, had receded a little into the +background by the time he had quitted Dublin, but Mary, never very +prominent, had retained her place, neither gaining nor losing position. +It was odd, he thought to himself, that he had not been to Boveyhayne in +the four years he had been at T.C.D. Mrs. Graham had invited him there +several times, but he had not been able to accept the invitations: once +his father had been ill, and he had had to hurry to Portrush, where he +was staying, and remain with him until he was well again; and another +time he had been with Gilbert Farlow at his home in Kent; and another +time had agreed to go tramping in Connacht with Marsh and Galway. Ninian +and Gilbert and Roger had spent a holiday at Ballymartin.... Ninian took +a whole week to realise that he was in Ulster and not in Scotland, and +Gilbert begged hard for the production of a typical Irishman who would +say "God bless your honour!" and "Bedad!" and "Bejabers!" and pretended +not to believe that there were not any "typical Irishmen" ... and went +away, vowing that they would compel Mr. Quinn to invite them to stay +with him in the next vac. It was then that Ninian decided that he would +like to be a shipbuilder. Mr. Quinn had taken them to Belfast to see the +launch of a new liner, and Tom Arthurs had invited them all to join the +luncheon party when the launch was over. The Vicereine had come from +Dublin to cut the ribbon which would release the great ship and send it +moving like a swan down the greasy slips into the river; and Tom Arthurs +had conducted her through the Yard, telling her of the purpose of this +machine and that engine until the poor lady began to be dubious of her +capacity to launch the liner. There were other guides, explaining, as +Tom Arthurs explained, the functions of the Yard to the visitors, but +Ninian had contrived to attach himself to Tom Arthurs and he listened to +him as he talked, as simply as was possible, of the way in which great +ships are built. Thereafter, Ninian had tongue for none but Tom Arthurs, +and he told him, when the party was over and the guests were leaving the +Yard, that he would like to work in the Island. Tom had doubted whether +Cambridge was the proper preparation for shipbuilding.... "I was out of +my apprenticeship when I was your age," he said ... but he said that +Ninian could think about it more seriously and then come to him when his +time at Cambridge was up. + +"I'm thinking seriously of it now," said Ninian. + +"All right, my boy!" Tom Arthurs answered, laughing, and slapped him on +the back. "We'll see what we can do for you!" + +And Ninian, flushing like a girl, went away full of happiness, and soon +afterwards began to imitate Tom Arthurs' Ulster speech in the hope that +people would think he was related to the shipbuilder or, at all events, +a countryman of his. + +It was odd, indeed, that Henry had not seen Mary in that time, but it +was still more odd that he had not seen Sheila. Matt Hamilton had died +soon after Henry had entered Trinity, but Mrs. Hamilton still had the +farm which, people understood, was to be left to Sheila when her aunt +died. He had not cared to go to the farm ... a mixture of pride and +shyness prevented him from doing so ... but he had hoped to meet her on +the roads about Ballymartin. "Perhaps by this time," he said to himself, +"she will have forgotten my funk!" But although he frequently loitered +in the roads about the "loanie," he never met her, and it was not until +he said some casual things to William Henry Matier that he discovered +that she was not at the farm. "I heerd tell she was visitin' friends in +Bilfast!" Matier said, and with that he had to be content. Ninian and +Gilbert and Roger were at Ballymartin then, and he had little +opportunity to mourn over her absence; indeed, when he remembered that +they were with him, he was glad that she was not at the farm: their +presence would have made difficulties in the way of his intercourse with +her. He would try to be alone at Ballymartin, in the next vacation, and +then he would be able to bring her to his will again. But he did not +spend the next vacation at home, and so, with this and other absences +from Ballymartin, he was unable to see her for the whole of his time at +Trinity. Neither he nor his father had spoken of her since the day when +Mr. Quinn had solemnly led him to the library to rebuke him for his +sweethearting. Mr. Quinn, indeed, had almost forgotten about Henry's +lovemaking with Sheila, and when he met the girl and remembered that +there had been lovemaking between his son and her, he thought to himself +that Henry had probably completely forgotten her.... + +He wished to see her again, and his desire became so strong that he +started to walk across the fields to the "loanie" that led to +Hamilton's farm before he was aware of what he was about. His mind +filled again with the visions he had had of her at Trinity, and he +imagined that he saw her every now and then hiding behind a tree, ready +to spring out on him and startle him with a loud whoop, or running from +him and laughing as she ran.... + + +4 + +He met her in the "loanie," and for a few moments he did not recognise +her. She was sitting on the grass, in the shade of a hedge, huddling a +baby close to her breast, and he saw that she was suckling it. + +"Oh, Henry, is that you?" she said, starting up hurriedly so that the +baby could not suck. She drew her blouse clumsily together, but the +fretful child would not be pacified until she had started to feed it +again, and so she resumed her seat on the grass. + +"I didn't know you were back," she said, holding the baby up to her. +"Are you here for long?" + +He did not answer immediately. He had not yet completely realised that +this was Sheila whom he had been eager to marry, and then when he +understood at last that this indeed was she, something inside him kept +exclaiming, "But she's got a baby!" and he wondered why she was feeding +it. + +"Are you married, Sheila?" he said. + +She laughed at him, and answered, "That's a quare question to be askin', +an' me with this in my arms!" She looked at the baby as she spoke. + +"I didn't know you were married," he replied. "I was coming up to the +farm to see you!" + +"I've been married this year past," she said. + +"I didn't know," he murmured. "No one told me!..." + +And suddenly he saw that her face was coarser than it had been when he +loved her. Her hair was tied untidily about her head, and he could see +that her hands, as she held the child, were rough and red, and that her +nails were broken and misshapen. Her boots were loosely laced, and she +seemed to be sprawling.... + +"I'm all throughother," she said, as if she realised what was in his +mind and was anxious to excuse herself to him. "This wee tory hardly +gives me a minute's peace, an' my aunt's not so well as she was!" + +He nodded his head, but did not speak. + +"Is it a boy or a girl?" he asked after a while. + +"It's a boy," she said, "an' the very image of his da. He's a lovely +child, Henry. Just look at him!" + +He came nearer to her and looked at the baby who had his little fingers +at her breast as if he would prevent her from taking it from him. The +child, still sucking, looked up at him with greedy-sleepy eyes. + +"Isn't he a gran' wee fella?" she went on, eyeing her son proudly. + +"Whom did you marry?" he asked. + +"You know him well," she answered. "Peter Logan that used to keep the +forge ... that's who I married. D'ye mind the way he could bend a bar of +iron with his two hands?..." + +Henry remembered. "Doesn't he keep the forge now?" he asked. + +"No, he sold it to Dan McKittrick when he married me. We needed a man on +the farm, an' he's gran' at it. There isn't a one in the place can bate +him at the reapin', an' you should see the long, straight furrows he can +plough. The child's the image of him, an' I declare by the way he's +tuggin' at me ... be quit, will you, you wee tory, an' not be hurtin' me +with your greed!... he'll be as strong as his da, an' mebbe stronger!" + +"Are you stayin' long?" she said again. + +"No," he answered. "I'm going to London!..." + +"London! Lord bless us, that's a long way!" + +"I'm going soon ... in a day or two," he went on, making his resolution +as he spoke. The sight of her bare breast embarrassed him, and he wanted +to go away quickly. + +"You're a one for roamin' the world, I must say!" she said. "You're no +sooner here nor you're away again. Mebbe you'll come up an' see my aunt +... she was talkin' about you only last week ... an' Peter'd be right +an' glad to welcome you!" + +"No, thanks, not to-day," he answered. "I've something to do at home ... +I'm sorry!..." + +"But you said you were comin' to see me!..." + +"I know, but I've just remembered something ... I'm sorry!" He was +speaking in a jerky, agitated manner and he began to move away as if he +were afraid that she would detain him. "I'll come another time," he +added. + +"Well, you're the quare man," she said. "Anybody'd think you were afeard +of me, the hurry you're in to run away!" + +He laughed nervously. "Of course, I'm not afraid of you," he exclaimed. +"Why should I be?" + +"I don't know!" She looked at him for a few seconds, and then the +whimsical look that he remembered so well came into her eyes. "D'ye mind +the way you wanted to marry me, Henry?" she said. + +"Yes ... yes! Ha, ha!" + +"An' now I've this! It's a quaren funny, isn't it?" + +"Funny?" + +"Aye, the way things go. I wonder what sort of a child I'd a' had if I'd +married you!" + +"I really don't know!... I'm afraid I must go now!" + +"Well, good-bye, Henry! I'll mebbe see you again some time!" + +She held out her hand to him and he took it, and then dropped it +quickly. + +"Yes, perhaps," he answered, and added, "Good-bye!" + +He went off quickly, not looking back until he had reached the foot of +the "loanie," and then he stood for a second or two to watch her. She +was busy with her baby again. He could see her white breast shining in +the sunlight, and her head bent over the sucking child. + +"Well, I'm damned," he said to himself, as he hurried off. + +And as he hurried home, his mind set on quitting Ballymartin as speedily +as possible, he remembered the casual way in which she had spoken of +their possibly meeting again. "I'll mebbe see you some time!" she had +said. So indifferent to him as that, she was, so happy in her love for +her husband whom he remembered as a great big, hairy, tanned man who +beat hot iron with heavy hammers and bent it into wheels and shoes for +horses. + +"She takes more interest in that putty-faced brat of hers than she does +in me," he said to himself, angrily, and then, so swift were his changes +of mood, he began to laugh. "Of course, she does," he said aloud. "Why +shouldn't she? It's hers, isn't it?" + +He remembered her young beauty and contrasted it with her appearance +when he saw her in the "loanie" with her child. In a few years, he +thought, she would be like any village woman, worn out, misshapen, +tired, with gnarled knuckles and thickened hands. Already she had begun +to neglect her hair.... + +"It's a damned shame," he murmured. "If she'd married me she'd have kept +her looks!..." + +"But she wouldn't marry me," he went on. "I wasn't man enough for +her.... My God, I wish I was out of this!" + + +5 + +"Father," he said when he got home, "I'd like to go to London at once!" + +"You can't go this minute, my son. There's no train the night!" + +"I mean, I want to go as soon as possible!" + +Mr. Quinn glanced sharply at him. "You're in a desperate hurry all of a +sudden," he said. "What's up?" + +"Nothing, father, only I want to get to work, and I can't work here!..." + +"Restless, are you? I was hopin' you'd give me a bit of your company a +while longer!..." + +"I'm sorry, father!..." + +"That's all right, my boy, that's all right. When do you want to go?" + +"To-morrow!" + +"You've only been home a short time.... Never mind! I'll come up to +Belfast an' see you off. There's a Co-operative Conference there the day +after the morra, an' I may as well go up with you as go up alone!" + +Henry knew that his father was hurt by his sudden decision to leave +Ballymartin, and he felt sorry for the old man's disappointment, but he +felt, too, that he could not bear to stay near Hamilton's farm at +present, knowing that Sheila, whom he had loved and idealised, was +likely to meet him in the roads at any moment, a baby in her arms, +perhaps at her breast, and a husband somewhere near at hand. + +"I must go," he told himself. "I must get over this...." + + +6 + +Mr. Quinn and he travelled to Belfast together on the following morning, +and they spent the hour before the steamer sailed for Liverpool in +pacing up and down the deck. + +"You can write to me when you get to London," Mr. Quinn said, and Henry +nodded his head. + +He was very conscious now of his father's disappointment, and although +he was determined to go to London, he was moved by the affectionate way +in which the old man tried to provide for his needs on the journey. + +"Hap yourself well," he had said when they crossed the gangway on to the +boat. "These steamers never give you enough clothes on your bunk. I'd +put my overcoat on top of the quilt if I were you!..." + +They stood for a time looking across the Lagan at the shipyard, and +talked about the possibility of Ninian Graham entering the shipbuilding +firm, and then they moved to the side of the boat that was against the +quay-wall. The hour at which the steamer was to depart was drawing near +and the number of passengers had increased. They could hear the noise of +the machinery as the cargo was lowered from the quay into the hold, and +now and then, the squealing of pigs as the drovers pushed them up the +gangways. A herd of cattle came through the sheds and stumbled in a +startled, stupid fashion on to the lower decks, while the drovers +thwacked them and shouted at them. There was a small crowd of people, +friends of passengers and casual onlookers, standing on the quay waiting +to see the ship go out, and some of them were shouting messages to their +friends. Henry had always liked to watch crowds at times such as this, +and often in Dublin, he had spent a while in Westland Row Station, +looking at the people who were going to England. He was so interested in +the crowd on the quay that he did not hear his father speaking to him. + +"I want to speak to you, Henry," the old man said, and then receiving no +answer, he said again, "I want to speak to you, Henry!" + +"Yes, father?" Henry answered, without looking up. + +"Turn round a minute, Henry!..." He hesitated, and Henry turning round, +saw that his father was embarrassed. + +"What is it, father?" he said. + +"I just wanted to say something to you, Henry. You see, you're beginnin' +another life ... out of my control, if you follow me ... not that I ever +tried to boss you...." + +"No, father, you've never done that. You've been awfully decent to me!" + +"Ah, now, no more of that! I just wanted to say somethin' to you, only I +don't rightly know how to begin...." He fumbled for words and then, as +if making a reckless plunge, he blurted out, "Do you know much, Henry?" + +"Know much?" Henry answered vaguely. + +"Aye. About women an' things? Did you know any women in Dublin?" + +"Oh, yes, a few!" Henry answered. + +"Did ... did you have anything to do with them?" + +"Anything to do with them!" + +"Aye!" + +Henry began to comprehend his father's questions. "Oh, I ... I kissed +one or two of them!" he said. + +"Was that all?" Mr. Quinn's voice was so low that Henry had difficulty +in hearing him. + +"Yes, father," he answered. + +"You know, don't you, that there's other things than kisses? Or do you +not know it?" + +Henry nodded his head. + +"I'm ... I'm not interferin' with you, Henry. I'm not just askin' for +the sake of askin' ... but ... well, do you know anything about those +... things?" + +He moved slightly as he spoke, as if, by moving, he could take the edge +off his question. + +"I know about them, father. Something!" Henry said huskily, for his +father's questions embarrassed him strangely. + +"You've never ... you've never!..." + +"No, father!" + +Mr. Quinn turned away and looked over the side of the boat. He seemed to +be watching a piece of orange peel which floated between the wall and +the side of the boat. The first bell of warning to friends of passengers +was sounded, and he turned sharply and looked at his son. "I'll have to +be goin' soon," he said. + +"That's only the first bell, father," Henry replied. "There's plenty of +time yet!" + +"Aye!" Mr. Quinn glanced about the deck which was now covered by +passengers. "You'll have plenty of company goin' over," he said. + +"Yes!" + +They were making conversation with difficulty. Mr. Quinn felt nervous +and a little unhappy because Henry was leaving him so soon, and Henry +felt disturbed because of the strange conversation he had just had with +his father. He had a shamed sense of intrusion into privacies. + +"It's very interestin' to see a boat goin' out to sea," Mr. Quinn was +saying. "I used to come down here many's a time when I was a young +fellow just to watch the steamers goin' out. Did you ever stan' on top +of a hill an' watch a boat sailin' out to sea?" + +"No, I don't remember doing that!" + +"It's a fine sight, that! You see her lights shinin' in the dark a long +way off, but you can't see her, except mebbe the foam she makes, an' +begod you near want to cry. That's the way it affects me anyway.... +Henry, if you ever get into any bother over the head of a woman, you'll +tell me, won't you, an' I'll stan' by you!" He said this so suddenly, +coming close to Henry as he said it, that Henry was startled. "You'll +not forget," he went on. + +"No, father, I won't forget!" + +"I've been wantin' to say that to you for a good while, but it's a hard +thing for a man to say to his own son. I could say it easier to somebody +else's son nor I can to you. London's a quare place for a young fella, +Henry, but it's no good preachin' to men about women ... no good at all. +The only thing you can do is to stan' by a man when he gets into bother. +That's all, except to hope to God he'll not disgrace his name if he's +your son. You know where to write to, Henry, if you need any help!... +Hilloa, there's the second bell!" + +They could hear the sailors calling out "Any more for the shore!" and +the sound of hurried farewells and the shuffle of awkward feet along the +gangways. + +"Good-bye, Henry!" + +"Good-bye, father!" + +"You'll not forget to write now an' awhile?" + +"I'll write to you the minute I get to London!" + +"Ah, don't hurry yourself! You'll mebbe be tired out when you arrive. +Just wait 'til the mornin', an' write at your leisure...." + +"Hurry up, sir!" an impatient sailor said. + +"Ah, sure, there's plenty of time, man! Good-bye, Henry! I believe I'm +the last one to go ashore. Well, so long!" + +They shook hands, and then the old man went down the gangway. + +"Any more for the shore?" the sailor shouted, unloosing the rope that +held the gangway fast to the ship. Then the gangway was cast off. A bell +rang, and in an instant the sound of the screws beating in the water was +heard. A shudder ran through the boat as the engines began to move, and +slowly the gap between the ship and the quay widened. Henry smiled at +his father, and the old man blinked and smiled back. The passengers +leant against the side of the boat and shouted farewells and messages to +their friends on shore. "Mind an' write!" "Remember me to every one, +will you!" "Tell Maggie I was askin' for her!" Then hats were waved and +handkerchiefs were floated like flags.... A woman stood near to Henry +and cried miserably to herself.... The ship swung into the middle of the +Lagan and began to move down towards the sea. Henry could still see his +father, standing under the yellow glare of a large lamp hanging from the +shed. He had taken off his hat, and was waving it to his son. It seemed +to Henry suddenly that the old man's hair was very grey and thin.... He +took out his handkerchief and waved it vigorously in response. +Somewhere in the steerage people were singing a hymn: + + 'Til we me .. ee .. eet, 'til we me .. eet, + 'Til we meet at Je . e . su's feet ... Jesu's feet, + 'Til we me .. ee .. eet, 'til we me .. eet, + God be with you 'til we meet again! + +The slurring, sentimental sounds became extraordinarily human and moving +in the dusky glow, and he felt tempted to hum the words under his breath +in harmony with the singers in the steerage; but two men were standing +behind him, and he was afraid they would overhear him. He could hear one +of them saying to his companion, "I always say, eat as much as you can +stuff inside you, an' run the risk of bein' sick. Some people makes a +point of eatin' nothin' at all when they're crossin' the Channel, but +they're sick all the same, an' they damn near throw off their insides. A +drop of whiskey is a good thing!..." + +The boat was making way now, and the people on the quay were ceasing to +have separate outlines: they were merging in a big, dark blur under the +yellow light. Henry could not see his father at the spot where he had +stood when the ship moved away, and he felt disappointed when he thought +to himself that the old man had not waited until the last moment. Then +he saw a figure hurrying along the quays, waving a large white +handkerchief.... It was his father, trying to keep pace with the boat, +and Henry shouted to him and waved his hands to him in a kind of +delirium. Gradually the boat outstripped the old man, and at last he +stood still and watched it disappearing into the darkness. He was still +waving to Henry, but no sound came from him. He seemed to be terribly +alone there on the dark quay.... Henry shuddered in the night air, and +glancing about him saw that most of the passengers had gone down to the +saloon or to their cabins. He, too, was almost alone. He turned to look +again at his father, straining to catch the last glimpse of him, and +while he was straining thus, he heard the old man's voice vibrating +across the river to him. "Good-bye Henry!" he shouted. "God bless you, +son!" and Henry felt that he must leap overboard and swim back to the +shore. He waved his handkerchief towards the place where his father was +standing and tried to shout "Good-bye, father!" to him, but his voice +rattled weakly in his throat, and he felt tears starting in his eyes. + +"It's silly of me to behave like this," he murmured to himself, rubbing +his eyes with his hand. + +The boat had passed between the Twin Islands and was now sailing swiftly +down the Lough towards the Irish Sea. The lights on the quay faded into +a faint yellow blur, like little lost stars, and presently, when the +cold airs of the sea struck him sharply, he turned and went towards the +saloon. + +"I hope to goodness it'll be smooth all the way over," he said to +himself. + + + + +THE THIRD CHAPTER + + +1 + +Roger Carey and Gilbert Farlow met him at Euston. + +"Hilloa, Quinny!" Gilbert said, "I've been made a dramatic critic, and +I'm to do my first play to-night!" + +"Hurray!" he answered, and turned to greet Roger. + +"We've bagged a taxi," Gilbert went on. "The driver looks cheeky ... +that's why we hired him. We'll give him a tuppenny tip and then we'll +give him in charge!..." + +"All taxi drivers are cheeky," Roger interrupted. + +"But this is a very cheeky one!... Hi, porter!" + +It was extraordinarily good to be with Gilbert and Roger again; +extraordinarily good to hear Gilbert's exaggerated speech and see him +ordering people about without hurting their feelings; extraordinarily +good to listen to Roger's slow, unflickering voice as he stated the +facts ... for Roger had always stated the facts. In all their +discussions, it was Roger who reminded them of the essential things, +refusing persistently to be carried away by Gilbert's imagination or +Ninian's impatience. People were sometimes irritated by Roger's slow, +imperturbable way of speaking ... they called him a prig ... but as they +knew him better, they lost their irritation and thought of him with +respect. "But we're all prigs," Gilbert said once in reply to some one +who sneered at Roger. "Ninian and Quinny and Roger and me, we're +frightful prigs. That's because we're so much brainier than most people. +Of course, Roger was Second Wrangler, and that affects a man, I suppose, +but he's terribly clever, young Roger is!..." + +As they drove home, Gilbert told their news to Henry. + +"Ninian's coming up to-morrow ... sooner than he meant to. He's very +keen on going to Harland and Wolff's, but he's afraid he's too old to +begin building ships. Tom Arthurs says he ought to have gone straight to +the Island from Rumpell's instead of going to Cambridge, and poor old +Ninian was horribly blasphemous about it all. It's funny to hear him +trying to talk like an Orangeman ... he mixes it up with Devonshire +dialect ... and thinks he's imitating Tom Arthurs. I suppose he'll have +to content himself with building railways and things like that. It's a +great pity!" + +"I don't believe he really wants to be a shipbuilder," Roger said. "He +likes Tom Arthurs, and he wants to be what Arthurs is. That's all. If +Arthurs were a comedian, Ninian would want to be a comedian, too!" + +"It must be splendid," Henry murmured, "to be able to influence people +like that!" + +The taxi drew up to the door of a house in one of the quieter Bloomsbury +squares, and Henry, looking out of the window, while Gilbert opened the +door of the cab, saw that the garden in the centre of the square was +very green. He could see figures in white flannels running and jumping, +and the sound of tennis balls, as they collided with the racquets, +pleased him. + +"Your room overlooks the square," Gilbert said, as Henry got out of the +cab. + +"Splendid!" he replied. "I shall imagine I'm in Dublin when I look out +of the window. It's just like Merrion Square!..." + +"Well, pay the cabby, will you? I'm broke!" said Gilbert. + +"You always are," Roger murmured. + + +2 + +Ninian joined them on the following day, very cheerless and irritable. +It was impossible for him to enter the shipbuilding firm owing to his +age, and so he had decided to enter the offices of a firm of engineers +in London. "Anybody can build a damned railway," he said, "but it takes +a man to build a ship. I'd love to build a liner ... one that could +cross the Atlantic in four days!" + +"Four days!" Gilbert scoffed. "My dear Ninian, boats don't crawl across +the ocean! People want boats that will take them to New York in +twenty-four hours!..." + +"And now, young fellows!" he went on, "it's time that we thought +seriously about our immortal souls!" + +"Oh, is it?" said Ninian. + +"Yes, it is," Gilbert replied. + +They had dined, and were now sitting in Gilbert's room in the lax +attitude of people who have eaten well and are content. + +"Here we are," Gilbert went on, using his pipe as a modulator of his +points, "four bright lads simply bursting with brains, and the question +is, what is to become of us? The Boy: What Will He Become? Take Roger, +for example, will he become Lord Chancellor of England, or a footling +little Registrar of a footling County Court?..." + +"I haven't had a brief yet," Roger interrupted, "so that question's +somewhat premature, isn't it?" + +"I'm not talking about _now_ ... I'm talking about the future," Gilbert +replied. "We ought to have some notion of what we're going to do with +our lives.... As a matter of fact," he continued, "your career's fairly +certain, Roger. With all that brain oozing out of you, you're bound to +become great. But what about little Ninian here? And Quinny? And me? +Ninian's a discontented sort of bloke, and he's quite likely to make a +mess of things unless we look after him. He may turn out to be a very +great engineer or he may go back to Boveyhayne and play the +turnip-headed squire!..." + +"Always rotting a chap," Ninian mumbled. + +"And Quinny ... what about little Quinny? He's written a novel!..." + +"Written a what?" Ninian demanded, sitting up sharply. + +"Have you, Quinny?" said Roger. + +Henry blushed and nodded his head. "It isn't good," he said. "I shall +have to re-write it!" + +"My Lord," said Ninian, "fancy one of us writing a book!" + +Gilbert slapped him on the side of the head. "You forget, Ninian, that +I've written a play!..." + +"A play's not a book!..." + +"_My_ plays are books," Gilbert retorted. "Well, now," he went on, +"what's to become of little Quinny: a tip-top novelist with a limited +circulation or a third-rater who sells millions?" + +"What about yourself?" Ninian said. + +"I'm coming to myself. Will I become a great dramatist, like Shakespeare +and Bernard Shaw and all those chaps, or merely turn out hack plays?..." + +"And the answer is?" + +"I don't know, but I'll tell you in ten years' time. We're a brainy lot +of lads, and I'm the brainiest of the lot!..." + +"Oh, no, you're not," said Ninian. "I've quite a respectable amount of +brain myself, but the very best brain in the room belongs to Roger. +Doesn't it, Roger?" + +"I don't despise my brain, Ninian!" Roger answered. + +"Observe the modest demeanour of the truly great man," Gilbert +exclaimed. "You'll have to go into politics, Roger. It isn't any good +being a barrister unless you do!" + +"I've thought of that," Roger answered. "At the moment, I'm wondering +which side I'm on. I might manage to get a seat as a Liberal, but I +don't believe it would be of much use to me if I got it. I think I shall +join the Tories!..." + +"Are you a Tory?" Ninian said, "I thought you were a Liberal!" + +"No, I'm a barrister. You see," he went on, as if he were arguing a +case, "the Liberal majority is too big and there are far too many +clever young men in the party. I should only be one of a crowd if I went +into the House now as a Liberal ... and of course I'm not likely to be +given a chance of standing for a seat because they've a lot of people on +the list already. But the Tories have hardly any clever chaps left. +There's Balfour and there's Chamberlain ... and then what is there?" + +"Nothing!" said Gilbert. + +"A clever man of my age has the chance of a lifetime with the Tories +now," Roger continued. "Look at F. E. Robinson ... and he's only a +third-rater!" + +Gilbert told a story of the early days of the Tory Party after the +General Election of 1900 when the Tories had been completely routed by +the Liberals. "The Tory remnant was as thick-headed as it could be," he +said, "and the Liberals were bursting with brains. Balfour came into the +House one night ... he'd just been re-elected ... and he sat down beside +Chamberlain. They were frightfully blue. Balfour had a look at the +Liberals, and then he turned to his own back-benches and had a look at +the Tories. Of course, it may not be true, but they say he went pale +with fright. He turned to Chamberlain and said, "My God, Joseph!" and +then Chamberlain turned and looked at the Tories and said, "My God, +Arthur!" You see, Chamberlain never noticed things until Balfour pointed +them out to him, and then he noticed them too much. They went out of the +House immediately afterwards and shook hands with each other, and +Chamberlain said 'Arthur, _we're_ the Opposition!' And so they were. +Poor Balfour was awfully lonely after Chamberlain crocked up. Not a soul +on his own side that was fit to talk to! It was easy enough for F. E. +Robinson to make a name in a crowd like that. And they loathe him, too. +He's such a bounder! But they need a fellow to heave mud, so they put up +with him. Roger's got more brains in his little finger than that fellow +has in his whole body. Haven't you, Roger?" + +"People don't have brains in their little fingers," Roger answered. + +"You should join the Tories, Roger," Ninian said. "There really isn't +much difference between them. My father was a Conservative, but my Uncle +Geoffrey was a Liberal. When father was in, uncle was out. It amounted +to the same thing in the end!..." + +"But Roger ought to be a different sort of Tory!" Gilbert exclaimed. +"It's no good having all his brain if he's just going to peddle around +with the same old stuff...." + +"I don't intend to do that," said Roger. + +"Well, what do you intend to do?" + +Ninian seized a cushion and put it behind his back. + +"Let's have a good old argle-bargle," he said. "What do you say, +Quinny?" + +Henry, who had not joined in the discussion, leant forward and smiled. +"Oh, I like listening to you," he answered. "You're all so sure of +yourselves!..." + +Gilbert turned on him. "Well, aren't you sure of yourself?" he demanded. + +"No, I'm not," Henry answered. "I never am!" + +"That's queer," said Gilbert. + +"Damned queer," said Ninian. + +"Why are you so uncertain of yourself?" Roger asked. + +"Don't you feel sure that you'll be a great novelist?" Gilbert added +before Henry had time to reply to Roger's question. + +"I know jolly well I shall be a clinking good engineer!" Ninian said. + +Henry had a shy unwillingness to discuss himself in front of the others, +although they were his closest friends. He felt that he could not sit +still while they watched him as he told them of his ambitions and his +fears. + +"Oh, don't let's talk about me," he said. "Go on with your +argle-bargle." He was speaking hurriedly, so that he had difficulty in +articulating his words. "You were saying something, Ninian, weren't you +... no, it was you, Roger, about politics!..." + +"Oh, yes!" Roger answered. + +"Rum chap, you are!" Gilbert said to Henry in a low voice. + + +3 + +"You see," said Roger, "my notion is to restore the prestige of the +Tories. Somehow, they've let themselves get the reputation of being +consciously heartless. The Liberals go about proclaiming that they are +the friends of the poor, and the inference is that the Tories are the +friends of the rich!" + +"So they are," said Ninian. + +"So are the Liberals!" said Roger. + +"So's everybody!" said Gilbert. + +"But the Tories aren't culpably the friends of the rich," Roger +continued. "I mean, they don't go into parliament with the intention of +exploiting poor men for the benefit of rich men. It isn't true that they +are indifferent to the fate of poor men; but they have allowed the +Liberals to give them that character. I've always said that the Tories +have the courage of the Liberals' convictions!..." + +Gilbert lay back on the floor with his arms under his head. "I remember +the first time you said that. It was in the Union!" he exclaimed. + +"I shall say it again in the House some day," Roger retorted. "I'm not +trying to be funny when I say that. I think the history of the Tory +Party shows very plainly that the Tories have done very admirable things +for the working-people: Factory Acts and Housing schemes and Workmen's +Compensation Acts. Well, I want the Tory Party to remember that it is +the custodian of the decency of England. It isn't decent that there +should be hungry children and unemployed men and badly-housed families. +That kind of thing is intolerable to a gentleman, and a Tory is a +gentleman. It seems to me inconceivable that a Tory should be willing to +make money by cheating a child out of a meal ... but there are plenty of +Liberals who do that. And I'm against all this legislation which makes +some public authority do things for people which they ought to be doing +for themselves. I mean, I hate the notion of the State feeding hungry +school-children because the parents cannot afford to feed them, when the +proper thing to do is to see that the parents are paid enough for their +work to enable them to feed their children themselves. I suppose I'm +sloppy ... the Fabians used to say so at Cambridge ... but I prefer the +spectacle of a family round its own table to the spectacle of a crowd of +assorted youngsters round a municipal school table! And I don't think +we're getting the most out of our people! Just think of the millions of +men and women in this country who really do not earn more than their +keep! That isn't good enough. If you can only just keep yourself going, +then you've no right to go ... except to hell as quickly as possible. My +idea is that we waste potentialities at present, not by squandering +them, but by never using them. All those poor people, for example, how +do we know that some of them, if given an opportunity, would not be +amazingly worth while! There must be a great deal of brain-power simply +chucked away or misused. I know that lots of people believe that men of +genius work their way up to their level no matter how low down they +begin, but I doubt that, and anyhow I'm not talking of geniuses ... I'm +talking of the average clever man ... there must be men of good average +quality lost in slums because none of us have taken the trouble to clear +the ground for them. And the ground has to be cleared! You can't grow +wheat on a sour soil. I often think when I see some hooligan brought +into Court that, given a real chance, he might have been a better judge +than the man who sends him to gaol. The Tory's job is to restore the +balance of things. It isn't only to maintain the level, but to raise it +and to keep on raising it.... I believe in the State of Poise, of +equitable adjustment, in which every man will be able to move easily to +his proper place.... There are so many obstacles now in the way of man +finding his place that, even if he has the strength to get over them, he +probably won't have the strength to fill it...." + +"My view, perhaps, is narrower than yours, Roger," Henry said, "but I +see all these people chiefly as men and women who are shut out of +things: books and pictures and plays and music and all the decent +things. I don't believe that if they had the chance they would all read +Meredith and admire Whistler and go to see Shaw's plays and want to +listen to Wagner ... that's not the point, and anyhow the middle and the +upper classes are not all marvellously cultured. My point is that their +lives are such that they don't even know of Meredith and Whistler and +Shaw and Wagner. They don't even know of the second-rate people or the +third rate. Magnolia, for instance ... I suppose she reads novelettes, +and when she grows out of novelettes, she won't read anything. And she +can't afford to go to a West End theatre.... When I think of these +people, millions of 'em, I think of them as people like Magnolia, +completely shut out of things like that, not even aware of them...." + +They spent the remainder of the evening in argument, their talk ranging +over the wide field of human activity. They established a system of +continual criticism of existing institutions. "Challenge everything," +said Gilbert; "make it justify its existence." They tried to discover +the truth about things, to shed their prejudices and to see the facts of +life exactly as they were. "The great thing is to get rid of Slop!" said +Roger. "We've got to convince the judge as well as move the jury. It +isn't enough to make the jury feel sloppy ... any ass can do that. +You've got to convince the old chap on the bench or you won't get a +verdict. That's my belief, and I believe, too, that the jury is more +likely to listen to reason than people imagine!" + +They did not finish their argument that evening nor on any particular +evening. They were spread over a long period, and were part of the +process of clearing their minds of cobwebs. + +Gilbert had dedicated his life to the renascence of the drama and had +written a couple of plays which, he admitted to his friends, had not got +the right stuff in them. "I don't know enough yet," he said once to +Henry, "but I'm learning...." His dramatic criticism was very pointed, +and he speedily acquired a reputation among people who are interested in +the theatre, as an acute but harsh critic, and already attempts had been +made by theatrical managers either to bribe him or get him dismissed +from his paper. The bribing process was quite delicately operated. One +manager wrote to him, charmingly plaintive about his criticism, and +invited him to put himself in the manager's place. "I assure you," he +wrote, "I would willingly produce good work if I could get it, but I +can't. Come and see me, and I'll show you a pile of plays that have +arrived within the last fortnight. I know quite well, without reading +them, that not one of them will be of the slightest worth!" And Gilbert +had gone to see him, and had been received very charmingly and told how +clever he was, and then the manager had offered to appoint him reader of +plays at a pleasant fee!... Following that attempt at bribery came the +anger of an actor-knight who declined to admit Gilbert to his theatre, a +piece of petulance which delighted him. + +"The great big balloon," he said to his editor when he was told of what +the actor-knight had said over the telephone. "My Lord, when I hear him +spouting blank verse through his nose!..." + +"That's all very fine," the editor retorted ruefully, "but your +criticism's doing us a lot of harm. Jefferson of the Torch Theatre +cancelled his advertisement the day after your notice of his new play +appeared!" + +"Ridiculous ass!" said Gilbert. + +"Well, if you say his play's the worst that's ever been put on any +stage, what do you expect him to do? Fall on your neck and say, 'Bless +you, brother!'? You might try to be kinder to them, Farlow, and do for +the love of God remember the advertisement manager. If you could get the +human note in your stuff!..." + +"The what?" + +"The human note. I'm a great believer in the human note." + +Gilbert left the office as quickly as he could and went home. He came +into the dining-room where the others were already seated at their meal. + +"You're late again, Gilbert," said Roger. "Hand over your sixpence!" + +Roger, who was never late for anything, had instituted a system of fines +for those who were late for meals. The fine for unpunctuality at dinner +was sixpence. + +"I haven't got a tanner, damn it," Gilbert snapped, "and I'm looking for +the human note. That's why I'm late. My heavenly father, I'm hungry! +What is there?" + +"Sixpence for being late for dinner," said Roger quietly, "and tuppence +for blasphemy!" + +He entered the amounts in the "Ledger," and then returned to his seat. +"You already owe six and threepence," he said, as he sat down, "and this +evening's fines bring it up to six and elevenpence. You ought to pay +something on account, Gilbert!..." + +"Pass the potatoes and don't bleat so much!" said Gilbert. "Look here, +Quinny," he said as he helped himself to the potatoes, "what's the human +note, and don't you think tuppence is too much for blasphemy?" + +"Ask Ninian," Henry answered. "He knows all about humanity!" + +"No, he doesn't. Bally mechanic! Aren't you, Ninian? Aren't you a damn +little mechanic with a screw-driver for a soul!..." + +"You'll get a punch on the jaw in a minute, young fellow me lad!" Ninian +exclaimed, leaning over the table and slapping Gilbert on the cheek. + +"Fined fourpence for threat of physical violence and ninepence for +executing the same," Roger murmured. "I'll enter it presently." + +"Somebody should slay Roger," Gilbert said. "Somebody should take hold +of his neat little neck and wring it!..." + +They finished their meal and sat back in their chairs, smoking and +chattering. + +"What's all this about the human note, Gilbert?" Henry asked, and +Gilbert explained what had happened to him in the editor's room. "I +stopped a bobby in the Strand and asked him about it," he said, "but he +told me to move on. You ought to know what the human note is, Quinny. +You're a novelist, and novelists are supposed to know everything +nowadays!" + +He did not wait for Henry to explain the meaning of the human note. "I +know what Dilton means by it," he said. "When _he_ talks of the human +note he means the greasy touch!" + +"Slop in fact!" said Roger. + +"That's it. Slop! My God, these journalists do love to splash about in +their emotions. They can't mention the North Pole without gulping in +their throats. Dilton gave me an example of the human note. There was a +bye-election in the East End the other day and one of the candidates put +his unfortunate infants into 'pearlies' and hawked them about the +constituency in a costermonger's barrow, carrying a notice with 'Vote +for Our Daddy!' on it. Dilton damned near blubbed when he told me about +it!" + +"Rage?" said Henry. + +"Rage!" Gilbert exclaimed. "Good Lord, no! The man was moved, +touched!... He blew his nose hard, and then told me that one touch of +nature makes the whole world kin! I'm damned if he didn't write a +leading article about it ... and they give him a couple of thousand a +year for organising sniffs for the million. All over England, I suppose +there were people snivelling over those brats and telling each other +that one touch of nature makes the whole world kin!... Oof! gimme the +whisky, somebody, for the love of the Lordy God! I want to be sick when +I think of the human note!" + +"Well, of course," said Roger, "the slop is there, and it's no good +getting angry about it. What I want is a Party that won't deal in it. +I've always believed that the mob likes an honest man, even if it does +call him a Prig, and I'm perfectly certain that when a Prig gets let +down by the mob it's because in some subconscious way it knows he's only +pretending to be honest ... unless, of course, it's gone off its head +with passion of some sort: Boer war jingoism and that kind of thing. And +my notion of a member of parliament is a man who represents some degree +of general feeling. If he doesn't represent that general feeling he can +only do one of two things: try to convert the general opinion to his +point of view or else, if he can't convert it, tell it he'll be damned +if he'll represent it any longer. That's the attitude I shall adopt in +the House!..." + +But Gilbert thought that this was a dangerous attitude to maintain. + +"If you maintain it too long, you'll never get an office," he said, "and +so the only work you'll be able to do will be critical work: you'll +never get a chance to do anything constructive; and if you let the +Government nobble you, and give you an Under Secretaryship the moment +they see you getting dangerous, then you're done for. And anyhow, I +don't believe in independent members of parliament. A certain number of +sheep are necessary in every organisation, in parliament as much as +anywhere else. It would be absolutely impossible to carry on Government +if the whole six hundred and seventy members of parliament were as +clever and as independent as Lord Hugh Cecil. You must have sheep and +lots of 'em!..." + +"But they needn't be dead sheep," said Roger. "They needn't be mutton, +need they?" + +"No, they needn't be mutton, but they must be sheep," Gilbert replied. + +"All the politicians I've ever met," said Ninian, "were like New Zealand +lamb ... frozen!" + +Gilbert leaped on him and slapped his back, capsizing him on to the +floor. "Ninian, my son," he said, "that's a good line. Do you mind if I +put it in my comedy. It doesn't matter whether you do or not, but I'd +like your consent." + +"Don't be an old ass," said Ninian. + +"Can I use that line about the New Zealand lamb?..." + +"Yes, yes ... any damn thing ... only get off my chest! You're ... +you're squeezing the inside out of me. Get up, will you!..." + +"I'm really quite comfortable, thanks, Ninian. If it weren't for this +whacking big bone here!..." + +He did not complete the sentence, for Ninian, with a heaving effort, +threw him on to the floor, where they scrambled and punched each +other.... + +"There is a fine of eighteenpence," said Roger, "for disorderly conduct. +I'll just enter it against you both!" + +The combatants rose and routed Roger, and when they had disposed of him, +Ninian agreed to let Gilbert use his line about the frozen meat. "I +shall expect you to put a note in the programme that the epigram in the +second act was supplied by Mr. Ninian Graham," he said. + +"_The_ epigram!" Gilbert exclaimed. "_The_ epigram!" + +"Why, will there be any more?" said Ninian innocently. + +Hostilities thereupon broke out again. + + +4 + +They sat up late that night talking of themselves and of England and +public affairs. Roger was interested in Trade Unions, and he lamented +the fact that the Tories had allowed an alliance to be formed between +Labour and Liberalism. "Ask any workman you meet in the street whether +he'd rather work for a Liberal or a Tory, and I bet you what you like, +the chances are that he'll plump for the Tory. His experience is that +the Tory's the better employer, and the reason why that's so is that the +Liberal conducts his business on principles, whereas the Tory conducts +his on instincts. In principle, the Liberal concedes most things to the +workman, but in practice he doesn't: in principle, the Tory concedes +nothing to the workman, but in practice he treats him decently. The +workman knows that, but the fool goes and votes for the Liberal, and the +fool of a Tory lets him!... You know," he went on, "this Trade Union +movement has got on to wrong lines altogether. Their chief function +seems to be to protect their members from ... well, from being cheated. +That's what it comes to. I don't blame 'em. They've had to behave like +that. I don't think any one can read Webb's 'Industrial Democracy' and +'The History of Trade Unionism' without feeling that, on the whole, +employers have been rather caddish to workmen ... so I don't blame the +Unions for making so much fuss about their rights. But I'd like to see +them making as much fuss about the quality of the work done by their +members. That's their real function. It isn't enough to keep up the +standard of wages and of conditions of employment--they ought also to +keep up the standard of work!" + +This led them into a wrangle about the responsibility for the blame for +this indifference to quality of work. + +"I suppose," said Roger, "employers and employed are to blame. I think +myself it's the result of a world tendency towards hustle ... to get the +thing done as quickly as possible without regard to the quality of it. +I suppose a modern contractor would break his heart if he were asked to +spend his lifetime on _one_ cathedral ... but people were proud to do +that in the Middle Ages. We'd build half a dozen cathedrals while a +Middle Ages man was decorating a gargoyle!" + +"Well, we have this comfort," said Ninian, "the modern builder's stuff +won't last as long as Westminster Abbey!" + +"I hate all this bleat about the Middle Ages," Gilbert exclaimed. "I'm +surprised to hear you, Roger, talking like that fat papist, Belloc. One +'ud think to hear you talking that no one ever did shoddy work until the +nineteenth century, but Christopher Wren let a lot of shoddy stuff into +St. Paul's Cathedral. There were fraudulent contractors then, and +jerry-builders, just as there are now, and there probably always will be +people who give a bad return for their wages!..." + +"That's why I want to see the Tory Party resuscitated," said Roger. "I +want to limit the number of such people and to make every man feel that +it's a gentlemanly thing to do your best, whatever your job is, and that +payment has nothing whatever to do with the way you do your work!" + +The whole industrial system would need re-shaping, the whole social +system would need re-shaping, the Empire would need re-shaping. + +"This craving for cheapness has cheapened nothing but life," said Roger, +"and it brings incalculable trouble with it. I mean, a ha'penny saved +now means pounds lost later. Oh, that's a platitude, I know, but we pay +no heed to it. I've never been to America, but we know quite well that +one of the most serious problems for the Americans is the negro problem. +I heard a Rhodes scholar talking about it once. He simply foamed at the +mouth. He hadn't any plan for it ... didn't seem to realise that a plan +could be made ... and you know they've only got that problem through the +greediness of their ancestors. Negroes aren't native to America. The +planters wanted cheap labour and so they imported them ... and the end +of that business is the Negro Problem!" + +"And lynchings and a Civil War in between," Henry murmured. "That's the +most hateful part of it ... the killing and the bitterness." + +"Great Scott!" said Ninian, "think of all those Yankees killing each +other so that niggers might wear spats and top hats and sing coon songs +in the music halls!... Damn silly, I call it!" + +"We've got to make people believe that it isn't what you get that +matters, but what you do," Roger went on. "All this footling squabble +between workmen and employers about a farthing an hour more or a +farthing an hour less ... isn't decent ... it isn't gentlemanly. Oh, I +know very well that the counter-jumper thinks it's very clever to trick +a customer out of a ha'penny ... but it doesn't last, that kind of +profit. We lost America because we behaved like cads to the colonists, +and we'll lose everything if we continue to play the counter-jumper +trick. It isn't very popular now to talk about gentlemen ... people +sneer at the word ... but I'd rather die like a gentleman than live like +a cad ... and that's the spirit I want to see restored to the Tory +Party. It's awfully needed in England now!" + +They began to lay plans for an Improved Tory Party that included an +alliance with Labour and a closer confederation of the colonies, +together with a definite understanding with America. + +"And what about Ireland?" said Henry. + +"Oh, of course, Ireland must have Home Rule and be treated like a +colony. Nobody but a fool wants to treat it in any other way!" said +Roger. + +"There are an awful lot of fools in the world," Gilbert said. + +"I know that," Roger retorted, "but need we trouble about them?" + +"We've got to get a group of fellows together on much the same +principle as the Fabian Society ... no one to be admitted unless he has +brains and is willing to work without payment. _Look_ at the work that +Sidney Webb and Bernard Shaw and all those people did for Socialism _for +nothing_, even paying for it out of their own pockets when they weren't +over-flush ... my goodness, if we can only get people with that kind of +spirit into our group, we'll mould the world! By the way, we ought to +pinch some ideas from the Fabians! We could meet somewhere ... here, to +begin with. And when we've got a group of fellows together with some +notion of what we all want to do, we can start inviting eminent ones to +talk to us ... and heckle the stuffing out of them!" + +Gilbert was able to tell them a great deal about the origin of the +Fabian Society ... for his father was one of the founders of it ... and +he told them how the Society had invited Mr. Haldane to talk to them ... +and of the way in which they had fallen on him in the discussion and +left all his arguments in shreds when the meeting ended.... "If we can +get Balfour or Asquith or some other Eminent Pot here," he said, "and +simply argue hell's blazes out of him ... my Lordy God, that 'ud be +great!" + +"They're not likely to come," said Ninian. + +"I don't know. Eminent Ones sometimes do the most unusual things!" + +Ninian yawned and stretched his arms. "I move that this House be now +adjourned!" he said. + +But they ignored his sleepiness, and he would not move away from their +company. + +"Well, we've settled what our future is to be," said Gilbert. + +"What is it to be?" Ninian interrupted, stifling another yawn. + +"Weren't you listening? We're to be Improved Tories ... and we're to +improve the Universe, so to speak. We've just settled it. All the Old +Birds are to be hoofed out of office, and we're to take their places, +and I thoroughly approve of that. In my opinion, any man who wants to +occupy a place of authority after the age of sixty should be publicly +and cruelly pole-axed. I can't stand old men ... they're so cowardly and +so obstinate and so conceited!" + +"The great thing," said Roger, "is to keep ourselves from sloppiness. We +mustn't make fools of ourselves!" + +"The principal way in which a man makes a fool of himself," Gilbert +added, "is in connexion with the female species. Is that what you mean, +Roger?" Roger nodded his head. "Pay attention to that, Ninian," Gilbert +went on. "You have a weakness for females, I've noticed!" + +Ninian, suddenly forgetting his fatigue, sat up in his seat. "I say, +let's jaw about women," he said. + +"No," Gilbert replied. "We won't ... not at this hour of the morning!" +But, disregarding his decision, he went on, "My view of women is that we +all make too much fuss about 'em! Either we damn them excessively or we +praise them excessively. They're a cursed nuisance in literature. All +the writers seem to think that man was made for woman or woman for man, +and they write and write about sex and love as if there weren't other +things in the world besides women!" + +"I'd like to know what else we were made for?" Henry said. + +"We were made to do our jobs," Roger answered. "I believe in what I may +call the modified anchorite ... women are too emotional and get between +a man and his work. Love is an excellent thing ... excellent ... but +there are other things!..." + +"What else is there?" Henry demanded almost crossly. He felt vaguely +stirred by what was being said, vaguely antagonistic to it. + +"Oh, lots of things," Roger answered. "Fighting for your place, moving +multitudes to do your will ... oh, lots of things!" + +Gilbert had read some of Henry's novel, and he now began to talk about +it. + +"You turn on the Slop-tap too often," he said. "Quinny, my son, you're a +clever little chap, but you're frightfully sloppy. I've read a lot more +of your novel...." + +"Yes?" said Henry, nervously anxious to hear his criticism. + +"Slop!" Gilbert continued. "Just slop, Quinny! Women aren't like lumps +of dough that a baker punches into any shape he likes, and they aren't +sticks of barley sugar...." + +"No, they aren't," Roger interrupted. "Wait till you see my cousin +Rachel...." + +"Have you got a cousin, Roger? How damned odd!" said Gilbert. + +"Yes. I must bring her round here one evening. She's not a bad female +... quite intelligent for her sex. Go on!" + +"They're like us, Quinny!" Gilbert continued. "They're good in parts and +bad in parts. That's the vital discovery of the twentieth century, and +I've made it!..." + +Henry had been eager to hear Gilbert's criticism of his novel, but this +kind of talk irritated him, though he could not understand why it +irritated him, and his irritation drove him to sneers. + +"I suppose," he said, "you want to substitute Social Reform and Improved +Toryism for Romance. Lordy God, man, do you want to put eugenics and +blue-books in place of the love of woman?" + +"You're getting cross, Quinny!..." + +"No, I'm not!" + +"Oh, yes, you are ... very cross ... and you know what the fine for it +is. If you want my opinion, here it is. I _am_ prepared to accept +eugenics and blue-books as a substitute for the love of women ... if +they're interesting, of course. That's all I ask of any one or anything +... that it shall interest me. I don't care what it is, so long as it +doesn't bore me. Women bore me ... women in books and plays, I mean ... +because they're all of a pattern: lovebirds. I've never seen a play in +which the women weren't used for sloppy emotional purposes. The minute I +see a woman walking on to the stage, I say to myself, 'Here comes the +Slop-tap!' and as sure as I'm alive, the author immediately turns the +tap on and the woman is over ears and head in slop before we're +two-thirds through the first act. And they're not like that in real +life, any more than we are. We aren't continually making goo-goo eyes, +nor are they. I'm going to write a play one of these days that will +stagger the civilised world, I tell you! It'll be bung full of women but +it won't have a word of slop from beginning to end!..." + +"It'll be a failure," said Ninian. + +"Oh, from the box-office point of view, no doubt!..." + +"No, from the common sense point of view. I'm on the side of Quinny in +this matter, and I'm as much of an authority on women as you are, +Gilbert. I've loved three different barmaids and a young woman in a +tobacconist's shop, and I say, what the hell is the good of talking all +this rubbish about men and women trotting round as if male and female He +had not created them. When I see a woman, if she's got any femininity +about her at all, I want to hug her and kiss her, and I do so, if I can, +and so does any man if he is a man. I belong to the masculine gender and +she belongs to the feminine ... and that's all there's to be said about +it. If we were neuters, we'd be characters in your play, Gilbert...." + +"I don't want to kiss every girl I meet," said Gilbert. + +They howled at him in derision. "Oh, you liar!" said Henry, forgetting +his anger. + +"You hug women all day long, you Mormon!" Ninian roared, "or you would +if they'd let you!" + +"That's why you react so strongly from love in your plays," Roger said +judicially. "You can't leave them alone in real life...." + +"I don't mean to say I haven't kissed a girl or two," Gilbert admitted. + +"_A girl or two!_ Listen to him!" Ninian went on. "Oh, listen to the +innocent babe and suckling. A girl or two! Look here, let's make a +census of 'em. What was the name of that girl whose brother got sent +down? Lady Something?..." + +"Lady Cecily!..." + +"Shut up!" Gilbert shouted at them, and his voice was full of rage. He +stood over them, glaring at them fiercely.... + +"I say, Gilbert!" said Henry, "what's up?" + +He recovered himself. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to lose my +temper!" + +"That's all right, Gilbert," Ninian murmured. "It was my fault. I +oughtn't to have rotted you like that!" + +"It doesn't matter," Gilbert answered. + + +5 + +They were silent for a while, disconcerted by Gilbert's strange outburst +of anger, and for a few moments it seemed as if their argument must end +now. Ninian began to yawn again, and he was about to propose once more +that they should go to bed, when Gilbert resumed the discussion. + +"You make no allowance for reticence," he said to Henry. "That's what +Roger really wants in politics ... reticence!" + +"In everything," Roger exclaimed + +"I know," Gilbert went on. "When I first went in to the _Daily Echo_ +office, I saw a notice in the sub-editor's room which tickled me to +death. Elsden, the night editor, had put it up, and it said that the +word 'gutted' was not to be used in describing the state of a house +after a fire. I went to Elsden ... I like him better than any one else +in the _Echo_ office ... and asked him what was the matter with the +word. 'Well, my dear chap,' he said, 'think of guts! I mean to say, +_Guts_! Hang it all, we must cover up something!' I thought he was being +rather old-maidish then, but I'm not sure now that Elsden's point of +view hasn't got something behind it. He just wanted to be decently quiet +about things that aren't pretty! I don't think it's necessary to blurt +out everything, and I'm certain that if you keep on washing your dirty +linen in public, people will end up by thinking you've got nothing else +but dirty linen. Your characters," he added, turning to Henry, "go +about, splashing in their emotions as if they were trick swimmers or ... +or damn little journalists. I tell you, Quinny, love's a private, +furtive thing, a secret adventure, and open exposure of it is a sort of +profanity...." + +"No," said Henry emphatically. "Love's made nasty by secrecy!" He began +to spread himself. He had been reading some of the authors of the Yellow +Book period. "It seems to me," he said, "that the marriage rite is +broken, incomplete. In a healthy state, the whole function would be +performed in public ... in ... in a cathedral, say. There'd be a +procession of priests in golden chasubles, and acolytes swinging carved +censers, and boys with banners, and hidden choirs chanting long +litanies...." + +"I shall be sick in a minute!" said Gilbert. "You're talking like an +over-ripe Oscar Wilde, Quinny, and if you were really that sort of +animal I'd have you hoofed out of this. Get out the whisky, Ninian, for +the love of the Lordy God! This ĉsthetic stuff makes my inside wobble!" + +Ninian went to the sideboard and took hold of the whisky bottle. "I +don't much like that sort of talk myself," he said. "It's too +clever-clever for my taste. I shouldn't let it grow on me, Quinny, if I +were you. You'll get a reputation like bad eggs, and people'll think +you've strayed out of your period and got lost. As a matter of fact, +Gilbert, you don't really want whisky, and you're only going to drink it +for effect, so you shan't have any!" + +He returned to his seat, as he spoke, and sat down. Henry had a quick +sense of shame. He had spoken insincerely, for effect ... in order to +impress them with his cleverness, and their answer to him filled him +with a sense of inferiority. He felt that they must despise him, and +feeling that, he began to despise himself. + +"My own feeling about these things," said Ninian, "is perfectly simple. +I believe in lust. I'm a lustful man myself, and so, I believe, is +Roger!..." + +"No, I'm not," Roger exclaimed. + +"Well, I am," Ninian proceeded. "Lust is the motor force of the +world...." + +"No, it isn't," Gilbert interrupted. "The whole of civilisation depends +upon the human stomach. If men would live without eating ... the whole +of this society would dissolve. Lust is subordinate to the stomach, +Ninian. You've never seen a starving man in a purple passion, have you?" + +Ninian leant forward and tapped the table with his knuckles. "I say that +lust is the motor force of the world," he said, "and I think you might +let me finish my sentences, Gilbert. You are so eager to vent your own +views that you won't let any one else vent his...." + +"What's the good of venting your views if they're wrong, damn it!" said +Gilbert. + +"Well, let me finish venting 'em anyhow. Assuming that I'm right, I say +you should treat lust exactly as you treat the circulation of your +blood: don't fuss about it. It's a natural function, neither beautiful +nor ugly. It's just there, and that's all about it. The fellow who +dithers about it as if he'd invented a new philosophy on the day he +first slept with a woman, is a dirty, neurotic ass. So is the fellow who +pretends that there's no such thing as sex in the world. Male and female +created He them, and I can tell you, He jolly well knew what He was up +to!" + +Roger flicked the ash from his cigarette and coughed slightly. + +"I think," he said, "we talk too much about these things. They pass the +time, of course, but not very profitably. Whatever the Universal Motive +may be ... I'm talking, of course, without prejudice ... it'll express +itself in complete disregard of our feelings and views. I have had no +experience of women otherwise than in the capacity of a mother, several +aunts, a nurse, a number of cousins, and also some waitresses in +restaurants...." + +"Roger's never kissed a woman in a sexual sense in his life," Gilbert +interrupted. + +"I have never seen the necessity of it," Roger said. + +"But aren't you curious to know what it's like? After all, it's a form +of experience," Henry asked, looking at Roger with curiosity. + +"Having scarlet fever is a form of experience, but I don't wish to know +what it's like," Roger answered. + +"My God, you are a prig, Roger!" said Gilbert simply. + +"I know that," Roger answered. "That's why I don't get on with women. +They find me out. No," he continued, "I've no experience of women in +that way. I daresay I shall get experience some day, but in the +meantime, I've got my job to do...." + +"We shall have a virgin Lord Chancellor on the woolsack," said Gilbert, +"and then may God have mercy on all poor litigants!" + +"We really ought to go to bed," Ninian protested. + +"Not yet," Henry exclaimed. + +He had recovered from his feeling of dejection, and he was eager to +retrieve the good opinion which he thought he had lost. + +"My own view," he said, beginning as they always began their oracular +pronouncements, "my own view is that we make the mistake of thinking in +masses instead of in individuals. Everybody who tries to reform the +world, tries to make it uniform, but what we want is the most complete +diversity that's obtainable. It's the variations from type that make +type bearable!..." + +"That's a good phrase, Quinny. Where'd you get it from?" Gilbert +interrupted. + +Henry flushed with pleasure. "I made it up," he answered. "All men are +different," he went on, "and therefore the morals that suit one person +are unlikely to suit another person. Roger doesn't bother about women. +He looks upon them as a ... a sideline. Don't you, Roger? He'll marry in +due course, and he'll have one woman, and he'll have her all to himself. +Won't you, Roger?" + +"Probably," Roger replied, "but there's no certainty about these +things." + +Henry proceeded. "Gilbert wants lots and lots of women, but he doesn't +want to talk about it, and he wants to keep his women and his work +separate ... in watertight compartments, as it were. As if you could do +that! And Ninian wants to have a good old hearty coarse time like ... +like Tom Jones ... and then he'll repent and praise God and lay his +stick about the backsides of all the young sinners he meets!" + +"No, I don't, ..." said Ninian, but Henry, having started, would not let +himself be interrupted. "I want to have lots and lots of women," he went +on hurriedly, "but I don't care who knows about them. I like talking +about my love-affairs...." + +"Well, why don't you talk about 'em?" Gilbert demanded. + +Henry was nonplussed. His speech became hesitant. "I ... I said I'd like +to talk about them," he replied. "I didn't say I would do so...." He +hurried away from the subject. "But chiefly," he said, "I don't want +anything permanent in my life. Now, do you understand? Roger's like the +Rock of Ages ... the same yesterday, to-day and forever, but I want to +be different to-morrow from what I am to-day, and different again the +day after. Endless variety for me!" + +"It'll be an awful lot of trouble," said Gilbert. + +"That doesn't matter. Now my argument is that I have a different nature +from Roger and all of you, but I'm not a worse man than any of you +are...." + +"No, no, of course not," they asserted. + +"I'm just different, that's all. The man who loves one woman and cleaves +to her until death do them part isn't a better man or a worse man than +the chap who loves a different woman every year, and doesn't cleave to +any of them. He's just different. You see," he continued, pleased with +the way he was enunciating his opinions, "we are of all sorts. There are +lustful men and there are men who have scarcely any sex impulse at all, +and there are coarse men and refined men, and ... and all sorts of men, +and they're all necessary to the world. I say, why not recognise the +differences between them and leave it at that! It's silly to try and fit +us all with the same system of morals when nobody but a fool would try +to fit us all with the same size hat!" + +"You don't make any allowance for the views of women," Roger said. + +"Oh, yes, I do," Henry retorted quickly. "There is as much variety among +women as there is among men. Some of them are monogamous and some +aren't. That's all!" + +Gilbert stretched his legs out in front of him and then drew them back +again. "Our little Quinny's got this world neatly parcelled out," he +said. "Hasn't he, coves? There he sits, like a little Jehovah, handing +out natures as if they were school-prizes. 'Here, my little lad, here's +your set of morals. Now, run away and make a hog of yourself with the +women!' 'Here, my little lad, here's your set of morals. Now, run away +and be a bally monk!'" + +"Exactly!" said Henry. "That's my view!" + +"Well, all I can say," said Ninian, "is that it won't do. This may be a +tom-fool sort of a world, but it gets along in its tom-fool way a lot +better than it will in your neat arrangement of things...." + +"Besides," Roger said, taking up the argument from Ninian, "there is a +common measure in life. Oh, I know quite well that there are differences +between man and man, but there are resemblances, too, and what we've got +to do ... the Improved Tories, I mean ... is to discover which is the +more important, the resemblances of men or the differences of men. As a +lawyer, of course, I only know what's in my brief, but as a man, I'm +interested!" + +"The question is," said Gilbert, "are women a damned nuisance that ought +to be put down, or are they not? I say they are, but I like 'em all the +same, and that only shows what a blasted hole I'm in. I like kissing +them ... it's no good pretending that I don't...." + +"Not a bit," said Ninian. + +"And I kiss 'em whenever I get a chance," Gilbert continued, "but all +the same I'd like to be a whopping big icicle so as to be able to ignore +'em ... like Roger!" + +Ninian got up, resolved on going to bed. "Come on," he said, stretching +himself. "Our jaw about women doesn't appear to have solved anything!" + +"It never will," Roger answered, rising too. "We shall still be jawing +about them this day twelvemonth...." + +"D.V.," said Gilbert. + +"But we won't get any forrarder!" + +"Rum things, women!" said Ninian, moving towards the door, "but very +nice ... very nice, indeed!" + +"My goodness me, I am tired," Gilbert yawned. "Oh, so tired! But we've +settled everything, haven't we? The empire and women and so on? Great +Scott," he exclaimed, "we forgot to say anything about God!" + +"So we did," said Ninian, and he turned back from the door. + +"The Improved Tories really ought to make up their minds about +religion," Gilbert went on. + +"Can't we leave that until to-morrow?" Roger complained. "We needn't +talk about Him to-night, need we? I'm frightfully sleepy!..." + + +6 + +While Henry was undressing, he remembered how angry Gilbert had been +with Ninian and Roger because they had mentioned the name of a girl for +whom he had cared. + +"Awfully rum, that!" he said to himself, sitting on the edge of his bed. + +He tried to recall her name. "Lady something!" he said, and then said +several times, "Lady ... Lady ... Lady!..." in the hope that the name +would follow. But he could not remember it. + +"Odd that I never heard of her before." + +He put on his dressing-gown, and opened the door of his room. "I'll ask +old Ninian," he said, as he went out. + +Ninian, who had been yawning so heavily downstairs, was now sitting up +in bed, reading a copy of the _Engineer_. + +"Hilloa," he exclaimed as Henry entered the room in response to his +"Come in!" + +"I say, Ninian, what was the name of the girl that Gilbert was so gone +on at Cambridge? Lady something or other! He was rather sick with you +for mentioning her...." + +"Oh, Lady Cecily Jayne!" + +"Is that her name? Who is she?" + +"Society female," said Ninian. "Takes an interest in literature and art +in her spare time, but she doesn't know anything about either of them. +Her brother was in our college until he got sent down. That was how +Gilbert met her. She came up one May week and made eyes at Gilbert. She +wasn't married then!..." + +"Is she married?" Henry interrupted. + +"Oh, yes. She used to be Lady Cecily Blandgate ... her father's the Earl +of Bucklersbury. She's a big female...." + +"What do you mean? Fat?" + +"No. Tall," said Ninian. + +"Is she good-looking?" + +"Yes, she is, and rather amusing, too, in a footling sort of way. She's +got a fearful appetite, and she thinks of herself all day long. I know +because she damn near ruined me over cream buns once." + +"I suppose Gilbert was in love with her?..." + +"I suppose so. He didn't tell me and I didn't ask, but he mooned about +with her and looked awfully sloppy when he passed her things. You know +what I mean. He'd hand her a plate of bread and butter, and look at her +as much as to say, 'This is really my heart I'm handing you!' I never +saw a chap look such an ass!" + +"Has she been married very long?" + +"Oh, a year or two. I don't know. I'm not very interested in her. Too +much of a female for my taste. Extremely entertaining in the evening and +the afternoon, but awfully boring in the morning!..." + +"Sounds like sour grapes, Ninian!" + +"Oh, I've been in love with her if that's what you mean. We all were, +even old Roger. In fact, I kissed her once ... or was it twice? She's +the sort of woman a chap does kiss somehow. I couldn't think of anything +else to do when I was with her. That's why she's so dull. She splashes +her sex about as if she were distributing handbills. I'm surprised that +you don't know her. She's a very well-known female...." + +"I've been in Ireland, Ninian...." + +"So you have. I'd forgotten that. Of course, if you will live in a place +like that, you can't expect to be familiar with the wonders of +civilisation. Ever see the _Daily Reflexion_?" + +"Oh, yes, we get that in Ireland all right!" + +"Do you, indeed! Well, praise God from Whom all blessings flow. If you +buy a copy of to-morrow's _Daily Reflexion_, you'll probably see her +photograph in it, or a paragraph about her. Roger says people pay to +have themselves mentioned once a month in that sort of rag!" + +"What's her husband like?" Henry asked. + +"God made him, but nobody knows why. I believe chorus girls call him +'Chummie.' That's his purpose in life. I say, Henry, there's a ripping +sketch of a new kind of engine in this paper. I wish you'd let me +explain it to you...." + +"Who is her husband?" said Henry. + +"Who is who's husband?" + +"Lady Cecily Jayne's!..." + +"Lordy God, man, you're not talking about her still, are you? Her +husband is ... let me see ... oh, yes, he's Lord Jasper Jayne. His name +sounds like the hero of a servant's novelette, but he doesn't look like +that. He looks like a chucker-out in a back-street pub. His father's the +Marquis of Dulbury. He's the second son. The eldest is sillier, but it's +all been hushed up. Anything else you want to know?" + +"I'm just interested, that's all!" + +"Her brother ... I told you, didn't I? ... was at Cambridge with us. He +came down a year before we did. As a matter of fact, he was sent down +and told to stay down. He ducked a proctor in a water-butt and the dons +were very cross about it. He's not a bad fellow. I think we'll ask him +round here one evening. Lady Cecily's very fond of him ... she used to +come up to Cambridge to see him ... before the affair with the proctor, +of course ... and Gilbert and I took her and another female out in a +punt once!" + +Henry, who had been sitting in an arm-chair while Ninian told him about +Lady Cecily Jayne, got up and walked across the room. + +"Gilbert was very upset when you mentioned her name," he said. "I +suppose her marriage was a blow to him?" + +"Oh, I don't know. Look here, Quinny, if you're going to jaw any more +about this female, you can just hop off to your own room, but if you'd +like to hear me explaining these diagrams to you, you can stay...." + +"Do you ever see Lady Cecily now?" Henry asked, ignoring what Ninian had +said. + +"Now and again. Gilbert sees her quite often...." + +"Does he?" Henry said eagerly. + +"Yes. At first nights. She goes to the theatre a lot. Do you want to +meet her?" + +There was some confusion in Henry's voice as he answered, "I should like +to meet her. You see, I've never known a really beautiful woman...." + +"Aren't there any in Ireland?" + +"Oh, yes. Plenty. Peasant girls, particularly!" He thought for a moment +or two of Sheila Morgan, and then hurriedly went on. "But I've never +known a really beautiful woman. You see, Ninian, ours is a fairly lonely +sort of house, and I've spent most of my time either there or at T.C.D. +or at Rumpell's, and somehow I've never got to know any one...." + +"Well, you'd better ask Gilbert to take you with him to a first-night. +She's sure to be there, and you can ask him to introduce you to her. And +now, you can hoof out, young fellow!..." + +Henry went back to his own room and got into bed, but he did not sleep +until the dawn began to break. His thoughts wandered vaguely about his +mind, bumping up against one recollection and then against another. He +remembered Sheila Morgan and the bright look in her eyes that evening +when she had hurriedly come into the Language class out of the rain ... +and while he was remembering Sheila, he found himself thinking of Mary +Graham and the way in which she would put up her hand and throw her long +hair from her shoulders. Then came memories of Bridget Fallon ... and +almost mechanically he began to murmur a prayer to the Virgin. "Hail +Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among +women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus!..." + +He turned over on his side, pulling the bedclothes more closely about +him. "Cecily Jayne," he murmured in a sleepy voice. "What a pretty name, +that is!" + + + + +THE FOURTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +Their days were spent in work. Ninian and Roger left the house soon +after nine o'clock, Ninian to go to the office of his engineering firm +in Victoria Street, Roger to go to his chambers in the Temple, leaving +Henry and Gilbert to work at home. In the evening, provided that there +was not a "first-night" to call Gilbert to the theatre, they talked of +themselves and of their future. Their egotism was undisguised. They had +set their minds on a high destiny and were certain that they would +achieve it, so they did not waste any energy, as Gilbert once said, in +pretending that they were not remarkably able. In a short time, they +gathered a group of friends about them who were, they thought, likely to +work well and ably, and it became the custom for their friends to visit +them on Thursday evening. Gilbert began the custom of asking some one to +dine with them on Thursday, and the guest was expected to account for +himself to the group that assembled after dinner. The Improved Tories, +according to Gilbert, wanted heart-to-heart talks from people of +experience. If a guest treated them to flummery, they let him know that +they despised his flummery and insisted on asking him questions of a +peculiarly intimate character. There were less than a dozen people in +the group, apart from Roger and Ninian and Gilbert and Henry, but each +of them had distinguished himself in some fashion at his college. Hilary +Cornwall had taken so many prizes and scholarships that he had lost +count of them, and when he entered the Colonial Office, it became a +commonplace to say of him that he was destined to become Permanent +Under-Secretary at a remarkably youthful age. Gerald Luke had produced +two little books of poetry of such quality that people believed that he +was in the line of great tradition. Ernest Carr had edited Granta so +ably that he was invited to join the staff of the _Times_. Then there +were Ashley Earls, who had had a play produced by the Stage Society, and +Peter Crooks, the chemist, and Edward Allen, who was private secretary +to a Cabinet Minister, and Goeffrey Grant, another journalist, and +Clifford Dartrey, who spent his time in research work and had already +produced a book on Casual Labour in the Building Trades in return for +the Shaw Prize at the London School of Economics. + +They called themselves the Improved Tories, although most of them would +have voted at an election for any one but a Conservative candidate. +Ashley Earls and Gerald Luke were Socialists and had only consented to +join the group because they were told that the purpose of it was less +political than sociological. + +"You see," Gilbert said to them, "it isn't good for England to have a +Tory Party so dense as this one is, and you'll really be doing useful +work if you help to improve their quality. What is the good of an +Opposition which can do nothing but oppose? Look at that fellow, Sir +Frederick Banbury! What in the name of God is the good of a man like +that? He doesn't make anything ... he just gets in the way. Of course, +that's useful ... but he doesn't know when to get out of the way ... +which is much more useful. And there ought to be people who aren't +content either to get in the way or just get out of it ... there ought +to be people who can shove things along. But there aren't ... except +Balfour, and he's getting old and anyhow he hasn't got much health. You +see what I mean, don't you? There ought to be a strong Opposition, +otherwise the Liberals will develop fatty degeneration of the political +sense.... The trouble with a lot of these fellows is that they believe +that twaddle that Lord Randolph Churchill talked about the duty of an +Opposition being to oppose. Of course it isn't. The duty of the +Opposition is to criticise and to improve, if they can...." + +And so Ashley Earls and Gerald Luke joined the group of Improved Tories, +not as members, but as critics. It was they who induced the others to +join the Fabian Society. "You can become subscribers ... that won't +commit you to anything ... and then you'll be able to attend all the +meetings and get all the publications. It'll be good for you!..." + +The supply of political guests was not of the quality they desired. The +eminent politicians were either too busy or too scornful to accept their +invitations. F. E. Robinson was impertinent to them until he heard that +Mr. Balfour was interested in their proceedings ... had even asked to be +introduced to Roger Carey ... and then he offered to address them on +Young Toryism, but they told him that they did not now wish to hear him. +They had taken Robinson's measure very quickly. "Police-court lawyer!" +they said, and ceased to trouble about him. Mr. Balfour never attended +the group, but they consoled themselves to some extent by reading his +book on Decadence and arguing about it among themselves. If, however, +they were not able to secure many of the Eminent Ones, they were able to +secure plenty of the Semi-Eminent, far more than they wanted, and for +half a year, they listened to politicians of all sorts, Old Tories and +Young Tories, Liberal Imperialists and Radicals, Fabian Socialists and +Social Democrats, heckling them and being heckled by them. At the end of +that six months, Gilbert revolted against politicians. + +"These aren't the people who really matter," he said. "They don't start +things. We want to get hold of the people with new ideas ... the men who +begin movements and the men who aren't always wondering what their +constituents will say if they hear about it!" + +Then followed a term with men who might have been called cranks. Bernard +Shaw declined to dine with them ... he preferred to eat at home.... +"Voluptuous vegetarian!" said Gilbert ... but he talked to them for an +hour on "Equality" and tried to persuade them to advocate equal incomes +for all, asserting that this was desirable from every point of view, +biological, social and economic. Following Bernard Shaw, came Edward +Carpenter, very gentle and very gracious, denouncing modern civilisation +in words which were spoken quietly, but which, in print, read like a +thunderstorm. Alfred Russell Wallace, whom they invited to talk on +Evolution, came and talked instead on the nationalisation of land. He +sat, huddled in a chair, very old and very bright, with eyes that +sparkled behind his glasses ... and suddenly, in the middle of his +discourse on land, he informed them that he had positive proof of the +existence of angels. "My God, he'll want to make civil servants of 'em!" +Gilbert whispered to Henry.... Sir Horace Plunkett dined with them one +night, eating so little that he scarcely seemed to eat at all, and he +preached the whole gospel of co-operation. It was through him that they +got hold of an agricultural genius called T. Wibberley, an +English-Irishman, who reorganised the entire farming system on a basis +of continuous cropping inside an hour and ten minutes. Wibberley knew +Henry's father, and for the first time in his life Henry learned that +Mr. Quinn's agricultural experiments were of value.... Then came H. G. +Wells, smiling and very deprecating and almost inarticulate, to tell +them of the enormous importance of the novelist. They got him into a +corner of the room, when he had finished reading his paper, and +persuaded him to make caricatures of them ... and while he was making +the caricatures, he talked to them far more brilliantly than he had read +to them. G. K. Chesterton and Hilaire Belloc came to lecture and stayed +to drink. Chesterton's lecture would have been funny, they agreed, if +they had been able to hear it, but he laughed so heartily at his jokes, +as he, so to speak, saw them approaching, that he forgot to make them. +His method of speech was a mixture of giggle and whisper. +"Chuckle-and-squeak!" Gilbert called it. Belloc whispered dark things +about Influential Families and Hebrews and seemed to think that a man +who changed his name only did so with the very worst intentions. He and +Chesterton said harsh things about the Party System, and they babbled +beatifically about the Catholic Church.... "Two big men like that +gabbling like a couple of priest-smitten flappers!" said Gilbert in +disgust as he listened to them. "Them and their Cathlik Church!" he +added, imitating Belloc's way of pronouncing the word "Catholic." +Mouldy, grovelling, fat Papists! he called them, and vowed that he would +resign from the Improved Tories if any more of that sort were asked to +address them. That was because some one had suggested that Cecil +Chesterton should also be invited to dine with them. "He's simply +Belloc's echo," Gilbert protested. "I should feel as if I were listening +to his master's voice. Besides, he's fatter than Belloc and he's a +damned jiggery-pokery Papist too! Why don't these chaps go and cover +themselves with blue woad and play mumbo-jumbo tricks before the village +idol! That 'ud be about as intelligent as their Popery!" They intended +to ask Lord Hugh Cecil to talk to them about Conservatism, but when they +read his book on the subject they decided that such a Conservative was +utterly damnable ... and so they asked his brother, Lord Robert, +instead, and found that his point of view, although much more human and +less logical than that of Lord Hugh, was antipathetic to theirs. + +"Let's get Garvin!" Gilbert suggested, when they discussed the question +of a more improved Tory than Lord Robert. "The Cecils are no good ... +they're too superstitious!" which was his way of saying that they were +too religious. "They're worse than priests: they're ... they're laymen! +I propose that we ask Garvin to come and talk to us. He seems to be +shoving the Tories all over the place!" So they invited the editor of +the _Observer_ to dine and talk with them, and he came, a quick, eager, +intense man, with large, starting eyes, who spoke so quickly that his +words became entangled and were wrecked on his teeth. They liked him, +but they were dubious of his right to represent the Tory spirit. It +seemed to them that this eager, thrusting-forward man, who banged the +table in his earnestness, might carry a political party off its feet in +his passion, but they were afraid that the feet would trail, that the +party would be reluctant to be lifted. "He's Irish," said Roger in +judgment. + +"It isn't any good," Gilbert remarked, when Garvin had gone home, +"trying to persuade the English to spread their wings. They haven't got +any. Garvin 'ud do better if he'd hold a carrot in front of them ... +they'd follow that. Quinny," he added, "you ought to ask Garvin for a +job on the _Observer_. They say he can't resist an Irishman!" + +"I will," Henry replied. + +"Oh, and there's a chance of doing book reviews on the _Morning +Report_!" Geoffrey Grant said. "I told Leonard, the literary editor, +about you, and he said he'd look at you if you went round one day!" + +"I'll go and look at him," Henry answered. + + +2 + +While they were spending their evenings in this fashion, Henry, working +steadily in the mornings, completely revised his novel. Gilbert, working +less steadily than Henry, finished a new comedy and sent it to Sir +Goeffrey Mundane, the manager of the Pall Mall Theatre, who utterly +astounded Gilbert by accepting it. + +"Quinny!" he shouted, running up to Henry's room with the letter which +had been delivered by the mid-day post, "Mundane's accepted 'The Magic +Casement'!" + +"What's that?" said Henry, turning round from his desk. + +"He's accepted it, Quinny! I always said he was a damned good actor, and +so he is. My Lord, this is ripping! He says _it's a splendid comedy_ ... +so it is ... _as good as Oscar Wilde at his best_ ... oh, better, damn +it, better ... and will I _please come and see him on Friday morning at +eleven o'clock_ ... I'll be there before he's out of bed!... I say, +Quinny, we ought to do something, ought'nt we? Is it the correct thing +to get drunk on these occasions?" + +His joy was so extravagant that Henry felt many years older than +Gilbert, and he patted him paternally on the shoulder and told him to +develop the stoic virtues. + +"I'm most frightfully pleased, Gilbert!" he said, when he had done with +the paternal manner. "When's he going to put the play on?" + +"He doesn't say. The thing he's doing now is no damn good, and he'll +probably take it off soon. Perhaps he'll produce 'The Magic Casement' +after that. Quinny, it is a good play, isn't it? Sometimes I get a most +shocking hump about things, and I think I'm no good at all...." + +"Of course, it's a good play, Gilbert!..." + +"Yes, but is it good enough?" + +"I don't know. I don't suppose anything ever is. I thought 'Drusilla' +was a great book until my father read it, and then I thought it was +rubbish...." + +"It wasn't rubbish, Quinny, and the revised version is really good." + +"I think that, too, but sometimes I'm not sure!" + +"Isn't it damnable, Quinny, this job of writing? You never get any +satisfaction out of it. I'd like to make cheeses ... I'm sure people who +make cheeses feel that they've just made the very best cheese that can +be made ... but I'm always seeing something in my work that might have +been done better." + +Henry nodded his head. "I suppose," he said, "it'll always be like that +I think," he went on, "Maiden is going to take my novel. I saw Redder +yesterday!..." Redder was his agent ... "and he says Maiden's the +likeliest person. I shan't get much. Forty or fifty pounds on account of +royalties, but it's a start!" + +"The great thing," said Gilbert, "is to get into print. I wonder how +much I'll make out of my play!" + +"More than I shall make out of my novel," Henry answered. His talks with +Mr. Redder had modified Henry's ideas of the profits made by novelists. + +Gilbert started up from the low chair into which he had thrown himself. +"I'm going to start on another play this minute!" he said. "My head's +simply humming with ideas!" He stopped half way to the door, and turned +towards Henry again. "You were working when I came in," he said. "What +are you doing?" + +"I've started another novel," Henry answered. + +"Oh! Done much of it?" + +"No, only the title. I'm calling it 'Broken Spears.'" + +"Damn good title, too," said Gilbert. + + +3 + +The book was published long before Gilbert's play was produced; for Sir +Geoffrey Mundane had taken fright at Gilbert's play. He was afraid that +it was too clever, too original, too much above their heads, and so +forth. "I'd like to produce it," he said. "I'd regard it as an honour to +be allowed to produce it, but the Pall Mall is a very expensive theatre +to maintain and I don't mind telling you, Mr. Farlow, that I lost money +on that last piece, too much money, and I must retrieve some of it. Your +play is excellent ... excellent ... in fact, it's a piece of literature +... almost Greek in its form ... Greek ... yes, I think, Greek ... +remarkable plays those were, weren't they? ... Have you seen this +portrait of me in to-day's _Daily Reflexion_ ... quite jolly, I think +... but it won't be popular, Mr. Farlow, and I must put on something +that is likely to be popular!" + +Gilbert found Sir Geoffrey's sudden changes of conversation curiously +interesting, but the hint of disaster to "The Magic Casement" disturbed +him too much to let his interest absorb him. + +"Then you've decided not to do the play?" he said, with a throb of +disappointment in his voice. + +Sir Geoffrey rose at him, fixing his eye-glass, and patted him on the +shoulder. "No, _no_," he said. "I didn't mean _that_. I'll produce the +play gladly ... some day ... but not just at present. If you care to +leave it with me...." + +Gilbert wondered what he ought to say next. Sir Geoffrey might retain +the play for a year or two, and then decide that he could not produce +it. + +"Perhaps," he said, "you'd undertake to do it within a certain time...." +He wanted to add that Sir Geoffrey should undertake to pay a fine if he +failed to produce the play within the "certain time," but his courage +was not strong enough. He was afraid that Sir Geoffrey might be offended +by the suggestion and return the play at once. He wished that he had +gone to Mr. Redder, as Henry had done, and asked him to place the play +for him. "Redder'd stand no humbug," he said to himself. + +Sir Geoffrey murmured something about the undesirability of committing +oneself, and added that Gilbert should be content to wait for a year +without any legal undertaking. "Of course," he said magnanimously, "if +you can place the play elsewhere, don't let me stand in your way!" but +Gilbert, alarmed, hurriedly said that he would be glad to leave the play +with him for the time he mentioned. "I'd like you to take the part of +Rupert Westlake," he said. "I don't think any one could play it so well +as you could!" and Sir Geoffrey, still responsive to flattery, smiled +and said he would be delighted to create the part. + +The play which he produced instead of "The Magic Casement" ran for six +weeks, bringing neither profit nor honour to Sir Geoffrey, who began to +lose his head, with the result that he produced another play which was a +greater failure than its predecessor. Then came a revival of an old +play which had a moderate amount of success, and "I'll do your play +next," he said to Gilbert. "I shall certainly do your play next!" + +It was because of these delays in the production of "The Magic Casement" +that Henry's novel, "Brasilia," was published much earlier than the play +was performed. He had rewritten it so extensively that it was almost a +new novel, very different from the manuscript which his father had read, +and it received a fair number of reviews. The critics whose judgment he +valued, praised it liberally, but the critics whose judgment he +despised, either damned it or ignored it. Gilbert said it was splendid. +"There's still some Slop in it," he said, "but it's miles better than +the first version." Roger liked it. He said, "I like it, Quinny!" and +that was all, but Henry knew that his speech was considerable praise. +Ninian's praise was extravagant, and he was almost like a child in his +pleasure at receiving an inscribed copy from Henry. He spent the better +part of an afternoon in going to bookshops and asking the grossly +ignorant assistants why they had not got "Drusilla" prominently placed +in the window. The assistants were not humiliated by his charge of gross +ignorance, nor were they impressed by his statement that the _Times_ +Literary Supplement had described the book as "remarkable." So many +remarkable books are published in the course of a season that the +assistants do not attempt to remember them; and so many friends of +remarkable young authors wish to know why the works of these remarkable +young men are not stacked in the window that the assistants have learned +to look listlessly at the people who make the demands. Ninian bought +three copies of the novel, and sent one to his mother and one to the +Headmaster of Rumpell's and one to his uncle, the Dean of Exebury. "That +ought to help the sales, Quinny!" he said. "I bought 'em in three +different shops, and I stuffed the chaps that I'd been to other places +to get it, but found they were sold out!" + +"That'll make two copies Mrs. Graham'll have," Henry replied. "I've sent +one to her to-day...." + +"Well, she can give the other one to Mary," said Ninian. + +The book was not a success. Including the number sold to the libraries, +only three hundred and seventy-five copies were sold, but the financial +failure of the book did not greatly depress Henry, for he had the praise +of his friends to console him. His father's letter had heartened him +almost as much as the review in the _Times_. "_It's great stuff_," he +wrote, "_and I'm proud of you. I didn't think you could improve it so +much as you have done. Hurry up and do another one!_" + +His second book, "Broken Spears," was in proof before Sir Geoffrey +Mundane decided to produce "The Magic Casement," and for a while he was +at a loose end. He could not think of a subject for another story, +although he had invented a good title: Turbulence. He sat at his desk, +forcing himself to write chapters that ended ingloriously. He wrote +pages and pages, and in the evening threw them into the wastepaper +basket. "My God," he said to himself one morning, when he had been +sitting at his desk for over an hour without writing a word, "I believe +I've lost the power to write!" + +He got up, terrified, and went to Gilbert's room. + +"Hilloa, bloke!" said Gilbert, looking round at him as he entered. + +"Are you busy, Gilbert?" he asked. + +"I'm kidding myself that I am, but between ourselves, Quinny, I'm +reading Gerald Luke's last book. That chap's a poet. He's as good as +Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Listen to this!..." + +But Henry did not wish to listen to Gerald Luke's poems. + +"Gilbert," he said, "I believe I'm done!" + +"Done?" Gilbert exclaimed, putting down the book of poems. + +"Yes. I don't believe I shall ever do another book...." + +"Silly ass!" + +"I can't think of anything. My mind's like pap. I keep on writing and +writing, but I only get a pile of words. That was bad enough, but to-day +I can't write at all. I simply can't write...." + +"Haven't you got a theme?" + +"Vaguely, yes, but the thing won't come to life. The people lie about +like logs, and ... damn them, they won't move!" + +"Look here," said Gilbert, "I'm tired of work. Let's chuck it for a +while. You're obviously off colour, and a holiday'll do you good. Let's +go out somewhere for the day anyhow. I've a first night this evening. +We'll wind up with that!" + +"What's the play?" Henry asked. + +"A revival. They're bringing Wilde's 'The Ideal Husband' on at the St. +James's again," Gilbert answered. "Alexander's very good in it...." + +"That's the fashionable theatre, isn't it?" + +Henry's knowledge of London was still very limited, and he seldom +visited the theatre, chiefly because Gilbert, who had to visit them all, +spoke of the English drama with contempt. + +"Yes," Gilbert replied. "All the Jews and dukes go there. Suppose we go +for a row on the Serpentine, Quinny? You can pull the oars for an hour. +It'll do you no end of good, and I'll lie in the bottom of the boat and +watch you. That'll do me no end of good. Come on, let's get out of +this!" + + +4 + +They came away from the boathouse, and as they walked towards Hyde Park +Corner, a motor-car drove slowly past them. + +"Who's that?" said Henry, as Gilbert raised his hat to the lady who was +seated in the car. + +"Lady Cecily Jayne," Gilbert answered. + +"Oh!... She's very beautiful." + +"Think so?" + +"Yes." + +"I'll introduce you to her to-night. She's certain to be at the theatre. +We ought to make certain of getting a ticket for you, Quinny. Let's go +down to the theatre and book a seat." + +They came out of the Park and walked down Piccadilly to St. James's +Street and presently turned the corner of the street in which the +theatre is situated. Henry was able to secure a stall, but it was not +next to Gilbert's. It was in the last row. + +"Never mind," said Gilbert, "we can meet between the acts. My seat's at +the end of a row, and you can easily get out of yours. If Cecily's in a +box, she'll probably ask us to stay in it. She likes to have people +about her!" + +Henry wanted to talk about Lady Cecily to Gilbert, but the tone of his +voice as he said, "She likes to have people about her!" prevented him +from doing so. It was odd, he reflected, that Gilbert had never confided +in him about her, odder still that there had been no talk of her in the +Bloomsbury house since the night on which Henry and Ninian had discussed +Gilbert's outburst of anger when her name was mentioned. Gilbert, could +be very secretive, Henry thought.... + +"She's very beautiful," he said aloud. + +Gilbert nodded his head. + +"Very beautiful!" Henry repeated. + +"You're an impressionable young fellow, Quinny!" said Gilbert. "I won't +call you 'sloppy' again because I'm tired of telling you that, but +really that's what you are. You've only got to see a beautiful woman for +a couple of seconds and you start buzzing round her like a bumble bee. +Of course, I'm sloppy myself. We're all sloppy. Damn it, here we are, +two healthy young fellows who ought to be working hard, and we're +wasting a fine morning in gabbling about women...." + +"Not women, Gilbert! Lady Cecily!..." + +"Lady Cecily! Lady Cecily!..." He stopped suddenly and turned to Henry. +"I suppose you know about her and me?" he said. + +"Very little," Henry answered. + +"Let's have some tea. Well go in here!" The abrupt change disconcerted +Henry for a moment or two, but he followed Gilbert into the tea-shop. + +"I can see you're ready to fall in love with her," Gilbert said, as they +drank their tea. + +"Don't be an old ass!" Henry replied, feeling confused. + +"She'll ask you to come and see her, and you'll waste a lot of time next +week trying to meet her...." + +Henry laughed nervously. "You're rather ridiculous, Gilbert," he said. +"I've never seen Lady Cecily before. I'm just interested in her because +she's so beautiful. That's natural enough, isn't it?" + +"Oh, yes, it's natural enough, and Lady Cecily will like your interest +in her beauty!" + +The bitterness of his tone was remarkable. Henry felt, as he listened to +him, that there were open wounds.... + +"Don't call her Cecily until you've known her two days," Gilbert went +on. "She's very particular about that sort of thing. And don't fall too +much in love. It'll take you longer to get over it than it took me!" + +"I hate to hear you talking like that, Gilbert. Anybody'd think you were +a dried-up old rip. You're frightfully cynical...." + +"That's because I'm so young, Quinny. I'm younger than you are, you know +... six months ... but I'll grow up. I _will_ grow up, Quinny, I swear I +will, and get full of the milk of lovingkindness. Pass the meringues. +They play the devil with my inside, but I like them and I don't care ... +only Lord help the actors to-night!" + +"I suppose Lady Cecily got tired of you, Gilbert," Henry said +deliberately. He felt angry with him and tried to hurt him. The beauty +of Lady Cecily had filled him with longing to meet and know her, and he +had a strange sense of jealousy when he thought of Gilbert's friendship +with her. + +"No," Gilbert answered, "I don't think she got tired of me. I think she +still cares for me as much as ever she did!..." + +"Damned conceit!" Henry exclaimed, laughing to cover the jealousy that +was in him. + +"Oh, no, Quinny, not really. You'll understand that soon, I expect!" He +pushed his tea-cup away from him, and sat back in his chair. "I suppose +it is caddish to talk of her like this," he went on. "One ought to bear +one's wounds in silence and feel no resentment at all ... but somehow +she draws out the caddish part of me. There are women like that, Quinny. +There's a nasty, low, mean streak in every man, I don't care who he is, +and some women seem to find it very easily. Here, let's get out of this. +You pay. I've had a sugary bun and a couple of meringues...." + + +5 + +Later in the evening they went to the theatre together. As they walked +up the steps into the entrance hall, Henry saw Lady Cecily standing in a +small group of men and women who were talking and laughing very +heartily. + +"There she is!" he whispered to Gilbert. + +"Who is?" + +"Lady Cecily!" + +"Oh, so she is. Let's find our seats!" + +"Perhaps you could catch her eye, Gilbert...." + +"Catch my grandmother!" said Gilbert. "Come on!" + +But if Gilbert were not willing to catch Lady Cecily's eye, Lady Cecily +was very willing to catch his. She saw him walking towards the stalls, +and she left her group of friends and went over to him and touched his +arm. "Hilloa, Gilbert!" she said, holding her hand out to him. "I +thought I should see you here to-night!" + +She spoke in louder tones than most women speak, and her voice sounded +as if it were full of laughter. There was something in her attitude +which stirred Henry, something which vaguely reminded him of a proud +animal, stretching its limbs after sleep. Her thick, golden hair, +cunningly bound about her head, glistened in the softened light, and he +could almost see golden, downy gleams on her cheeks. She held her skirts +about her, as she stood in front of Gilbert, and Henry could see her +curving breasts rising and falling very gently beneath her silken dress. +The odour of some disturbing perfume floated from her.... He moved a +step nearer to her, wondering why Gilbert did not smile at her nor show +any signs of pleasure at meeting her. It seemed to him to be impossible +for any one but the most curmudgeonly of men to behave so ungraciously +to so beautiful a woman, or to resist her radiant smiles. She turned to +him as he moved towards her, and he saw that her eyes were grey. He +heard Gilbert mumbling the introduction. + +"So glad!" she said, shaking hands with him. He had expected her to bow +to him, and had not been prepared for the offer of her hand. He inwardly +cursed his clumsiness as he changed his gesture. "I saw you in the Park +with Gilbert this afternoon, didn't I?" she added. + +"Yes," he answered, and could say no more. Shyness had fallen on him, +and he stood before her, grinning fatuously, and twisting a button on +his waistcoat, but unable to speak. "Yes," he said, after a while, "I +was with Gilbert in the Park this afternoon!" + +"Speak up, you fool!" he was saying to himself. "Here's the loveliest +woman you've ever met waiting for you to speak to her, and all you can +do is to repeat her phrases as if you were a newly-breeched brat aping +its parent. Speak up, you fool!..." + +He felt his face turning red and hot. Almost before he knew what he was +saying his tongue began to wag, and he heard himself saying, in a stiff, +stilted voice, "It was very nice in the Park this afternoon!..." _Oh, +banal fool_, he thought, _she will despise you now, as if you were a +great, gawky lout_.... + +She turned away from him, and spoke to Gilbert. "I've been at Dulbury," +she said, "for six weeks. That's where I got all this brown!..." She +laughed and pointed to her cheeks. "I'm so glad to get back. The country +bores me stiff. Nothing to see but the scenery. Oh dear!" She almost +yawned at her remembrance of the country. "And things are always biting +me or stinging me. I'm miserable all the time I'm there!" + +"Then why do you go?" said Gilbert. + +"Jimphy wanted to go. Jimphy thinks it's his duty to show himself to the +tenants now and again. It's the only return he can make, poor dear, for +all that rent they pay!" + +Gilbert said "Hm!" and then turned to go to the stalls. "It's Jimphy's +birthday to-day," she said, and he turned to her again. "That's why +we're here to-night. Together, I mean. He's treating me to a box. Come +round and talk to us, Gilbert, after the first act ... and you, too, +Mr.... Mr!..." + +She fumbled over his name. Gilbert, as is the custom in England when +introducing people, had spoken the name so indistinctly that she had not +heard it. + +"Quinn!" he said. + +"Of course," she replied. "Mr. Quinn. I'm awfully stupid about names. +You'll come, too?" + +"I should like to!" + +"Do. Gilbert, don't forget. Jimphy's very morose this evening. He's +thirty-one to-day, and he thinks that old age is creeping over him!" + +"All right," said Gilbert gloomily, and then he and Henry went to their +seats. + +"Who is Jimphy?" said Henry, as they walked down the stairs into the +auditorium. + +"Her husband. Didn't you notice something hanging around in the +vestibule while we were talking to her?" + +"No. There were so many people about!" + +"Well, if you had noticed something hanging around, that would have been +Jimphy. His real name is Jasper, but Cecily never calls any one by his +real name ... except me. She can't think of a name for me!" + +They entered the auditorium and stood for a moment looking about the +theatre. People were passing quickly into their seats now, and the +theatre was full of an eager air, of massed pleasure, and a loud buzz of +conversation spread over the stalls from the pit where rows of young +women whispered to each other excitedly as this well-known person and +that well-known person entered. + +"That's 'er, that's 'er!" one girl said in a frenzied whisper to her +companion. + +"Viola Tree?" the other girl, gazing vacantly into the stalls, replied. + +"No, silly! Ellen Terry! Clap, can't you?" + +And they clapped their hands as the actress went to her seat. + +There was more clapping when Sir Charles Wyndham came in and took his +seat. + +"Is it Viola Tree?" the girl repeated. + +"No, silly. It's Wyndham. Bray-vo! Seventy, if 'e's a day, an' don't +look it. My word, I am enjoyin' myself, I can tell you! Everybody's 'ere +to-night. Of course, it's St. James's, of course!..." + +Popular criminal lawyers came in and sat next to racing marquises; and +lords and ladies mingled with actresses who very ostentatiously +accompanied their mothers. A few men of letters and a crowd of dramatic +critics, depressed, unenthusiastic men, leavened the mass of the +semi-great. The rest were the children of Israel. + +"Jews to the right of us, Jews to the left of us!..." Gilbert said. + +"Anti-Semite!" Henry replied. + +"Only in practice, Quinny, not in theory. I'll see you at the interval!" + +"If you nip out of your seat as the curtain goes down," said Henry, "we +can both get up to her box before the rush!..." + +"There won't be any rush." + +"Well, anyhow, we can get up to the box pretty quickly!" + +Gilbert walked away without replying, and Henry sat back in his seat and +watched the boxes so that he might see Lady Cecily the moment she +entered. His stall was in the last row, against the first row of the +pit, and the girls who had applauded Miss Terry and Sir Charles Wyndham +were still identifying the fashionable people. + +"I tell you it _is_ 'im," said the more assertive of the two. + +"I sawr 'is picture in the _Daily Reflexion_ the time that feller ... +wot's 'is name ... the one that 'anged all 'is wives in the coal-cellar +... you know!..." + +"I know," the other girl replied. "'Orrible case, I call it!" + +"Well, 'e defended 'im. I sawr 'is picture in the _Daily Reflexion_ +myself. Very 'andsome man, eh? They do say!..." + +Lady Cecily came into her box, followed by her husband, and Henry looked +steadily up at her in the hope that she would see him, but she did not +glance in his direction. He could see that she had found Gilbert in the +audience, but Gilbert was not looking at her. An odd sensation of +jealousy ran through him. He suddenly resented her familiarity with +Gilbert. He remembered that she had called him by his Christian name, +that she distinguished between him and other men by calling him by his +proper name, and not by some fanciful perversion of it. If only she +would call _him_ by his Christian name!... + +She was leaning on the edge of the box, and looking about the +auditorium. + +"That's Lydy Cecily Jyne!" he heard the assertive girl behind him +saying. + +"'Oo?'" + +"Lydy Cecily Jyne. _You_ know!" + +Her husband leant back in his seat, stifling a yawn as he did so, and +Henry saw that he was a faded, insignificant-looking man whose head +sloped so sharply that it seemed to be galloping away from his forehead; +but he did not pay much attention to him. His eyes were fixed on Lady +Cecily. + +"A bit 'ot, she is," the girl behind him was saying. "Well, I mean to +say!..." + +But what she meant to say, Henry neither knew nor cared. The lights in +the theatre were lowered, leaving only the bright, warm glow of the +footlights on the heavy curtain. He could see Lady Cecily's face still +golden and glowing even in the darkness. + +"My dear," said the girl behind him, "the things I've 'eard ... well, +they'd fill a book!" + +Then the curtain went up and the play began. + +He saw her leaning forward eagerly to watch the stage, and presently he +heard her laughing at some piece of wit in the play: a clear, joyful +laugh; and as she laughed, she turned for a few moments and gazed into +the darkened theatre. Her beautiful eyes seemed to him to be shining +stars, and he imagined that she was looking straight at him. He smiled +at her, and then jeered at himself. "Of course, she can't see me," he +said. + +He tried to interest himself in the traffic of the stage, but his +thoughts continually wandered to the woman in the box above him. + +"She's the loveliest woman I've ever seen," he said to himself. + + + + +THE FIFTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +She turned to greet them as they entered the box. "Come and sit beside +me, Gilbert!" she said. "Mr. Quinn ... oh, you don't know Jimphy, do +you?" She introduced Henry to her husband who mumbled "How do!" in a +sulky voice, and stood against the wall of the box twisting his +moustache. The shyness which had enveloped Henry in the vestibule of the +theatre still clung about him, and he felt awkward and tongue-tied. Lord +Jasper Jayne did not help Henry to get rid of his shyness. There was a +"Who-the-devil-are-you?" look about him that made easy conversation +impossible and any conversation difficult. Lady Cecily was chatting to +Gilbert as if she had been saving up all her conversation for a month +past exclusively for his ears; and Henry could hear a recurrent +phrase.... "But, Gilbert, it's ages since you've been to see me, and you +know I like you to come!..." that jangled his temper and made him feel +savage towards his friend.... + +He made an effort to be chatty with Lord Jasper. "How do you like the +play?" he said, as pleasantly as he could, for it was not easy to be +chatty with Lord Jasper, whose coarse, flat features roused a sensation +of repulsion in Henry. + +"I don't like it," he replied. "Rotten twaddle!" + +"Oh!" Henry exclaimed. + +There did not appear to be anything more to say, nor did Lord Jasper +seem anxious to continue the conversation; but just when it appeared +that the effort to be pleasantly chatty was likely to be abortive, Lord +Jasper suddenly walked towards the door of the box. "Come and have a +drink!" he said. + +Henry did not wish to go and have a drink, and he paused irresolutely +until Lady Cecily suddenly leant forward and said with a laugh, "Yes, do +go with Jimphy, Mr. Quinn. Gilbert and I have such a lot to say to each +other, and Jimphy's not in a good temper. Are you, Jimphy, dear? You +see," she went on, "he wanted to go to the Empire, but I made him bring +me here!... Do cheer up, Jimphy, dear! Smile for the company!..." + +Lord Jasper opened the door of the box and went out, and Henry, raging +inwardly, followed him. Before he had quite shut the door again, Lady +Cecily had turned to Gilbert. Her hand was on his sleeve, and she was +saying, "But Gilbert, darling!..." He shut the door quickly and almost +ran after Lord Jasper. She was in love with Gilbert, and Gilbert was in +love with her. A woman would not put her hand so affectionately on a +man's arm and call him "Gilbert, darling!" if she were not in love with +him. She had wished to be alone with Gilbert ... had practically turned +him out of the box so that she might be alone with Gilbert ... had not +waited for him to close the door before she began to fondle him ... and +Gilbert had spoken so bitterly of her!... + +He followed on the heels of Lord Jasper, passing through a throng of men +in the passages and on the stairs, until he reached the bar. "Whisky and +soda?" said Lord Jasper, and Henry nodded his head. + +"I hate theatres," Lord Jasper said. + +"Oh!" Henry replied. + +That seemed to be the only adequate retort to make to anything that +Jimphy said. + +"Yes, I can't stand 'em. Cecily let me in to-night ... on a chap's +birthday, too. She might have chosen the Empire!" + +"You like music-halls then?" + +"They're all right. Better than theatres anyhow. I like to see girls +dancing and ... and ... all that kind of thing!" + +A bell rang, warning them that the second act was about to begin. + +"I suppose we ought to go back," said Henry, putting his glass down. He +had barely touched the whisky and soda. + +"No hurry," Lord Jasper replied. "No hurry. And you haven't drunk your +whisky? Cecily's quite happy with that chap, Farlow.... I don't like him +myself ... oh, I say, he's a pal of yours, isn't he? Well, it doesn't +matter now. I don't like him, and he doesn't like me. I know he doesn't. +I can always tell a chap doesn't like me because I generally don't like +him. Have another, will you?" + +Henry shook his head. + +"I think we ought to be getting back," he said, "I hate disturbing +people after the curtain's gone up!" + +"You don't want to see that rotten play, do you? Look here ... I've +forgotten your name! Sorry!..." + +"Quinn. Henry Quinn!" + +"Oh, Quinn! You're not English, are you?" + +"I'm Irish." + +"Are you? That's damn funny! Well, anyhow, what I was going to say was +this. You don't want to see this rotten play, do you?" + +"I do rather!..." + +"No, you don't, Quinn. No, you don't. And I don't want to see it, +either. Very well, then, what's to prevent you and me going to the +Empire together, eh? We can come back for Cecily!..." + +Henry stared at Lord Jasper. "But we can't do that," he protested. + +"Oh, yes we can. Cecily won't mind. She'll be glad. We'll go and tell +her ... and look here, Quinn, I'll introduce you to a girl I know ... +very nice girl ... perfect lady ... lives with her mother as a matter of +fact ... Eh?" + +"I'd much rather see the play!" + +"Oh, all right," Lord Jasper said sulkily. "All right!" + +Henry moved towards the door of the bar, but Lord Jasper made no attempt +to follow him. "Aren't you coming?" he said, pausing at the door. + +"No," Lord Jasper replied. "I don't want to see the damn play. I shall +have another drink, and then I shall go to the Empire by myself. You +better go back to Cecily and ... and that chap Farlow. She won't notice +I'm not there!" + +"You'd better come and tell her yourself, hadn't you?" Henry said. + +Lord Jasper deliberated with himself for a few moments. + +"All right," he said. "I will. I'll come presently. You tell her, will +you, that I'll come presently. P'raps you'll change your mind, Quinn, +and come with me to the Empire after you've had another dose of this +damn play. A chap doesn't want to see a play on a chap's birthday!..." + +It occurred to Henry that Lord Jasper Jayne was slightly drunk. He had +swallowed the second whisky and soda rather more expeditiously than he +had swallowed the first, and no doubt he had dined well. There was a +bleary look in his eyes that signified a heated brain.... + +"My God," Henry said to himself, "that beautiful woman married to this +... this swine!" + +"I'm thirty-one to-day, ole f'la," Lord Jasper continued, coming over to +Henry and taking hold of his arm. "Thirty-one. I'm getting on in years, +ole f'la, that's what I'm doing ... sere and yellow, so to speak ... and +a chap my age doesn't want to be bothered with a damn play. He wants +something ... something substansl!..." He fumbled over the word +"substantial" and then fell on it. "Something substansl," he repeated. +"Now, if you come with me!..." + +"I say, you mustn't talk so loudly," Henry warned him. "The curtain's +gone up, and you'll disturb people...." + +"All right, ole f'la, all right. I won't say another word!" + +They stumbled along the passages to the door of the box, and entered as +quietly as they could. + +"We thought you'd got lost," said Lady Cecily, smiling at Henry. + +"No ... no," he replied, "we didn't get lost!" + + +2 + +Gilbert was sitting in the seat where Jimphy had sat earlier in the +evening. "Gilbert is going to stay here," said Lady Cecily. "Won't you +stay, too, Mr. Quinn!" + +"Won't I be crowding you?..." he said. + +"Oh, no," she replied. "Jimphy doesn't want to see the play anyhow, and +he'll be quite happy if he has some one to talk to in the bar between +the acts!..." + +He felt the blood rushing violently to his head, and in his anger he +almost got up and walked out of the box. That she should use him to keep +her sottish husband entertained while she made love to Gilbert, filled +him with a sensation that came near to hatred of her. Gilbert had not +spoken since they returned to the box, but it was clear from his manner +that there had been love-making.... He crushed down his anger, and stood +behind Lady Cecily while the play went on. Her bare shoulders had a +soft, warm look, in the subdued light ... he was conscious of +beautifully shaped ears nestling in golden hair ... and the anger in him +began to die. Once she moved slightly in her seat, and looked round as +if she wanted to speak. He leant over her. + +"Do you want anything?" he asked. + +"My wrap," she said. + +He picked up the flimsy wrap and put it about her shoulders, and she +turned to him and smiled and said, "Thank you!" and instantly all the +anger in him perished. He had admired her before, admired her ardently, +but now he knew that he loved her, must love her always.... + +There was a sound of heavy breathing, and he turned to look at Jimphy. + +"Wake him up," said Lady Cecily in a whisper. "Poor dear, he always goes +to sleep when he's annoyed!" + +He tiptoed across the box and shook the sleeper's arm. + +"Eh? What is it?" Lord Jasper said, as he opened his eyes and gaped +about him, and then, as he became conscious of his surroundings, he +said, "Is it over yet?" + +"No. The second act isn't finished yet!" + +"Oh, Lord!" he groaned. + +"It'll be over in a few minutes!" + +"Thank God! I can't stick plays ... not this sort anyhow. I don't mind a +musical comedy now and again, although I think you can have too much of +that...." + +Lady Cecily turned and waved her hand at her husband. "Ssh, Jimphy!" she +whispered. "You're making a frightful row!" + +The second act ended soon afterwards, and Lord Jasper scrambled to his +feet ... he had been sitting on the ground at the back of the box, +yawning and yawning ... and made for the door. "Come and have a drink, +Quinn!" he said. + +"No, thanks," Henry replied. + +"Come on. Be a sport!" + +"Do go with him, Mr. Quinn, please," Lady Cecily said. "He's sure to get +lost or troublesome or something. Aren't you, Jimphy dear?" + +"Aren't I what!" + +"Aren't you sure to get lost or troublesome or something!" + +Lord Jasper did not reply to his wife. "Come along, Quinn!" he said. +"Cecily thinks she's being comic!..." + +Henry hesitated for a moment or two. He did not wish to go to the bar, +and he was sick of the sight of Lord Jasper. He wished very much to stay +with Lady Cecily, and he felt hurt because she had urged him to +accompany her husband. He would have to do as she had asked him, of +course.... While he hesitated, Gilbert got up quickly from his seat and +went to the door of the box. "I'll come with you, Jimphy!" he said, and +then, almost pushing Lord Jasper in front of him, he went out, closing +the door of the box behind him. Henry stared at the door for a second or +two, nonplussed by the swiftness of Gilbert's action, and then he turned +to Lady Cecily. A look of vexation on her face instantly disappeared and +she smiled at Henry. + +"Come and sit here," she said, "and tell me all about yourself. I +haven't really got to know you, have I? Gilbert says you're Irish!" + +"Yes," he answered, sitting down. + +"How jolly!" she said. + +"Do you think so?" + +"Oh, yes. It's supposed to be awfully jolly to be Irish. All the Irish +people in books seem to be very amused about something. I suppose it's +the climate. They say there's a great deal of rain in Ireland...." + +"Yes," he answered vaguely, "there is some sometimes!" + +She questioned him about Gilbert and Ninian Graham and Roger Carey. + +"It must be awfully jolly," she said, "to be living together like that, +you four men!" + +He noticed that Lady Cecily always spoke of things being "awfully jolly" +and wondered why her vocabulary should be so limited in its expressions +of pleasure. + +"We get on very well together," he replied, "and it's very lively at +times. Gilbert's very lively...." + +"Is he?" she said. "He always seems so ... so ... well, not lively. I +don't mean that he's solemn or pompous, but he's so ... so anxious to +have his own way, if you understand me. Now, I'm not like that!" She +broke off and laughed. "Oh, I don't quite mean that. I am selfish. I +know I am. I love having my own way, but if I can't have a thing just as +I want it ... well, I'm content to have it in the way that I can. Now, +do you understand?" + +Henry nodded his head. + +"Gilbert isn't like me," she continued. "He says to himself, 'I must +have this thing exactly in this way. If I can't have it exactly in this +way, then I won't have it at all!' and it's so silly of him to behave +like that!" + +Henry looked up at her in a puzzled fashion. "What is it he wants?... I +beg your pardon, I'm being impertinent!" + +"Oh, no!" she replied, smiling graciously at him. "He wants ... oh, he +wants everything like that. Haven't you noticed?" + +"No," Henry answered, "I haven't." + +"Well, you will some day. My motto is, Take what you can get in the way +you can get it. It's so much easier to live if you act on that +principle!" + +"Gilbert's an artist, Lady Cecily, and he can't act on that principle. +No artist can. He takes what he wants in the way that he wants it or +else he will not take it at all!" + +"Exactly. That's what I've been saying. And it's so silly. But never +mind. He's young yet, and he'll learn!" + +She turned to gaze at the audience, and Henry, not knowing what else to +do and having no more to say, looked too. He could think of plenty of +fine things to say to her, but he could not get them on to his tongue. +He wanted to tell her that he had scarcely heard a word of what was said +in the first act of the play because he had filled his mind with +thoughts of her, and had spent most of the time in gazing up at her as +she sat leaning on the ledge of her box; but when he tried to speak, his +mouth seemed to be parched and his tongue would not move. + + +3 + +"Do you like this play?" she asked. + +"No," he replied. + +"Why? I thought everybody admired Wilde's wit. It's clever, isn't it?" + +"I don't like it!" + +"But it's supposed to be awfully clever!" she insisted. + +"It's a common melodrama with bits of wit and epigram stuck on to it!" +Henry answered. + +"Oh, really!" + +"The wit isn't natural ... it doesn't grow naturally out of the life of +the play, I mean. It's stuck on like ... like plaster images on the +front of a house. The witty speeches aren't spontaneous ... they don't +come inevitably!... I'm afraid I'm not making myself very clear, but +anyhow, I don't like the play. I don't like anything Wilde wrote, except +'The Ballad of Reading Gaol,' and even that's not true. That's really +why I dislike his work. It isn't true, any of it. It's all lies...." + +"How awfully interesting!" + +"Do you know 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol'? he asked. + +"No.... Oh, yes! I have read it. Of course, I have. Somebody lent it to +me or I bought it or something.... Anyhow, I have read it, but I can't +remember...." + +"Do you remember the lines?... + + _For all men kill the thing they love, + But all men do not die."_ + +"I seem to remember something ..." she said vaguely. + +"Well, that's a lie. All men don't kill the thing they love. Wilde +couldn't help lying even when he was most sincere!" + +"That's awfully interesting," Lady Cecily said. "Do you know I've never +thought of that before. Won't you come and see me one afternoon, Mr. +Quinn?" + +"I should like to," he said, and as he spoke, the door of the box opened +and Gilbert entered, followed by Lord Jasper. + +Lady Cecily turned eagerly to Gilbert. "Oh, Gilbert," she said, "Mr. +Quinn promised to come and see me one afternoon. You'll bring him, won't +you? Come on Wednesday, both of you!" + +"I should like to," Henry murmured again. + +"I don't think I can come on Wednesday," Gilbert said. + +"Oh, yes, you can," Lady Cecily exclaimed, "and if you can't, you can +come some other day. You'll come, Mr. Quinn, won't you?" + +"Yes, Lady Cecily!..." + +"And.... Jimphy, dear, do be nice and ask them to come to supper with us +after the play. We're going to the Savoy afterwards. I thought it would +please Jimphy to go there because he'd be sure not to like the play...." + +"Yes, you come along, you chaps!" Jimphy said, willingly. + +"I can't. I'm sorry," Gilbert replied. "I've got to go down to Fleet +Street and write a notice of this play!" + +"Can't you put it off for once, Gilbert!" Lady Cecily said. + +Gilbert laughed. "I should like to see Dilton's face if I were to do +that...." + +"Dilton! Dilton!! Who is Dilton?" she demanded. + +"My editor. Very devoted to the human note, Dilton is. No, Cecily, I'm +sorry, but I must go down to Fleet Street. Henry can go with you." + +She paused for a moment, and then said, "How long will it take you to +write the notice of the play?" she asked, adding before he could answer, +"Can't you do it now?" + +"Yes, Gilbert," Henry said, "you can do it now. You know the play, and +you've seen the acting in two acts...." + +Gilbert looked at him very directly, and when he spoke, his voice was +very firm. "No," he said, "I must go down to Fleet Street!" + +Lady Cecily was cross and hurt, and she turned away pettishly. + +"Oh, very well!" she said shortly. + +There was a slight air of restraint among them ... even Lord Jasper +seemed to feel it. It was he who spoke next. + +"You can come and join us at the Savoy after you've done your ... +whatyoumaycallit, can't you?" he said. + +Gilbert paused for a moment. He looked as if he were undecided as to +what he should say. Then he said, "Yes, I can do that ... if I get away +from the office in time!" + +Henry was about to say, "Why, of course, you can get away in plenty of +time!" but he checked himself and did not say it. + +"Oh, that will do excellently," said Lady Cecily, all smiles again. + +Then the lights of the theatre were lowered and the third act began. + + +4 + +When the play was over, they drove to Fleet Street in Lord Jasper's +motor-car. Lady Cecily had suggested that they should take Gilbert to +his newspaper office in order to save time, and he had consented readily +enough. + +"We might wait for you!..." she added, but Gilbert would not agree to +this proposal. "It isn't fair to keep Jimphy from his birthday treat any +longer," he said, "and I may be some time before I'm ready!" + +She was sitting next to Gilbert, and Henry and Jimphy were together with +their backs to the chauffeur. She did not appear to be tired nor had the +sparkle of her beautiful eyes diminished. She lay against the padded +back of the car and chattered in an inconsequent fashion that was oddly +amusing. She did not listen to replies that were made to her questions, +nor did she appear to notice that sometimes replies were not made. It +seemed to Henry that she would have chattered exactly as she was now +chattering if she had been alone. Neither Gilbert nor Jimphy answered +her, but Henry felt that something ought to be said when she made a +direct remark. + +"Isn't Fleet Street funny at this time of night?" she said. "So quiet. I +do hope the supper will be fit to eat. Oh, Gilbert, I wish you'd say +something in your notice of Wilde's play about his insincerity. I felt +all the time I was listening to the play that ... that it wasn't true!'" + +Gilbert sat up straight in his seat and looked at her. + +"Oh!" he exclaimed. + +"Yes," she went on. "The wit seemed to be stuck on to the play ... it +wasn't part of it!..." + +Gilbert leant back in his seat again. "You've been talking to Henry +about Wilde, haven't you?" + +She laughed lightly and turned towards Henry. "Oh, of course. Mr. Quinn, +I always repeat what other people say. I forget that they've said it to +me and think that I've thought of it myself!" + +Henry professed to be pleased that she had accepted his ideas so +completely. + +"But, of course," she continued, "what you said was quite true. I've +always felt that there was something wrong with Wilde's plays...." + +"I can't think what you all want to talk about a play for. I never see +anything in 'em to talk about!" Jimphy murmured sleepily. + +"Go to sleep, Jimphy, dear. Well wake you when we get to the Savoy...." + +"Always ragging a chap!" Jimphy muttered, and then closed his eyes. + +The car turned down one of the narrow streets that lead from Fleet +Street to the Thames Embankment, and then turned again and stopped. + +"Oh, is this your office, Gilbert?" Lady Cecily said. "Such an ugly, +dark looking place! But I suppose it's interesting inside? Newspaper +offices are supposed to be awfully interesting inside, aren't they?" + +"Are they?" Gilbert replied, as he got out of the car. "I've never +noticed it. Noisy holes where no one has time to think. Good-bye." + +"Not 'good-bye,' Gilbert! We shall see you soon at the Savoy, shan't +we?" + +"Oh, yes. Yes. I'd almost forgotten that!" + +The car drove off, threading the narrow steep street slowly. They could +hear the deep rurr-rurr of the printing machines coming from the +basements of the buildings, and now and then great patches of pallid +blue light shot out of open windows. Motor-vans and horse-waggons were +drawn up against the pavements in front of the office-doors, waiting for +the newly-printed papers. Bundles of _Daily Reflexions_ were already +printed and were being thrown on to the cars and waggons for +distribution. + +"Are they printed already?" Lady Cecily said. + +"Most of them were printed at nine o'clock," Henry replied. "The +ha'penny illustrated papers go all over the country before the ordinary +papers are printed at all!" + +"How awfully clever of them!" she said. + +The car turned into Fleet Street and quickly drove up to the Savoy. + +"Thank God!" said Jimphy. "I shall get some fun out of my birthday now!" + +"Jimphy loves his food," Lady Cecily exclaimed. "Don't you, Jimphy? +Don't you love your little tum-tum?..." + +They entered the hotel and found the table which had been reserved for +them. There was a queer, hectic gaiety about the place, as if every one +present were making a desperate effort to eat, drink _and_ be merry. +People greeted Lady Cecily as she passed them and muttered, "'loa, +Jimphy!" Henry had never been to a fashionable restaurant before, and +the barbaric beauty of the scene fascinated him. The women were +riotously dressed, and the colours of their garments mingled and merged +like the colours of a sunset. There was a constant flow of people +through the room, and the chatter of animated voices and bursts of +laughter and the jingling, sentimental music played by the orchestra +made Jimphy forget how bored he had been at the theatre. The slightly +fuddled air which he had had in the bar of St. James's had left him and +he began to talk. + +"Ripping woman, that!" he said to Henry, indicating a slight, dark girl +who had entered the restaurant in company with a tall, flaxen-haired +man. "Pretty little flapper, I call her! I like thin women, myself. +Well, slender's a better word, isn't it? What you say, Cecily?" + +Lady Cecily had tapped her husband's arm. "Ernest Lensley's just come +in," she said. "He's with Boltt. Go and bring them both here. They can't +find seats, poor dears!" + +Ernest Lensley and Boltt were fashionable novelists. Lensley was an +impudent-looking man with very blue eyes who had written a number of +popular stories about society women who "chattered" very much in the way +that Lady Cecily chattered. The heroine of his best-known book was +modelled, so people said, on the wife of a Cabinet Minister, and +thousands of suburban Englishwomen professed to have an intimate +knowledge of the statesman's family life solely because they had read +Lensley's novel. It was a flippant, vulgar book, the outcome of a +flippant, vulgar mind. Boltt had a wider public than Lensley. Boltt, a +tall, thin, stooping man, with peering eyes, had discovered "the human +note" of which Gilbert's editor prated continually. He was a precise, +priggish man, extraordinarily vain though no vainer than Lensley, who, +however, had an easy manner that Boltt would never acquire. He spoke in +the way in which one might expect a "reduced gentlewoman, poor dear!" to +speak, and there was something about him that made a man long to kick +him up a room and down a room and across a room and back again. His +heroes were all big, burly, red-haired giants, who wore beards and old +clothes and said "By God, yes!" when they admired the scenery, and led +a vagabond life in a perfectly gentlemanly manner until they met the +heroine.... His heroines constantly fell into situations which were +extremely compromising in the eyes of a censorious world, but they were +never completely compromised. The whole world knew, before the +conclusion of the story, that the heroine had been falsely suspected. If +she had spent the night in the hero's bedroom, she had done so with the +best intentions, under the strictest chaperonage ... usually that of her +dear, devoted old nurse, God bless her!... whose presence in the bedroom +had been hidden, until the middle of the penultimate chapter, from the +heroine's friends and relatives. The hero, of course, poor, manly, +broken giant, had been ill, suffering from a fever, and in his delirium +had called for her, discontent until she had put her cool firm hand upon +his hot brow, and the doctor had said that if she would stay with him, +she would save his life. So she had flung her reputation to the winds +and had hurried to his bedroom.... It was pretentious, flatulent stuff, +through which a thin stream of tepid lust trickled so gently that it +seemed like a stream of pretty sentiment, and it was written with such +cleverness that young ladies in Bath and Cheltenham and Atlantic City, +U.S.A., were tricked into believing that this was Life ... Real Life.... + +Lensley and Boltt followed Jimphy eagerly to Lady Cecily's table. +Lensley was glad to sit with her: Boltt was glad to be certain of his +supper. Lensley enjoyed listening to Cecily's babble because he could +always be certain of getting something out of her speech that would just +fit into his next novel: Boltt liked his contiguity to members of the +governing class. They completely ignored Henry after they had been +introduced to him. + +"Mr. Quinn is writing a novel, too!" said Lady Cecily. + +"Oh, yes!" said Lensley. + +"Indeed!" Boltt burbled. + +Thereafter they addressed themselves exclusively to Lady Cecily and her +husband. Lensley told Lady Cecily that she was to be the heroine of his +next book. "I'm studying you now, dear Lady Cecily!" he said. "Jotting +you down in my little book ... all your little plaguey ways and +speeches!..." + +"How awfully exciting!" she replied, and her eyes seemed to become +brighter, and she leant towards the novelist as if she meant to reveal +herself more clearly to him. + +"You'll be angry with me when you see the book," he said. "Dreadfully +angry. You know poor Mrs. Maldon was very hurt about '_Jennifer_'!" Mrs. +Maldon was the wife of the Cabinet Minister. + +"I shan't mind what you say about me," Lady Cecily said, "so long as you +make me the heroine of the book. What are you going to call it?..." + +"The Delectable Lady!" + +"How awfully nice!..." + + +5 + +Henry began to feel bored. He wished that Gilbert would come. Gilbert +would soon rout this paltry little tuppenny-ha'penny Society novelist +with his pretty-pretty chatter and his pretty-pretty blue eyes and his +air of being a knowing dog. Lady Cecily seemed to have forgotten Henry +altogether.... He turned to Lord Jasper who was trying hard not to yawn +in Mr. Boltt's face. Mr. Boltt had been a surveyor at one period of his +life, and his favourite theme of conversation was Renascence +architecture. He was now telling Jimphy of the glories of French +Cathedrals, and Jimphy, who cared even less for French Cathedrals than +he cared for English ones, was wondering just how he could change the +conversation to a discussion of the latest ballet at the Empire and +particularly of a girl he knew who was a perfect lady and, as a matter +of fact, lived with her mother. The supper party seemed likely to end +dismally, and Henry, when he was not wishing that Gilbert would come, +was wishing that he himself had not come. He could not understand why it +was that he had so much difficulty in talking easily with strangers. +Lensley was prattling as if he were determined to discharge an entire +novelful of "chatter" at Lady Cecily, and Boltt's little clipped, +pedantic voice recited a long rigmarole about a glorious view in France +which he had lately seen while motoring in that country. Boltt admired +Nature in the way in which any man of careful upbringing would admire a +really nice woman.... + +Henry had lately reviewed a book by Boltt for a daily paper, and he had +expressed scorn for it and its stuffed dummies, masquerading as men and +women ... and Boltt, who took himself very seriously indeed, had written +a letter of complaint to the editor of the paper. Henry wondered what +Boltt would say if he knew that the review had been written by him, and +an imp in him made him interrupt the long recital of the glories of +France. + +"The _Morning Report_ had a good go at your last novel, Boltt!" he said. + +The novelist looked reproachfully at Henry, as if he were rebuking him +for indelicacy. + +"I never see the _Morning Report_," he replied loftily. + +"Oh, then, I suppose you didn't see the review. I thought you probably +got clippings from a Press-cuttings agency!..." + +"Yes, oh, yes, I do. I seem to remember that the _Morning Report_ was +unkind. Not quite fair, I should say!" + +Lord Jasper began to take an intelligent interest in the conversation. +"Have you published another book, Boltt?" he asked innocently. + +"Yes ... a ... Lord Jasper ... I have!" Mr. Boltt said, and there was +some sniffiness in his tones. He was accustomed to lengthy reviews on +the day of publication, and it annoyed him to think that there was some +one in the world, some one, too, with whom he was acquainted, who did +not know that the publication of one of his books was an event. + +"I can't think how you writing chaps keep it up," said Jimphy. "I +couldn't write a book to save my life!..." + +"No?" said Mr. Boltt, smiling in the way of one who says to himself, +"God help you, my poor fellow, God help you!" + +"I suppose it's all a question of knack," Jimphy continued. "You get +into the way of it and you can't stop. Sometimes a tune gets into my +head and I have to keep on humming it or whistling it. I'm not what +you'd call a sentimental fellow at all, but that song ... you know, +about the honeysuckle and the bee ... I _could not_ get that song out of +my head. I thought I should go cracked over it. Always humming it or +whistling it ... and I suppose if you get an idea for a yarn into your +head, Boltt, well, it's something like that!" + +Lady Cecily had exhausted the "chatter" of Mr. Lensley. + +"What's that!" she exclaimed. + +"Lord Jasper is describing the processes of literature to me, Lady +Cecily," said Mr. Boltt sarcastically. "I have been greatly interested." + +The man's conceit irritated Henry and he longed to disconcert him. + +"Yes," he said. "It all began by my saying something about a review of +Boltt's last novel in the _Morning Report!_ ..." + +Mr. Boltt made motions with his hands. "Really," he said, "Lady Cecily +isn't in the least interested in my effusions." + +"Oh, but I am, Mr. Boltt," Lady Cecily interrupted. "What did the paper +say? I'm sure it was very flattering!..." + +"The reviewer said that the book would probably please the vicar's only +daughter, but that it wouldn't impose upon her when she grew up...." + +"Oh!" said Lady Cecily. + +"Some rival, I'm afraid!" Mr. Boltt murmured. "Some one who dislikes +me...." + +"The chief complaint was that your people aren't real...." Henry +continued, though Mr. Boltt frowned heavily. + +"Yes. I don't think we need discuss the matter further, Mr...." + +"Quinn!!" said Henry. + +He felt happier now that he had pricked the egregious fellow's vanity. + +"Silly of 'em to say that," said Lord Jasper. "Boltt sells a tremendous +number of books, don't you, Boltt? More than Lensley does. And that +shows, doesn't it? If a chap can sell as many books as Boltt sells ... +well, he must be some good. I've never read any of 'em, of course, but +then I'm not a chap that reads much. All the same, a chap I know says +Boltt's all right, and he's a chap that knows what he's talking about. I +mean to say, he's written books himself!" + +Lady Cecily was no longer interested in the history of Mr. Boltt's +novel. The meal was almost at an end, and Gilbert had not arrived. She +glanced towards the door, looking straight over Mr. Lensley's head, and +Henry could see that she was fidgeting. + +"Gilbert's a long time," he said to her. + +She did not answer, and before he could repeat his remark to her, Lord +Jasper exclaimed, "I say, you know, we ought to be getting home, Cecily. +It's getting jolly late!..." + +"Let's wait a little longer," she said, "Gilbert hasn't come yet!" + +"But I mean to say, this place'll be closing soon...." Mr. Boltt made a +satirical remark on the ridiculously early hours at which restaurants +are compelled by law to close in England. In France, he said ... but +Lord Jasper did not wait to hear what is done in France. + +"He won't come now," he said. "He wouldn't have time to eat any supper +if he were to come ... and it's getting jolly late, and I'm jolly +tired!" + +He got up from the table as he spoke. "Very well," said Lady Cecily, +rising too. + +The others followed her example, and Boltt and Lensley prepared to +escort Lady Cecily to the door, but she gave her hand to them and said +"Good-night!" + +"It's so nice to have seen you both," she said. "No, don't trouble. Mr. +Quinn will come with me!" + +Lord Jasper had gone on in front to find his car, and Lady Cecily and +Henry walked down the room together until they came to the courtyard +where the car was waiting for them. + +"Tell Gilbert I'm angry with him," she said. "He must come and see me +soon and tell me how sorry he is. You'll come, too, perhaps, Mr. Quinn!" + +He found his tongue suddenly. "I will, Lady Cecily," he said. "I'll come +even if he doesn't. I've enjoyed to-night tremendously...." + +"Have you, Mr. Quinn?" + +"Yes...." + +"I say, come along," Lord Jasper shouted to them. + +"Poor Jimphy's getting fractious. You can tell me how much you've +enjoyed to-night when we meet again!" + +He took her to the car, and watched her as she gathered her skirts about +her and climbed inside. + +"Can't we drop you at your house!" said Lord Jasper. "It won't be any +trouble to do so!" + +"No, thanks," Henry replied. "I'd rather walk home. It's such a +beautiful night!" + +Lord Jasper followed Lady Cecily into the car. "You're a romantic chap, +Quinn!" he said, and then, as an afterthought, he added quickly, "I say, +we must arrange to go to the Empire together some evening. You're the +sort of chap I like...." + +Lady Cecily waved her hand to him. As the car moved off he saw her +beautiful face leaning against the side of the car, and he longed to +take her in his arms and kiss her. Then the car turned, and drove +quickly off. He stood for a moment or two looking after it, and +continued to stand still even when it had swung out of the courtyard +into the Strand. Then he walked slowly away from the restaurant. He had +not gone very far when his arm was touched, and, turning round, he saw +Gilbert. + + +6 + +"Hilloa," he said, "you're late!" + +"No, I'm not," Gilbert replied. + +"Yes, you are. The Jaynes have gone!" + +"I saw them going. I've been here for over half-an-hour, waiting for +you!" + +"Over half-an-hour! What's up, Gilbert?" + +Gilbert put his arm in Henry's and made him move out of the Savoy +courtyard. "Come down to the Embankment," he said. "It's quieter there. +I want to talk to you!" + +"But hadn't we better go home? We can talk on the way. It's late...." + +"No. I want to go to the Embankment. Damn it all, Quinny, it's a +sentimental place for a heart-to-heart talk, isn't it?" + +"You aren't drunk, Gilbert, I suppose?" + +"Never so sober in my life, Quinny. Besides, I don't get drunk. People +who talk about beer and whisky as much as I do, never get drunk. Come +along, there's a good chap!" + +"Very well ... only I'm not going to stay long. I'm no good for work the +day after I've had a long night...." + +"I won't keep you long. How did the supper-party go off?" + +"Damnably. Two tame novelists turned up ... Boltt and Lensley!" + +"Those asses!" + +"Yes. Lensley 'chattered' to Lady Cecily, and Boltt bored and bored and +bored.... I took him down a bit. I rubbed in the _Morning Report_ +review. The little toad could hardly sit still! Of course, he affected +the superior person attitude!" + +"God be merciful to him, poor little rat! He wants to be a wicked, +hell-for-leather fellow, but he hasn't got the stomach for it! What did +Cecily say when I didn't turn up?" + +"She looked rather cross. She told me as we came away to tell you she +was angry with you. You're to go and apologise to her as soon as +possible!" + +"Did she?" + +"Yes. I say, Gilbert, why didn't you turn up?" + +They had reached the Embankment, and they crossed to the riverside and +leant against the parapet. + +"Because I was afraid to," said Gilbert. + +"Afraid to!" + +"Yes. Can't you see I'm in love with her?" + +"Well, I guessed as much...." + +"I love her so much that she can do what she likes with me, and all she +likes to do is to destroy me!" + +"Destroy you!" + +"Yes. If you love Cecily, she demands the whole of your life. Every bit +of it. She consumes you.... Oh, I know this sounds like a penny +dreadful, Quinny, but it's true. I've asked her to run away with me, but +she won't come. She says she hates scandal and she likes her social +position. My God, I feel sick when I see Jimphy with her ... like a +damned big lobster putting his ... his claws about her. He isn't a bad +fellow in his silly way, but I can't stand him as Cecily's husband!" + +"I know what you mean," said Henry. + +"I thought that if Cecily and I were to go away together, we could get +our lives into some sort of perspective, and then I could go on with my +work and have her as well, but she won't go away with me. She wants me +to hang around, being her lover ... and I can't do that, Quinny. It's +mean and furtive, and I hate that. You're always listening for some one +coming ... a servant or the husband or some one ... and I can't stand +that. If I love a woman, I love her, and I don't want to spend part of +my life in pretending that I don't. I loathe myself when I have to +change the talk suddenly or move away when a door opens.... Do you +understand, Quinny?" + +Henry nodded his head, but did not speak. + +"Once when I'd been begging Cecily to go away with me, Jimphy walked +into the room ... and I had to pretend to be talking about some +nasturtiums that Cecily had grown. I felt like a cad. That's what's +rotten about loving another man's wife. It's the treachery of the thing, +the pretending.... I've often wondered why it is that love of that sort +seems so romantic and splendid in books and so damnably mean when it +comes into the Divorce Court ... but when I met Cecily I knew why ... +it's because of the treachery and the deceit. I used to think that it +was beautiful in books because artists were able to see the hidden +beauty, and ugly in the Divorce Court because ordinary people only saw +the surface things ... but I'm not sure now." + +He stopped speaking, but Henry did not speak instead. He did not know +what to say; he felt indeed that there was nothing to be said, that he +must simply listen. He watched the electric signs on the other side of +the river as they spelt out the virtues of Someone's Teas and Another's +Whisky, and wondered how long it would be before Gilbert said something +else. He was beginning to be bored by the business, and he felt sleepy. +He was jealous too, when he thought that Gilbert had kissed Cecily and +had been held in her beautiful arms.... + +"Cecily doesn't mind about the shabbiness of it," he heard Gilbert +saying. "We've talked about that, and she says it doesn't matter a bit. +All that matters to her is that she shan't be found out ... too publicly +anyhow! She called me a prig when I said that I was afraid of tainting +my work...." + +"Tainting your work?" + +"Yes. Perhaps it is priggish of me, but I feel that if I'm mean in one +thing I may be mean in another. I'm terribly afraid of doing bad work, +Quinny, and I got an idea into my head that if I let taint into my life +in one place, I couldn't confine it and it would spread to other places. +Do you see? If I let myself get into a rotten position with Cecily, I +might write down...." + +"I don't see that," said Henry. "Because you love a married woman, it +doesn't follow that you'll pot-boil." + +"No, perhaps not. But I was afraid of it. I suppose it was priggish of +me. That wasn't the only thing, however. I knew that if I did what +Cecily wanted me to do, I'd spend most of my time with her or thinking +about her. I can't work if I'm doing that, for I think of her and long +for her.... Oh, let's go home. It isn't fair to keep you here listening +to my twaddle!" + +But they did not move. They gazed down on the swiftly-flowing river, and +presently they heard Big Ben striking one deep note. + +"One o'clock!" said Gilbert. + +"What are you going to do about it, Gilbert?" Henry asked at last. + +"I'm going away from London. I've chucked my job on the _Daily +Echo_...." + +"Good Lord, man, what for?" + +"Well, I'm fed-up with the English theatre to begin with, and I'm fed-up +with journalism too ... and it's the only way I can get free of Cecily. +I must finish the new comedy and I can't finish it if I stay in town +and see Cecily. She won't let me finish it. She'll make me go here and +go there with her. Shell keep me making love to her when I ought to be +working. God damn women, Quinny!" + +"You're excited, Gilbert!" + +"Yes, I know I am. When I'm with Cecily, I'm like a jelly-fish. She +sucks the brains out of me. She doesn't care whether I finish my comedy +or not. She doesn't care what happens to my work so long as I hang +around and love her and kiss her whenever she wants me to. My brains go +to bits when I'm with her. I'm all emotion and sensation ... just like +those asses Lensley and Boltt. Quinny, fancy spending your life turning +out the sort of stuff those two men write. They've written about a dozen +books each, and I suppose they're good for twenty or thirty more. I'd +rather be a scavenger!" + +They walked along the Embankment towards Waterloo Bridge. + +"I'm going to Anglesey," Gilbert said. "I shall go and stay there until +the end of the summer!" + +"I shall miss you, Gilbert. So will Ninian and Roger!" + +"I shall miss you three, but it can't be helped. I'm the sort of man who +succumbs to women ... I can't help it. If they're beautiful and soft and +full of love ... like Cecily ... they down me. Their femininity topples +me over, and there's no work to be got out of me while I'm like that. +But my work's of more consequence to me than loving and kissing, Quinny, +and if I can't do it while I'm Cecily's lover, then I'll go away from +her and do it!" + +"What makes you think you could do it if she were to go away with you?" + +"I don't know. Hope, I suppose." + +They walked up Villiers Street into the Strand, and made their way +towards Bloomsbury. + +"I suppose," said Gilbert, "you wouldn't like to come to Anglesey too?" + +Henry hesitated for a few moments. He had a vision of Lady Cecily's +beautiful face leaning against the padded side of the car, and he +remembered that she had smiled and waved her hand to him.... + +"No," he replied, "I don't think so ... not at present at any rate!" and +then, added in explanation, "If I go, too, the house will be broken up. +That would be a pity!" + +"I forgot that," Gilbert answered. "Yes, of course!" + + + + +THE SIXTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +Gilbert did not leave London, as he had intended, for Sir Geoffrey +Mundane definitely decided to produce "The Magic Casement" in succession +to the play which was then being performed at his theatre. He had +already discussed the caste with Gilbert, and on the morning after the +scene on the Embankment, he telephoned to Gilbert, telling him that he +had made engagements for the play, and would like to fix a date on which +he should read the manuscript to the company. "Any day'll suit me," +Gilbert had informed him, and Sir Geoffrey thereupon settled that the +reading should take place two days later. "I suppose," he said, "you'd +like to attend the rehearsals?" and Gilbert, forgetting his resolution +to fly from Lady Cecily, said that he would. He thought that the +experience would be very valuable to him. He became so excited at the +prospect of seeing a play of his performed at a West End theatre that he +was unable to sit still, and his language, always extravagant, became +absurd. He broke every rule that Roger had invented. "It'll take all the +royalties you'll receive to pay off this score!" Roger said, thrusting +the fine-book before him. + +"Poo!" said Gilbert. "I'll buy up the Ten Commandments with one night's +royalty! Oh, it's going to be a success, I tell you. It'll run for a +year ... more than that ... two years!..." He began to estimate the +number of performances the play would receive. "Six evening performances +and two matinées every week for fifty-two weeks! Eight times fifty-two, +Roger ... you were a Second Wrangler, you ought to know that! Four +hundred and sixteen! Lordy God, what a lot! And if I get ten pounds +every time it's done ... Oh-h-h! Four thousand, one hundred and sixty +pounds! And then there'll be American rights and provincial rights.... +I'll tell you what I'll do, coves! I'll buy you all a stick of +barley-sugar each, or a penn'orth of acid-drops ... which 'ud you +like?..." + +It was during the rehearsals of "The Magic Casement" that "Broken +Spears" was published. + +"It isn't as good as 'Drusilla,'" they said to Henry, when they had read +it, "but it'll be more popular!" + +It was. The critics who had praised "Drusilla" were not impressed by +"Broken Spears," but the critics who had been indifferent to "Drusilla" +praised "Broken Spears" so extravagantly that six thousand copies of it +were sold in six months, apart from the copies which were sold to the +lending libraries, and the sale of "Drusilla," in consequence of the +success of "Broken Spears," increased from three hundred and +seventy-five copies to one thousand five hundred and eighty. Mr. Quinn, +in thanking Henry for a copy of it, merely said, in direct reference to +the book, "_I see you've been tickling the English. Don't go on doing +it!_" and the effect of this criticism was so stimulating that Henry +destroyed the three chapters of "Turbulence" which were in manuscript +and started to re-write the book. Literary agents now began to write to +him, telling him how charmed they were with his work and how certain +they were of their ability to increase his income considerably; and a +publisher of some enterprise and resource wrote to him and said that he +would like to see his third book. + +"You look as if you were established, Quinny!" said Roger, and Henry +blushed and murmured deprecatingly about himself. + +"How's the Bar?" he said. + +"Oh, it's not bad. I got a fellow off to-day who ought to have had six +months hard," Roger answered. "And a new solicitor has given me a +brief. We ought to ask him to dinner and feed him well. F. E. Robinson +always tells his butler to bring out the second-quality wine for +solicitors. Snob!" + +"We seem to be getting on, don't we, coves?" Gilbert interjected. "Look +at all these press-cuttings!..." + +He held out a fistful of slips which had come that evening from a +Press-Cutting Agency. "All about me," he said, "and the play. Mundane +knows more about the preliminary puff than any one else in England. He +calls me 'this talented young author from whom much may be expected.' I +never thought I should get pleasure out of a trade advertisement, but I +do. I'm lapping up this stuff like billy-o. I saw a poster on the side +of a 'bus this afternoon, advertising 'The Magic Casement.' Mundane's +name was in big letters, and you could just see mine with the naked eye. +I hopped on to the 'bus and went for a fourpenny ride on it, so's I +could touch the damn thing ... and I very nearly told the conductor who +I was. It's no good pretending I'm not conceited. I am, and I don't +care. Where's Ninian?" + +"Not come in yet. How'd the rehearsals go to-day?" Roger answered. + +"Better than any other day. They're beginning to feel their parts. It's +about time, too. I felt sick with fright yesterday, they were so wooden. +Mundane might have been the village idiot, instead of the fine actor he +is ... but they're better now. Ninian's late!" + +"Is he? He'll be here presently. By the way, my Cousin Rachel's coming +to town to-morrow. She's been investigating something or other ... +factory life, I think. I thought I'd bring her here to dinner. She may +be interesting." + +"Do," said Gilbert, and then, as he heard the noise of the street-door +being closed, he added, "There's Ninian now!" + +Ninian, on his way to his room, stopped for a moment or two, to shout +at them, "I say, the mater and Mary've come up from Devon. I got a wire +this afternoon. I'm not grubbing with you to-night. They want to go to a +theatre, and I've got to climb into gaudy garments and go with them...." + +He closed the door and ran up the stairs, but before he reached the +first landing, Gilbert called after him, "I say, Ninian!" + +"Yes," he answered, pausing on the stairs. + +"Bring them to dinner to-morrow night. Roger's Cousin Rachel is coming, +and we may as well make a party of it. Gaudy garments and liqueurs. Do +you think they'll stay for the first night of my play?" + +"That's one of the reasons why they've come up," Ninian answered. + + +2 + +Rachel Wynne and Mrs. Graham and Mary dined with them on the following +evening, and it seemed to Henry when he saw Mary entering Ninian's +sitting-room that she was a stranger to him. He had known her as a child +and as a young, self-conscious girl, but this Mary was a woman. He felt +shy in her presence, and when, for a few moments, he was left alone with +her, he hardly knew what to say to her. They had been "Quinny" and +"Mary" to each other before, but now they avoided names.... He spoke +tritely about her journey to London, reminding her of the slowness of +the train between Whitcombe and Salisbury, and wondered whether she +liked London better than Boveyhayne. His old disability to say the +things that were in his mind prevented him from re-establishing his +intimacy with her. He tried to say, "Hilloa, Mary!" but could not do so, +and his shyness affected her so that she stood before him, fingering her +fan nervously, and answering "Yes" and "Oh, yes!" and "No" and "Oh, no!" +to all that he said. He liked the sweep of her hair across her brow and +the soft flush in her cheeks and the slender lines of her neck and the +gleam of a gold chain that held a pendant suspended about her throat. He +thought, too, that her eyes shone like lustres in the light, and +suddenly, as he thought this, he felt that he could speak to her with +his old freedom. He moved towards her, shaping his lips to say, "Oh, +Mary, I ..." but the door opened before he could speak, and Rachel Wynne +entered the room with Roger and Mrs. Graham. + +"Yes, Quinny?" Mary said, saying his name quite easily now. + +He laughed nervously and looked at the others. "I've forgotten what I +was going to say," he said, and went forward to greet Mrs. Graham. + +"My cousin, Rachel Wynne," said Roger, introducing her to him. + +Rachel Wynne was a tall, thin girl, with a curious tightened look, as if +she were keeping a close hold on herself. When she held out her hand to +him, he had a sensation of discomfort, not because her clasp was firm, +but because she seemed to be looking, not through him, but into him. He +was very sensitive to the opinion of people about him, feeling very +quickly the dislike of any one who did not care for him, and in a moment +he knew that Rachel Wynne was antipathetic to him. Henry was always rude +to people whom he disliked ... he could not be civil to them, however +hard he might try to be so, but his feeling in the presence of people +who disliked him, was one of powerlessness: he was tongue-tied and +nervous and very dull, and his faculties seemed to shrivel up. There was +a look of cold efficiency about Rachel Wynne that frightened him. She +seemed to be incapable of wasting time or of waywardness. Her career at +Newnham, Roger had told him, had been one of steady brilliance. "There +wasn't a flicker in it," he had said to Henry. "Rachel's always +well-trimmed!" + +There were no ragged edges about Rachel Wynne. Her frock was neatly +made, so neatly that he was unaware of it, and her hair was bound +tightly to her head by a black velvet ribbon. She had a look of cold +tidiness, as if she had been frozen into her shape and could not be +thawed out of it; but she was not cold in spirit, as he discovered +during dinner when the conversation shifted from generalities about +themselves to the work she had lately been doing. They had been talking +about Gilbert's play, and then Mrs. Graham had turned to Henry and told +him how much she liked his novels. Her tastes were simple, and she +preferred "Broken Spears" to "Drusilla." "Of course, 'Drusilla' is very +clever!" she said a little deprecatingly, and then she turned to Rachel +and asked her whether she had read Henry's novels. + +"No," Rachel answered. "I very seldom read novels!..." + +He felt contempt for her. Now he knew why he had been chilled by her +presence. She belonged to that order of prigs which will not read +novels, preferring instead to read "serious" books. Such a woman would +treat "Tom Jones" as a frivolous book, less illuminating than some +tedious biography or history book. She might even deny that it had any +illumination at all.... He could not prevent a sneer from his retort to +her statement that she seldom read novels. + +"I suppose," he said, "you think that novels are not sufficiently +serious?" + +"Oh, no," she answered quickly. "I just haven't time for novel-reading!" + +That seemed to him to be worse than if she had said that she preferred +to read solid books. A novel, in her imagination, was a light diversion +in which one only indulged in times of unusual slackness. No wonder, he +thought to himself, all reformers and serious people make such a mess of +the social system when they despise and ignore the principal means of +knowing the human spirit. + +"That's a pity," he said aloud. "I should have thought that you'd find +novels useful to you in your work. I mean, there's surely more chance of +understanding the people of the eighteenth century if you read +Fielding's 'Tom Jones' than there is if you read Lecky's 'England in the +Eighteenth Century.'" + +"Is there?" said Rachel. + +"Of course, there is," Gilbert hurled at her from the other side of the +table. "Fielding was an artist, inspired by God, but Lecky was simply a +fact-pedlar, inspired by the Board of Education. Why even that dull ass, +Richardson, makes you understand more about his period than Lecky does!" + +"Perhaps," said Rachel, in a tone which indicated that there was no +doubt in her mind about the relative values of Lecky and Fielding. She +turned to Henry. "I wish you'd write a book about the factory system," +she said. "That would be worth doing!" + +He disliked the suggestion that "Broken Spears" and "Drusilla" had not +been worth doing, and he let his resentment of her attitude towards his +work affect the tone of his voice as he answered, "I don't know anything +about factories!" + +"You should learn about them," she retorted. + +No, he did not like this woman, aggressive and assertive. He turned to +speak to Mary ... but Rachel Wynne had not finished with him. + +"I've spent six months in the north of England," she said, reaching for +the salted almonds. "I've seen every kind of factory, model and +otherwise!" + +"Oh, yes," he answered, vaguely irritated by her. He wished that she +would talk to her other neighbour and leave him in peace with Mary. As +an Improved Tory, he knew that he ought to get all the information about +factories out of her that he could, but as Henry Quinn, he had no other +desire than to be quit of her as quickly as possible. + +"And I think the model factories are no better than the rotten ones," +she went on. + +"What's that you say?" Roger called to her from the other side of the +table. + +She repeated her remark. "I went over a model factory last week ... a +cocoa and chocolate works ... and I'd rather be a tramp than work in +it," she went on. + +"But isn't it rather wonderfully organised?" Roger asked. + +"Oh, yes, it's marvellously arranged. There are baths and gymnasia and +continuation classes and free medical inspection and model houses and +savings banks and all the rest of it ... but I'd rather be a tramp, I +tell you.... You see, even with the best of employers, genuinely +philanthropic people eager to deal justly with the workers who make +their fortunes for them, the factory system remains a rotten one. You +can't make a decent, human thing out of it because it's fundamentally +vile!..." + +"My dear Rachel!..." Roger began, but she would not listen to +interruptions. + +"They look just as pale and 'peeked' in model factories as they do in +bad ones. They're cleaner, that's all. The firm sees that they wash, but +it can't prevent them from becoming ill, and they're all ill. They don't +look any better than the people in the bad factories. They look worse, +because they're cleaner and you can see their illness more easily. But +that isn't all. They have no hope of ever controlling the firm ... +they'll never be allowed to own the factory ... that will always belong +to the Family. The best that the clever ones can look forward to is a +little managership. Most of them can't look forward to anything but +being drilled and washed and medically inspected and modelly housed and +morally controlled.... Oh, it isn't worth it, it isn't worth it. I'd +rather be a dirty, insanitary tramp!" + +A kind of moral fury possessed her, and they sat still, listening to her +without interrupting her. + +"I saw three girls at a machine," she went on, "and one of them did some +little thing to a chocolate box and then passed it on to the second +girl who did a further little thing to it and then passed it to the +third girl who did another little thing to it, and then it was finished, +and that was all. They do that every day, and the man who took me round +told me that the firm had to catch 'em young, otherwise they can't +acquire the knack of it. I saw girls putting pieces of chocolate into +tinfoil so quickly that you could hardly see their movements; and they +do that all day. And they have to be caught young ... before they've +properly tasted life. They wouldn't do it otherwise, I suppose. That's +your factory system for you! And think of the things they produce. +Chocolate boxes full of sweets! There was one girl who spent the whole +of her working days in pasting photographs of grinning chorus girls on +to box-lids. I should go mad if I had to look at that soppy grin all day +long...." + +Mrs. Graham murmured gently, but her words were not audible. Rachel +would not have heard them if they had been. + +"Well," said Gilbert, "what do you want to do about it?" + +"I'm a reactionary," Rachel answered. "I'm against all this ... this +progress. We're simply eating up people's lives, and paying meanly for +them. I'd destroy all these factories ... the whole lot. They aren't +worth the price. And I'd go back to decent piggery. What is the good of +a plate when it means that some girl has been poisoned so that it can be +bought cheaply?" + +"But we must have plates?" Henry said. + +"Why?" she retorted. + +"Well!" he rejoined, smiling at her as one smiles at a foolish child. + +"Oh, I know," she went on, "you think I'm talking wildly. I've heard all +about your Improved Toryism. Roger's told me about it. You all think +that you are the anointed ones, and that the bulk of people are born to +do what they're told. You won't have whips for your slaves ... you'll +have statutes. You won't sell them ... you'll socialise them. Cogs in +wheels, you'll make them! Oh, it isn't worth while living like that. You +don't even let a man do a whole job ... you only let him do a part of +one, and you're trying to turn him into an automaton more and more every +day. He's to press a button ... and that's all. Presently, he'll _be_ a +button!..." + +"My dear Rachel," Roger said, "you don't imagine, do you, that the whole +world's going to turn back to ... piggery as you call it? We've spent +centuries in creating this civilisation...." + +"Is it worth while?" she demanded. + +"Yes...." + +"Prove it," she insisted. + +"Well, of course, that's a job, isn't it? I can't prove it in a few +minutes...." + +"You can't prove it, Roger," she interrupted. "If all this civilisation +were worth while, you wouldn't need to prove it: it would be obvious. +We'd only have to look out of the door to see the proof." + +"I don't say that the factory system is satisfactory at present. It +isn't; but it can be improved...." + +"No, it can't, Roger. It's unimprovable. I dare you to go to any model +factory in England and study it with an honest mind and then say that it +is worth while. It makes the people ill ... they get no pleasure out of +their work...." + +"We could shorten the hours in factories," Henry suggested. + +"If you do that, you admit that the thing is rotten, and can only be +endured in short shifts!" she retorted. "And who wants his hours +reduced? A healthy man wants to work as long as he can stand up. I don't +want my hours reduced. I'll go on working until I drop ... but I +wouldn't work for two seconds if I didn't like the job!" She turned +again to Henry. "Why don't you write a book exposing the factory system. +It would be much more useful than all this lovey-dovey stuff. I'd give +the world for a book like that ... as good as Tolstoy's 'War and Peace' +or 'Dickens's 'Oliver Twist'!..." + + +3 + +Mary had not spoken at all while Rachel harangued them on the question +of the factory system, but that was not surprising, for Rachel had not +given any of them a chance to say more than two or three words. In +Ninian's sitting-room, when Gilbert turned to her and asked her what she +thought of factories, she blushed a little, conscious that they had all +turned to look at her, and answered that she had never seen a factory. + +"Never seen a factory!" Rachel exclaimed, and was off again in +denunciation. + +Henry went and sat beside Mary while Rachel told tales of sweaters that +caused Mrs. Graham to cry out with pain. + +"Mary!" he said to her under his breath. + +"Yes, Quinny," she answered, turning towards him and speaking as softly +as he had spoken. + +He fumbled for words. "It's ... it's awfully nice to see you again," he +said. + +"It's nice to see you all again," she replied. + +"You're ... you're so different," he went on. + +"Am I?" She paused a moment, and then, smiling at him, said, "So are +you." + +"Am I very different?" he asked. + +"In some ways. You're quite famous now, aren't you?" + +"Famous?" he said vaguely. + +"Yes. Your novels...." + +He laughed. "Oh, dear no, not anything like famous!" + +"Well-known, then." + +"Moderately well-known. That's all. But what's the point?" + +"Well, that's the point," she replied. "You were only 'Quinny' before, +but now you're the moderately well-known novelist, and I'm afraid of +you...." + +"Don't be absurd, Mary!" + +"But I am, Quinny. I read a review of one of your books in some paper, +and it called you a very wise person, and said you knew a great deal +about human nature or something of that sort. Well, one feels rather +awful in the presence of a person like that. At least, I do!" + +He felt that she was chaffing him, and he did not want to be chaffed by +her. He liked the "Quinny" and "Mary" attitude, and he wished that she +would forget that he had written "wise" books. + +"You're making fun of me," he said. + +"Oh, no, I'm not," she answered quickly. "I'm quite serious!" + +He did not answer for a few moments. He could hear Rachel's passionate +voice saying, "They get seven shillings a week ... in theory. There are +fines ..." and he wondered why it was that she repelled him. Her +sincerity was palpable ... it was clear that she was hurt by the +miseries of factory girls ... but in spite of her sincerity, he felt +that he could not bear to be near her. "If she'd only talk of something +else," he thought ... and then returned to Mary. + +"Do you remember that time at Boveyhayne?" he said. + +"Which time?" she asked. + +"The first time." + +"Yes." + +He swallowed and then went on. "Do you remember what I said to you ... +on the platform at Whitcombe?" + +She spoke more quickly and loudly as she answered him. "Oh, yes," she +said, "we got engaged, didn't we? We _were_ kids!..." + +Mrs. Graham caught the word "engaged." + +"Who's engaged?" she asked. + +"No one, mother," Mary answered. "Quinny and I were talking about the +time when we were engaged!..." + +He felt a frightful fool. What on earth had possessed her that she +should treat the matter in this fashion? + +"Were you engaged, dear?" Mrs. Graham said. + +"Oh, yes, mother. Don't you remember? Of course, we were kids then!..." + +Why did she insist on the fact that they were "kids" then? + +"I remember it," Ninian interjected. "Old Quinny was frightfully sloppy +over it. Oh, I say, I met Tom Arthurs to-day. He's going to Southampton +to-morrow. The _Gigantic's_ starting on her maiden trip, and he's going +over with her. I wish to goodness I could go too!" + +"Why don't you?" Mrs. Graham said. It seemed to her too that if Ninian +wished to do anything that was sufficient reason why he should be +allowed to do it. + +"I can't get away," he answered. "We're busier than we've ever been. But +I'm going to Southampton to see the _Gigantic_ start. The biggest boat +in the world! My goodness! Tom's awfully excited about it. You'd think +the _Gigantic_ was his son!..." + +Henry thanked heaven that at last the conversation had veered from +factories and his engagement to Mary. He tried to fasten it to the +_Gigantic_. + +"What are you so busy about that you can't go with Tom?" he asked. + +"Oh, heaps of things! Old Hare's keen on building a Channel Tunnel, and +he's spent a good deal of time working the thing out!" + +Mrs. Graham had always imagined that the proposal to build a Tunnel +between France and England was a joke, and she said so. + +"Good heavens, mother!" Ninian exclaimed. "Old Hare isn't a joke. The +thing's as practicable as the Tuppenny Tube. People have been +experimenting for half-a-century with it. Joke, indeed! They've made +seven thousand soundings in forty years!..." + +"Really!" said Mrs. Graham. + +"And borings, too ... lots of them ... in the bed of the Channel. +They've started a Tunnel, two thousand yards of it from Dover, under the +sea, and there isn't a flaw in it. Hardly any water comes through, +although there isn't a lining to the walls ... just the bare, grey +chalk. I was awfully sick when I was told I couldn't go to Harland and +Wolff's, but I don't mind now. Building a Channel Tunnel is as big a job +as building the _Gigantic_ any day, and Hare is as brainy as Tom +Arthurs!" + +He became oratorical about the Channel Tunnel, and he told them stories +of remarkable borings on both sides of the sea. + +"There's a big thick bed of grey chalk all the way from England to +France," he said, "and the water simply can't get through it. They've +made experimental tubes from our side and from the French side, and they +let people into them, and it was all right. No mud, no water, no foul +air ... perfectly sound!" + +He quoted Sartiaux, the French engineer, and Sir Francis Fox, the +English engineer. "They don't fool about with wildcat schemes, I can +tell you. Why, Fox built the Mersey Tunnel and the Simplon Tunnel ... +and the Channel Tunnel is as easy as that!" + +There were to be two tubes, each capable of carrying the ordinary +British railway, bored through a bed of cenomian chalk, two hundred feet +thick on an average. + +"We could have an extra tunnel for motor-cars, if necessary!" said +Ninian. "Just think of the difference there'd be if we had the Tunnel. +You could buzz from London to Paris in five or six hours without +changing, and you'd never get seasick!..." + +"That would be nice," said Mrs. Graham. + +"And you'd be safer in the Tunnel than you'd be on the Channel. There'd +be a hundred and fifty feet of watertight chalk between you and the +sea!" + +They argued about the Tunnel. How long would it take to construct? "Oh, +six or seven years!" Ninian answered airily. "What about War? Supposing +England and France went to War with each other?" + +"We could flood a long section of the Tunnel from our side, and they +couldn't pump the water out from theirs," he answered. "Of course, I +don't know much about it, but when you get chaps like Hare and Sartiaux +and Fox talking seriously about it, you listen seriously to them. +Anyhow, I do. Old Hare told me yesterday I was getting on nicely!..." + +Mrs. Graham was delighted. "Did he, dear?" she burbled at Ninian. + +"Yes," Ninian answered, "he said I wasn't such an ass as he'd thought I +was. Oh, I'm getting on all right!" + + +4 + +Henry sat back in his chair while they talked, and let his mind fill +with thoughts of Mary. She was listening to Ninian, not as if she +understood all that he was saying, but as if she were proud of him, and +while he watched her, he felt his old affection for her surging up in +his heart. He had described a young, fresh girl in "Drusilla," and he +had fallen in love with his description. Now, looking at Mary, he +realised that unconsciously he had drawn her portrait. "I must have been +in love with her all the time," he thought, "even when I was running +after Sheila Morgan!" + +He looked at her so steadily that she felt his gaze, and she turned to +look at him. She smiled at him as she did so, and he smiled back at her. + +"Isn't it interesting to hear about the Tunnel?" she said. + +"Eh?... Oh, yes! Yes. Awfully interesting...." + + +5 + +"You know," said Roger when Mrs. Graham and Mary and Rachel had gone, +"we really haven't talked enough about this factory system. Rachel's +wild about it, of course ... she's a girl ... but she's got more sense +on her side than we have on ours. It really isn't any good ignoring it. +It's too big to be overlooked. I think we ought to have a course of +talks about the whole thing. We could get people to come and tell us all +they know. Rachel's got a lot of information. We could pick it out of +her. And then there's that woman ... what's her name ... Mc something +... who knows all about factories ... Mc Mc Mc ..." + +"Mary McArthur," said Gilbert. + +"Yes. That's her name. I wonder if she'd come and dine with us. You +know, we haven't had any women. That's an oversight, isn't it?" He +walked towards the door as he spoke. "I'm going to bed now," he said. +"I've got a county court case in the morning at Croydon, and I shall +have to get up early. Good-night!" + +"Good-night, Roger!" they murmured sleepily. + +"Oh, by the way," he added, "Rachel and I are engaged. I thought I'd +tell you!" + +He shut the door behind him. + + +6 + +They sat up, gaping at the closed door. + +"What'd he say?" said Ninian. + +"He says he's engaged to that blooming orator!" Gilbert answered. + +"But, damn it, why?" said Ninian. + +"And we've got the lease of this house for another two years!" Henry +exclaimed. "I suppose he'll want to get married and ... all that!" + +They were silent for a while, contemplating this strange disruption of +their affairs. + +"Of course, people do get engaged!" said Ninian, and then he relapsed +into silence. + +"I've been in love myself," Gilbert said, "but ... this is excessive. We +ought to do something. Can't we get up a memorial or something?..." + +Ninian sat upright, pointing a finger at them. "You know, chaps," he +exclaimed, "Roger's ashamed of himself. He didn't tell us 'til he'd got +to the door, and then he damn well hooked it!" + +"He's been trapped," Gilbert said. "Females are always trapping +chaps!..." + +"We ought to save him from himself!" Ninian stood up as he spoke. + +"But supposing he doesn't want to be saved?" Henry asked. + +"We'll save him all the same," Ninian answered. + +"Let's go on a deputation to him," Gilbert suggested. "We will put it +reasonably to him. Well tell him that he mustn't do this thing.... Oh, +Lord, coves, it's no good. This house is doomed. A female has done it!" + +"If it had been you, Gilbert, or Quinny," said Ninian, "I'd have thought +it was natural. You're that sort! But old Roger ... well, there's no +doubt about it, God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. +Let's go to bed. I'm fed-up with everything!" + + +7 + +Henry switched off the light and got into bed. He shut his eyes and +tried to sleep, but sleep would not come to him. He lay blinking at the +ceiling for a while, and then he got up and went into his sitting-room +and got out his manuscript and began to write. He wrote steadily for +half-an-hour, and then he put down his pen and read over what he had +written. + +"No," he said, crumpling the paper and throwing it into the wastepaper +basket, "that won't do!" + +He walked about the room for a few minutes, and then he went back to +bed, and lay there with his hands clasped about his head. + +"I don't see why I shouldn't get married myself," he said, and then he +went to sleep. + + + + +THE SEVENTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +In the morning, Ninian and Roger rose early, for Ninian was going to +Southampton to see the _Gigantic_ start on her maiden voyage to America, +and Roger had a case at a county court outside London. In a vague way, +Ninian had intended to talk to Roger about his engagement, to reason +with him, as he put it. Gilbert had pointed out that the chief +employment of women is to disrupt the friendships of men. "Men," he had +said to Ninian and Henry after Roger had gone to bed, "take years to +make up a friendship, and then a female comes along and busts it up in a +couple of weeks!" Ninian did not intend to let Miss Rachel Wynne break +up _their_ friendship, and he planned a long, comprehensive and settling +conversation with Roger on the subject of females generally and of +Rachel Wynne particularly. In bed, he had invented an extraordinarily +convincing argument, before which Roger must collapse, but by the time +he had finished shaving, the argument had vanished from his mind, and +his convincing speech shrivelled into a halting, "I say, Roger, old +chap, it's a bit thick, you know!" and even that ceased to exist when he +saw Roger, with the _Times_ propped against the sugar bowl, eating bacon +and eggs as easily as if he had never betrothed himself to any woman. + +"Hilloa, Roger!" said Ninian, sitting down at the table, and reaching +for the toast. + +"Hilloa, Ninian!" Roger murmured, without looking up. + +Magnolia entered with Ninian's breakfast and placed it before him. + +"Anything in the _Times_?" Ninian said, pouring out coffee. + +"Usual stuff. The bacon's salt!..." + +The time, Ninian thought, was hardly suitable for a few home-thrusting +words on the subject of marriage, so he reminded Roger that he was going +to Southampton. + +"Tom Arthurs has promised to show me over as much of the _Gigantic_ as +we can manage in a couple of hours. That won't be as much as I'd like to +see, but I'll try and go over her when she comes back from New York. Any +mustard about?" + +"You'll be back again to-night, I suppose?" + +"Probably. You're right ... this bacon is salt, damn it!" + +Roger rose from the table and moved to the window where he stood for a +while looking out on the garden. It seemed to Ninian that in a moment or +two he would speak of his engagement, and so he sat still, waiting for +him to begin. + +"Well," said Roger, turning away from the window and feeling for his +watch, "I must be off. So long, Ninian!" + +He went out of the room quickly and in a little while, Ninian heard the +street door banging behind him. + +"Damn," he said to himself, "I've just remembered what I was going to +say to him!" + +He had finished his breakfast and left the house before Gilbert and +Henry came down from their rooms. Henry was too tired to talk much, and +Gilbert, finding him uncommunicative, made no effort to make +conversation. He picked up the _Times_ and contented himself with the +morning's news, while Henry read a letter from John Marsh which had come +by the first post. + +"_I'm interested in your Improved Tories_," he wrote, "_I think the +scheme is excellent. You sharpen your wits on other people's, and you +keep in touch with all kinds of opinions. That's excellent! Your father, +and you, too, used to say we were rather one-eyed in Dublin, and I +think there's a good deal of truth in that, so I'm trying to get a +group of people in Dublin to form a society somewhat similar to your +Improved Tories. Did you ever meet a man called Arthur Griffiths when +you were here? He is a very able, but not very sociable, man, and so +people do not know him as well as they ought to ... and his tongue is +like a flail ... so that most of the people who do know him, don't like +him. The Nationalist M. P.'s detest him. Well, several years ago he +founded a society which he called the Sinn Fein Movement, and the +principle of the thing is excellent up to a point. Do you remember any +of your Gaelic? Sinn Fein means 'we ourselves,' and that is the +principle of the society. The object is to induce Irishmen to do for +themselves, things that are done for them by Englishmen. It ought to +appeal to your father. Griffiths got the idea, I think, from Hungary. +We're to withdraw our representatives from the English parliament and +start an Irish Government on the basis of a Grand Council of the County +Councils. We're to have our own consular service, our own National Bank +and Stock Exchange and Civil Service, and a mercantile marine so that we +can trade direct with other countries. And we're to nationalise the +railways and canals and bogs (which are to be reclaimed) and take over +insurance and education and so forth. All this is to be done by the +General Council of the County Councils in opposition to anything of the +sort that is done by the English Government in preparation for the day +when there is an Irish Government when, of course, the General Council +will be merged in the Government. Oh, and we're to have Protection, too! +It seems rather a lot, doesn't it? but the idea is excellent and, if +modified considerably, fairly practical. Griffiths has antiquated +notions of economics, however, and some of the things he says prevent me +from joining him. His great idea is to attract capital to Ireland by +telling capitalists how cheap Irish labour is. That seems to me to be an +abominable proposal, likely to lead to something worse than Wigan and +all those miserable English towns your father dislikes so heartily. And +probably, of all his proposals, it is the most likely to succeed. That's +why I'm opposed to him at present. I cannot bear the thought of seeing +England duplicated in Ireland. But the scheme has merit, and Galway and +I are plotting to capture the movement from Griffiths. We think that if +we could graft the Sinn Fein on to the Gaelic League, we'd be on the way +to establishing Irish independence. Our people are becoming very +materialistic, and we must quicken their spirits again somehow. Douglas +Hyde is the trouble, of course. He wants to keep the Gaelic League clear +of politics. As if you can possibly keep politics out of anything in +Ireland! We want to make every Gaelic Leaguer a conscious rebel against +English beliefs and English habits. I wish you'd come over and join us. +It'll be very hard, but exhilarating, work. You've no notion of how +sordid and money-grubbing and English the mass of our people are +becoming. It's a man's job to destroy that spirit and revive the old, +careless, generous, God-loving Irish one...._" + +"Still harping on that old nationality," Henry thought to himself, when +he had finished reading the letter. + +He was in no mood for thoughts on Ireland. His mind was still full of +the idea that had come into his head the previous night. _Why should he +not get married?_ The idea attracted and repelled him. It would, he +thought, be very pleasant to live with ... with Mary, say ... to love +her and be loved by her ... very pleasant ... but one would have to +accept responsibilities, and there would probably be children. He would +dislike having to leave Ninian and Roger and Gilbert, particularly +Gilbert, and his share in the meetings of the Improved Tories would +begin to dwindle. On the other hand, there would be Mary ... If he were +to lose his friends and the careless, cultured life they led in the +Bloomsbury house, he would gain Mary, and perhaps she would more than +compensate for them.... + +Gilbert interrupted his thoughts. + +"Rum go, this about Roger, isn't it?" he said. + +Henry nodded his head. "I hadn't any idea of it," he replied. "I'd never +even heard of her until he said she was coming to dinner!" + +"I had," Gilbert said, "but I didn't think he was going to let the life +force catch hold of him. Close chap, Roger! He never gives himself away +... and that's the sort that's most romantic. You and I are obviously +sloppy, Quinny, but somehow we miss all the messes that reticent, close +chaps like Roger fall into. You don't much like her, do you?" + +"Well, I'm not what you might call smitten by her, but that's because +she seems to think I'm wasting time in writing novels. She's too +strenuous for me. I like women who relax sometimes. She'll orate to him +every night, just as she orated to us, about people's wrongs...." + +"Mind, she's clever!" said Gilbert. + +"Oh, I don't deny that. That's part of my case against her. Really and +truly, Gilbert, do you like clever women?" + +"Really and truly, Quinny, I don't. Perhaps that's not the way to put +it. I like talking to clever women, but I shouldn't like to marry one of +them. I'm clever myself, and perhaps that's why. There isn't room for +more than one clever person in a family, and I think a clever man should +marry an intelligently stupid woman, and vice versa. You can argue with +clever women, but you can't kiss them or flirt with them. All the clever +ones I've ever known have had something hard in them ... like a lump of +steel. Men aren't like that! They can be hard, of course, but they +aren't always exhibiting their hardness. Clever women are." + +Henry tossed Marsh's letter across the table to Gilbert. + +"Read that," he said, "while I look through the _Times_!" + +They both rose from the table, and sat for a while in the armchairs on +either side of the fireplace. + +"You know, Quinny," said Gilbert, as he took Marsh's letter out of its +envelope, "I often think we're awfully young, all of us!" + +"Young?" + +"Yes. Immature ... and all that. We're frightfully clever, of course, +but really we don't know much, and yet you're writing books and I'm +writing plays and Ninian's building Tunnels and Roger's playing ducks +and drakes with the law ... and not one of us is thirty yet. Lord, I +wish Roger hadn't got engaged. That sort of thing makes a man think!" + +He read Marsh's letter and then passed it back to Henry. + +"Seems all right," he said. "It's a pity those Irish fellows haven't got +a wider outlook. Sitting there fussing over their mouldy island when +there's the whole world to fuss over! I must be off soon. There's a +rehearsal of my play this morning...." + +"I say, Gilbert," Henry interrupted, "do you think I ought to go and +join this Irish Renascence business?" + +"How can I tell? It probably won't amount to much. I should take an +intelligent interest in it, if I were you. Perhaps you can induce Marsh +to come over and talk to the Improved Tories about it. What are you +doing this morning?" + +"Oh, working!" + +"Well, so long!" + +"So long, Gilbert. You'll be back to lunch, I suppose?" + +"I don't think so. The rehearsals are very long now. You see, the play's +to be done on Wednesday...." + + +2 + +When Gilbert had gone, Henry, having glanced through the _Times_, went +up to his room and began to write, but he did not continue at his +manuscript for very long. The words would not roll lightly off his pen: +they fell off and lay inertly about the paper. He was accustomed now to +periods during which his mind seemed to have lost its power to operate, +and he was not alarmed by them. He knew that it was useless to attempt +to do any work that morning, so he left his room and, telling Mrs. +Clutters that he would not return to lunch, went out of the house and +wandered about the streets for a while without any purpose. It was not +until he saw the sign on a passing motor-'bus that he decided on what he +should do. "Hyde Park Corner" was on the sign, and he called to the +conductor and presently mounted to the roof of the 'bus and was driven +towards the Park. + +"I wonder," he thought to himself, "whether I shall see Lady Cecily +to-day!" + +Lady Cecily had curiously disappeared from their lives. Gilbert, +absorbed in the production of his play, had not spoken of her again, nor +had he made any mention of his proposal to leave London and go to +Anglesey. He had resigned from the staff of the _Daily Echo_, and, since +he no longer attended first-nights at the theatre, he had not seen Lady +Cecily since the night on which "The Ideal Husband" was revived. Henry +had said to himself on several occasions that he would go and see Lady +Cecily, but he had not done so. He did not care to go alone, and he +cared less to ask Gilbert to go with him ... but to-day, as suddenly as +she had quitted his thoughts, Lady Cecily came into them again, and, as +he sat on top of the omnibus, he hoped that he would see her in the +Park. "If not," he said to himself, "I'll call on her this afternoon!" + +He descended from the 'bus at Hyde Park Corner and hastily entered the +Park. He crossed to the Achilles monument and debated with himself as to +whether he should sit down or walk about, and decided to sit down. If +Lady Cecily were in the Park, he told himself, she would pass his chair +some time during the morning. He chose a seat near the railings and sat +down and waited. There was a continual flow of carriages and cars, but +none of them contained Lady Cecily, and when he had been sitting for +almost an hour, he told himself that he was not likely to see her that +morning. He rose, as he said this to himself, and turned to walk across +the grass towards Rotten Bow, and as he turned, he saw Jimphy. He was +not anxious to meet Jimphy again, and he pretended not to see him, but +Jimphy came up to him, smiling affably, and said "Hilloa, Quinn, old +chap!" so he had to be as amiable as he could in response to the +greeting. + +Jimphy wanted to know why it was that he and Henry had not met again +since the night that "Cecily let a chap in for a damn play," and +reminded him of their engagement to visit the Empire together. "Anyhow," +he said, "you can come and lunch with us. Cecily'll be glad to see you. +I said I'd come home to lunch if I could find some one worth bringing +with me, so that's all right!" + +"How is Lady Cecily?" Henry asked, as he and Jimphy left the Park +together. + +"Oh, I expect she's all right," Jimphy answered. "I forgot to ask this +morning, but if she'd been seedy or anything she'd have told me about +it, so I suppose she's all right!" + +"When's this play of Farlow's coming on?" Jimphy asked on the doorstep +of his house. + +"Wednesday," Henry answered. + +"Cecily's made me promise to go and see it with her. What sort of a +piece is it?" + +They entered the house as he spoke. + +"It's excellent...." + +"Is it comic?" + +"Well, I suppose it is. He calls it a comedy," Henry said. + +"So long as there's a laugh in it, I don't mind going to see it. I can't +stand these weepy bits. 'Hamlet' and that sort of stuff. Enough to give +a chap the pip! Oh, here's Cecily!" + +Henry turned to look up the stairs down which Lady Cecily was coming, +and then he went forward to greet her. + +"How nice of you," she said. "Has Gilbert come, too?" + +"No," he answered, chilled by her question. "He has a rehearsal this +morning!" + +"Oh, yes, of course," she said. "His play! I forgot. We're going to see +it on Wednesday. I hope it's good!" + +"It's very good," Henry replied. + + +3 + +Jimphy left them after lunch. He was awfully sorry, old chap, to have to +tear himself away and all that, but the fact was he had an appointment +... an important appointment ... and of course a chap had to keep an +important appointment.... + +"We'll forgive you, Jimphy!" Lady Cecily said, and then he went away, +begging Henry to remember that they must go to the Empire together one +night. + +"Well?" said Lady Cecily when her husband had gone, "how are you all +getting on?" + +She was reclining on a couch, with her feet resting on a cushion, and as +she asked her question she pointed to another cushion lying on a chair. +He fetched it and put it behind her back. + +"Splendidly," he answered. "Is that right?" + +She settled herself more comfortably. "Yes, thanks," she said. "I read +your novel," she went on. + +"Did you like it?" + +"Oh, yes. Of course, I liked it. I suppose you're writing another book +now!" He nodded his head, and she went on. "I wish I could write books, +but of course I can't. Mr. Lensley says I live books. Isn't that nice of +him? Do you put real people in your books, or do you make them all up? +Do you know, I think I'll have another cigarette!" + +He passed the box of cigarettes to her and held it while she made up her +mind whether she would smoke an Egyptian or a Turkish. Her delicate +fingers moved indecisively from the one brand to the other. "You like +Turkish, don't you?" he said, wishing that he could take her slender +hand in his and hold it forever. + +"Choose one for me," she said, capriciously, lying back and clasping her +hands about her head. + +He took a cigarette from the box and offered it to her, but she did not +hold out her hand to take it, and he understood that he was to place it +between her lips. His fingers trembled as he did so, and he turned +hurriedly to find the matches. + +"Behind you," she said, and he turned and picked them up. + +He lit a match and held it to her cigarette, and while he held it, her +fingers touched his. She had taken hold of the cigarette to remove it +from her lips.... He blew out the light and threw the match into the +ash-tray, and then went and sat down in the deep chair in which he had +been sitting when she asked him to get the cushion for her. + +"Why didn't you call before?" she said, lazily blowing the smoke up into +the air. + +It was difficult to say why he had not called before, so he answered +vaguely. There had been so much to do of late.... + +"And Gilbert? He doesn't rehearse all day long, does he?" + +"No, not all day, but he's pretty tired by the time he gets home." + +"Why didn't he come to the Savoy that night?" she asked. + +He wished she would not talk about Gilbert. He could not tell her the +real reason why Gilbert had not kept his promise to join the +supper-party and he was a poor hand at inventing convincing lies. + +"There was some trouble at his office, I think," he said, "and he +couldn't get away until too late!..." + +"He didn't write or come to see me!" she protested. + +It was probable that Gilbert forgot his duty in the excitement of +hearing that his play was to be produced.... + +"I suppose so," she said. + +She talked to him about his books and about Ireland. She had been to +Dublin once and had gone to the Viceregal Lodge ... Lady Dundrum had +taken her to some function there ... and she was eager for the +tittle-tattle of the Court. Was it true that Lord Kelpie was indifferent +to his lady?... Henry knew very little of the Dublin gossip. "I haven't +been there since I left Trinity," he said, in explanation, "and the only +people who write to me don't take any interest in Court functions!" + +He rose to go, but she asked him to stay to tea with her, and so he +remained. + +"I don't suppose any one will call," she said, "but in case ..." + +She told a servant that she was "not at home" to any one, and Henry, +wondering why she had done so, felt vaguely flattered and as vaguely +nervous. Her beauty filled him with desire and apprehension and left him +half eager, half afraid to be alone with her. He understood Gilbert's +fear that if he yielded to Cecily, she would destroy him. There was +something in this woman that overpowered the senses, that made a man as +will-less as a log, and left him in the end, spent, exhausted, +incapable. He saw the danger that had frightened Gilbert, but he could +not make up his mind to run away from it. There was something so +exquisitely sensual in her look as she lay on the couch, looking at him +and chattering in the Lensley style, that he felt inclined to yield +himself to her, even if in yielding he should lose everything. + +"Of course," he said to himself, "this is all imagination. She doesn't +want me at all ... she wants Gilbert!" + +She asked for another cigarette, and he took one and placed it in her +lips and lit it for her, and again his fingers touched hers, and again +he trembled with unaccountable emotion. As he bent over her, holding the +match to the cigarette, he felt the blood rushing to his head and for a +moment or two his eyes were blurred and he could not see clearly. Then +his eyes cleared and he saw that she was looking steadily at him, and he +knew that she understood what was passing in his mind. He dropped the +match on to the ash-tray and bent a little nearer to her. He would take +her in his arms, he said to himself, and hold her tightly to him.... + +"Won't you sit down," she said, pointing to his chair. + +He straightened himself, but did not move away. His eyes were still +intent on hers, as if he could not avoid her gaze, and for a while +neither of them spoke or moved. Then she smiled at him. + +"You're a funny boy," she said. "Won't you sit down!" and again she +pointed to the chair. + +His answer was so low that he could hardly hear himself speak, and at +first he thought she had not heard him. "I'd better go," he said. + +"Not yet," she answered. "You needn't go yet!" + +"I'd better...." + +She put out her hand and made him sit down. + +"There's no hurry," she said. + +He leant back in his chair, resting his elbows on the arms of it and +folding his fingers under his chin. + +"You look frightened," she said. + +"I am," he answered. + +"Of me?" He nodded his head, and she laughed. "How absurd!" she said. +"I'm not a bit terrifying...." + +He was not trembling now. He felt quite calm, as if he had resigned +himself to what must be. + +"No, I ... I know you're not," he said, "only ..." + +"Only what?" + +"I don't know!" + +She put her cigarette down and turned slightly towards him. + +"Funny boy!" she said. "Funny Irish boy!" + +He smiled foolishly at her, but did not answer. He knew that if he +spoke at all, he would say wild things that could not be withdrawn or +explained away. + +"Funny scared Irish boy!" she said, and he could see the mockery in her +eyes. "Such a frightened Irish boy!..." + +He could hold out no longer. She had put her hand out towards him ... +why he could not tell ... and impulsively he seized it and clasped it +tightly in his. His grasp must have hurt her, for she cried a little and +tried to withdraw her hand, but he would not let go his hold of it +until, kneeling beside her, he had put his arms about her and kissed +her. + +"I love you," he said. "You know I love you...." + +"Don't!" + +"I loved you the minute I set eyes on you, and I wanted to meet you +again ... and then I was jealous of Gilbert because you took so much +notice of him and so little of me, and ... I love you, I love you!" + +She thrust him from her. "You're hurting me," she said, and she panted +as she spoke. + +"I want to hurt you," he answered. + +"But you mustn't...." + +He did not let her finish her sentence. He pressed his lips hard on hers +until his strength seemed to pass away from him. He felt in some strange +way that her eyes were closed and that she was moaning.... + +He put his arms about her again, and drew her head gently on to his +breast. "My dear," he said softly, bending over her and kissing her +hair. + +She lay very still in his arms, so still that he thought she had fallen +asleep. Her long lashes trembled a little, and then she opened her eyes, +sighing contentedly as she did so. He smiled down at her, and she smiled +in response. Then she put her hand up and stroked his cheek and ruffled +his hair. + +"Funny Irish boy!" she said again. + + +4 + +He climbed on to a 'bus which bore him eastwards. It was impossible, in +his state of exaltation, to go home and eat in the company of the +others. Ninian would probably be back from Southampton, unbalanced with +admiration for Tom Arthurs and the _Gigantic_, and then Gilbert would +tell him how Sir Geoffrey Mundane had behaved during the rehearsal and +how exasperating Mrs. Michael Gordon, the leading lady, had been. "She's +brilliant, of course," he had said about her once, "but if I were her +husband I'd beat her!" He could not endure the thought of spending the +evening in the customary company of his friends. They would want to +talk, they would draw him into the conversation, and he neither wished +to talk nor to listen. His desire was only to remember, to go over again +in his mind that long, passionate afternoon with Cecily.... So he had +telephoned to Mrs. Clutters telling her that he would not be in to +dinner, and then, climbing on to a 'bus, had allowed himself to be +carried eastwards, not knowing or caring whither he was being carried. + +He paid no heed to the other passengers on the 'bus, nor did he interest +himself in the traffic of the streets. When the conductor came, +demanding fares, he asked for a ticket to the terminus, but did not +bother to ask where the terminus was. His mind was full of golden hair +and warm, moist lips and soft, disturbing perfume and the touch of a +shapely hand. Cecily had insisted on calling him "Paddy" because he was +Irish and because so many Englishmen are called "Henry," and when he had +left her, she had offered her lips to him and, when he had kissed her, +had told him she would see him again soon. "When Gilbert's play is +done," she said, and added, "Tell Gilbert I shall expect him to come and +talk to me after the first act!" + +He had been jealous when she said that. "You don't really care for me," +he had said. "You really love Gilbert!" + +"Of course I love Gilbert," she had answered, laughing at him and +patting his cheek, "but I love you, too. I love lots of people! ..." + +Then, ashamed of himself, he had left her. It was caddish of him to +speak of Gilbert to her, for Gilbert was his friend and her lover. If +one were to try and take a friend's mistress from him, one should at +least be silent about it. But how could he help these outbursts of +jealousy! He cared for Gilbert far more than he cared for any man ... +but he could not prevent himself from raging at the thought that Gilbert +had but to hold out his arms and Cecily would run to be clasped in them. +"I'm a makeshift," he said to himself. "That's all!" + +But even if he were only a makeshift, that was better than being shut +away from her love altogether. "I daresay," he thought, "she's as fond +of me as she is of any one!" and he wondered whether she really loved +Gilbert. It was difficult for him to believe that she could yield so +easily to him and love Gilbert deeply, and he soothed his conscience by +telling himself that Cecily was one of those women who are in love with +love, ready to accept kisses from any ardent youth who offers them to +her. He remembered his contribution to the discussion on women and the +way in which he had insisted on infinite variety of experiences. Cecily +was, as a woman, what he had wished to be as a man. We had to recognise +the differences of nature, he had said, but somehow he did not greatly +care to see his principle put into practice by Cecily. There was +something very fine and dashing and Byronic and adventurous in a man +with a spacious spirit, but after all, women were women, and one did not +like to think of adventuring women. He wanted to have Cecily to himself +... he did not wish to share her with Gilbert or with Jimphy or with any +one, and it hardly seemed decent that Cecily should wish to spread her +affections over three men. "And there may be others, too!" All this talk +about sex-equality had an equitable sound ... his intellect agreed that +if men were to have amorous adventures, then women should have them too; +if men were to be unfaithful without reproach, then women should be +equally without reproach in their infidelity ... but his instinct cried +out against it. He wanted his woman to himself even though he might not +keep himself for her alone. + +"And that's the beginning and the end of the sex-question," he said. "We +simply aren't willing to let women live on our level. In theory, the man +who goes to a prostitute is as bad as she is, but in practice, we don't +believe it, and women don't believe it either, and nothing will ever +make us believe it. And it's the same with lovers and mistresses. It +simply doesn't seem decent to a man who keeps a mistress that his wife +should have a lover. You can't help having instincts!..." + + +5 + +The 'bus drove over London Bridge and presently he found himself in the +railway station. It was too early yet to eat, and he made up his mind to +go for a walk through Southwark. None of them had ever been in the +slums. They had set their minds against suggestions that they should +live in Walworth or Whitechapel or Bethnal Green in order that they +might get to know something of the lives of the very poor. "That's +simply slush," Gilbert had said. "We shouldn't live like them. We'd have +four good meals every day and baths every morning, and we'd only feel +virtuous and 'smarmy' and do-good-to-the-poor-y. My object is to get rid +of slums, not to go and live in the damn things and encourage +slum-owners by paying rent regularly. All those Settlement people ... +really, they're doing the heroic stunt for their own ends. They'll go +into parliament and say they have intimate knowledge of the way in +which the poor live because they've lived with them ... and it's all my +eye, that stuff!" + +The notion had made a faint appeal to Henry, but he had not responded to +it because of the way in which the others had sneered at it and because +he liked pleasant surroundings. Once, in Dublin, he had wandered out of +St. Stephens's Green and found himself in the Combe, and the sights he +had witnessed there had sickened him so that he had hurried away, and +always thereafter had been careful not to enter side streets with which +he was not familiar. Now, he felt that he ought to see a London slum. +One had to have a point of view about poor people, and it was difficult +to have a point of view about people of whom one was almost totally +ignorant. + +He walked slowly up the Borough High Street, uncertain of himself and of +the district. He would want something to eat presently, and if he were +to venture too far into the slums that lay hidden behind St. George's +Church and the Elephant, he might have difficulty in finding a place +where he could take a meal in comfort. He stood for a few moments +outside the window of a shop in which sausages and steaks and onions +were being fried. There was a thick, hot, steamy odour coming from the +door that filled him with nausea, and he turned to move away, but as he +did so, he saw two sickly boys, half naked, standing against the window +with their mouths pressed close to the glass. They were eyeing the +cooking food so hungrily that he felt pity for them, and he touched one +of them on the shoulder and asked him if he would like something to eat. +The boy looked at him, but did not answer, and his companion came +shuffling to his side and eyed him too. + +"Wouldn't you like some of that ... that stuff!" Henry said, pointing to +a great slab of thick pudding, padded with currants. + +One of the boys nodded his head, and Henry moved towards the door of the +shop, bidding them both to follow him. + +"Give these youngsters some of that pudding!" he said to the man behind +the counter: a fat, flaccid man with a wet, steamy brow which he +periodically wiped with a grimy towel. + +"'Ere!" said the man, cutting off large pieces of the pudding and +passing it across the counter to the boys who took it, without speaking, +and began to gnaw at it immediately. + +"Wod you say for it, eih?" the man demanded. + +They mumbled unintelligibly, their mouths choked with the food. + +"Pore little kids, they don't know no better! Nah, then, 'op it, you +two! That'll be fourpence, sir!" + +Henry paid for the pudding and left the malodorous shop. The children +were standing in the shadow outside, one of them eating wolfishly, while +the other held the pudding in front of him, gaping at it.... + +"Don't you like it?" Henry said, bending down to him. + +"'E can't eat it, guv'nor!" the other boy said. + +"Can't eat it?" + +"No, guv'nor, 'e can't. I'll 'ave to eat it for 'im...." + +"But why can't you eat?" Henry asked, turning to the boy who still gaped +helplessly at the pudding. + +The child did not answer. He stared at the pudding, and then he stared +at Henry, and as he did so, the pudding fell from his hands, and he +became sick.... + +"'Ere, wod you chuckin' it awy for?" the other boy said, dropping +quickly to the ground and picking up the pudding. + +"He's ill," Henry said helplessly. + +"'E's always ill," the boy answered, stuffing pieces of the recovered +pudding into his mouth. + +A policeman was standing at the corner, and Henry went to him and told +him of the child's plight. + +"Sick is 'e?" the constable exclaimed. + +"Yes," Henry answered. "He looked hungry, poor little chap, and so I +bought him some of the pudding they sell in that shop!" + +The policeman looked at him for a few moments. "Well, of course, you +meant it kindly, sir!" he said, "but if I was you I wouldn't do that +again. If you'll excuse me sayin' it, sir, it was a damn silly thing to +do!" + +"Why?" + +"Why! 'Alf the kids about 'ere is too 'ungry to eat. That kid ought to +be in the 'ospital by rights. Don't never give 'em no puddin' or stuff +like that, sir. Their stomachs can't stand it. Nah, then," he said to +the sick child, "you 'op 'ome, young 'un. You didn't ought to be 'angin' +about 'ere, you know, upsettin' the traffic an' mykin' a mess on the +pyvement. Gow on! Git aht of it!" + +The boys ran off, leaving Henry staring blankly after them. "'E'll be +all right, sir!" said the policeman. "It's no good tryin' to do nothink +for 'em. They're down, guv'nor, an' that's all about it. I seen a lot of +yooman nature down about 'ere, an' you can tyke it from me, them kids is +down an' they'll stay down, an' that's all you can say about it. +Good-night, sir!" + +"Good-night!" said Henry. + +He moved away, feeling sick and miserable and angry. + +"It's beastly," he said to himself. "That's what it is. Beastly!" + + +6 + +His mind was occupied by violent thoughts about the two children whom he +had fed with currant pudding, and he did not observe what he was doing +or where he was going. He was in a wide, dark street where there were +tram-lines, but he could not remember seeing a tramcar pass by. He was +tired and although he was not hungry, he was conscious of a missed meal, +and he was thirsty. "I'd better turn back," he said to himself, turning +as he did so. He wondered where he was, and he resolved that he would +ask the first policeman he met to tell him in what part of London he now +was and what was the quickest way to get out of it. + +"It was silly of me to come here at all," he murmured, and then he +turned quickly and stared across the street. + +A woman had screamed somewhere near by ... on the other side of the +street, he thought ... and as he looked, he saw figures struggling, and +then they parted and one of them, a woman, ran away towards a lamppost, +holding her hands before her in an appealing fashion, and crying, "Oh, +don't! Don't hit me!..." The other figure was that of a man, and as the +woman shrank from him, the man advanced towards her with his fist +uplifted.... + +Henry could feel himself shrinking back into the shadow. + +"He's going to hit her," he was saying to himself, and he closed his +eyes, afraid lest he should see the man's fist smashing into the woman's +face. He could hear a foul oath uttered by the man and the woman's +scream as she retreated still further from him ... and then, trembling +with fright, he ran across the street and thrust himself between them. +"Oh, my God, what am I doing?" he moaned to himself as he stood in the +glare of the yellow light that fell from the street lamp. He felt rather +than saw that the woman had risen from the ground and run away the +moment the man's attention was distracted from her, and a shudder of +fear ran through him as he realised that he was alone. He could see the +man's brutal face and his blazing, drink-inflamed eyes, and in the +middle of his fear, he thought how ugly the man's eyebrows were ... one +long, black line from eye to eye across the top of his nose. The man, +his fist clenched and raised, advanced towards him. "He's going to hit +me now," Henry thought. "He'll knock me down and ... and kick me!... +These people always kick you!..." + +He stood still waiting for the blow, mesmerised by the man's blazing +eyes; but the man, though his fist was still clenched, did not strike +him. He reeled up to him so closely that Henry was sickened by the +smell of his drink-sodden breath. "Fight for a woman, would you?" he +shouted at him. "Eih? P'tect a woman, would you?..." + +Henry wanted to laugh. The man was repeating phrases from melodramas!... + +"Tyke a woman's part, eih? I know you, you bloody toff! You ... you +think you're a bloody 'ero, eih, p'tectin' a woman from 'er 'usband!" He +pushed Henry aside, almost falling on the pavement as he did so. "I've a +goo' mind to break your bloody neck for you, see, bloody toff, +interferin' ... 'usband an' wife. See? Thash what I'll do!..." + +He came again at Henry, but still he did not strike. He mumbled his +melodramatic phrases, swaying in front of Henry, and threatening to +break his neck and punch his jaw and give him a thick ear, but he did no +more than that, and while he threatened, a crowd gathered out of the +shadows, and a woman, with bare arms, touched Henry's arm and drew him +away from the drunken man. "You 'op it, mister," she said, "or you'll +get 'urt!" She pushed him out of the crowd, slapping a lad in the face +who had jostled him and said, "Gawblimey, look at Percy!" and when she +had got him away from them, she told him again to 'op it. + +"Thank you!..." he began. + +"Don't you wyste no time, mister, but 'op it quick," she interrupted, +giving him a push forward. + +"But I don't know where I am," he replied. + +"Dunno w'ere you are!... Well, of course, you look like that! You're in +Bermondsey, mister, an' if you tyke my advice you'll go 'ome an' sty +'ome. People like you didden ought to be let out alone! You go 'ome to +your mother, sir! The first turnin' on the right'll bring you to the +trams...." + +He did as she told him, hurrying away from the dark street as quickly as +he could. He was trembling. Every nerve in his body seemed to be +strained, and his eyes had the tired feel they always had when he was +deeply agitated. + +"My God," he said, "what an ass I was to do that!" + + +7 + +Gilbert and Roger were sitting together when he got home. + +"Hilloa, Quinny!" Gilbert exclaimed as he looked at Henry's white face. +"What have you been up to?" + +He told them of his adventure in Bermondsey. + +"You do do some damn funny things, Quinny!" said Gilbert, going to the +sideboard and getting out the whisky. "Here, have a drop of this stuff. +You look completely pipped!" + +"I don't think I should make a habit of knight-errantry, if I were you," +said Roger. "Not in slums at all events!" + +"Has Ninian come back yet?" Henry asked, sipping the whisky. + +"He's gone to bed. The _Gigantic_ got off all right, but there was +trouble at the start. She fouled a cruiser or something. Ninian's full +of it. He'll tell you the whole rigmarole in the morning. You'd better +trot off to bed when you've drunk that, and for God's sake, Quinny, +don't try to be heroic again. You're not cut out for that sort of +job!..." + + + + +THE EIGHTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +Mrs. Graham and Mary and Rachel Wynne dined with them on the first night +of "The Magic Casement." Rachel, fresh from a Care Committee, composed +mostly of members of the Charity Organisation Society and the wives of +prosperous tradesmen, was inclined to tell the world what she thought of +it, but they diverted her mind from the iniquities of the Care Committee +by congratulating her on her engagement to Roger. She blushed and gave +her thanks in stammers, looking with bright, proud eyes at Roger; and +when they saw how human she was, they forgot her hard efficiency and her +sociological angers, and liked her. Gilbert urged her to tell them tales +of the C.O.S. and the Care Committee, and rejoiced loudly when she +described how she had discomfited a large, granitic woman ... the +Mayor's wife ... who had committed a flagrant breach of the law in her +anxiety to penalise some unfortunate children whose father was an +agitator. "If I were poor," Rachel said, "I'd hit a C.O.S. person on +sight! I'd hit it simply because it was a C.O.S. person! That would be +evidence against it!" She enjoyed calling a C.O.S. person, "it," and +Henry felt that perhaps some of the difficulty with the Mayor's wife was +due to the pleasure that Rachel took in rubbing her up the wrong way. He +suggested that tactful treatment.... + +"You can't be tactful with that kind of person," she asserted instantly. +"You can only be angry. You see, they love to badger poor people. It's +sheer delight to them to ask impertinent questions. There's a big streak +of Torquemada in them. They'd have been Inquisitors if they'd been born +in Spain when there were Inquisitors!" She paused for a second or two, +and then went on rapidly. "I never thought of that before. Why, of +course, that's what they are. They've been reincarnated ... you know, +transmigration of souls ... and that fat woman, Mrs. Smeale...." Mrs. +Smeale was the Mayor's wife ... "was an Inquisitor before she was ... +was dug up again. I can see her beastly big face in a cowl, and hot +pincers in her hands, plucking poor Protestants' flesh off their bones +... and she's doing that now, using all the rotten rules and regulations +as hot pincers to pluck the spirit out of the poor! Of course, she does +it all for the best! So did the Inquisitors! She doesn't want to +undermine the moral character of the poor, and they didn't want to let +the poor heretic imperil his soul.... I'd like to inquisit her!..." + +"There isn't a word 'inquisit,' Rachel!" said Roger. + +"Well, there ought to be," she answered. + +Henry pictured her, in her committee room, surrounded by hard women, +opposing herself to them, fighting for people who were not of her class +against people who were, and it seemed to him that Rachel was very +valiant, even if she were tactless, much more valiant than he could be. +Rachel belonged to the fearless, ungracious, blunt people who are not to +be deterred from their purpose by ostracism or abuse, and Henry realised +that such courage as hers must inevitably be accompanied by +aggressiveness, a harsh insistence on one's point of view, and worst of +all, a surrender of social charm and ease and the kindly regard of one's +friends. "I couldn't do that," he thought to himself. It was easy enough +to sneer at such people, to call them "cranks," but indisputably they +had the heroic spirit, the will to endure obloquy for their opinions. "I +suppose," he reflected, "the reason why one feels so angry with such +people is partly that nine times out of ten they're in the right, and +partly that ten times out of ten they've got the pluck we haven't got!" +And he remembered that Witterton, a journalist whom he had met at the +office of the _Morning Record_, had climbed on to the plinth in +Trafalgar Square during the Boer War and made a speech in denunciation +of Chamberlain and the Rand lords, and had been badly mauled by the mob. +"By God, that's courage!" he murmured. That was the sort of person +Rachel was. He could see her opposing herself to mobs, but he could not +see himself doing so. Probably, he thought, he would be on the fringe of +the crowd, mildly deprecating violence and tactlessness.... + +He came out of his ruminations to hear Mrs. Graham telling Rachel how +pleased she was to hear that Roger and she were engaged. "My dear," she +said, "I'm very glad!" and then she kissed Rachel. + +"Come here, Roger," she added, and when he had ambled awkwardly up to +her, she took his head in her hands and kissed him too.... + +"I've a jolly good mind to get engaged myself," said Gilbert. + +"Well, why don't you?" Mrs. Graham retorted. + +"I would, only I keep on forgetting about it," he answered. "Couldn't +you kiss me 'Good-luck' to my play?" + +"I could," she replied, and kissed him. + +Then they insisted that she should kiss them all, and she did as they +insisted. She was very gracious and very charming and her eyes were +bright with her pleasure in their youth and spirits ... so bright that +presently she cried a little ... and then they all talked quickly and +kicked one another's shins under the table in order to enforce tactful +behaviour. + + +2 + +They sat in one of the two large boxes of the Pall Mall Theatre. Gilbert +was nervous and restless, and after the play began, he retreated to the +back of the box and sat down in a corner. + +"What's up, Gilbert?" Henry whispered to him. "Are you ill?" + +"Ill!" Gilbert exclaimed, looking up at Henry with a whimsical smile. +"Man, Quinny, I'm dying! Go away like a good chap and let me die in +peace. Tell all my friends that my last words were...." + +Henry went back to his seat beside Mary and whispered to her that +Gilbert was too nervous and agitated to be sociable ... "some sort of +stage fright!..." and they pretended not to notice that he was huddled +in the darkest corner of the box. "Thank goodness," Henry said to the +others, "a novelist doesn't get a storm of nerves on the day of +publication!" Leaning over the edge of the box, he could see Lady Cecily +sitting in the stalls, with Jimphy by her side ... and for a while he +forgot the play and Mary and Gilbert's agitation. She was sitting +forward, looking intently at the stage, and as he watched her, she +laughed and turned to Jimphy as if she would share her pleasure with +him, but Jimphy, lying back in his stall, was fiddling with his +programme, utterly uninterested. She glanced up at the box, her eyes +meeting his, and smiled at him. + +"Who is it?" said Mary, leaning towards him. + +"Oh ... Lady Cecily Jayne!" he answered, discomposed by her question. + +"She's very beautiful, isn't she?" + +"Yes." + +They turned again to the stage and were silent until the end of the +first act. There was a burst of laughter, and then the curtain +descended, to rise again in quick response to the applause. + +"Cheering a chap at his funeral!" said Gilbert, groaning with delight as +he listened to the shouts and handclaps. + +They turned to him and offered their congratulations. + +"Five curtain-calls," said Roger. "Very satisfactory!" + +"It's splendid, Gilbert," Mrs. Graham exclaimed. "I'm sure it'll be a +great success!" + +"Oh, dear, O Lord, I wish it were over!" Gilbert replied. + +"Let's fill him with whisky," said Ninian, rising and taking hold of +Gilbert's arm, and he and Henry took him and led him to the bar where +they met Jimphy, looking like a lost rabbit. + +"Hilloa, Jimphy!" they exclaimed, and he turned gleefully to welcome +them. Here at all events was something he could comprehend. He +congratulated Gilbert. "Jolly good, old chap! Have a drink," he said, +and insisted that they should join him at the bar. "Of course," he added +privately to Henry, "this sort of stuff isn't really in my line ... +jolly good and all that, of course ... but still it's not in my line. +All the same, a chap has to congratulate a chap. Oh, Cecily wants you to +go and talk to her. You know where she is, don't you?" + +He turned to listen to Ninian who was describing the accident which had +happened when the _Gigantic_ started on her first trip to America. "She +jolly near sank a cruiser," he was saying as Henry moved away from the +bar. "That was the second accident. The first time, she broke from her +moorings...." + +He pushed his way through the crowd of drinking and gossiping men, and +entered the stalls. Lady Cecily saw him coming, and she beckoned to him. + +"Who is that nice girl in the box?" she asked, as he sat down in +Jimphy's seat. "She sat beside you...." + +"Oh, Ninian's sister," he replied. "Mary Graham." + +"She's very pretty, isn't she?" + +"Yes...." + +He would have said more, but it suddenly struck him as comical that Lady +Cecily should speak of Mary almost in the words that Mary had used when +she spoke of Lady Cecily. He looked up at the box and saw that Mary was +talking to her mother, and something in her attitude sent a pang through +his heart. + +"I _do_ love Mary," he said to himself, "but somehow ... somehow I love +Cecily too!" + +Lady Cecily was speaking to him and he turned to listen. + +"I want you to introduce me to Ninian's sister," she said. + +"Yes," he answered reluctantly, though he could not have said why he was +reluctant to introduce her to Mary. + +"After the next act," she went on, and he nodded his head. + +Then Jimphy returned, and Henry got up and left her, and hurried back to +the box. The second act had begun when he reached it, and he tiptoed to +his seat and sat down in silence. Mary looked round at him, smiling, and +then looked back at the stage, and again he felt that odd reluctance to +bring Lady Cecily and her together. + + +3 + +At the end of the second act, he turned to Mary and said, "Lady Cecily +wants to be introduced to you. I said I'd bring her here after this +act!" + +"Do," Mary answered. + +As he walked towards the door of the box, he remembered Gilbert and he +bent towards him and said quietly, "Oh, Gilbert, I'm going to fetch Lady +Cecily. She wants to talk to Mary!..." + +"Righto!" Gilbert replied, without looking up. + +Henry hesitated. "You ... you don't mind, do you?" he said, and then +wished that he had remained silent. + +"Mind!" Gilbert looked up. "Why should I mind?" + +"I thought perhaps ... but of course if you don't mind, that's all +right!" + +He hurried out of the box, feeling that he had intruded into private +places. He had intended to be considerate and had achieved only the +appearance of prying. "That's like me!" he thought, as he descended the +stairs that led to the stalls. "I wonder why it is that I'm full of +sympathy and understanding and tact in my books, and such a clumsy fool +in life!" + +He entered the stalls, and as he did so, Lady Cecily rose to join him. +Jimphy had already gone to the bar. He held the curtain for her and she +passed through. "Isn't it clever?" she said, speaking of the play, and +he nodded his head. The passage leading up from the stalls was full of +chattering people, but when they reached the narrow corridor which led +to the box, there was no one about.... + +"Cecily!" he said in a low voice. + +"Yes, Paddy!" she answered, looking back over her shoulder. + +He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her towards him. + +"Some one will see you," she said. + +"No, they won't," he replied, "and I don't care...." + +He kissed her ardently. "My dear!" he murmured with his lips on hers. + +She pushed him from her. "You _are_ a fool," she said. + +"I couldn't help it!" + +Their voices were low lest the people in the box should hear them. + +"You must never do that again," she said. "I'd never have forgiven you +if any one had seen us!" + +"What are you afraid of, Cecily?" he asked. + +She made a gesture of despair. "Haven't you _any_ sense?" she said. + +She turned to go towards the box again, but he caught hold of her hand +and held her. + +"Cecily," he whispered, "you know I love you, don't you?" + +"Yes, yes," she answered impatiently, snatching her hand from his, "but +you needn't tell everybody about it!" + +"And you love me, too. Don't you?" + +"Let's go and join the others!..." + +He held her again. "No, Cecily," he said, "you must listen to me!" + +"Well, what is it?" + +"Cecily!" He was breathing hard, and it seemed to him that he could only +speak by forcing words out of himself. "Cecily ... come with me! ..." + +"That's what I want to do, but you keep me hanging about here. If any +one were to see us!..." + +"I don't mean that," he interrupted. "You know quite well what I +mean!..." + +"What _do_ you mean? I don't know!..." + +He went closer to her, trying to waken her passion by the strength of +his. "I want you to leave Jimphy and come away with me," he said. + +"Leave Jimphy!" + +"Yes. You're not happy ... you're not suited to each other. Come with +me!" + +"Like this?" she said, holding out her hands and mocking him. + +"That doesn't matter," he urged. "We'll go somewhere...." + +"Fly to Ireland, I suppose, in evening dress! Poor Paddy, you're so +Irish, aren't you? Please don't be an idiot!" + +She went on towards the door of the box, and he followed after her. +"Cecily!" he said. + +"Not to-night," she answered. "I want to be introduced to that nice +girl, Mary Graham, and I really must congratulate Gilbert ... I suppose +he's here ... it's such a clever play!" + +She opened the door of the box and went in, and, hesitating for a +moment, he went after her. + + +4 + +She stayed in the box, sitting between Mrs. Graham and Mary, until the +end of the play. The curtain had gone down to applause and laughter and +had been raised again and a third and fourth time, and then the audience +had demanded that the author should appear. Somewhere in the gallery, +they could hear the faint groan of the man who attends all first nights +and groans on principle. "I'd like to punch that chap's jaw!" Ninian +muttered, glancing up at the gallery indignantly. There was more +applause and a louder and more insistent shout of "Author! Author!" and +the curtain went up, and Gilbert, very nervous and very pale, came on to +the stage and bowed. Then, after another curtain call, the lights were +lowered and the audience began to disperse. + +There was to be a supper party at the Carlton, because the Carlton was +nearer to the Pall Mall than the Savoy, and Sir Geoffrey Mundane and +Mrs. Michael Gordon had accepted Gilbert's invitation to join them. +"It'll cost a hell of a lot," Gilbert said to Henry, "but what's money +for? When I die, they'll put on my tombstone, '_He was born in debt, he +lived in debt, he died in debt, and he didn't care a damn. So be it!_' +He extended his invitation to Jimphy and Lady Cecily. + +"You didn't come to Jimphy's birthday party," she objected. + +"Didn't I?" he replied. "Well, both of you come to my party ... that'll +make up for it!" + +Gilbert did not appear to be affected by Cecily's presence. He had +greeted her naturally, behaving to her in as friendly a way as he would +have behaved if she had been Mrs. Graham. Henry, remembering the scene +on the Embankment, had difficulty in understanding Gilbert's easy +manner. Had he been in Gilbert's place, he knew that he would have been +awkward, constrained, tongue-tied. Undoubtedly, Gilbert had _savoir +faire_. So, too, had Cecily. Her look of irritation with Henry had +disappeared as she entered the box. He, following after her, had been +nervous and self-conscious, feeling that the flushed look on his face +must betray him to his friends; but Cecily had none of these +awkwardnesses. She behaved as easily as if the scene with Henry had not +taken place. "You'd think she hadn't any feelings," he murmured to +himself, and as he did so, it seemed to him that in that moment he knew +Cecily, knew her once and for all. _She had no feelings, no particular +feelings for any one, not even for Gilbert._ She was a beautiful animal, +eager for emotional diversions, but indifferent to the creature that +pleased her after it had pleased her. If Henry were to quit her now and +never return to her, she might some day say, "I wonder where poor Paddy +is!" and turn carelessly to a new lover; but that would be all. Gilbert +had piqued her, perhaps, but he had done no more than that, though +probably it was more than Henry could ever hope to do, and she had +yawned a little with the tedium of waiting for him, and then had decided +to yawn no more.... + +He fell among platitudes. "Like a butterfly," he said to himself. "Just +like a damned butterfly!" + +Well, he thought, mentally cooler because of his revelation, that is an +attitude towards life that has many advantages. One might call Cecily a +stoical amorist, an erotic philosopher. "Love where you can, and don't +bother where you can't!" might serve her for a motto. "And, really, +that's rather a good way of getting through these plaguey emotions of +ours!" he told himself. "Only," he went on, "you can't walk in that way +just because you think it's a good one!" + +He sat between Lady Cecily and Mary at supper, but he did not talk a +great deal to either of them, for Mary was chattering excitedly to Sir +Geoffrey Mundane, and Cecily was persuading Ninian that engineering had +always been the passion of her life. "I quite agree," she was saying, "a +Channel Tunnel would be very useful and ... and so convenient, too. +I've often said that to Jimphy, but dear Jimphy doesn't pretend to +understand these things!" She had turned to him once and, in a whisper, +had said, "Which of you is in love with Mary?" but he had pretended to +be wooden and hard of understanding. + +"My dear Paddy," she said, raising her eyebrows, "I believe you're +sulking ... just because I wouldn't run away with you. You're as bad as +Gilbert!" + +"You're perfectly brutal," he said under his breath. + +"Aren't you exaggerating?" she replied. "And if I had gone off with you, +we'd have missed this nice supper. Do be sociable, there's a dear Paddy, +and perhaps I'll run away with you next Tuesday!" + +There was a babble of conversation about them, and much laughter, for +Gilbert, reacting from his fright, was full of bright talk, and Sir +Geoffrey, reminiscent, capped it with entertaining tales of dramatists +and stage people. It was easy for Cecily and Henry to carry on their +conversation in quiet tones without fear of being overheard. + +"You treat me like a boy," he said reproachfully. + +"You are a boy, Paddy dear, and a very nice boy!" + +"I suppose," he retorted, "it's impossible for you to understand that I +love you...." + +"Indeed, it isn't," she interrupted. "I understand that quite easily. +What I can't understand is why you wish to spoil everything by silly +proposals to ... to elope!..." + +"But I love you," he insisted. "Isn't that enough to make you +understand?" + +She shook her head, and turned again to Ninian. + +"You see," Ninian said, "you bore through this big bed of chalk from +both sides...." + +"But how do you know the two ends will meet?" she asked. + +"Oh, engineers manage that sort of thing easily," Ninian answered. +"Think of the Simplon Tunnel!..." + +"Yes!" she said, to indicate that she was thinking of it. + +"Well, that met, didn't it?" + +"Did it?" she replied. "Oh, but of course it must have met. I've been +through it!..." + +"There was hardly an inch of divergence between the two ends," he went +on.... + +"Hell's flames!" Henry said to himself. + + +5 + +"I must see you," he said to her when the party had broken up and she +was going home. "I must see you alone!" + +"I do hope you're not going to be a nuisance, Paddy!" she replied. + +He put her cloak about her shoulders. "Will you meet me at the +suspension bridge over the lake in St. James's Park to-morrow at +eleven?..." + +"That's awfully early, Paddy, and St. James's Park is such a long way +from everywhere. Couldn't you come to lunch? Jimphy'll be glad to see +you. He seems to like you for some reason!" + +"I want to talk to you alone, and we're not likely to be disturbed in +St. James's Park. You must come, Cecily!" + +"Oh, all right," she answered. "But I shan't be there before twelve. You +can take me to lunch somewhere...." + +"Very well," he said. "I'll be at the bridge at twelve, and I'll wait +for you ... only, come as soon as you can, Cecily!" + +"I can't think why you want to behave like this, Paddy. It's so +melodramatic. Gilbert was just the same!..." + +He felt that he could hit her when she said that, and he turned away +from her so quickly that her cloak slipped from her shoulders. + +"Oh, Paddy!" she exclaimed. + +"I beg your pardon!" he answered, turning again and picking the cloak +from the ground. + +"You're so ... so selfish," she said. "You want everything to be just as +you like it. You're just like Gilbert ... where is Gilbert?... I must +say good-night to him ... and that nice girl, Mary. I think it's a very +clever play, and she's such a nice girl, too. Oh, Gilbert, there you +are! Good-night! I've enjoyed everything so much ... a nice play and a +nice supper. Good-night, and do come and see me soon, won't you. Why not +come to-morrow with Paddy?..." + +"Paddy?" said Gilbert. + +"Yes, Henry Quinn. I call him Paddy. It seems natural to call him Paddy. +He's so Irish. Do come with him to-morrow, and bring all your press +cuttings with you and read them to me. Paddy wants to talk to me...." + +Henry walked away from them. What sort of woman was this? he asked +himself. Was she totally insensitive? Was it impossible for her to +realise that she was hurting him?... + +"Good-night, Quinny!" + +He turned quickly to take Mary's hand. + +"We're going back to Devonshire the day after to-morrow," she said. + +"Are you?" he murmured vaguely. + +"Yes. Good-night, Quinny!" + +"Aren't you tired?" he asked. + +"Oh, no," she answered. "I've enjoyed myself awfully much. Here's +Ninian! He's taking us back to our hotel. Good-night, Quinny!" + +He hesitated for a moment or two. He wanted to suggest that he should go +with her instead of Ninian, but before he could speak he saw Cecily +moving down the room towards the street. + +"Good-night, Mary!" was all he said. + + +6 + +Roger had taken Rachel home, and so, when Ninian had gone off with his +mother and Mary, there were only Henry and Gilbert left. + +"Let's go home, Quinny," Gilbert said. "I'd like to walk if you don't +mind!" + +"Very well," Henry replied. + +They left the hotel and strolled across the street towards the National +Gallery. + +"I wish it were the morning," Gilbert said. "I want to see the +newspapers!" + +"It doesn't greatly matter what they say, does it?" Henry answered. "The +play's a success. The audience liked it." + +"I want to read the notices all the same. Of course, I want to read +them. I shall spend the whole of to-morrow reading and re-reading them. +Just vanity!" + +They walked past the Gallery, and made their way through the complicated +streets that lie behind the Strand, about Covent Garden, towards +Bloomsbury. They did not speak for some time, for they were tired and +their minds were too full of other things. Once indeed, Gilbert began to +speak ... "I think I could improve the second act a little ..." but he +did not finish his sentence, and Henry did not ask him to do so. It was +not until they were nearly at their home that Henry spoke to Gilbert +about Cecily. + +"Are you going to Lady Cecily's to-morrow?" he said. + +"Eh?" Gilbert exclaimed, starting out of his dreams. "Oh, no, I think +not! Why?" + +"I only wondered. She asked you, you know!" + +They walked on in silence until they reached the door of their house. + +"I say, Quinny," said Gilbert, while Henry opened the door, "you seem to +be very friendly with Cecily!" + +Henry fumbled with the key and muttered, "Damn this door, it won't +open!" + +"Let me try!..." + +"It's all right now. I've done it! What were you saying, Gilbert?" + +They entered the house, shutting the door behind them, and stood for a +while in the hall, removing their hats and coats. + +"Oh, nothing," Gilbert replied. "I was only saying you seemed very +friendly with Cecily!" + +"Well, yes, I suppose I am, but not more than most people. Are you going +to bed now or will you wait up for Ninian and Roger?" + +"I shan't sleep if I go to bed ... I'm too excited. I shall read for a +while in my room ... unless you'd like to jaw a bit!" + +Henry shook his head. "No," he said, "I'm too tired to jaw to-night. See +you in the morning. Good-night, Gilbert!" + +"Good-night, Quinny!" + +Henry went to his bedroom, leaving Gilbert in the hall, and began to +undress. His mind was full of a flat rage against Cecily. She had +consented to meet him in St. James's Park, and then, almost as she had +made her promise, she had turned to Gilbert and had invited him to call +on her, in his company, at the time she had appointed for his private +meeting with her. He did not wish to see her again. "She's fooling me," +he said, throwing his coat on to a chair so that it fell on to the +ground where he let it lie. "I've not done a stroke of work for days on +her account, and she cares no more for me than she does for ... for +anybody. I won't go and meet her to-morrow, damn her! I'll send a +messenger to say I can't come, and then I'll drop her. It isn't worth +while going through this ... this agony for a woman who doesn't care a +curse for you!" + +"I'm not going to be treated like this," he went on to himself while he +brushed his teeth. "I'm not going to hang about her and let her treat me +as she pleases. She can get somebody else, some one who is more +complacent than I am, and doesn't feel things. I hope she goes to the +Park and waits for me. Perhaps that'll teach her to understand what a +man feels like...." + +But of course she would not go to the Park and wait for him. He would +send an express messenger with a note to tell her that he was unable to +keep the appointment. + +"I'll write it now," he said to himself and he stopped in the middle of +washing his face and hands to find notepaper. "Damn, my hands are wet," +he said aloud, and picked up a towel. + +"_Dear Lady Cecily_," he wrote, when he was dry, using the formal +address because he wished to let her know that he was ill friends with +her, "_I am sorry I shall not be able to meet you to-day as we arranged +last night_." He wondered what excuse he should make for breaking off +the appointment, and then decided that he would not make any. "I won't +add anything else," he said, and he signed himself, "_Yours sincerely, +Henry Quinn_." "She'll know that I'm sick of this ... messing about. I +don't see why I should explain myself to her!" + +He sealed the envelope and put the letter aside, and sat for a while +drumming on his table with the pen. + +"Mary's worth a dozen of her," he said aloud, getting up and going to +bed. + + + + +THE NINTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +They all rose early the next day. Ninian had been out of the house +before any of them had reached the breakfast room, and when he returned, +his arms were full of newspapers. + +"What's Walkley say?" said Gilbert. "That's all I want to know!" + +They opened the _Times_, and then, when they had read the criticism of +"The Magic Casement," they murmured, "Charming! Splendid! Oh, ripping!" +while Gilbert, sitting back in his chair, smiled beatifically and said, +"Read it again, coves. Read it aloud and slowly!" + +While they were reading the notices, Henry went off to a post office, +and sent his letter to Lady Cecily by express messenger. "That's +settled," he said, as he returned home, for he had been afraid that he +might change his mind. As he was shaving that morning, he had faltered +in his resolution. "I'd better go," he had said to himself, and then had +added weakly, "No, I'm damned if I will!" Well, it was settled now. The +letter was on its way to her. She would probably be angry with him, but +not as angry as he was with her, and perhaps they would not meet again +for a long while. So much the better. Now he could get on with his book +in peace. Gilbert was right. Women _do_ upset things. Well, this +particular woman would not upset him again.... + +They had read all the notices when Henry returned, and were now at +breakfast. Roger was relating the latest legal jest about Mr. Justice +Kirkcubbin, a poor old man who persisted in clinging to the Bench in +spite of the broadest hints from the _Law Journal_, and Ninian was +making mysterious movements with his hands. + +"What's the matter, Ninian?" Henry asked, as he sat down at the table. + +Ninian, while searching for the notices of Gilbert's play, had seen a +sentence in a serial story in one of the newspapers.... "_Her hands +fluttered helplessly over his breast_" ... and he was trying to discover +exactly what the lady had done with her hands. "She seems to have just +flopped them about," he said, and he turned to Gilbert. "Look here, +Gilbert," he said, "you try it. I'll clasp you in my arms as the hero +clasped this female, and you'll let your hands flutter helplessly over +my breast!" + +"I'll let my fist flutter helplessly over your jaw, young Ninian!..." + +"I don't believe she let her hands do anything of the sort," Ninian went +on. "She couldn't have done it. An engineer couldn't do it, and I don't +believe a female can do what an engineer can't do!" + +"I suppose," he added, getting up from the table, "Tom Arthurs is half +way across now. I wish I could have gone with him. What a holiday!" + +"Talking of holidays," Gilbert said, "I'm going to take one, and as you +don't seem in a fit state to do any work, Quinny, you'd better take one +too, and come with me!" + +"Where are you going?" Roger asked. "Anglesey?" + +"No. I thought of going there, but I've changed my mind. I shall go to +Ireland with Quinny." + +"Ireland!" Henry exclaimed, looking across at Gilbert. + +"Yes. Dublin. We can go to-night. I've never been there, and I'd like to +know what these chaps, Marsh and Galway, are up to. That whatdoyoucallit +movement you were telling me about?... you know, the thing that means 'a +stitch in time saves nine' or something of the sort!" + +"Oh, the Sinn Fein movement!" + +"Yes. That's the thing. The Improved Tories ought to know about +that...." + +"That reminds me," said Roger, "of an idea I had in the middle of the +night about the Improved Tories. We ought to publish our views on +problems. The Fabians do that kind of thing rather well. We ought to +imitate them. We ought to study some subject hard, argue all round it, +and then tell the world just how we think it ought to be solved. I +thought we might begin on the problem of unemployment...." + +"Good Lord, do you think we can solve that!" Ninian exclaimed. + +"No, but we might find a means of palliating it. My own notion...." + +"I thought you had some scheme in your skull, Roger!" said Gilbert. +"Let's have it!" + +"Well, it's rather raw in my mind at present, but my idea is that the +way to mitigate the problem of unemployment, perhaps solve it, is to +join it on to the problem of defence. Supposing we decided to create a +big army ... and we shall need one sooner or later with all these +ententes and alliances we're forming ... the problem would be to form it +without dislocating the industrial system. My idea is to make it +compulsory for every man to undergo military training, about a couple of +months every year, and call the men up to the camp in times of trade +depression. You wouldn't have to call them all up at once ... trades +aren't all slack at the same time ... and you'd arrange the period of +training as far as possible to fit in with the slack time in each job. I +mean, people who are employed in gasworks could easily be trained in the +summer without dislocating the gas industry ... colliers, too, and +people like that ... and men who are slack in the winter, like builders' +men, could be trained in the winter. That's my idea roughly. There'd be +training going on all the year round, and of course you could vary the +duration of the period of training ... never less than two months, but +longer if trade were badly depressed. You'd save a lot of misery that +way ... you'd keep your men fit and fed and their homes going ... and +you'd have the nucleus of a large army. I don't see why we shouldn't +bring the Board of Education in. If we were to raise the school age to +sixteen, and then make it compulsory for every boy to go into a cadet +corps or something of the sort for a couple of years, you'd relieve the +pressure on the labour market at that end enormously, and you'd make the +job of getting the army ready much easier in case of emergency. A couple +of years' training to begin with, followed by a couple of months' +further training every year, would make all the difference in the world +to us militarily, and it would do away, largely, with the unemployed!" + +"How about apprentices?" said Gilbert. "If you raise the school age to +sixteen and then make all the boys go into training until they are +eighteen, you're going to make a big difficulty in the way of getting +skilled labour!" + +"I don't think so. As far as I can make out the period of apprenticeship +is much too long. Five or six years is a ridiculous time to ask a boy to +spend in learning his job, and any trade unionist will tell you that +every apprentice spends the first year or two in acting as a sort of +messenger: fetching beer and cleaning up things. I suppose the real +reason why the period of indenture is so long is because the Unions +don't want to swamp the labour market with skilled workers. Well, why +shouldn't we reduce the period of apprenticeship by giving the boy a +military training? You see, don't you, what a problem this is? I thought +of talking about it to the Improved Tories, and when we'd argued it over +a bit, we'd put our proposals into print and circulate them among +informed people, and invite them to come and tell us what they think of +the notion from their point of view ... Trade Union secretaries and +military men and employers and people like that ... and then, we might +publish a book on it. Jaurés wrote a book on the French Army ... a very +good book, too ... so there isn't anything remarkably novel about the +notion, except, perhaps, my idea of linking the military problem on to +the unemployment problem. You and Quinny could write the book, Gilbert, +because you've got style and we want the book to be written so that +people will read it without getting tied up. Of course, if you must go +to Ireland, you must, but it seems a little needless, doesn't it?" + +"This business will take time," Gilbert replied. "Tons of time. I don't +think our visit to Ireland will affect it much. You'll come with me, +won't you, Quinny?" + +Henry nodded his head. "At once, if you like," he answered, hoping +indeed that Gilbert would suggest an immediate departure. If Lady Cecily +were to hear that he had left London.... + +"To-night will do," said Gilbert. + + +2 + +"Are you going to work?" Gilbert said to Henry, when the others had +gone. + +"I think so," Henry replied. "I haven't written a word for days. You?" + +"I'll go and have a squint at the Pall Mall ... just to make sure that +last night wasn't a dream. I'll come back to lunch. It 'ud be rather +jolly to go on from Dublin and see your father, Quinny?" + +"Yes ... that's a notion. I'll write and tell him we're coming. Bring +back the afternoon papers when you come, Gilbert, I'd like to see what +they say about the play!" + +"Righto!" said Gilbert. + +Henry sat on in the breakfast room, after Gilbert had gone, reading the +criticisms of "The Magic Casement," and then, when he had finished, he +went up to his room and began to work on "Turbulence." He wrote steadily +for an hour, and then read over what he had done. + +"This is better," he murmured to himself, pleased with what he had +written, and he prepared to go on, but before he could start again, +there was a knock on the door, and Magnolia came in. + +"You're wanted on the telephone, sir!" she said. + +"Who is it?" + +"I don't know, sir. They didn't say!" + +He went downstairs and took up the receiver. "Hilloa!" he said. + +"Is that you, Paddy?" was the response. + +"Cecily!" + +"Yes. I've just had your letter. Are you very cross, Paddy?" + +He felt perturbed, but he tried to make his voice sound as if he were +indifferent to her. + +"No," he replied, "I'm not cross at all...." + +"Oh, yes, you are, Paddy. You're very cross, and you're going to teach +me a lesson, aren't you?" + +He could hear her light laugh as she spoke. + +"I can't _make_ you believe that I'm not cross at all," he said. + +"No, you can't. Paddy!" Her voice had a coaxing note as she said his +name. + +"Yes." + +"Come to lunch with me. Jimphy's gone off for the day somewhere...." + +"I'm sorry!..." + +"Do come, Paddy. I want you to come. I do, really!" + +He paused for a second or two before he replied. After all why should he +not go?... + +"I'm sorry," he said, "but I really can't lunch with you. I'm going to +Ireland!..." + +"Going where?" + +"Ireland. To-night! I'm going with Gilbert!" + +"But you can't go this minute. Paddy, you _are_ cross, and you're +spiteful, too. If you aren't cross, you'll come and lunch with me. You +ought to come and say 'good-bye' to me before you go to Ireland...." + +"I've got a lot to do ... packing and things!" + +"You can do that afterwards!" Her voice became more insistent. "Paddy, I +want you to come. You must come!..." + +He hesitated, and she said, "Do, Paddy!" very appealingly. + +It would be weak, he told himself, to yield to her now ... she would +think she had only to be a little gracious and he would be at her feet +immediately; and then he thought it would be weak not to yield to her. +"It'll look as if I were afraid to meet her ... running away like this. +Or that I'm sulking ... just petulant!" + +"All right," he said to her, "I'll come!" + +"Come now!" + +He nodded his head, forgetting that she could not see him, and she +called to him again, "You'll come now, won't you?" + +"Yes," he replied. "I'll come at once!" + +He put up the receiver and reached for his hat. "I wonder what she +wants," he thought, "perhaps she really does love me and my letter's +frightened her!" His spirits rose at the thought and he went jauntily to +the door and opened it, and as he did so, Ninian, pale and miserable, +panted up the steps. + +"My God, Quinny!" he exclaimed, almost sobbing, "the _Gigantic's_ gone +down!" + +"The what?" + +"The _Gigantic's_ gone down! It's in the paper. Look, look!" He was +unbalanced by grief as he thrust the _Westminster Gazette_ and the +_Globe_ into Henry's hands. + +"But, damn it, she can't have gone down," Henry said, "she's a Belfast +boat ... she can't have gone down!" + +"She has, I tell you, and Tom Arthurs ... oh, my God, Quinny, he's gone +down too! The decentest chap on earth and ... and he's been drowned!" + +Henry led him into the house. "I went out to get the evening papers to +see about Gilbert's play," he went on, "and that's what I saw. I saw her +at Southampton going off as proud as a queen ... and now she's at the +bottom of the Atlantic. And Tom waved his hand to me. He was going to +show me over her properly when he came back. Isn't it horrible, Quinny? +What's the sense of it ... what the hell's the sense of it?" + +"She can't have gone down ..." Henry said, as if that would comfort +Ninian. + +"She has, I tell you...." + +Henry went to the sideboard and took out the whisky. + +"Here, Ninian," he said, pouring out some of it, "drink that. You're +upset!..." + +"No, I don't want any whisky. God damn it, what's the sense of a thing +like this! A man like Tom Arthurs!..." + +There was a noise like the sound of a taxi-cab drawing up in front of +the house, and presently the bell rang, and then, after a moment or two, +the door opened, and Mrs. Graham came hurrying into the room. + +"Ninian! Where's Ninian?" she said wildly to Henry. + +"He's here, Mrs. Graham!" + +She went to him and clutched him tightly to her. "Oh, my dear, my dear," +she said. + +"What is it, mother?" he asked, calming himself and looking at her. + +"I telephoned to your office, but you weren't there, so I came here to +find you. I couldn't rest content till I'd seen you!" + +"What is it, mother?" + +"That ship, Ninian. If you'd been on it ... you wanted to go, and I said +why didn't you ... oh, my dear, if you'd been on it, and I'd lost you!" + +He put his arms about her and drew her on to his shoulder. "I'm all +right, mother!" he said. + +Henry left the room hurriedly. He went to the kitchen and called to Mrs. +Clutters. "I won't be in to lunch," he said. "Don't let any one disturb +Mrs. Graham and Mr. Graham for a while. They ... they've had bad news!" + +Then he went out of the house. The taxi-cab in which Mrs. Graham had +come was still standing outside the door. + +"I ain't 'ad me fare yet," said the driver. + +"All right!" said Henry. "I'll pay it." + +He gave Cecily's address to the man, and then he got into the cab. + + +3 + +He could hear the newspaper boys crying out the news of the disaster as +he was driven swiftly to Cecily's house. The sinking of the great ship +had stunned men's minds and humiliated their pride. This beautiful +vessel, skilfully built, the greatest ship afloat, had seemed +imperishable, the most powerful weapon that man had yet forged to subdue +the sea, and in a little while, recoiling from the hidden iceberg, she +had foundered, broken as easily as a child's toy, carrying all her +vanity and strength to the bottom.... + +"It isn't true," he kept on saying to himself as if he were trying to +contradict the cries of the newsvendors. "She's a Belfast boat and +Belfast boats don't go down...." + +He felt it oddly, this loss. The drowning of many men and women and +children affected him merely as a vague, impersonal thing. "Yes, it's +dreadful," he would say when he thought of it, but he was not moved by +it. When he remembered Tom Arthurs he was stirred, but less than Ninian +had been. He could see him now, just as he had stood in the shipyard +that day when John Marsh and Henry had been with him, and he had watched +the workmen pouring through the gates. "Those are my pals!" he had +said.... Poor Tom Arthurs! Destroyed with the thing that he had +conceived and his "pals" had built! But perhaps that was as he would +have wished. It would have hurt Tom Arthurs to have lived on after the +_Gigantic_ had gone down.... It was not the drowning of a crowd of +people or the drowning of Tom Arthurs that most affected Henry. It was +the fact that a boat built by Belfast men had foundered on her maiden +trip, on a clear, cold night of stars, reeling from the iceberg's blow +like a flimsy yacht. He had the Ulsterman's pride in the Ulsterman's +power, and he liked to boast that the best ships in the world were built +on the Lagan.... + +"By God," he said to himself, "this'll break their hearts in Belfast!" + +The cab drew up before the door of Cecily's house, and in a little while +he was with her. + +"Have you heard about the _Gigantic_?" he said, as he walked across the +room to her. + +"Oh, yes," she answered, "isn't it dreadful? Come and sit down here!" + +He had not greeted her otherwise than by his question about the +_Gigantic_, and she frowned a little as she made room for him beside her +on the sofa. + +"That great boat!..." he began, but she interrupted him. + +"I suppose you're still cross," she said. + +"Cross?" + +"Yes. You haven't even shaken hands with me!" + +He remembered now. "Oh!" he said in confusion, but could say no more. + +"Are you really going to Ireland?" she asked, putting her hand on his +arm. + +"Yes," he answered, feeling his resolution weakening just because she +had touched him. + +"But why?" + +"You know why!" he said. + +Her hand dropped from his arm. "I don't know why," she exclaimed +pettishly, and he saw and disliked the way her lips turned downwards as +she said it. + +"I can't bear it, Cecily," he exclaimed. "I must have you to myself or +... or not have you at all!" + +"Perfectly absurd!" she murmured. + +"It isn't absurd. How can you expect me to feel happy when I see you +going off with Jimphy? Can't you understand, Cecily? Here I am with you +now, but if Jimphy were to come into the room, I should have to ... to +give way, to pretend that I'm not in love with you!" + +"I can't see what difference it makes," she said. "Jimphy and I don't +interfere with each other. It's ridiculous to make all this fuss. I +don't see any necessity to go about telling everybody!..." + +"I didn't propose that," he interrupted. + +"Yes, you did, Paddy, dear! You asked me to run away with you, and +what's that but telling everybody?" + +He felt angry with her for what seemed to him to be flippancy. "I'm in +earnest, Cecily!" he said. "I'm not joking!" + +"I'm in earnest, too. I don't want to run away with you ... not because +I don't love you ... I do love you, Paddy, very much ... but it's so +absurd to run away and make a ... a mountain out of a molehill. We +should be awfully miserable if we were to elope. We'd have to go to some +horrid place where we shouldn't know anybody and there'd be nothing to +do. Really, it's much pleasanter to go on as we are now, Paddy. You can +come here and take me to lunch sometimes and go to the theatre with me +when Jimphy wants to go to a music-hall, and ... and so on!" + +He could not rid himself of the notion that she was "chattering" in the +Lensley style. + +"It would be decenter to go away together," he said. + +She moved away from him angrily. "You're a prig, Paddy!" she exclaimed. +"You can go to Ireland. I don't care!" + +He got up as if to go, but did not move away. He stood beside her +irresolutely, wishing to go and wishing to stay, and then he bent over +her and touched her. "Cecily," he said, "come with me!" + +"No!" she answered, keeping her back to him. + +"Very well," he said, and he walked across the room towards the door. +His hand was on the handle when she called to him. + +"Aren't you going to stay to lunch?" she said. + +"You told me to go!..." + +"Yes, but I didn't mean immediately. I shall be all alone." + +He went back to her very quickly, and sat down beside her and folded her +in his arms. + +"I loathe you," he cried, with his lips pressed against her cheek. "I +loathe you because you're so selfish and brutal. You don't really care +for me...." + +"Oh, I do, Paddy I ..." + +"No, you don't. You were making love to Ninian last night!..." + +"So that's it, is it?..." + +"No, it isn't. Ninian doesn't care about you or about any woman. He's +not like me, a soft, sloppy fool. You don't love me. If I were to leave +you now, you'd find some one to take my place quite easily. Lensley or +Boltt!..." + +"They're too middle-aged, Paddy!" + +He pushed her away from him. "Damn it, can't you be serious!" he shouted +at her. + +"You're very rude," she replied. + +"I'd like to beat you! I'd like to hurt you!..." + +She smiled at him and then she put her arms about his neck and drew him +towards her. "You don't loathe me, Paddy," she said softly, soothing him +with her voice, "you love me, don't you?" + +"Will you come away with me? Now?" + +"No!" She kissed him and got up. "Let's go to lunch," she said. + +He felt that he ought to leave her then, but he followed her meekly +enough. + +"I don't think I'll stay to lunch," he said weakly. + +"Yes, you will!" she replied. "You can take me to a picture gallery +afterwards!..." + + +4 + +They did not go to a picture gallery. The spring air was so fresh that +she declared she must go for a drive. + +"Let's go to Hampstead!" he said, signalling to a taxi-driver. "Well +have tea at Jack Straw's Castle!" + +"Yes, let's!" she exclaimed. + +She had tried to persuade him not to return to Ireland, but he had +insisted that he must go because of his promise to Gilbert. + +"Do you care for Gilbert more than you care for me?" she had asked, +making him wonder at the casual way in which she spoke Gilbert's name. +It seemed incredible, listening to her, that Gilbert had been her +lover.... + +"It's hardly the same thing," he replied. + +Then, after more pleading and anger, she had given in. + +"Very well," she said, "I won't ask you again, and don't let's talk +about it any more. Well enjoy to-day anyhow!" + +The taxi-cab carried them swiftly to Hampstead. + +"Well get out at the Spaniards' Road," he said, "and walk across the +Heath. It's beautiful now!" + +"All right," she answered. + +They did as he said, and walked about the Heath for nearly an hour. The +fresh smell of spring exhilarated them, and they sat for a little while +on a seat which was perched on rising ground so that they were able to +see far beyond the common. Young bracken fronds were thrusting their +curled heads upwards through the old brown growth; and the buds on the +blackened boughs were bursting from their cases and offering delicate +green leaves to the sunlight; and the yellow whins shone like little +golden stars on their spiky stems. Henry's capacity for sensuous +enjoyment was fully employed, and he would willingly have sat there +until dusk, drawing his breath in with as much luxurious feeling as a +woman has when she puts new linen on her limbs. He would have liked to +strip and bathe his naked body in the Highgate Ponds or run with bare +feet over the wet grass ... but Cecily was tired of the Heath. + +"Isn't it time we got some tea?" she said, getting up and looking about +her as if she were searching for a tea-shop. + +"I suppose it is," he answered reluctantly, and he rose too. "We go this +way," he said, moving in the direction of Jack Straw's Castle. "Let's +come back to the Heath," he added, "after we've had tea!" + +"But why?" she asked. + +"Oh, because it's so beautiful." + +"I thought it was getting chilly," she objected. + + +5 + +"I don't see why you want to go to Ireland," she exclaimed, as she +handed a cup of tea to him. + +"I've told you why," he said. + +"Oh, but that isn't a reason. And why does Gilbert want to go? He isn't +Irish." + +"I suppose!..." + +"It's so absurd to go rushing about like this. I should have thought +Gilbert would want to stay in town now that his play is on. Is it a +success? I haven't looked at the papers, but then I never do. I can't +read newspapers ... they're so dull. This tea is nice. And it's much +nicer in town now than it can possibly be in Ireland. Besides, I don't +want you to go!" + +He let her chatter on, hoping that she would exhaust her interest in his +visit to Ireland and begin to talk of something else, but he did not +know that Cecily had greater tenacity than might appear from the +incoherence of her conversation. She held on to a subject until it was +settled irrevocably. She looked very charming as she sat opposite to +him, and he wondered how Jimphy could be so careless of her loveliness. +The sunlight shining through the window above her head kindled her hair +so that the ripples of it shone like gold, and the delicate sunburnt +flush of her cheeks deepened in the soft glow. He put out his hand and +touched her fingers. "Beautiful Cecily!" he said, and she smiled because +she liked to be told how beautiful she was. + +"But you're going to Ireland," she said. + +He did not answer. + +"You say you'd do anything for me," she proceeded, "but when I ask you +not to go to Ireland, you refuse. If you really love me!..." + +"I do love you, Cecily!" + +"Well, why don't you stay in town! It's so queer to go away the moment +you get to know me!" She began to laugh. + +"What's the joke?" he asked. + +"Oh, I've just remembered how little we know of each other. You kissed +me the first time you came to my house!" + +"I loved you the moment I saw you ... that day in the Park when I was +with Gilbert ... I loved you then. I didn't know who you were, but I +loved you. I couldn't help it, Cecily. You were looking at Gilbert and +then your eyes shifted and you looked at me, and I loved you, dear. I +worried Gilbert to tell me about you!..." + +"What did he say?" she interrupted eagerly, leaning her elbows on the +table and resting her chin in the cup of her hands. + +"He told me who you were," Henry answered awkwardly. + +"But didn't he say anything else?... didn't he?..." + +"I've forgotten what he said.... Then I saw you at the St. James's ... +he told me you often went to first-nights, and I went specially, hoping +to see you!..." + +"Dear Paddy," she said, "and you were so shy!" + +"And so jealous and angry because you talked all the time to Gilbert, +and ignored me. You made me go out of the box with Jimphy, and as I +went, I saw you putting your hand out to touch Gilbert, and I heard you +calling him, 'Gilbert, darling.' ..." + +She laughed, but did not speak. + +"And I was frightfully jealous. Gilbert's my best friend, Cecily, but I +hated him that night. I suppose ... oh, I don't know!" + +"What were you going to say!" she asked. + +He looked at her intently for a few moments. Her grey eyes were full of +laughter, and he wondered whether she would answer his question +seriously. + +"Well?" she said. + +"Do you still love Gilbert, Cecily! Am I ... just some one to fill in +the time ... until Gilbert!..." + +She sat back in her seat, and the laughter left her eyes. + +"Let's go!" she said. + +But he did not move. "You do love him," he persisted, "and you don't +love me...." + +"Are you going to Ireland with him?" she demanded. + +"Yes!" + +"Very well, then!" The tightened tone of her voice indicated that there +was no more to be said, but he would not heed the warning, and persisted +in demanding explanations. + +"If you go to Ireland with Gilbert," she said, "I'll never speak to you +again!" + +She closed her lips firmly, and he saw the downward curve of them again, +and while he pondered on what she had said, the thought shot across his +mind that that downward curve would deepen as she grew older. "She'll +get very bad-tempered!..." + +"I mean it," she said, interrupting his thought and compelling him to +pay heed to her. "I'll never speak to you again if you go away now." + +"But I've promised, Cecily!" he protested. + +She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't see what that's got to do with it," +she answered. + + +6 + +They came out of the inn, and stood for a few moments before the door. + +"Shall we go back to the Heath?" he said. + +"No," she replied. "Let's go home." + +"Very well!" + +He felt broken and crushed and tongueless. Cecily did not speak to him +as they walked towards the Spaniards' Road, nor did he speak to her. The +angry look on her face deterred him. + +He hailed a taxi, and they got into it and were driven down Fitzjohn's +Avenue and homewards. Once she turned to him and said again, "Are you +going to Ireland with him?" but when he answered, "I must, Cecily, I +said I would!" she turned away again and did not speak until the taxi +drew up before her door. + +"Perhaps you'd rather I didn't come in?" he said, expecting that she +would dismiss him, but she did not do so. + +"Jimphy may be at home," she said, "and probably he'd like to see you!" + +"I thought he'd gone away for the day!" + +"He may have returned." + +She went up the steps of the house while he paid the driver of the +taxi-cab, and spoke to the servant who had opened the door. + +"He's not in," she said to Henry when he joined her. + +"Then I won't ..." + +"Come in," she interrupted. "I want to say something to you!" + +He followed her into the hall and up the stairs to the drawing-room, +where she left him while she went to her room to take off her outdoor +garments. He moved aimlessly about until she returned. She had changed +her clothes, and was wearing a loose golden silk teagown with a girdle +round it, and the gold in her hair seemed to be enriched by the gold in +her dress. She went up to him quickly, putting her hands on his +shoulders and drawing him close to her. + +"Paddy!" she said, and her voice was very tense. + +"Yes?" he answered. + +"I've never asked you to do anything for me, have I?" She put her arms +round his neck and kissed him. He tried to answer her, but could not +because her lips were tightly pressed on his. + +"You won't go, will you?" she murmured, closing her eyes and tightening +her hold on him. + +He struggled a little.... "Why don't you want me to go with Gilbert?" he +said. + +But she did not answer his question. She drew him back to her again, +whispering, "I love you, Paddy, I love you. I don't love any one else +but you!" + +He threw his arms about her, and they stood there forgetful of +everything.... + +She moved a little, and he led her to the sofa where they sat down +together. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he put his arms around +her and drew her warm, yielding body close to his. He could feel the +beating of her heart.... + +"You won't go, will you, Paddy?" she whispered. + +"No," he answered, bending over her and kissing her. + +She drew herself closer to him. "Dear Paddy!" she said. + + +7 + +He went up to Gilbert's room immediately after he returned home. All the +way back from Lady Cecily's, he had told himself that he must tell +Gilbert at once that he was not going to Ireland because he was in love +with Cecily "and because she's in love with me!" and he had repeated his +resolution many times to himself in the hope that by thinking +exclusively of it, there would be no opportunity for other thoughts to +come into his head. He shrank from the meeting with Gilbert, for his +conscience hurt him because of his betrayal of Gilbert's love and +friendship. He had palliated his conduct by saying to himself that +Gilbert had given Cecily up, but the excuse would not serve to absolve +him from the sense of unfriendly behaviour. + +"I'm making excuses for myself," he murmured. + +"That's all I'm doing. The decent thing is to go to Gilbert and tell him +everything ... or ... or I could write it. I could write a long letter +to him and get Magnolia to give it to him.... Perhaps that 'ud be better +than telling him. It'll be difficult to get a chance to say anything to +him with Roger and Ninian about...." + +He broke off his thoughts and spoke out loud. "You're funking it," he +said. "Damn you, you're funking it!" + +"I must tell him myself," he went on. "I must stand up to some one. I +can't go on funking things forever...." + +It was odd, he thought, that he had no feeling for Jimphy. He had not +any sense of shame because he had made love to Jimphy's wife. Jimphy +appeared to him only in a comic light. Yet Jimphy had professed +friendship for him. "Of course," he said, "they don't love each other!" +but in this mood of self-confession which held him, he admitted that he +would have felt no contrition even if Jimphy had been devoted to Cecily. + +"He's a born cuckold!" he went on. "I might be afraid to take his wife +from him, but I wouldn't be ashamed to do it. No one would...." + +He had opened the door and gone quickly up the stairs, hoping that he +would not meet any of the others. Gilbert would probably be in his study +or in his bedroom, and so he could talk to him at once and get the thing +over. He knocked on the study door, and then, receiving no answer, +opened it and looked in. Gilbert was not there. He went to the bedroom +and called "Are you in, Gilbert?" but there was no response. "I suppose +he's downstairs," he said to himself, and he walked part of the way down +to the dining-room, stopping midway when he saw Magnolia. + +"Tell Mr. Farlow I want to speak to him," he called to her. "Up in my +study!" + +He went to his room, and stood staring out of the window until Gilbert +came. + +"Hilloa, Quinny, what's up?" Gilbert said, as he entered the study. + +Henry turned to him. He could _feel_ the pallor of his cheeks, so +nervous was he. + +"Gilbert," he said desperately, "I want to talk to you!" + +"Yes?..." + +"I'm not going to Ireland with you!" + +"Not going!... Why?" + +He moved mechanically towards Gilbert and stopped at the table where he +wrote. He stood for a few moments, fingering things, turning over pieces +of foolscap and tapping the table with a paper knife. + +"What is it, Quinny?" Gilbert said again, and as he spoke, he came up to +Henry and touched him. "Is it ... is it anything about Cecily?" Henry +nodded his head. "I thought so," Gilbert continued. He moved away and +sat down. "Well, tell me about it," he said. + +"I'm in love with her, Gilbert!" + +"Yes." + +"I ... I asked her to run away with me!..." + +Gilbert laughed. "You have hustled, Quinny," he said. "And she wouldn't, +eh?" + +"No!" Gilbert's laughter stimulated him, and he spoke more fluently. +"But she's in love with me. She told me so. I've just come from her. And +she wants me to stay in town." + +"To be near her?" + +"Yes. Yes, I suppose so. I had to tell you. I felt that I must tell you. +Gilbert, I'm ashamed, but I can't help it. I love her so much that I'd +... I'd do anything for her." + +Gilbert did not move nor did he speak. He sat in his chair, looking very +intently at Henry. + +"I can't understand myself," Henry went on. "My feelings are hopelessly +mixed up. I want to do decent things and I loathe cads, but all the same +I do caddish things myself. I want to be straight, but I'm not straight. +... It's awfully hard to explain what I mean, but there's something in +me that seems to keep pulling me out of line, and I haven't enough force +in me to beat it. I suppose it's the mill in my blood. My grandfather +was a mill-owner." + +Gilbert shook his head and smiled. "I don't think your notions of +heredity are sound, Quinny. Is that all you have to confess?" + +"All?" + +"Yes. There isn't anything else?" + +"No. I wanted to tell you that I'm ashamed, but I must tell you, too, +that although I'm ashamed, I shan't stop loving Cecily. I can't...." + +Gilbert got up and went over to him. He sat on the edge of the table so +that Henry, when he looked up, had to gaze straight at him. + +"You're a rum bloke, Quinny," he said. "I'm always telling you that, +aren't I? But you were never so rum as you are now. It's no good +pretending that I don't feel ... feel anything about Cecily. I do. But +I've known about you and her for some while. I knew you'd fall in love +with her that day in the Park when you were excited about her beauty and +were so anxious that I should introduce you to her. Of course, I knew +you'd fall in love with her. I'm not a dramatist for nothing. So what +you say isn't news. I mean, it doesn't surprise me. Quinny, I'm awfully +fond of you, old chap, much more than I am of Ninian or Roger. I expect +it's because you're such a blooming baby. I'm not really upset about +your being in love with Cecily. That had to be. But I'm awfully upset +about you!" + +"Me, Gilbert?" Henry said, looking up in astonishment. + +"Yes. You haven't got much resolution, have you? Cecily has only got to +blub a little or kiss you a few times, and you're done for ... she can +do what she likes with you. You haven't got the courage to run away from +her, and you haven't the power to stand up to her and say 'Be-damned to +you'!" + +"No, I know that!" + +"So, I think I'll just kidnap you, Quinny. I think I'll make you come to +Ireland with me...." + +"You can't do that, Gilbert!" + +"Can't I, by God!" Gilbert's voice had changed from its bantering note +to a note of resolve. "Do you think I'm going to let my best friend make +an ass of himself, and do nothing to prevent him? Quinny, you're an ass! +You're too fond of running about saying you can't help this and you +can't help that ... and spilling over! And what do you think's going to +be the end of this business? I suppose you imagine that Cecily'll change +her mind some day, and run away with you? Do you think she'll run away +with _you_ when she wouldn't run away with me? Damn you, you've got a +nerve to think a thing like that...." + +"I don't think that, Gilbert," Henry interjected. + +"Oh, yes, you do! Of course, you do! That's natural enough. I wouldn't +mind so much if I thought there were a chance that she would run away +with you, but she won't!" + +"You wouldn't mind!..." + +"No. Why should I? If she won't run away with me, she couldn't do better +than run away with you. And there'd be a chance then that you'd get on +with your job. You'd soon shake down into some sort of balance if you +were together, but you'll never get level if you go on in the way you're +going now. You'll run up into one emotional crisis and down into +another, and you'll spend the time between them in ... in recovering. +That's all. And your work will go to blazes. I _know_, Quinny. You see, +I was your predecessor...." + +"But Cecily's proud of my work...." + +"She was proud of mine. So she said. Look here, Quinny, _buck up_! How +much of your new novel have you written since you knew her!" + +"Not very much, of course, but!..." + +"Exactly. I couldn't work either when ... when I was your predecessor. +Cecily's greedy, Quinny! She wants _all_ of you ... and she has the +power to make you give the whole of yourself to her. If you think that +'all for love and the world well lost' is the right motto for a man ... +then Cecily's your woman. But is it? Hang it all, Quinny, you haven't +done your work yet ... you've only begun to do it!" + +He got off the table and began to search among Henry's papers. + +"What are you looking for?" Henry asked. + +"I want the manuscript of 'Turbulence.' Where is it?" + +"I'll get it. What do you want it for?" + +He opened a drawer and took out the few sheets of the novel that were +written. + +"Is that all?" said Gilbert. + +"Yes," Henry answered. + +"Cecily doesn't seem to inspire you, Quinny, does she, any more than she +inspired me? You haven't written a whole chapter yet.... Do you remember +what we swore at Rumpell's?" + +"We swore a whole lot of things!..." + +"Yes, but the most important thing? We swore we'd become Great. I don't +know that any of us ever will be Great.... I get the sensation now and +then that we're frightfully crude, even Roger, but we can become +something better than one of Cecily's lovers, can't we?" + +"I don't know that I want to be anything else...." + +"For shame, Quinny!" + +Gilbert put the manuscript back into the drawer from which Henry had +taken it. + +"You'll come to Ireland with me?" he said. + +"No, Gilbert, I won't!" + +"You will. I'll break your jaw if you don't come. I'll knock the +stuffing out of you if you don't come. We can catch the night train and +be in Dublin to-morrow morning!..." + +"I promised Cecily I wouldn't go...." + +"And you promised me you would go. I've packed all the things I want, +and it oughtn't to take you long to pack a trunk. I'll come and help you +after dinner ... there's the gong ... well just have time if you hop +round quickly. Ninian can telephone for a taxi to take us to Euston!" + +"It's no good, Gilbert...." + +"Come on. I can smell onions, and I'd risk my immortal soul for onions. +Boiled, fried, stewed or roasted, Quinny, there's no vegetable to beat +them...." + + +8 + +"I'm not going, Gilbert!..." + +"You are going!" + +They had finished dinner and were now in Henry's bedroom. Gilbert had +instructed Ninian to telephone for a taxi. Then, shoving Henry before +him, he had climbed the stairs to Henry's room and started to pack his +trunk. + +"You can't make me go!..." + +Gilbert took an armful of shirts from the chest of drawers and dropped +them into the trunk. "Once, when I was wandering in Walworth," he said, +"I heard a costermonger threatening to give another costermonger a thick +ear, a bunged-up eye and a mouth full of blood. That's what you'll get +if you don't hop round. What suits do you want!" + +Henry did not answer. He walked to the window and stood there, peering +out at the trees in the garden. A taxi-cab drove up to the door and +presently Ninian came bounding up the stairs to tell them of its +arrival. + +"Tell him to wait," said Gilbert, and Ninian hurried back to do so. "If +you won't choose your suits yourself," he went on to Henry, "I shall +have to do it for you. Socks, socks, where the hell do you keep your +socks?..." + +It seemed to Henry that he could see Cecily's face shining out of the +darkness. He could feel her arms about him and hear her beautiful voice +telling him that she loved him. "I won't go," he said to himself. "I +won't go!..." + +"If you'd only help to pack, we'd save heaps of money," Gilbert +grumbled. "It's sickening to think of that taxi sitting out there +totting up tuppences. Come and sit on the lid of this trunk, will you?" + +Henry did not move from the window. Gilbert straightened himself. For a +moment or two he could not see clearly because he was giddy with +stooping. Then he crossed the room and took hold of Henry's arm. + +"Come on, Quinny," he said, pulling him towards the trunk. + +"What's the good of fussing like this, Gilbert, when I've told you I +won't go...." + +"Well, sit on the trunk anyhow. I may as well close the thing now I've +filled it...." + + +9 + +He called Ninian, and between them they carried the luggage downstairs +to the cab. + +"Now then, Quinny!" said Gilbert. + +"I'm not going, I tell you...." + +"Get into the cab, damn you. Go on!" + +He shoved him forward so that he almost fell against the step of the +taxi, and Ninian caught hold of him, and they lifted him and heaved him +into the taxi. + +"Get in, Ninian," said Gilbert. He turned and shouted up the hall to +Roger. "Come on, Roger! You'd better come and see us off!" + +None of them spoke during the short drive to Euston. Henry sulked in a +corner of the cab, telling himself that it was monstrous of Gilbert to +treat him in this fashion, and vowing that nothing would induce him to +get into the train ... and then, his mind veering again, telling himself +that perhaps it would be a good thing to go to Ireland for a while. +Cecily had chopped and changed with him. Why should he not chop and +change with her?... Neither Ninian nor Roger made any remark on the +peculiarity of the journey to Ireland. They had known in the morning +that Gilbert and Henry were going away that night, but it was clear that +something had happened since then, that Gilbert was more intent on the +journey than Henry.... No doubt, they would know in good time. Probably, +Ninian thought to himself, that woman Jayne is mixed up in it.... + +"You get the tickets, Ninian," Gilbert said when they reached Euston. +"Firsts. Democracy's all right in theory, but I don't like it in a +railway carriage!" + +"Where's the money?" said Ninian. + +"Money! What do you want money for? All right! Here you are! You can pay +me afterwards, Quinny!" + +They had only a few minutes in which to get into the train, and Gilbert, +putting his arm in Henry's and hurrying him towards the Irish mail, was +glad that the wait would not be long. + +"It's ridiculous to behave like this," said Henry, as they shoved him +into a carriage. + +"I know it is," Gilbert answered. He turned to Roger. "We may want grub +during the night. Get some, will you! Sandwiches will do and hard-boiled +eggs, if you can get 'em...." + +He turned to Henry. "You're my friend, Quinny," he said, "I can't let +you make a mucker of everything, can I?" + +Henry did not answer. + +"I know exactly how you feel," Gilbert went on. "I should feel like it +myself if I were in your place, but if I were, Quinny, I'd be damned +glad if you'd do the same for me!" + + +10 + +"Good Lord!" Gilbert exclaimed, as the train drove out of London, "I +forgot to pack your toothpaste...." + + + + +THE THIRD BOOK + +OF + +CHANGING WINDS + + + + + ... quitted all to save + A world from utter loss. + + PARADISE LOST. + + + + +THE FIRST CHAPTER + + +1 + +As the boat turned round the end of the pier and moved up the harbour to +her berth, Gilbert, eyeing the passengers, caught sight of Henry and +instantly hallooed to him. The passage from Kingstown had been smooth, +and Henry, heartened by the sea air and sunshine, pressed eagerly +through the throng of passengers so that he might be near the gangway +and so be among the first to descend from the steamer. He called a +greeting to Gilbert, and then, the boat being berthed, hurried forward +to the gangway. He could not get off the steamer as quickly as he wished +for the number of passengers on board was very large, and he fidgeted +impatiently until he was able to get ashore. + +"We'll send this bag on by the waggonette," Gilbert said, when they had +shaken hands and congratulated each other on their healthy looks, "and +walk over to Tre'Arrdur, and we'll gabble on the way. Here," he added, +taking a letter out of his breastpocket, "you can read that while I find +the man. It's from Ninian. It came this morning!..." + +He seized Henry's bag and hurried off with it, leaving Henry to follow +slowly or remain where he was, as he pleased, and then, before Henry had +time to do more than take the letter from its envelope and glance +carelessly at the first page of it, he came quickly back. "Come up," he +said, putting his arm in Henry's. "You can read it as you go along. +There's not much in it!" + +They left the pier and passed through the station into the street. + +"Holyhead," said Gilbert, "is a good place to get drunk in! We won't +linger!..." + +They took the lower road to Tre'Arrdur Bay because it was quieter than +the upper road, and as they walked, Henry read Ninian's letter. + +"He seems to like South America," he said, returning the letter to +Gilbert when he had finished with it. + +Gilbert nodded his head. "That old Tunnel of his doesn't get itself +built, does it? But it must be great fun building a railway in a place +like that. There's a revolution on the first and third Tuesdays of the +month, and the President of the Republic and the Emperor of the Empire +are in power for a fortnight and in exile for another one. So Ninian +says. He told Roger in his last letter that he had had to kick the +emperor's backside for him for interfering with the railway contract.... +Oh, by the bye, Rachel's produced an infant. She says it's like Roger, +but Roger hopes not. He says it's like nothing on earth. He came to see +me off from Euston yesterday and when I asked him to describe it to me, +he said he couldn't ... it was indescribable. It looks _raw_, he says. +It must be frightfully comic to be a father, Quinny!" + +"I don't see anything comic about it," Henry replied. "I'd rather like +to be a father myself." + +"Well, why don't you become one. They say it's easy enough. First, you +get a wife...." + +"What sort of an infant is it? Is it a boy or a girl?" + +"Great Scott!" said Gilbert, "I forgot to ask that. That was very +careless of me. Look out, Quinny, here's a motor, and that's Holy +Mountain on the right. We'll go up it to-morrow, if you like. It's not +much of a climb. Just enough to jig you up a bit. There's a chap in the +hotel who scoots up mountains like a young goat. He asked me to go up +Snowdon with him, but when I asked him what the tramfare was, he was +slightly snorty in his manner. How's the novel getting on?" + +"It'll be out in September. I corrected the final proofs last month. I +think it's rather good." + +"Better than 'Turbulence' or 'The Wayward Man'?" + +"Yes, I think so. I'm calling it 'The Fennels.' That's the name of the +people it's about. I've taken an Ulster family and ... well, that's what +I've done. I've taken an Ulster family and just shown it. My father +likes it much better than anything else I've done, although he was very +keen on 'Turbulence.'" + +"How is your father?" + +"Oh, much better, thanks, but still a bit shaky. He hates all this +Volunteer business in Ireland. You remember John Marsh, don't you, and +Galway? You saw them in Dublin that time!..." Gilbert nodded his head +and so Henry did not complete his sentence. "Well, they're up to their +necks in the opposition Volunteers. I saw John in Dublin yesterday for a +few minutes. He was very excited about the gun-running in Ulster! Damned +play-acting! He could hardly spare the time to say 'How are you?' to me, +he was so anxious to be off to his drilling. He hasn't done any writing +for a long time now. He's become very friendly with Mineely!..." + +"Is that the Labour man?" + +"Yes. I liked him when I met him, but he's frightfully bitter since the +strike. He's got more brains than all the others put together, and he +influences John tremendously. I don't wonder at his bitterness. The +employers _were_ brutal in that strike, Gilbert, and Mineely will never +forget it. He'll make trouble for them yet, and they'll deserve all they +get. He said to me 'They won't deal reasonably with us, so they can't +complain if we deal unreasonably with them. They set the police on to +us....'" + +"What's he going to do then?" + +"I don't know, but he's drilling his men as hard as ever he can. He +means to hit back. After he'd spoken about the police, he said, 'The +next time we go to them, we'll have guns in our hands. Mebbe they'll +listen to us then!' He's like John ... he doesn't care what happens to +himself. All those people, John and Galway and Mineely, have a contempt +for death that I can't understand. I loathe the thought of dying ... but +they don't seem to mind. It's their religion partly, I suppose, but it's +something more than religion. If they were poor, like the slum people, I +could understand it better. You can't frighten _them_ by threatening to +kill them. Their life is such a rotten one that they'd be much better +off if they were dead, even if there were no heaven, and I suppose they +feel that ... and of course the Catholic religion teaches them to +despise life! But it isn't all religious fervour or the apathy of people +who're too poor to mind whether they live or die. Marsh and Galway and +Mineely are moved by a sort of nationalistic ecstasy ... Marsh and +Galway more than Mineely, I think, because there's a bitterness in him +that isn't in them. They think of Ireland first, and he thinks of +starving workmen first. They're Ireland mad. They really don't value +their lives a happorth. They'd love to be martyrised for Ireland. It's a +kind of lust, Gilbert. They get a sensual look on their faces ... almost +... when they talk of dying for Ireland." + +"It's a little silly of us English people who love life so much to try +and govern a people like that," said Gilbert. + + +2 + +Much had happened to them in the two years that had elapsed since the +day on which Gilbert carried Henry off to Dublin. The Bloomsbury +household had come to an end. Suddenly and, as it seemed to them, +inexplicably, Mrs. Clutters had died. It had never occurred to any of +them that Mrs. Clutters could die. They seldom saw her. The kitchen was +her domain, and Magnolia was her messenger. If they had any preferences +or prejudices concerning food, they made them known to Magnolia, and +Magnolia made them known to Mrs. Clutters. Ninian returning home in an +epicurean mood, might announce that he had seen mushrooms in a +greengrocer's window. "Magnolia," he would say, "let there be +mushrooms!" and Magnolia would answer, "Yes, sir, certainly, sir!" and +behold in the morning there would be mushrooms for breakfast. Or Gilbert +would give their opinion of a dish. "Magnolia, we do not like scrambled +eggs. We like our eggs boiled, fried, poached, beaten up in milk, Mr. +Graham even likes them raw, but none of us like them scrambled!..." and +Magnolia would say, "Yes, sir, certainly, sir!" and so scrambled eggs +ceased to be seen on their breakfast table. Magnolia always said, "Yes, +sir, certainly, sir!" If they had informed her that the Judgment Day was +to begin that afternoon at three o'clock, Magnolia, they felt sure, +would say, "Yes, sir, certainly, sir!" and go on with her work.... There +seemed to be no adequate excuse for Mrs. Clutters' death ... "an' +everythink goin' on so nice an' all!" as Magnolia said ... and yet she +had died. There had been delay in serving breakfast, and Roger, anxious +to catch a train, had been impatient. + +"Magnolia!" he shouted from the door, "Magnolia!" + +"Yes, sir!" Magnolia answered in an agitated voice. + +They waited for her to add "Certainly, sir!" but she did not do so, and +they looked oddly at each other, feeling that something unusual had +happened. + +"We're waiting for breakfast," Roger said in a less impatient voice. + +"Yes, sir, I'm comin', sir!..." + +Magnolia appeared at the door, very red in the face and very worried in +her looks, and placed a covered dish in front of Roger who was the +father of the four, appointed to carve and to serve. + +"What's this?" Roger demanded when he had removed the cover. + +"Please, sir, it's eggs, sir! Fried eggs, sir! That's what it's supposed +to be, sir!" Magnolia replied dubiously. + +"It's a bad imitation, Magnolia!" Gilbert said. "I think I'll just have +bread and marmalade this morning!" + +He reached for the marmalade as he spoke, and Henry, eyeing the eggs +with disrelish, murmured, "After you, Gilbert!" + +"Tell Mrs. Clutters I want her," Roger said to Magnolia. + +"Please, sir, she's not very well in herself this mornin'...." + +"Not very well!" + +"Do you mean to say she's ill?" Ninian shouted. + +"Yes, sir. It was me fried the eggs, sir!" + +"But ... but she can't be ill," Ninian continued. + +"Well, she is, sir. That's what she says any'ow. 'You'll 'ave to cook +the breakfis yourself', she says to me, an' when I said I didn't know +'ow, she said 'Well, you must do the best you can, that's all!' an' I +done it, sir. She don't look well at all!..." + +"How long has she been ill?" Roger asked. + +"I don't know, sir. She didn't tell me. She was groanin' a bit yesterday +an' the day before, but she wouldn't give in. I said to 'er, 'If I was +you, Mrs. Clutters, I'd 'ave a doctor an' chance it!' an' she told me to +'old me tongue, so of course I wasn't goin' to say no more, not after +that. I mean to say, I can take a 'int as good as any one...." + +"We'd better send for a doctor," Roger said, interrupting Magnolia. +"I'll telephone to Dunroon. He lives quite near!" Then he remembered his +county court case. "You'd better telephone, Quinny! I _must_ catch this +train. Take these ... eggs away, Magnolia. We won't say anything more +about them. You did your best!" + +"Yes, sir, I did, but I told 'er I didn't know 'ow...." + +"All right!" said Roger, passing the dish to her. + + +3 + +Dr. Dunroon suggested that they should send for Mrs. Clutters' friends. + +"Is it serious, doctor?" Henry asked, and the doctor nodded his head. +"She's dying," he said. + +"Dying!" + +Magnolia, disregarding the conventions, had stood by, openly listening +to what they were saying, and when she heard the doctor say that Mrs. +Clutters was dying, she let a howl out of her that startled them. The +doctor turned to her quickly. + +"Hold your tongue," he said, "or she'll hear you. Anybody 'ud think you +were dying by the noise you're making!" + +Magnolia blubbered away. "I 'ate to 'ear of anybody dyin'," she said. "I +never been in a 'ouse before where it's 'appened, an' besides she's been +good to me!" Her mind wandered off at a tangent "Any'ow," she said, +wiping her eyes, "I done me best. No one can't never say I ain't done me +best, an' the best can't do no more!" + +"Has she got any friends, Magnolia?..." + +It seemed to them to be extraordinary that this woman had lived in their +house, had worked and cared for them, and yet was so much a stranger to +them that now, in this time of her coming dissolution, they did not know +where her friends were to be found, whether indeed, she had any friends. +"That's very English," Henry thought; "in Ireland we know all about our +servants!" + +"Well, I _think_ 'e's 'er 'usband," Magnolia replied. "Any'ow, 'e was +drunk when 'e come!..." + +They had assumed that Mrs. Clutters was a widow, a childless widow.... + +"I've seen 'im 'angin' about two-three times, an' when I said to 'er, +'Mrs. Clutters, there's your friend 'angin' about the corner of the +street, she tole me to mind me own business, an' then she 'urried out. +Of course, it 'adn't got nothink to do with me, 'oo 'e was, an' when she +tole me to mind me own business, I took the 'int...." + +"Do you know where he lives?" Gilbert asked. + +"No, sir, I don't. When she told me to mind me own business!..." + +The approach of Death had made Magnolia amazingly garrulous. She said +more to them that morning than she had said to them all the rest of the +time she had been in their service ... and mixed up with her +reminiscences of what Mrs. Clutters had said to her and what she had +said to Mrs. Clutters, there was a continual statement of her fear and +dislike of death, followed by the assertion that no one 'ad ever died in +a house she'd worked in before. + +"You'd think she was blaming us for it," Gilbert said afterwards. + +"Well, you'd better go and ask her to tell you where her husband lives," +Henry said to her, but she shrunk away from him when he said that. + +"Oh, I couldn't go near no one what was dyin'," she said. "I ain't used +to it, an' I don't like it!" + +Ninian shoved her aside. "I'll go," he said. + +"We'd better get some one to look after her," Gilbert proposed when +Ninian had gone. "Magnolia's no damn good!..." + +"No, sir, I ain't ... not with dead people I ain't!" + +"Clear out, Magnolia!" Gilbert shouted at her. "Go and make the beds or +sit in the kitchen or something!" + +"Yes, sir, certainly, sir!" Magnolia answered, and then she left the +room. + +"I've never felt such a helpless ass in my life before," Gilbert went on +when she had shut the door behind her. "I simply don't know what to do!" + +"We can't do anything," Henry murmured. "Dunroon said he'd come in again +in a short while. Perhaps if we were to get a nurse or somebody. There's +sure to be a Nurses' Home near to. Can't we ring up somebody?" + +He got hold of the telephone book and began to turn over the pages +rapidly. + +"What are you looking for?" Gilbert asked. + +"Nursing Homes," he answered. + +"That's no good. Let's send round to Dunroon's!..." + +"He won't be there!" + +"Some one'll be there. We'll ring 'em up!..." + +Dr. Dunroon's secretary was there, and she knew exactly what to do. "Oh, +very well," she said in a voice so calm that Gilbert felt reassured. +"I'll send some one round as soon as possible!" + +Ninian came down the stairs before they had finished telephoning to Dr. +Dunroon's secretary. + +"I'm going to fetch her husband," he whispered to Henry, and then he +left them. + + +4 + +"Let's go out," Gilbert said suddenly to Henry. + +The nurse had arrived, and was busy in attendance on Mrs. Clutters. +Magnolia, full of the antagonism which servants instinctively feel +towards nurses, was maintaining a grievance in the kitchen. "Givin' 'er +orders, as if she was some one!" she was mumbling to herself. "Too +bossy, she is!..." + +"It's no good trying to do any work to-day," Gilbert went on. "I ... I +couldn't make up things with her ... up there!" + +They told Magnolia that they would have their meals out, and that she +need not trouble to cook anything for them, and they sent for the nurse +and explained their circumstances to her. "That's all right," she said +cheerfully, "I'll look after myself!" + +They set off towards Hampstead, but after a while they found themselves +returning to Bloomsbury. They could not keep away from the house.... +They tried to eat a meal at the Vienna Café, but they could not swallow +the food, so they paid their bill and went away. They wandered into the +British Museum, and tried to interest themselves in Egyptology.... + +"This female," said Gilbert, pointing to the mummy of the Priestess of +Amen-Ra, "is supposed to bring frightful ill-luck to you if you squint +at her. There was a fellow at Cambridge who was cracked about her ... +used to come here in vac. and make love to her ... sit here for hours +spooning with a corpse. I often wanted to smack his face for him!" + +"Pose, I expect!" Henry replied. "I should have thought it was rather +dull to get smitten on a woman who's as dead as this one is...." + +They remembered Mrs. Clutters.... + +"Let's go back and see what's happened," Gilbert said, turning away from +the case which held the Priestess.... + +Ninian met them in the hall. "She's dead," he said. "Her husband's in +the kitchen. I found him in a lodging-house in Camden Town, and I should +say he's a first-class rotter!" + + +5 + +They sat together that evening without speaking. There was to have been +a meeting of the Improved Tories to talk over Roger's plan for enlarging +the Army and mitigating the problem of unemployment. They could not get +messages to people in time, and so part of the evening was spent in +whispered explanations at the door to those who turned up. + +"I think I'll go to bed," Ninian said, but he did not move, nor did any +of them move. It was as if they wished to keep together as long as +possible. + +Magnolia, red-eyed from weeping, had come to them earlier in the +evening, declaring that she was frightened. + +"What are you afraid of?" Roger snapped at her. + +"'Er!" she answered. + +"But she's dead!..." + +"Yes, sir," Magnolia said, "that's why! I don't like goin' upstairs be +meself, sir!..." + +"Oh, rubbish, Magnolia!" Roger exclaimed. + +"I can't 'elp bein' afraid, sir. I know she's dead an' can't do me no +'arm ... not that she'd want to do me any 'arm ... I will say that for +'er ... but some'ow I'm afraid all the same, sir. I can't 'elp it!" + +"I want to get a book out of my room," Henry interjected, "so I'll go +upstairs with her!" + +"Oh, thank you, sir," said Magnolia gratefully. "I know she wouldn't +'arm me if she could 'elp it, not if she was alive any'ow, but they're +different when they're dead!..." She broke down, blubbering hopelessly. +"Oh, I wish I was 'ome," she moaned. + +"Come on, Magnolia!" Henry said, opening the door for her. + +"That girl's getting on my nerves," Gilbert murmured when she had gone. + +Magnolia followed Henry upstairs. They had to pass the room in which the +dead woman lay, and Magnolia, when she reached the door, gave a little +squeal of fright and ran forward, thrusting past Henry.... "Don't be a +fool, Magnolia!" he said, catching hold of her arm and steadying her. + +"I'm frightened, sir!" she moaned, looking up at him with dilated eyes. + +"There's nothing to be afraid of. Come along!" + +He took her to her room and opened the door for her. + +"You're all right now, aren't you?" he said, switching on the light. + +"Yes, thank you, sir!" + +"Good-night, then!" + +"Good-night, sir!" + +When she had shut the door, he heard her turning the key in the lock, +and he smiled at her precaution. "That wouldn't hinder Mrs. Clutters' +ghost if she ... if she started to walk!" he thought to himself, as he +descended the stairs to his room. He had switched off the light on +Magnolia's landing, but there was a light showing dimly up the stairs +from the landing beneath. It shone faintly on the door of the room in +which Mrs. Clutters' body was lying. He went down the stairs towards the +door, and then, half-way down, stopped. He could not look away from the +door ... he felt that in a moment or two it would open, and Mrs. +Clutters, in her grave-clothes, would stand in the shadow and look at +him with fixed eyes.... + +"Don't be a fool!" he said aloud, shaking his head and dashing his hand +across his eyes as if he were trying to sweep something away. "I'm +nervy, that's what it is," he went on, still speaking aloud. "I'm worse +than Magnolia!..." + +He descended the rest of the stairs, determined not to show any sign of +fear, and then, as he passed the door, he shut his eyes and hurried by. +He ran down the next flight of stairs, afraid to look back, and did not +pause in his running until he had reached the ground floor. He stood +still in the hall for a few minutes to recover himself, and then he +entered the room where the others were sitting. + +They looked up at him. + +"All right?" Ninian asked, and Henry nodded his head. + +"You haven't brought the book," Roger said. + +"No," he answered, "No ... I changed my mind. I didn't really want the +book. I just said that to ... to get Magnolia out of the room!" + + +6 + +Mrs. Clutters' husband insisted on seeing them after the funeral +because, he said, he wished to thank them for all they had done for +"'er!" He made a jerk over his shoulder with his thumb when he said +"'er," and they gathered that he was indicating the direction of Kensal +Green cemetery. He was very maudlin and drunk, and Ninian thought that +he ought to be kicked. + +"I'm shorry," he said, "to be thish con ... condish'n, gemmem, but y'see +it's like this. A gemman said to me, y'see, 'Bert,' 'e says ... thash my +name ... Bert, called after Queen's 'usban' ... Gaw' bless 'er!... +Alber' the Goo' they called '_im_ ... not me, oh, Lor' no!... thish +gemmam, 'e says to me, 'Bert,' 'e says, 'come an' 'ave one!' an' so o' +course I '_ad_ to 'ave one. Thash 'ow 'twas, see! Shorry to be in thish +disgrashful state ... thish sad occas'n, gemmem. Very shorry! _I_ thank +you!" He turned to leave them, staggering towards the door. "I ain't +been a good 'usban' to 'er," he went on, again making the jerking +gesture over his shoulder with his thumb. "Thash a fac'. I ain't. But I +'pologise. I'm shorry! Can't say no more'n that, can I? Goo'-ni', +gemmem!" + +And then he staggered out. + +"Somebody ought to do him in," said Ninian, going to see that he left +the house as quickly as possible. + +"Well," said Roger, when Ninian had returned, "what are we going to do +next?" + +"Sack Magnolia," said Gilbert. + +"And then?" Roger went on. + +"I don't know," Gilbert replied. + +"I suppose we can get another housekeeper," Henry suggested. + +"Yes, we could do that," said Gilbert. + +Roger got up and moved about the room for a few moments. "I think I +shall get married," he said at last. "I've got to get married some time, +and I might as well get married now. This ... this business seems to +provide an opportunity, don't you think?" + +"It's a pity to break up the house," Gilbert murmured. + +"It'll have to be broken up some day," Roger retorted. + +Ninian joined in. "There's talk of a big railway contract in South +America, and I might have to go. Hare spoke of sending me. In about six +months' time...." + +"We might let the house furnished for the remainder of the lease," Roger +went on. "Perhaps some one would take the furniture over altogether.... +I could use some of it, of course, for my house when I get married!" + +"You've settled it then!" said Gilbert. + +"Not exactly. I haven't said anything to Rachel yet. The idea occurred +to me in the chapel while the parson was saying the Burial Service!" + +"I could have hit that fellow," Gilbert exclaimed. "Gabbling it off like +that! I suppose he was in a hurry to get home to tea!" + +They sat in silence for a while, each of them conjuring up the +vision of the cold little service in the cemetery chapel. Magnolia, +clothed in black, had sobbed loudly, while Mr. Clutters sniffed +and said "A-men" very emphatically, and the parson, regarding the +little group of mourners with the curiosity of a man who is bored +by death and the ritual of burial, gabbled away: _NowisChristrisen +fromthedeadandbecomethefirstfruitsofthemthatsleptforsince_ + +_Bymancamedeathbymancamealso_ + +_Theresurrectionofthedead...._ + +"It means breaking up everything," Gilbert still protested. + +"Things are always breaking up," said Roger. + +"I suppose so," Gilbert replied. + +Henry had not taken part in the conversation, but had lain back in his +chair, with his hands clasped behind his head, lazily listening to what +they were saying. + +"I don't think I'd like to go on living here," he exclaimed, +"particularly if Roger and Ninian go away. Perhaps we could share a flat +or something, Gilbert?" + +"That's a notion," Gilbert answered. + +"There's no reason why the Improved Tories should collapse just because +I'm going to get married," Roger asserted. "This house really isn't the +most convenient place to meet. We might hire a room in a hotel near the +Strand and meet there...." + + +7 + +The house was let unfurnished. The incoming tenant was willing to take +on the remainder of their lease and continue in occupation of the house +after its expiry, but he had furniture of his own, and so he had no use +for theirs. Roger took his furniture to a small house in Hampstead, and +offered to buy most of what was left, but they would not listen to his +proposals. "We'll give it to you as a wedding present," they insisted. +"If there's anything you don't want, well sell it!" Magnolia was +presented with a couple of months' wages and a new dress, and bidden to +get another home as soon as she could conveniently do so ... and then +the house was abandoned. + +"It's funny," said Gilbert, as they shut the door behind them for the +last time, "it's funny that we hardly ever thought of that old woman, +and yet, the minute she dies, we sort of go to pieces. We didn't even +know she'd got a husband. Her name was Jennifer. I saw it on the coffin +lid!..." + +Their arrangements for quitting the house were not completed for a month +after the burial of Mrs. Clutters, and before they finally settled their +affairs, Ninian was told that he was to proceed to South America with +the junior partner. He was to have a couple of months' leave ... "I +shall go down to Boveyhayne," he said ... after which he would leave +England for a lengthy while. "And then there were three!" said Gilbert, +when Ninian told them of his appointment. "Three little clever boys," he +went on, "going up to fame. One little clever boy got married and then +there were two!..." + +Until they could make some settlement of their future, they decided to +live in a boarding house in Russell Square. + +"We shall loathe it," Gilbert said, "but that will be good for us!" + + +8 + +And then Roger and Rachel got married. They walked into a Registrar's +office, with Gilbert and Ninian and Henry to bear them company, and +made their declarations of fealty to each other. + +"My father would have been horrified," Roger said at luncheon +afterwards. "If he'd been alive, Rachel, we'd have had to get married in +a church!" + +Rachel smiled. "I shouldn't have minded, Roger!" she answered. "You'll +laugh, I know, when I tell you that half-way through the service I began +to long for a surplice and the Voice that Breathed O'er Eden. A marriage +in a church is a lot prettier than one in a Registrar's office!..." + +"If only the Mayor of the Borough had performed the ceremony," Gilbert +lamented. "In his nice furry red robes and cocked hat, joining you two +together in the name of the Borough of Holborn, he 'd have looked rather +jolly! Roger, we ought to get the Improved Tories to consider the +question of Civil Marriage. We want more beauty in it. Rachel, my dear, +I haven't kissed you yet. I look upon myself as Roger's best man, and I +ought to kiss you!" + +"Very well, Gilbert," she answered, turning her face towards him. + +"You've deceived us all, Rachel," he said as he kissed her. "We'd made +up our minds to hate you because you were taking our little Roger from +us, and at first we thought we were right to hate you because you were +so aggressive to us, but you've deceived us. We don't hate you. We like +you, Rachel!" + +"Do you, Gilbert?" She turned to Ninian and Henry. "Do you like me, +too?" she said. + +"I shouldn't mind marrying you myself," Ninian replied. + +"I don't see why Gilbert should get all the kisses," said Henry. "After +all, I more or less gave you away, didn't I? I was there anyhow!...." + +So she kissed Ninian and Henry too. Then, a little later, Roger and she +went off to spend a honeymoon in Normandy. + + +9 + +"I feel horribly lonely somehow," said Gilbert to Henry. Ninian, in a +hurry to catch the train for Boveyhayne at Waterloo, had left them at +Charing Cross. + +Henry nodded his head. + +"This marrying and giving in marriage is the devil, isn't it?" Gilbert +went on. "We ought to cheer ourselves up, Quinny!" + +"We ought, Gilbert!" + +"Let's go and see my play. Perhaps that'll make us feel merry and +bright!..." + +"No," said Henry. "It wouldn't. It 'ud depress us. We'd keep thinking of +Ninian and Roger. I think we ought to get drunk, Gilbert, very and +incredibly drunk...." + +"I should feel like Mrs. Clutters' husband if I did that," Gilbert +answered. "Aren't there any other forms of debauchery? Couldn't we go to +a music-hall or a picture-palace or something? Or we might discuss our +future!..." + +"I'm sick of this boarding house we're in," Henry exclaimed. + +"So am I, but I don't feel like setting up house again. I'm certain +you'd go and get married the moment we'd settled into a place...." + +"I'm not a marrying man, Gilbert," Henry interrupted. + +"Well, what are you, Quinny?" + +"I don't know!" + +They were wandering aimlessly along the streets. They had drifted along +Regent Street, and then had drifted into Oxford Street, and were going +slowly in the direction of Marble Arch. + +"Quinny!" said Gilbert after a while. + +"Yes?" Henry answered. + +"Have you ... have you seen Cecily since you came back?" + +"Yes. Twice!" + +Gilbert did not ask the question which was on the tip of his tongue, but +Henry was willing to give the answer without being asked. + +"She didn't appear to know I'd been away," he said. + +"She knew all the same!..." + +"She just said, 'Hilloa, Paddy I' and went on talking to the other +people who were there too. I tried to outstay them, but Jimphy came in +the first time, and there was a painter there the second time, who +wouldn't budge. He's painting her portrait. I've not seen her since...." + +"You're glad, aren't you, that I kidnapped you, Quinny?" + +"In a way, yes!" + +"You got on with your book, anyhow. You'd never have done that if you'd +stayed in town, trailing after Cecily!" + +"I can't quite make you out, Gilbert," Henry said, turning to his +friend. "Are you in love with Cecily?" + +Gilbert nodded his head. "Of course, I am, but what's the good? Cecily +doesn't love me any more than she loves you. She doesn't love any man +particularly. She's ... just an Appetite. You and I are no more to her +than ... than the caramel she ate last Tuesday. The only hope for us is +that we shall grow out of this caramel state or at all events get the +upper hand of it.... In the meantime, what are we going to do?" + +"Work, I suppose. 'Turbulence' is nearly finished, and I'm itching to +get on with a new story I've thought of. I'm calling it 'The Wayward +Man.' ..." + +"We might go into the country...." + +"Or hire a furnished flat for a while...." + +"Or do something.... Lordy God, Quinny, we're getting frightfully vague +and loose-endy. We really must pull ourselves together. There's a +bun-shop somewhere about. Suppose we have tea?" + + +10 + +They took a furnished flat in Buckingham Street, and lived there while +Henry completed "Turbulence" and saw it through the press. Gilbert had +finished another comedy soon after the production of "The Magic +Casement," and Sir Geoffrey Mundane had asked for a first option on it. +"The Magic Casement" was not a great popular success, but it "paid its +way," as Sir Geoffrey said. It was performed for a hundred and twenty +times in England, and for three weeks in America, where it failed +lamentably. "I never did think much of a republic!" Gilbert said when he +heard of the play's failure. + +Roger and Rachel had settled in their house in Hampstead soon after +Gilbert and Henry had taken the furnished flat, and after a while, some +of the old routine of their lives, except that part of it represented by +Ninian, went on as before. Most of Ninian's leave was spent in quelling +his mother's alarms about his journey to South America. "It's a splendid +chance for me, mother!" he insisted. "It's jolly decent of old Hare to +give it to me!" + +"But it's so far away, Ninian, dear, and if anything were to happen to +you!..." + +"Nothing'll happen to me, mother ... nothing serious anyhow. Heaps of +chaps go off to places like that without turning a hair!" + +"But I've only got you, Ninian!" Mrs. Graham objected. + +"You've got Mary, too, and I shall come back to you!" + +One evening, as they walked along the road that leads to Sidmouth, she +put her arm in his, and drew him near to her. + +"Ninian, dear," she said very softly and hesitatingly as if she were +afraid to say all that was in her mind. + +"Yes, mother!" + +"Ninian, I sometimes wish ..." + +Again she hesitated, and again he said, "Yes, mother?" + +Her speech took another direction. "There have been Grahams at +Boveyhayne for four hundred years, dear, and there's only you left now." + +He looked at her uncomprehendingly. "Well, mother!..." + +"My dear, we can't let it go away from us. It's us, and we're it, and if +anything were to happen to you, and a stranger were to come here!" + +"But, my dear mother," he interrupted, "nothing's going to happen to me, +and no one's going to get Boveyhayne away from us. Why should any +one?..." + +She put her free hand on his sleeve. "When Roger married Rachel," she +said, "I wished ... I wished that you were Roger, Ninian!" + +"You want me to get married, mother?" + +She did not answer, but her clasp on his arm tightened. + +"A chap can't marry a girl just for the sake of getting married, +mother!..." + +"No, dear, I know, but ..." + +"I've not seen a girl yet that I wanted particularly. You see, I've been +awfully busy at my job!... I know how you feel, mother, about +Boveyhayne, and I feel like that myself sometimes. I used to think it +was rather rot all this talk about Family and keeping on and ... and +that kind of thing, but I can't help feeling proud of ... of all those +old chaps who went before me, and ... all that, and I'd hate to break +the line ... only I can't just go up to a girl and ... and say, 'We want +some ... some babies in our house!' ..." + +"No, dear, you can't say _that_, of course, but there are plenty of nice +girls about, and if you would just ... just think of some of them, +instead of always thinking of works and tunnels and things!... Of +course, I know that tunnels are very interesting, Ninian, but ... but +Boveyhayne!..." + +She did not say any more. She stood by the gate of a field, looking over +the valley of the Axe to the hilly country that separates Dorset from +Devon, seeing nothing because her eyes were full of tears. He slipped +his arm from hers and put it round her waist and drew her close to him. +"All right, mother!" he said. + +"My dear!" she said, reaching up and kissing him. + + +11 + +They dined together on Ninian's last night in England. Rachel, with fine +understanding, insisted that they should dine alone, although they urged +her to join them. + +"I say, you chaps," Ninian said to them, "you might go and see my mater +sometimes. She'd be awfully glad. Quinny, you haven't been to Boveyhayne +for centuries. ... If you'd go, now and then, you'd cheer the mater up. +She's awfully down in the mouth about me going!" + +"Righto, Ninian!" said Gilbert. + +"Mary was saying what a long time it was since you were there, Quinny," +Ninian went on. + +"Did she?" Henry answered. + +"Yes. I hope you'll go down sometime." + +"I will," he said. + + + + +THE SECOND CHAPTER + + +1 + +Mrs. Graham invited Gilbert and Henry to spend Christmas at Boveyhayne, +and they gladly accepted her invitation, but a week before they were due +to go to Devonshire, Mr. Quinn fell ill, and Henry, alarmed by the +reports which were sent to him by Hannah, wrote to Mrs. Graham to say +that he must travel to Ireland at once. He hurried home to Ballymartin, +and found that his father was more ill even than Hannah had hinted. + +"I wouldn't have let her send for you, Henry!" he said, apologetically, +"only I was afraid ... I mightn't see you again!" + +He tried to cheer his father by protesting that in a little while he +would be astride his horse again, directing the farm experiments as +vigorously as ever, but Mr. Quinn shook his head. "I don't think so, +Henry!" he said. "I'll not be fit for much anyway. You'll have to lend a +hand with the estate, my son." + +"I'll help all I can, father, but I'm not much of an agriculturist!..." + +"Well, you can't be everything. That new book of yours ... the one you +sent me the other day!..." + +"'Turbulence,' father?" + +"Aye. It's a gran' book, that. I'd like well to be able to write a book +of that sort. I'm proud of you. Henry!" + +Henry blushed and turned away shyly, for direct praise always +embarrassed him, but he was very pleased with his father's praises +which gave him greater pleasure than the praises of any one else, even +Gilbert. + +"You'll stay home a while, now you're here, Henry, son, won't you?" + +"Yes, father, as long as you like!" + +"That's right. You'll be able to work away here in peace and quietness. +Nobody'll disturb you. I suppose you're started on another book?" + +Henry told him of "The Wayward Man." ... + +"That's a great title," he said. "You're a gran' one at gettin' good +titles for your books, Henry. I was readin' a bit in the paper about you +the other day, an' I near wrote to the man an' told him you were my son, +I was that pleased. Ease this pillow under my head, will you? Thanks, +boy!" + +He took Henry's hand in his. "I'm right an' glad to have you home +again," he said, smiling at him. "Right an' glad!" + + +2 + +The whole of "The Wayward Man" was completed before Mr. Quinn was well +enough to move about easily. Henry spent the morning and part of the +afternoon on his novel, giving the rest of the day to his father. +Sometimes, in his walks, Henry met young farmers and labourers returning +from the Orange Hall where they had been doing such drill as can be done +indoors. On Saturday afternoons, they would set off to join other +companies of the Ulster Volunteer Force in a route march. Jamesey +McKeown had begun to learn wireless telegraphy and was already expert +with flag-signals and the heliograph. Peter Logan, who had married +Sheila Morgan, had been promoted to be a sergeant.... "I suppose +Sheila's a nurse?" Henry said to him the first time he met him. + +"She's nursin' a wean, Mr. Henry!" Logan replied, winking heavily. +"We've a couple already, an' there'll be another afore long. She's as +punctual as the clock, Sheila. She's a great woman for fine, healthy +childher!" + +"Well, that's what you want, isn't it?" Henry said. + +"Aye, you're right, sir. You are, indeed. There's nothin' til beat a lot +of young childher about the house. Will you come an' see the drill?..." + +Henry went to see a display in a field just outside Ballymartin. The men +marched and counter-marched, and charged and skirmished, and did +physical drill until they were tired and sweating, while their women +looked on in pride and pleasure. Sheila was there, too, and Henry went +to her and sat beside her while the military manoeuvres took place. +She made no impression on him now ... he saw her simply as a +countrywoman in the family way ... a little blowsy and dishevelled and +red with exertion. + +"For dear sake, Henry!" she said in greeting, holding out her hand to +him. + +"Well," he said, "when does the war begin?" + +"Aw, now," she answered, "don't ask me! Sure, I'm never done coddin' +Peter about it. But it's the grand health, Henry. You'd never believe +the differs it's made to that wee lad, Gebbie, that serves in Dobbin's +shop. I declare to my God, he had a back as roun' as a hoop 'til they +started these Volunteers, but now he's like a ramrod. He's a marvel, +that lad! Teeshie Halpin's taken a notion of him since he straightened +up, an' as sure as you're living she'll have him the minute they can +scrape a few ha'pence thegether to buy a wheen of furniture. Well, if +the Volunteers never does no more nor that, they'll have done well, for +dear knows, Andy Gebbie was an affront to the Almighty, an' him stoopin' +that way!" + +"But are they going to fight, Sheila?..." + +"Ah, get away with you, man!" said Sheila. "What in the name of all +that's good an' gracious, would they be fightin' for? Sure, they're +lettin' on, to frighten the English out of their wits!" She changed the +talk to more interesting discourse. "I've two childher now," she said. + +"So Peter was telling me," he answered. + +"A wee boy an' a wee girl. An' terrible wee tories they are, too! +They're about somewhere with their aunt Kate. An' how an' all are you, +Henry?" + +"I'm very well, Sheila." + +"You're lookin' gran'. I hear you write books, but I never read noan of +them!" + +"Would you like to read them?" he asked. + +"I would, fine. Dear, oh, I often wonder how anybody can write books. I +never was no hand at writin' anything, not even a letter. But I suppose +there's a knack in it, an' once you learn it, you're all right!" + +"Yes," he replied, "that's about it. I'll send my books to you. I'd have +sent them before if I'd thought you'd care to read them!" + +"You might 'a' knowed rightly, I'd be glad to have them...." + + +3 + +But Sheila's good-natured scorn for the Ulster Volunteer Force did not +convince Henry. One could not look at these drilling men, and feel +satisfied that they were pretending to be angry or that they did not +mean what they said, when they declared that they would die in the last +ditch rather than consent to be governed by Nationalists. Mr. Quinn +spent much time in denouncing Sir Edward Carson and his friends, but he +did not doubt for a moment that the followers would fight. He had very +little faith in the sincerity of the politicians. "That fellow, F. E. +Smith," he exclaimed wrathfully, "what in hell is he doin' over here, +I'd like to know? I'd like to kick his backside for him, an' pack him +back to wherever he come from!" And there was F. E. Robinson, too, +bounding about Ulster like a well-polished young gentleman from the +Gaiety chorus, and delivering historical orations that filled the crowd +with amazement. + +"He's the great cod, that lad!" Mr. Quinn said. "He's worse nor Smith. +He come down here to Ballymartin, an' he made a speech all about King +James's foreign policy, and mentioned a whole lot of people that the +Or'ngemen never heard tell of. It would 'a' done well for a lecture at +the Queen's College ... you should 'a' seen the men nudgin' one another, +an' askin' who he was, an' what in the name of God he was talkin' about! +'Why doesn't he curse the Pope an' 'a' done wi' it!' one fellow said to +another. 'That lad curse anybody!' says the other one. 'Sure, he'd near +boak[3] himself if he done the like of that!' Aye, there's a lot of +bletherin' about the Volunteers, but all the same I don't like the look +o' things, an' if they're not careful there'll be bother. It'll take the +men at the top all their time to hold the bottom ones down. It ought +never to have been allowed to begin with. The minute they started their +drillin' an' palaver, they ought to 'a' been stopped. Have you seen John +Marsh lately, Henry?" + +"I saw him when I was in Dublin a few months ago with Gilbert Farlow. +He's drilling, too!..." + +"It's fearful, that's what it is. Fightin' an' wranglin' like that! I +wish I could get him up here a while. I'd talk to him, an' try an' put +some sense into him. Do you think would he come if I was to ask him?" + +"I daresay, father. Shall I write to him for you?" + +"Aye, do, Henry. I like that fellow quaren well, an' I'd be sorry if any +harm come to him. He's the sort gets into any bother that's about! Write +to him now, will you, an' you'll catch the evenin' mail!" + +Henry got writing materials and wrote the letter in his father's room. +"Will that do?" he said, passing it to Mr. Quinn for inspection. + +"That'll do fine," Mr. Quinn replied, when he had finished reading it. +"Matier'll take it to the letterbox!" + +"I don't know what the world's comin' to," he went on, a little +fractiously. "There's a fellow wouldn't harm a fly, drillin' and gettin' +ready to shoot people. An' Irish people, too! One lot of Irishmen +wantin' to shoot another lot!... They're out of their minds, that's +what's wrong wi' them. There's Matier ... you'd think at his age, he'd +have more sense, but nothin'll do him but he must be off of an evenin' +formin' fours. And what for? I'd like to know. I says to him, 'William +Henry, who do you want to kill?' 'The Home Rulers an' the Papishes!' +says he. 'Quit, man,' says I, 'an' talk sense.' 'I am talkin' sense,' +says he. 'You're not,' I says to him. 'D'you mean to stan' there an' +tell me you want to kill Hugh Kearney?' 'I do not indeed,' says he. +'What put that notion in your head?' 'Isn't he a Catholic an' a Home +Ruler?' says I. I had him properly when I said that, for him an' Hugh +Kearney is like brothers to one another. 'Would you kill him?' I says to +Matier. 'No, sir, I wouldn't,' he answers me back. 'I'd shed me heart's +blood for him!' And he would, too!... I've always been against Home +Rule, Henry, an' you know well why, but I'm more against this sort of +thing than I am against that, and anyway I'm not so sure it wouldn't be +better in the long run. There's too much Socialism in England, an' we +have to put up with the results of it because of the Union. The +Socialists get this law an' that law passed, an' we have to suffer it in +Ireland because we're tied up to England...." + + +4 + +John Marsh came to Ballymartin. Henry had sent a private note to him, +urging him to accept his father's invitation. "_He's very ill,_" he +wrote, "_and he would like to see you. I'm afraid he may not get better, +although there's a chance...._" + +"There you are, John Marsh!" Mr. Quinn said to him, as he entered the +bedroom. "An' what damned nonsense are you up to now, will you tell me?" + +John smiled at him. "You're to get well at once," he answered. "We can't +have you lying ill at a time like this!" + +"An' aren't you an' the like of you enough to make any man ill? Come +here to me, an' let me have a look at you. I can't see you rightly in +that light.... You're lookin' pale on it, John. What ails you?" + +"I'm tired, that's all. I shall be all right in the morning...." + +"You're workin' yourself to death! That's what you're doin'. Sit down +there by the side of the bed till I talk to you!" + +John drew a chair up to the old man's bedside, and sat down on it as he +had been bidden. Henry, anxious lest his father should overtax his +strength, sat at the foot of the bed. + +"An' what are you drillin' for?" Mr. Quinn demanded of John. + +"We must defend ourselves, Mr. Quinn...." + +"Defend me granny! An' who's goin' to harm you?" Henry made a motion as +if he would quieten his father, but the old man shook him off. "Leave me +alone, Henry," he said, "an' let me have my say!" He turned again to +John Marsh. "Isn't there the English Army to defend you if anybody tries +to injure you? What call have you to start another lot of damned +volunteers to be makin' ill-feelin' in the country for?" + +"We must be prepared to defend ourselves," John insisted. "We can't +trust the English...." + +And so they wrangled until Mr. Quinn, too tired to continue, sent Henry +and Marsh from his room. + +"Take him away an' talk to him, Henry!" he said. "He'll not be happy +'til he's in bother, that lad. Away on with you, John!..." + + +5 + +It was while John Marsh was at Ballymartin, that the mutiny at the +Curragh Camp took place. The soldiers had been ordered to Ulster to +maintain order ... and their officers had refused to go. + +"I thought you said we could depend on the English Army," John exclaimed +to Mr. Quinn in very excited tones. "This looks like it, doesn't it? If +they'd been ordered to march on _us_, they'd have done it quick enough. +That's why we're drilling, Mr. Quinn. We've got to defend ourselves. +Supposing the Ulster Volunteers attack us!..." + +"They won't," Mr. Quinn snapped at him. + +"But supposing they do, are we to sit down and let them do it? I tell +you we daren't trust to the English. They'll promise everything and give +nothing. That's the nature of them. They're a treacherous race!..." + +"I wish to my God you had some sense, John Marsh," said Mr. Quinn. + +"Oh, I know you think I'm a madman, but you can't deny facts, and the +facts are that the English have systematically betrayed the Irish +throughout their history. If there's a war on, they go down on their +hands and knees and ask us to win it for them ... they offer us the sun +and the moon and the stars for our help ... but the minute they've got +over their fright, they start plotting to get out of their promises. +They've done it before and they'll do it again. I want our Volunteers to +be more than a defensive organisation. I want them to be an offensive +organisation. If we don't look out very sharply well find that the +English have ruined Ireland again. They've started to do it openly now. +You've heard, haven't you, about the Cunard Line and Queenstown?..." It +appeared that the Cunard Line had abandoned Queenstown as a port of call +for American liners.... That means absolute ruin for Queenstown!... +Casement tried to get the Hamburg-Amerika line to send their boats +instead, and they'd agreed to do so ... all the preparations were made +to welcome the first of their boats ... and then the scheme was +abandoned by the Germans. The English Foreign office got at them!... "Oh, +of course, it's only Ireland, and Irish people and Irish interests can +be neglected and ruined without a blush so long as the English interests +are safe.... More and more I'm convinced that we've got to separate from +them. They're a common-minded people. You know they are! They're +hucksters ... they think in ... in ha'porths!..." + + +6 + +The attempt to bring John Marsh to reason was a failure, and he went +back to Dublin more resolved to make the Volunteers an offensive body +than he had been when he arrived. He had seen a review of the Ulster +Volunteer Force in Belfast and the setness of the men impressed him. +"They'll fight all right," he said. "I don't suppose their leaders have +any stomach for fighting, but the men have plenty. By God, I wish they +were on our side!" + +"Well, why don't you try to get them on your side!" Henry demanded. +"Your notion of conciliating them is to start getting ready to fight +them!" + +"We have tried to conciliate them," Marsh replied. "When Carson formed +his Provisional Government, some of us asked him to extend it to the +whole of Ireland. Do you think we wouldn't rather have Carson than +Redmond? He's got _some_ stuff in him anyhow, but Redmond!..." + +He made a gesture of contempt. "I've no use," he said, "for a man who +looks so like Napoleon without being Napoleon!" + +"But Carson wouldn't," he went on. "It's all very well to say +'Conciliate Ulster!' but Ulster won't let us conciliate her. The Ulster +people have nothing but contempt for us, and they ram Belfast down our +throats until we're sick of it. And a lot of their prosperity is just +good luck and ... and favour. They've been well looked after by the +English, and they're near everything ... coalfields and Lancashire. Do +you think if Galway was where Belfast is, it wouldn't be as prosperous? +If they're so almighty clever as they say they are, why don't they come +and lead us, instead of clinging on to England like a pampered kid?..." + +Henry listened patiently to John. There must, he thought, be some +powerful motive for so much passion. He had come to look upon +nationality as a contemptible thing, a fretful preoccupation with little +affairs, but when he faced the fury of John Marsh, he could not deny +that this passion, whether it be little or big, will bring the world to +broils until it be satisfied. He did not now feel that irritation which +he had formerly felt when John derided the English or called them by +opprobrious names. He could make allowances for the anger of the +dispossessed. "That kind of talk," he thought, "kills itself. Marsh has +only to let himself go along enough, and he'll let himself go +altogether. He'll exhaust his abuse...." + +He remembered that when Gilbert and he had arrived in Dublin after their +flight from London, they had tried to discover just what Marsh and his +friends meant to do with Ireland when they had gained control of the +country ... but Marsh and his friends had no plans. They talked vaguely +of the national spirit and of self-government, but they could not be +induced to name a specific reform to which they would set their minds. +Some one had given a copy of Dale's Report of Irish Elementary Education +to Henry, and he had read it with something like horror. It seemed to +him that here was the whole Irish problem, that when this was solved, +everything was solved ... but when he spoke of it to Marsh and his +friends he found that most of them had never heard of Dale's Report, +were scarcely aware of the fact that there was an Irish education +problem. "We'll deal with that after we've got Home Rule," they would +say, waving their hands in the airy fashion in which futile people +always wave their hands. And so it was with everything else. They would +deal with that _after_ they had got Home Rule. Gilbert and Henry had +explored the Combe and the dreadful swamp of slums reaching up from +Ringsend and spilling almost into the gardens of Merrion Square.... + +"But don't they know about this?" Gilbert asked in amazement. "I mean, +haven't they any eyes ... or noses?" + +"They'll deal with that _after_ they've got Home Rule," Henry answered +miserably. + +They had gone back to their lodgings in a state of deep depression. +Wherever one went in Dublin, one was followed by little whining +children, demanding alms in the cadging voice of the professional +beggar, and many of them were hopelessly diseased.... + +"I thought the Irish were very religious and moral?" Gilbert said once, +as they passed a group of sickly children sitting at the entrance to a +court of Baggot Street. + +"Why?" Henry replied. + +"These kids are syphilitic," Gilbert answered. "The place is full of +syphilis!" + +"Dublin is a garrison town and a University town," said Henry, with a +shrug of his shoulders. "There are eight barracks in Dublin ... it's the +most be-barracked city in the Kingdom.... Oh, we're terribly moral, we +Irish. As moral as ostriches. If you pick up a Dublin newspaper, it's a +million to one you'll see a reference to 'the innate purity of the Irish +women,' written probably by a boozy reporter. No, Gilbert, you're wrong +about these kids. They're not syphilitic.... Good Lord, no! That's +English misgovernment. Wait 'til they've got Home Rule ... and those +kids won't be syphilitic any more!..." + +They had met a man at Ernest Harper's who wore the kilt of the Gael, and +had listened to him while he bleated about the beautiful purity of the +Irish women. He was a convert to Catholicism and Nationalism and +anti-Englishism, and he had the appearance of a nicely-brought-up saint. +"He looks as if he had just committed a miracle, and is afraid he may do +it again!" Gilbert whispered to Henry. This man purred at them. "The +priests have kept Ireland pure," he murmured. "Many harsh things have +been said about them, but no one has ever denied that they have kept +Ireland pure!" + +"I do," said Henry, full of desire to shock the Celt. + +"You do?..." + +"Anybody can keep a man pure by putting him in prison. That's what the +priests have done. They've put the Irish people in gaol!..." + +The kilted Celt shrank away from him. He was sorry, but he could not +possibly sit still and listen to such conversation. He hoped that he was +as broad-minded as any one, but there were limits.... Very wisely, he +thought, the Church!... + +"Blast the Church!" said Henry, and the kilted Celt had gone shivering +away from him. + +"That kind of person makes me foam at the mouth," Henry muttered to +Gilbert "The Irish people aren't any purer than any other race. It's all +bunkum, this talk about their 'innate purity.' If you clap the +population into gaol, you can keep them 'pure,' in act anyhow, and if +the priests won't let the sexes mingle openly, they can get up a +spurious purity just like that. If a girl gets into trouble in Ireland, +she goes to the priest and confesses, and the priest takes jolly good +care that the man marries her. That's why the rate of illegitimacy is so +low. And anyhow, the bulk of the people are agricultural, and country +people are more continent than any other people. It's the same in +England, but the English don't go about bleating of their 'innate +purity.' I tell you, Gilbert, the trouble with this country is +self-consciousness...." + +"Home Rule ought to cure that!" said Gilbert. + +"That's why I'm a Home Ruler," Henry replied. "If you chaff these +people, they get angry and want to fight. If anybody were to get up in a +public hall and say about the Irish one-quarter of the things that +Bernard Shaw says in public about the English, the audience would flay +him alive and wreck the building. They're too little to stand chaff +easily. It takes a big people to bear criticism good-naturedly.... All +the same, Gilbert, your damned countrymen are to blame for all this!" + +"I know that," said Gilbert, "but your damned countrymen seem determined +to remain like it!" + + +8 + +Mr. Quinn and Henry had talked of Ireland and of John Marsh, after John +had returned to Dublin. + +"Sometimes," said Mr. Quinn, "I think that the best thing for Ireland +would be to let the two sides fight. That might bring them together. One +damned good scrap ... and they might shake hands and become reconciled. +There was as much antagonism and bitterness between the North and South +in America as there is between the North and South in Ireland ... and on +the whole, I think the Civil War did a lot of good!" + +"It's a damned queer country, Henry!" he went on, lying down and drawing +the bedclothes up about his neck. "Damned queer!" + +"I suppose they all know what they're up to," he continued, looking +intently at the ceiling. "But I don't!" + +"Are you comfortable, father?" Henry asked, bending anxiously over Mr. +Quinn who had a grey, tired look on his face. + +"Yes, thank you, Henry, I'm ... I'm comfortable enough!" He turned his +head slightly and gazed at Henry for a few moments without speaking. +Then he smiled at him. "I tried hard to make an Irishman out of you, +Henry," he said. + +"I am an Irishman, father!" + +"Aye, but a _very_ Irishman. Many's a time I wonder what you are. What +are you, Henry? You're not English an' you're not Irish. What are you?" + +"I don't know, father. I'm very Irish when I'm in England, and I'm very +English when I'm here!" + +"That's no good, Henry. All you do is to make both sides angry. You +should be something all the time!" + +"I try to be fair," said Henry. + +"That'll not lead you very far. Well, well, the world's the world, and +there's an end of it!" + + +9 + +Sitting in the garden that evening, looking towards the hazy hills, +Henry wondered, too, what he was. Indeed, he told himself, he loved +Ireland, but then he loved England, also. Once, when he was in Trinity, +he had trudged up into the mountains, and had sat on a stone and gazed +down on the city and, beyond it, to the sea, and while he had sat there, +a great love of his country had come into his heart, and he had found +himself irrationally loving the earth about him, just because it was +Irish earth. He had tried to check this love which was conquering him, +and he had scraped up a handful of earth and rubbed his fingers in it. +"Soil," he had murmured aloud. "Just soil ... like any other soil!" and +then, suddenly, overpoweringly, irresistibly, something had quickened in +him, and while he was murmuring that the earth he had scraped up was +"just soil," he had raised it to his lips and had kissed it.... And as +quickly as the impulse to kiss the earth came to him, came also +revulsion. "That was a sloppy thing to do," he said to himself, and he +flung the earth away from him. + +He had stayed there until the evening, lulled by the warm wind that blew +about the mountains, and soothed by the soft, kindly smell of burning +turf. There was an odour of smouldering furze near by, and the air was +full of pleasant sounds: the rattle of carts, the call of a man to a +dog, the whinnying of horses and the deep lowing of cows. He turned on +his side and looked seawards. The sun had set in a great field of golden +cloud, throwing splashes of light down the sides of the mountains and +turning little rain-pools into pools of fire; but now the dusk was +settling down, and as Henry looked towards the sea, he saw lights +shining out of the houses, making warm and comforting signals in the +dark. Dublin lay curled about the Bay, covered by smoke that was pierced +here and there by the chimney-stacks of factories. There, beneath him, +were little rocking lights on the boats and ships that lay in Kingstown +Harbour or drifted up and down the Irish Sea, and over there, across the +Bay, the great high hump of Howth thrust itself upwards. A tired ship +sailed slowly up to the city, trailing a long line of white foam behind +her.... He stood up and looked about him; and again the love of Ireland +came into his heart, and this time he did not try to check it. He +yielded to it, giving himself up to it completely.... + +"You can't help it," he murmured to himself. "You simply can't help +it!..." + +But he loved England, too. There had been nights when he had loved +London as a man might love his mother ... when the curve of the Thames, +and the dark shine of its water against the arches of Waterloo Bridge, +and the bulging dome of St. Paul's rising proudly out of the haze and +smoke, and the view of the little humpy hills at Harrow that was seen +from the Hampstead Heath ... when all these became like living things +that loved him and were loved by him. Once, with Gilbert, he had +wandered over Romney Marsh, from Hythe to Rye, and had felt that Kent +and Sussex were as close to him as Antrim and Down. And Devonshire, from +north and south, was friendly and native to him. He had tramped about +Exmoor and had seen the red deer running swiftly from the hunt, and had +climbed a bare scarp of Dartmoor, startling the wild ponies so that +they ran off with their long tails flying in the air, scattering the +flocks of sheep in their flight. The very names of the Devonshire rivers +were like homely music to him, and he would say the names over to +himself for the pleasure of their sound: Taw and Tamar and Torridge, the +Teign and the Dart and the Exe, and the rivers about Boveyhayne, the Sid +and the Otter, the Coly, the Axe and the Yarty.... + +"I'm not de-nationalised," he insisted. "I love Ireland and England. I'm +part of them and they are part of me, and we shall never be +separate...." + + +10 + +He had stayed at Ballymartin until he had completed "The Wayward Man." +His father's health had varied greatly, but soon after the publication +of the new novel, it mended and, although he did not recover his old +strength and vigour, he was well enough to move about and superintend +the work on his farm. + +"You can go back to London now, Henry!" he said to his son one morning, +after breakfast. "I know you're just itchin' to get back there, an' I'm +sure I'm sick, sore an' tired of the sight of you. Away off with you, +now!" And Henry, protesting that he did not wish to go, had gone to +London. Gilbert's second comedy, "Sylvia," had been produced by Sir +Geoffrey Mundane and, like "The Magic Casement," had achieved a fair +amount of success. "But I haven't done anything big yet," Gilbert +complained to Henry. "My aim's better than it was, but I'm still missing +the point. Perhaps the next one will hit it...." + +In London, Henry began "The Fennels," but after he had written a couple +of chapters, he found himself unable to proceed with it. + +"I must go back to Ireland," he said to Gilbert. "I want the feel of +Ulster. I can't get it into this book unless I'm there, somehow!" And +so, sooner than he had anticipated, he returned to Ballymartin, where +"The Fennels" was finished, and there he stayed until Gilbert wrote and +asked him to join him at Tre'Arrdur Bay. + +"You can't get much nearer to Ireland than that," he wrote: "You hop +into the boat at Kingstown and hop out of it again at Holyhead and there +you are!..." + +"I shall be back again in a month, father!" he had said to Mr. Quinn, +and then he had taken train to Belfast, where he was to change for +Dublin and thence go to Wales. + +In Belfast, there was great excitement because the Ulster Volunteers had +successfully landed a cargo of guns that were purchased in Germany. The +Volunteers had seized the coastguard stations at Larne and at Donaghadee +and Bangor, overawing the police, and there had been much jocularity. It +was all done in excellent taste. Had it not been for the death of a +coastguard through heart failure, there would have been nothing to mar +the jolly entertainment.... + + +11 + +"I suppose John Marsh was sick about the gun-running in Ulster?" said +Gilbert to Henry, as they approached the hotel at Tre'Arrdur Bay at +which they were to stay. + +"No, I don't think so. He seemed to think it was rather fine of the +Ulstermen to do it. You see, it's put the Government in a hole, and that +pleases him. He was very mysterious in his talk, and full of hints!..." + +"Are they going to run guns, too?" Gilbert asked. + +"I shouldn't be surprised," said Henry. "One of these days a gun'll go +off, and then they'll stop playing the fool, I suppose!" + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 3: Transcriber's note: No footnote text was found for this +footnote marker.] + + + + +THE THIRD CHAPTER + + +1 + +"Roger's getting all his facts in fine trim for the book on a National +Army," Gilbert said after lunch. "The thing's been much bigger than any +of us imagined, but Roger's a sticker, and he's got a lot done!" + +"I'd nearly forgotten about that business," Henry replied. + +"Roger hasn't forgotten. He's been spending a great deal of time in +Bermondsey lately, and I shouldn't be surprised if the local Tories +adopt him as their candidate at the next election. I don't suppose he'll +get in. It'll be a pity if he doesn't. Rachel's making it easier for +him. Roger says she's popular with the girls in the jam factories ... +and of course that's very useful. You see, Rachel tells the girls to +tell their mothers to tell their fathers to vote for Roger when the time +comes, and the fathers'll have to do it or they'll get a hell of a time +from their women. I can tell you, Quinny, Rachel knows what's what. +She's going to ask some of the jam-girls out to tea and show them the +baby!..." + +"Good old British Slop, Gilbert! Do you remember how we swore that we +would never have anything to do with Slop?..." + +"We've had a lot to do with it. Roger was right. The Slop is there and +you've got to make allowances for it, and after all, why shouldn't +Rachel show her baby to the girls? Damn it all, a baby is a remarkable +thing, when you come to think of it. All that wriggle and bubble and +squeak and kick ... and Lord only knows what'll come out of it! We +ought to get married, Quinny, and father a few brats. My own notion is +to get hold of a nice, large, healthy female of the working-class and +set her up in a very ugly house in a very ugly suburb, near a municipal +park, and give her three pounds a week for herself, and an allowance for +every child she produces. I could have all the pride and pleasure of +parenthood without the boredom and nuisance of being a husband, and the +youngsters would probably be young giants. The girl wouldn't mind how +many she had, and she'd feed 'em herself. There'd be no damned bottle +and no damned limitation. And I'd put all the boys in the Navy, and I'd +make cooks out of the girls ... _cooks_, Quinny, not food-murderers, and +I'd call the first boy Michael John, and the second boy Patrick James +and the third boy Peter William and the fourth boy Roger Henry Gilbert +Ninian...." + +"And what would you call the girls?" + +"Wait a minute! I haven't done with the boys yet. And I'd call the fifth +boy Matthew. I'd call the first girl Margaret, and the second girl +Bridget, and the third girl Rachel, and the fourth girl Mary, and I'm +damned if I know what I'd call the fifth girl, so I'd let her mother +choose her name. And they'd all know how to swim, and manage a boat, and +box, and whistle with two fingers in their mouths, and the girls' chief +ambition would be to get married and have babies. They'd have a +competition to see who could have the most. And their husbands would all +be big, hearty men. Margaret would marry a blacksmith, and Bridget 'ud +marry a fisherman, and Rachel 'ud marry a farmer, and Mary'd marry a +soldier and the other one would marry a sailor. Mary's man 'ud be a +sergeant-major, a fat sergeant-major, and the other one's 'ud be a +boatswain or a chief gunner. I'd have so many grandchildren that I'd +never be able to remember which were mine and which belonged to the man +next door!..." + +"You'd want a great deal of money for that lot, Gilbert!" + +"I suppose I would. But I think that men of quality ought to have +children by strong, healthy women of the working-class. I think there's +a lot to be said for the right of the lord, don't you? It was good for +the race ... kept up the quality of the breed! I shall have to think +seriously about this...." + +"You'd better look out for a farmer's daughter while you're here," Henry +suggested. + +"What! A Welshwoman! Good God, no!! My goodness, Quinny, you ought to +bring that fellow, John Marsh, to Wales for a few months. That 'ud cure +him of his Slop about nationality. I came to Wales, determined to like +the Welsh, and I've failed. That's all. I've failed hopelessly. I told +myself that it was absurd to believe that a whole nation could be as bad +as English people say the Welsh are ... but it isn't absurd ... of the +Welsh anyhow. They're all that everybody says they are, only about ten +times worse. I've been all over this country one time and another, and +they're simply ... mean. They're a dying race, thank heaven! They've +kept themselves to themselves so much that their blood is like water, +and so they're simply perishing. They wouldn't absorb or be absorbed ... +and so they're just dying out. Your lot were wiser than the Welsh, +Quinny!" + +"The Irish?" + +"Yes. They absorbed all the new blood they could get into their veins, +and so, whoever else may perish, the Irish won't. This nationality +business is all my eye, Quinny. You don't want one strain in a country. +You want hundreds of strains. You want to mingle the bloods. ... I don't +believe there's a pure-blooded Irishman in Ireland or out of it.... Oh, +the Welsh! Oh, the awful Welsh! Inbreeding in a nation is the very devil +... and it makes 'em so damned uncivil. Oh, a shifty, whining race, the +Welsh!..." + + +2 + +There are many bays on that coast, and in one of these, where they could +easily get to deep water, they bathed every morning, drying themselves +in the sun when they were tired of swimming. They would haul themselves +out of the sea by clutching at the long tassels of sea-weed, and then +lie down on the bare, warm rocks while the sun dried the salt into their +skins. Once, while they were lying in this fashion, Gilbert turned to +Henry and said, "Have you been to Boveyhayne at all since Ninian went +away?" + +"No," Henry answered. "I was to have gone with you that Christmas, but +my father's illness prevented me, and I haven't been since." + +"Why don't you go? They'd be glad to see you, and Ninian'd like it." + +"I must go one of these days. How is Mrs. Graham? I suppose you've seen +her lately?" + +"She was all right when I saw her. Mary's rather nice!" + +Henry did not say anything, and Gilbert, having waited for a while, went +on. + +"I always thought you and Mary...." + +He broke off suddenly and sat up. "It's getting a bit chilly," he said. +"I think I'll dress!" + +"There's no hurry, Gilbert," Henry answered. "You didn't finish what you +were saying." + +"It's none of my business. I've no right to...." + +"Oh, yes, you have, Gilbert," Henry interrupted, sitting up too. "Go +on!" + +"Well, I always thought that you and Mary were ... well, liked each +other. That was why I was so puzzled when you got fond of Cecily. I felt +certain that you'd marry Mary. Why don't you, Quinny? She's an awfully +nice girl, and you and she are rather good pals, aren't you?" + +"I don't know, Gilbert. I think I love Mary better than any one I've +ever met, and yet I seem to lose touch with her very easily!" + +"Oh, I shouldn't count Cecily. Cecily is anybody's sweetheart!..." + +"But it wasn't only Cecily. There was a girl ... a farm-girl in Antrim. +I never told you about her. Her name was Sheila Morgan ... she's married +now ... and I went straight from Mary to her. Of course, I was a kid +then, but still I'd told Mary I was fond of her, and we'd arranged to +get married when we grew up ... and then I went home and made love to +Sheila Morgan!" + +"None of these women held you, Quinny!" said Gilbert. + +"No, that's true, and Mary has, although I seldom see her. I thought +that I could never love anybody as I loved Sheila Morgan ... until I met +Cecily ... and then I thought I should never love any one as I loved her +... but somehow Cecily doesn't hold me now, and Mary does. I can't tell +you when I ceased to love Cecily ... I don't really know that I have +ceased to love her ... it just weakened, so gradually that I did not +notice it weakening. All the same, if I were to see Cecily now, I should +probably want her as badly as ever." + +"You might, Quinny, but you wouldn't go on wanting her. You see, she +wouldn't want you for very long, and my general opinion is that you +can't keep on giving if you get nothing in return ... unless, of course, +you're a one-eyed ass. A healthy, intelligent man, if he loves a woman +who doesn't love him ... well he goes off and loves some one else ... +and quite right, too. These devoted fellows who cherish their blighted +affections forever ... damn it, they deserve it. They've got no +imagination! I don't think Cecily'd hold you now, Quinny, not for very +long anyhow. I wish you'd marry Mary. You quite obviously love her, and +she quite obviously loves you.... Oh, Lordy God, I wish I could love +somebody. I wish I were a young man in a novelette, with a nice, +clear-cut face and crisp, curly hair and frightfully gentlemanly ways +and no brains so that I could get into the most idiotic messes.... Why +aren't there any aphrodisiacs for men who cannot love any one in +particular, Quinny! If you'd had the sense to have a sister, I should +probably have married her. Roger's family runs to nothing but males, and +Rachel can't honestly recommend any of her female relatives to me. If I +thought Mary'd have me, I'd marry her, but I know she wouldn't. I used +to think it was awful to want to believe in God and not be able to +believe in Him, but it's a lot worse to want to love and not be able to +love. I shall have to marry an actress. That's all!" + +They dressed in the shelter of the rocks, and then went back to the +hotel to lunch. + +"I'd like to marry Mary!..." Henry began. + +"Why don't you, then?" Gilbert interrupted. + +"Because I feel that I must go to her absolutely undivided, Gilbert. Do +you know what I mean? I want to be able to go to her, knowing that no +other woman can sway me from her for a second. It would be horrible to +be married to her and feel something lurking inside me, just waiting for +a chance to spring out and ... and make love to some one else!" + +"You've changed a lot, Quinny, since the days when you pleaded for +infinite variety. You wanted a wife for every mood!..." + +Henry laughed. "We did talk a lot of rot when we first went to London," +he said, putting his arm in Gilbert's. + +"It wasn't all rot. My contributions to the discussion were very +sensible. I wonder what's the excitement up there! The papers are +in!..." + +There was a group of visitors sitting on the seats in front of the hotel +and they were reading the newspapers which had just been sent out from +Holyhead. + +"Let's go and ask," Henry exclaimed, and they both went on more +quickly. + +"Any news?" Gilbert shouted as they mounted the steps leading from the +carriage-way to the terrace. + +"Yes. Bad news from Ireland," a visitor answered. + +"From Ireland!" Henry said. + +"Yes. The Nationalists landed some guns at Howth!..." + +"Yes, yes!" Henry said excitedly. + +"And there was a scrap between the people and soldiers!..." + +"The soldiers!" + +The visitor nodded his head. "Some damned ass," he said, "had ordered +the soldiers out, and ... well, there was a row. The crowd stoned the +soldiers ... and soldiers are human like anybody else ... they fired on +the crowd!..." + +"Fired on them!" + +"Yes. Several people were killed. It's a bad business, a damned bad +business!..." + + +3 + +There was an unreasonable fury in Henry's heart. "It's a clever joke +when the Ulster people do it," he said, raging at Gilbert. "And +everybody agrees to look the other way, but it's a crime when the +Nationalists do it, and it can only be punished by ... by shooting. I +suppose it's absolutely impossible for the English to get any +understanding into their thick heads!..." + +"Don't be an old ass, Henry. You're not going to improve a rotten bad +business by hitting about indiscriminately. I daresay the people who +were responsible for the thing were Irishmen. I've always noticed that +when anything really dirty is done in Ireland, it's an Irishman who does +it...." + +"A rotten Unionist!..." + +"Irish, all the same! The only thing that you Irish are united about is +your habit of blaming the English for your own faults and misbehaviour. +If I had the fellow who was responsible for this business I'd shoot him +out of hand. I wouldn't think twice about it. If a man is such an ass as +all that, he ought to be put out of the world quick. But then I'm +English. The Irish'll make a case out of him. They'll orate over him, +and they'll get frightfully cross for a fortnight, and then they'll do +nothing. You know as well as I do, Quinny, that the English aren't +unfriendly to the Irish, that they really are anxious to do the decent +thing by Ireland. It isn't us: it's you. We're not against you ... +you're against yourselves. There are about seventy-five different +parties in Ireland, aren't there, and they all hate each other like +poison?" + +"I wonder if John Marsh was hurt!..." + +"I don't suppose so. There'd have been some reference to him in the +paper if he'd been hurt." + +"This was what he was hinting at when I saw him in Dublin," Henry went +on. "He talked about 'doubling it' and said that two could play at that +game!" + +He was calmer now, and able to talk about the Dublin shooting with some +discrimination. + +"I don't know why they want to 'run' guns at all," he said. "The +tit-for-tat style of politics seems a fairly foolish one.... I think I +shall go back to Ireland to-morrow, Gilbert. I feel as if I ought to be +there. This business won't end where it is now. I know what John Marsh +and Galway and Mineely are like. Whatever bitterness was in them before +will be increased enormously by this. Mineely's an Ulsterman, and he'll +make somebody pay for this. He doesn't say much ... he's like Connolly +... Connolly's the brains behind Larkin ... but he keeps things inside +him, deep down, but safe, so that he can always get at them when he +wants them!" + +"What sort of man is he, Quinny?" Gilbert asked. "I didn't see him when +we were in Dublin." + +"He looks like a comfortable tradesman, and he's a kindly sort of chap. +You'd never dream that he was an agitator or that he'd want to lead a +rebellion. I don't believe he likes that work, either. I think that +inside him his chief desire is for a decent house with a garden, where +he can grow sweet peas and cabbages and sit in the evening with his wife +and children. He has more balanced knowledge than most of the people he +works with. Marsh and Galway have had a better education than Mineely, +but they haven't had his experience or his knowledge of men, and so they +can't check their enthusiasm. He was in America for a long while, and +he's lived in England, too. He wrote a quite good book on the Irish +Labour Movement that would have been better if he'd made more allowance +for the nature of the times. If the employers hadn't behaved so brutally +over the strike, Mineely might have become the solvent of a lot of +ill-will in Ireland; but they made a bitter man out of him then, and I +suppose it's too late now. He'll go on, getting more and more bitter +until.... Do you remember that story by H. G. Wells, Gilbert, called 'In +the Days of the Comet'?" + +"Is that the green vapour story?" + +"Yes. Well, we want a green vapour very badly in Ireland, something to +obliterate every memory and leave us all with fresh minds!" + +"Miracle-mongering won't lead you very far, Quinny. It's no good howling +for a vapour to heal you. You've just got to take your blooming memories +and cure 'em yourselves, by the sweat of your brows! And, look here, +Quinny, there doesn't seem any good reason why you should dash back to +Ireland because of this business. I always think that the worst row in +the world would never have come to anything if people hadn't done what +you propose to do, rushed into it just because they thought they ought +to be there. They congest things ... they use up the air and make the +place feel stuffy ... and then they get cross, and somebody shoves +somebody else, and before they know where they are, they're splitting +each other's skulls. If they'd only remained dispersed...." + +"But I'd like to be there!..." + +"I know you would. We'd all like to be there, so's we could say +afterwards we'd seen the whole thing from beginning to end. That's just +why we shouldn't be there. It isn't the principals in the row that make +all the trouble, Quinny ... it's the blooming spectators!..." + + +4 + +He let himself be persuaded by Gilbert to stay in Wales, and they spent +the next two or three days in tramping about the island of Anglesey. The +days were bright and sunny, and the rich sparkle of the sea tempted them +frequently to the water. There were many visitors at the hotel, some of +whom were Irish people from Dublin, but mostly they came from Liverpool +and Manchester; and with several of them, Gilbert and Henry became +friendly. There was a schoolmaster who made a profession of +mountain-climbing and a hobby of religion; and a doctor who told comic +stories and talked with good temper about Home Rule, to which he was +opposed; and a splendid old man, with his wife, who was interested in +co-operation and was eager to limit armaments; and a wine merchant from +Liverpool who had come to the conclusion that the world, on the whole, +was quite a decent place to live in; and a dreadful little stockbroker +who belonged to the Bloody school of politicians and talked about the +Empire as if it were a music-hall; and an agent of some sort from +Manchester who had reached that stage of prosperity at which he was +beginning to wonder whether, after all, Nonconformity was not a grievous +heresy and the Church of England a sure means of salvation. And there +were others, vague people of the middle class, kindly and comfortable +and inarticulate, with no particular opinions on anything except the +desirability of four good meals every day and a month's holiday in the +summer. There were daughters, too ... all sorts and conditions of +daughters! Some that were hearty and athletic, living either in the sea +or on the golf-links; and others that were full of their sex, unable to +forget that men are men and women are women, and never the two shall +come together but there shall be wooing and marrying.... There were a +few who were eager to use their minds ... and they quoted their parents +and the morning papers to Gilbert and Henry.... + +Surprisingly, their feeling about the Howth gun-raid became cool. In +that exquisite sunlight, beneath the wide reach of blue sky, it was +impossible to experience rancour or maintain anger. They swam and basked +and swam again, and let their eyes look gladly on young shapely girls, +running across the grassy tops of the piled rocks, and were sure that +there could be nothing on earth more beautiful than the spectacle of +pink arms gleaming through white muslin, unless it might be the full +brown ears of wheat now bending in the ripening rays of sunshine.... And +again, after dinner, they would sit in a high, grassy corner of the bay, +listening to the lap of the sea beneath them, while the stars threw +their faint reflections on the returning tide.... + +Exquisite peace and quiet, long days of rich pleasure and sweet nights +of rest, kindliness and laughter and the friendly word of casual +acquaintances ... and over all, the enduring beauty of this world. + + + + +THE FOURTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +Gilbert looked up from the paper as Henry came out of the hotel. + +"I say, Quinny," he said, "I think there's going to be a war!" + +"A what?" Henry exclaimed. + +"A war!..." + +"But where?" + +Henry sat down on the long seat beside Gilbert, and looked over his +shoulder at the paper. + +"All over the place!" Gilbert answered. "The Austrians want to have a go +at the Serbians, and the Russians mean to have one at the Austrians, and +then the Germans will have to help the Austrians, and that'll bring the +French in, and ... and then I suppose we shall shove in some where!" + +Henry took the paper from Gilbert's hands. "But what have we got to do +with it?" he said, hastily scanning the telegrams with which the news +columns were filled. + +"I dunno!..." + +"It's ridiculous.... What's there to fight about? Damn it all, my +novel's coming out in a month! What's it about?" + +"You remember that Archduke chap who got blown up the other day?..." + +"Yes, I remember!" + +"Well, that's what it's about!" + +"But, good God, man, they can't have a war about a thing like that...." + +"It looks as if they thought they could. Anyhow, they're going to try!" +said Gilbert. + +"Just because an Archduke got killed? Damn it, Gilbert, that's what +they're for!..." + +There was a queer look of fright in the faces of the visitors to the +hotel. The boy from Holyhead had been slow in coming with the papers, +and the first news that came to them came from a man who had been into +the town that morning. + +"There's going to be a war," he had shouted to the group of people +sitting on the terrace. + +"Don't be an ass!" they had shouted back at him. + +"Yes, there is. The whole blooming world'll be scrapping presently!" He +spoke with the queer gaiety of a man who has abandoned all hope. "Just +as I was getting on my feet, too!" he went on. He suddenly unburdened +himself to a man who had only arrived at the hotel late on the previous +evening ... they had never seen each other before ... but now they were +revealing intimacies.... + +"Just getting on my feet," the man who had brought the news went on. + +"It'll be very bad for business, I'm afraid!..." + +"Bad. Goo' Lor', man, it's ruin ... absolute ruin! I'll be up the pole, +that's where I'll be. And I was thinking of getting married, too. Just +thinking of it, you know ... nothing settled or anything ... and now ... +damn it, what they want to go and have a war for? _We_ don't want one!" + +Then the boy with the newspapers appeared, and they rushed at him and +tore the papers from his bag.... + +"By Jove!" they said, "it's ... it's true!" + +"I told you it was true. You wouldn't believe me when I told you. You +know, it's a Bit Thick, that's what it is. I've been a Liberal all my +life, same as my father ... and then this goes and happens! What _is_ a +chap to do?..." + +He wailed away, filling the air with prophecies of doom and disaster. +They could hear him, as he rushed about the hotel telling the news, +taking people into corners and informing them that it was a Bit Thick. +There was something pitiful about him ... he had climbed to a +comfortable competence from a hard beginning ... and something comical, +too, something that made them all wish to laugh. The veneer of manners +which he had acquired with so much trouble had worn off in a moment, and +the careful speech, the rigid insistence on aspirates, to speak, took to +its heels. He appeared to them suddenly, carrying an atlas. + +"Where the 'ell is Serbia anyway?" he demanded. "I can't find the damn +place on the map!" + + +2 + +They stood about, gaping at each other, unable to realise what had +happened to them. One of the windows of the drawing-room was open, and +the subdued buzz of women's voices came through it to the terrace. +Monotonously, exasperatingly, one querulous voice sent a fretful +question through the bewildered speeches of the women ... "But what's it +about? That's what I want to know. I've asked everybody, but nobody +seems to know!" Some one made an inaudible reply to the querulous voice, +and then it went on: "Serbia! That's what some one else said, but we +aren't Serbia. We're England, and I don't see what we've got to do with +it. If they want to go and fight, let them. That's what I say!..." + +Gilbert and Henry sat in the middle of the group on the terrace, +listening to what was being said about them. They had thrown the +newspapers aside ... there was hysteria in the headlines ... and were +sitting in a sort of stupor, wondering what would happen next. The +buzzing voice, demanding to be told what the war was about, still +droned through the window, irritating them vaguely until the man who had +first brought the news got up from his seat, and went to the window and +shut it noisily. + +"Damn 'er," he said, as he came back to his seat. "'Oo cares whether she +knows what it's about or not! What's it got to do with 'er any'ow. She +won't 'ave to do none of the fightin'!" + +Fighting! + +Henry sat up and looked at the man. Why, of course, there would be +fighting ... and perhaps England would be drawn into the war, and +then!... + +A girl came out of the hotel, with towels under her arm, and called to +them. "Coming to bathe?" she said. + +They looked at her vacantly. "Bathe!" said Henry. + +"Yes. It's a ripping morning!" + +They stood up, and looked towards the sea that was white with sunshine +... and then turned away again. It seemed to Henry as if, down there by +the rocks, in a splash of sunlight, a corpse were lying ... +festering.... He sat down again, mechanically picking up a newspaper and +reading once more the telegrams he had already read many times. + +"Come along," the girl said. "You might just as well bathe!" + +Gilbert looked up at her and smiled. "I was just wondering," he said, +"what one ought to do!" + + +3 + +The banks had closed, and there was an alarm about money and a deeper +alarm about food.... Panic suddenly came upon them, and in a short +while, visitors began to pack their trunks in their eagerness to get +home. The women felt that they would be safer at home ... they wanted to +be in familiar places. "I really ought to be at home to look after my +house," a man said to Henry. "They're a rough lot in our town, and if +there's any shortage of food ... they'll loot, of course! I don't like +breaking my holiday, but!..." + +He did not complete his sentence ... no one ever completed a sentence +then ... but went indoors.... + +And telegrams came incessantly, telegrams calling people home, telegrams +announcing that others were not coming, telegrams containing information +of the war.... + +"I suppose," said Gilbert, "if anything comes of this, well have to do +something!..." + +"Do something?" Henry murmured. + +"Yes, I suppose so...." + +Perkins came to him, Perkins who had an agency in Manchester. + +"You know," he said, "I don't call this place safe. It's right on the +coast ... slap-up against the sea ... and you know, if a German cruiser +was to drop a shell right in the middle of us, we'd look damn silly, I +can tell you!" + +"We have a navy too," said Gilbert. + +"Yes, I know all about that, but that wouldn't be much consolation to me +if I was to get blown up, would it? You know, I do think they ought to +draw the blinds down at night so's the light won't show out at sea. I +mean to say, there's no sense in running risks, is there?" + +"No ... no, of course not!" + +"I think I'll go and suggest that to the proprietor. I've just been up +to Manchester to see how things are going on there. Bit excited, of +course. Nobody seems to know what to do, so they just sit down and +cancel everything. Silly, I call it. I went to my office to get my +letters, and every blessed one was cancelling an order. I mean to say, +that's no way to go on ... losing their heads like that. And you know +they'll need my stuff later on ... if we go in!" + +"Your stuff?" Henry said. + +"Yes. I deal in black!..." + +"Christ!" said Gilbert, getting up and walking away. + +"Your friend seems a bit upset, doesn't he?" Mr. Perkins murmured to +Henry. + + +4 + +They went into Holyhead, and wandered aimlessly about the station. +Marvellously, men in uniform appeared everywhere. The reservists, naval +and military, had been called up, and while Gilbert and Henry stood in +the station, a large number of them went away, leaving tearful, puzzled +women on the platform. That morning the boots at the hotel had been +called up to join his Territorial regiment. He had been carrying a trunk +on his back, when the call came to him, and, chuckling, he dropped the +trunk, and skipped off to get ready. "I'm wanted," he said ... and then +he went off. + +And still people went about, bemused and frightened, demanding what it +was about.... + +"Well have to go in," some one said in the station. "I can't see how we +can stay out!..." + +"I can't see that at all," his neighbour replied. "We've got nothing to +do with it!" + +"If the Germans won't leave the Belgians alone!..." + +Perkins interrupted again. "We've got a Belgian cook in our hotel," he +said. "It ... it sort of brings it all home to you, that!" + +There were rumours that the working-people were resolute against the +war.... + +"And so are the employers," said Perkins. "I can tell you that. I've not +met anybody yet who wants a war!" + +And as the rumours flew about, they grew. One could see a rumour begin +and swell and change and increase. + +"I tell you what," said Perkins. "These Germans have been damn well +asking for it, and I hope they'll damn well get it. I know a few Germans +... Manchester's full of 'em ... and I don't like 'em. As a nation, I +don't like 'em. They ... they get on my nerves, that's what they do!" + +There was talk about German organisation, German efficiency, German +militarism.... + +"They don't think anything of a civilian in Germany. The soldier's +everything. And women ... oh, my God, the way they treat women! I've +seen German officers ... I've seen 'em myself ... chaps that are +supposed to be gentlemen ... going along the street, and shoving women +off the pavement!..." + +"You know," said Perkins, "I don't really think much of the Germans +myself. I mean to say, they got no initiative. That's what's the matter +with 'em. Do you know what a German does when he wants to go across the +street? He goes up to a policeman and asks him. And what does the +policeman do? Shoves him off the pavement!... I'd break his jaw for him +if he shoved me!" + +They stayed on, wondering sometimes why they stayed, and then at +midnight, a troop train steamed into the station, and a crowd of tired +soldiers alighted from the carriages and prepared to embark. + +"My God, it's begun!" said Perkins. "Where you chaps going to?" he asked +of a soldier. + +"I dunno," the soldier answered. "Ireland, I think. I 'eard we was goin' +to put down these bleedin' Orangemen that's bin makin' so much fuss +lately, but some'ow I don't think that's it. 'Ere, mate," he added, +thrusting a dirty envelope into Perkins's hand. "That's my wife's +address. I 'adn't time to write to 'er ... we was sent off in a 'urry +... you might just drop 'er a line, will you an' say I'm off!..." + +"Right you are," said Perkins. + +"Tell 'er I think I'm off to France, see, on'y I don't know, see! +There's a rumour we're goin' to Ireland, but I don't think so. You +better tell 'er that. An' I'm all right, see. So far any'ow!..." + +"God!" said Perkins, as the soldiers moved towards the transport, +"don't it make you feel as if you wanted to cry!..." + +In the morning, they knew that England had declared war on Germany. + +"Of course," said Gilbert, "we couldn't keep out of it. We simply had to +go in!" + +They had gone down to the bay to bathe. "This'll be my last," Gilbert +muttered as they stripped, "for a while anyhow!" + +"But you're not going yet," Henry said. + +"I think so," Gilbert replied. "I don't know how the trains are running, +but I shall try to get back to London to-night." + +"But why?..." + +"Oh, I expect they'll need chaps. Don't you think they will?" + +"Do you mean you're going to ... enlist?" + +"Yes. That seems the obvious thing to do. They're sure to need people," +Gilbert answered. + +"I suppose so," said Henry. + +"I don't quite fancy myself as a soldier, Quinny. I'm not what you'd +call a bellicose chap. I shan't enjoy it very much, and I expect I shall +be damned scared when it comes to ... to charging and that sort of thing +... but a chap must do his share...." + +"I suppose so," Henry said again. + +It seemed to him to be utterly absurd that Gilbert should become a +soldier, that his sensitive mind should be diverted from its proper +functions to the bloody business of war. + +"I've always jibbed a bit when I heard people talking about England in +the way that awful stockbroker in the hotel talks about it," Gilbert was +saying, "and I loathe the Kipling flag-flapper, all bounce and brag and +bloodies ... but I feel fond of England to-day, Quinny, and nothing else +seems to matter much. And anyhow fighting's such a filthy job that it +ought to be shared by everybody that can take a hand in it at all. It +doesn't seem right somehow to do your fighting by proxy. I should hate +to think that I let some one else save my skin when I'm perfectly able +to save it myself...." + +"But you've other work to do, Gilbert, more important work than that. +There are plenty of people to do that job, but there aren't many people +to do yours. Supposing you went out and ... and got ... killed?..." + +"There's that risk, of course," said Gilbert, "but after all, I don't +know that my life is of greater value than another man's. A clerk's life +is of as much consequence to him as mine is to me." + +"I daresay it is, Gilbert, but is it of as much consequence to England? +I know it sounds priggish to say that, but some lives are of more value +than others, and it's silly to pretend that they're not." + +"I should have agreed with you about that last week, Quinny. You +remember my doctrine of aristocracy?... Well, somehow I don't feel like +that now. I just don't feel like it. Those chaps we saw at Holyhead, +going off to France ... I shouldn't like to put my plays against the +life of any one of them. I couldn't help thinking last night, while I +was lying in bed, that there I was, snugly tucked up, and out there ... +somewhere!..." He pointed out towards the Irish Sea ... "those chaps +were sailing to ... to fight for me. I felt ashamed of myself, and I +don't like to feel ashamed of myself. You saw that soldier giving his +wife's address to Perkins? Poor devil, he hadn't had time to say +'Good-bye' to her, and perhaps he won't come back. I should feel like a +cad if I let myself believe that my plays were worth more than that +man's life. And anyhow, if I don't write the plays, some one else will. +I've always believed that if there's a good job to be done in the world, +it'll get done by somebody. If this chap fails to do it, it'll be done +by some other chap.... Will you come into Holyhead with me and enquire +about trains? There's a rumour that a whole lot of them have been taken +off. They're shifting troops about...." + + +6 + +Gilbert was to travel by the Irish mail the next day. He had made up his +mind definitely to go to London and enlist, and Henry, having failed to +dissuade him from his decision, resolved to go to London with him. They +had talked about the war all day, insisting to each other that it could +not be of long duration. There was a while, during the first two or +three days' fighting, when the Germans seemed to have been held by the +Belgians, that they had the wildest hopes. "If the Belgians can keep +them back, what will happen when the French and British get at them?" +But that time of jubilee hope did not last long, and again the air was +full of rumours of disaster and misfortune. The Black Watch had been cut +to pieces.... + +There was a sense of fear in every heart, not of physical cowardice, but +of doubt of the stability of things. This horrible disaster had been +foretold many times, so frequently, indeed, that it had become a joke, +and novelists had written horrific accounts of the ills that would +swiftly follow after the outbreak of hostilities. Credit would disappear +... and all that pretence at wealth, the pieces of paper and the scrips +and shares, would be revealed at last as ... pieces of paper. Silver, +even, would be treated with contempt, and there would be a scramble for +gold. And people would begin to hoard things ... and no one would trust +any one else. There would be suspicion and fear and greed and hate ... +and very swiftly and very surely, civilisation would reel and topple and +fall to pieces.... At any moment that might happen. So far, indeed, +things were still steady ... calamity had not come so quickly as +imaginative men had foretold ... but presently, when the slums ... the +rich man's reproach ... had become hungrier than they usually were, +there would be rioting ... and killing.... One began to be frightfully +conscious of the slums ... and the rage of desperate, starving people. +One imagined the obsessing thought in each mind: _Here we are, eating +and drinking and being waited upon ... and perhaps to-morrow!..._ + +But no one, in forecasting the European Disaster, had made allowance for +the obstinacy of man or taken into account the resisting power of human +society. As if man, having built up this mighty structure of +civilisation, would let it be flung down in a moment without trying to +save some of it! As if man, having in pain and bloody sweat discovered +his soul, would let it get lost without struggling to hold and preserve +it!... + +Gilbert and Henry came into the drawing-room, where the women were +whispering to each other. Inexplicably, almost unconsciously, their +voices had fallen to whispers ... as if they were in church or a corpse +were above in a bedroom.... Four of the women were playing Bridge, but +none of them wished to play Bridge; and as Gilbert and Henry entered the +room, they put down their cards and looked round at them. + +"Is there any more news?" one of them said, and Gilbert told them of the +rumours that had been heard in Holyhead. + +"They say the Black Watch have been cut to pieces," he said. + +The whispering stopped.... They could hear the clock's regular +tick-tick.... + +"Oh, the poor men ... the poor men!" an old woman said, and her fingers +began to twitch.... + +Almost mechanically, the Bridge players picked up their cards. "It's +your lead, partner!" one of them said, and then she threw down her +cards, and rising from her chair, went swiftly from the room. + +"Oh, the poor men ... the poor men!" the old woman moaned. + + +7 + +They sat on the rocks after tea and while they sat there, they saw a +great ship sailing up the sea, beautiful and proud and swift; and they +jumped up and climbed to the highest point of the cliff to watch her go +by. They knew her, for there had been anxiety about her for two days, +and as they watched her sailing past, they cheered and waved their hands +although no one on the great vessel could see them. A girl came running +to them.... + +"What is it?" she said. + +"It's the _Lusitania_," they answered. "She's dodged them, damn them!" + +"Oh, hurrah!" the girl shouted. "Hurrah! Hurrah!" + + +8 + +And then the strain lifted. The _Lusitania_ had won home to safety. The +Germans, greedy for this great prize, had failed to find her. +Civilisation still held good ... if the world were to go down in the +fight, it would go down proudly, hitting hard, hitting until the +last.... + + + + +THE FIFTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +It was odd, that journey from Holyhead to London, odd and silent; for +all the way from Wales to Euston they passed but one train. They drove +through the long stretch of England, past wide and windy fields where +the harvesters were cutting the corn, through the dark towns of the +Potteries, by the collieries where the wheels still revolved as the +cages were lowered and raised, and then, plunging into the outer areas +of London, they drove swiftly up to the station. In the evening, they +went to Hampstead to see Roger and Rachel, and found them reading +newspapers. + +"I don't seem able to do anything else," said Roger. "I buy every +edition that comes out. I read the damn things over and over, and then I +read them again...." + +Rachel nodded her head. "So do I," she said. + +A girl came in, a friend of Rachel, who had been in Finland when the war +began. She had hurried home by Berlin, where she had spent an hour or +two, while waiting for a train, before England declared war on +Germany.... + +"What were they like?" Gilbert asked. + +"Wild with excitement. We went to a restaurant to get something to eat, +and while we were there, the news came that Russia was at war with +them.... My goodness! There was a Russian in the room, and they went for +him!... I had my aunt with me, and I was afraid she'd get hurt, so we +cleared out as quickly as we could, and when we got to the station, we +had to fight to get into the train. My aunt fainted ... and they were +beastly to us, oh, beastly! I tried to get things for her, but they +wouldn't give us anything! They kept on telling us we'd be shot, and +threatening us!... They were frightened, those big fat men were +frightened. If you'd touched them suddenly, they'd have squealed ... +like panic-stricken rabbits!..." + +They sat and talked and talked, and gloom settled on them. What was to +be the end of this horrible thing which no one had desired, but no one +was able to prevent. + +"I believe they all lost their nerve at the last," Roger said, "and they +just ... just let things rip. They call it a brain-storm in America. +They lost their heads ... and they let things rip. My God, what a thing +to have happened!" + +They sat in silence, full of foreboding, and then the girl who had come +from Finland went home. + +"It's all up with the Bar, I suppose!" said Roger, when he had let her +out. "Whatever else people want to do, they won't want to go to law. +Having a youngster makes things awkward!..." + +"If you should need any money, Roger," said Gilbert, "you might let me +know!" + +"And me, Roger!" said Henry. + +"Thanks awfully!" Roger replied. "I won't forget. I've got some, of +course, and Rachel has a little. I daresay we'll manage. It can't last +long. A couple of months, perhaps!..." + +"I can't see how it can last longer. It's too big, and ... oh, it can't +last longer!" + +"Kitchener says three years!..." + +"He wants to be on the safe side, I suppose, but my God, three years of +... of that!..." + + +2 + +Rachel got up suddenly. "You haven't seen my baby yet," she said. + +"So we haven't," Gilbert exclaimed. "Where is it?" + +"She's upstairs asleep. You must come quietly!..." + +"It's a girl, then?" said Henry. + +Rachel nodded, and led the way upstairs to the bedroom where the baby +lay in her cot. + +"Isn't she a darling?" she said, bending over the child. + +They did not answer, afraid, as men are in the presence of a sleeping +child, that they might disturb her; and while they stood looking at the +cot, Rachel bent closer to her baby, and lightly kissed her cheek. + +They moved away on tiptoe. + +"What do you call her?" Henry whispered to Roger, as they left the +bedroom. + +"Eleanor," he answered. "That was my mother's name. Jolly little kid, +isn't she?" + +Gilbert turned and went back to the bedroom. Rachel was still bending +over the baby, and she looked up at him warningly. He went up to the cot +and, leaning towards Rachel, whispered, "Do you mind if I kiss her, too, +Rachel? I'm going to enlist to-morrow, and perhaps I won't get so good a +chance as this!..." + +She stood up quickly and put her arms round him. "Oh, Gilbert!" she +said, and then she drew him down, so that he could kiss the baby easily. + + +3 + +Henry told Roger of Gilbert's intention, while Rachel and Gilbert were +in the bedroom with the baby. + +"Enlist?" said Roger. + +Henry nodded his head. + +"Well, of course!..." Roger began, and then he stopped. "I suppose so," +he said, moving towards the tray which Rachel had brought into the room +earlier in the evening. "Whisky?" he said. + +"No, thanks, Roger!" Henry answered. "He's going down to-morrow!" + +"He'd better wait a few days. There's been a hell of a scrum already to +join. Queues and queues of chaps, standing outside Scotland Yard all +day. He'd better wait 'til the rush is over...." + +"I think he'd rather like to be in the rush," Henry said. + +Then Rachel came into the room, followed by Gilbert. + +"Roger," she said, "Gilbert's going to enlist!..." + +"So Quinny's just been telling me. Have a whisky, Gilbert?" + +"No, thanks, old chap," said Gilbert, "but if you have a cigarette!..." + +"I'll get them," Rachel exclaimed. + +She brought the box of cigarettes to him, and while he was choosing one, +she said to Roger, "I was so excited when he told me, that I got up and +hugged him!" + +"Good!" said Roger. + + +4 + +They walked home to Bloomsbury, where they had easily obtained rooms, +for the sudden withdrawal of Germans and Austrians had left Bloomsbury +in a state of vacancy. As they went down Haverstock Hill towards Chalk +Farm, an old man lurched against them. + +"All the young chaps," he mumbled thickly. "Thash wot sticks in my +gizzard! All the young chaps! Gawblimey, why don't they tyke the ole +ones!..." + +"Steady on," Gilbert exclaimed, catching his arm and holding him up. +"You'll fall, if you're not careful!" + +"Don't marrer a damn wherrer I do or not!" He reeled a little, and +Gilbert caught hold of him again. "I woul'n be a young chap," he +muttered, "not for ... not for nothink. You ... you're a young chap, +ain't you? Yesh you are! You needn't tell me you ain't! I can see as +wellsh anythink! You're a young chap ri' enough. Well ... well, Gawd, +'elp you, young feller! Thash all I got to sy ... subjec!' Goo-ni', +gen'lemen!" He staggered off the pavement, and went half way across the +deserted street. Then he turned and looked at them for a few moments. +"Ain't it a bloody treat, eih?" he shouted to them. "_Ain't_ it a bloody +treat?" + +"Drunk," said Gilbert. + +Henry did not reply, and they walked on through Chalk Farm, through +Camden Town, into the tangle of mean streets by Euston, and then across +the Euston Road to Bloomsbury. They did not speak to each other until +they were almost at their destination. + +"It's awfully quiet," said Henry, turning and looking about him. + +"I don't see any one," Gilbert answered, "except that old fellow ahead +of us!..." + +"No!" + +They walked on, and when they came up to the old man, who walked slowly, +and heavily in the same direction, they called "Good-night!" to him. He +looked round at them, an old, tired, bewildered man, and he made a +gesture with his hands, a gesture of despair. "Ach, mein freund!" he +said brokenly, and again he made the suppliant motion with his hands. + +"Poor old devil!" Gilbert muttered almost to himself. + + +5 + +They went to their rooms at once, too tired to talk to each other, and +Henry, hurriedly undressing, got into bed. But he could not sleep. "I +suppose I ought to join, too!" he said to himself, as he lay on his +back, staring at the ceiling. "Gilbert and I could go together!..." + +But what would be the good of that? The war would be over quite soon. +Even Roger thought it would be over in a couple of months, and if that +were so, there would be no need for him to throw up his work and take to +soldiering. "It'll be over before Gilbert's got through his training. +Long before!..." + +"Anyhow, I can wait until the rush is over. I might as well go on +working as stand outside Scotland Yard all day, waiting to be taken +on.... Or I could apply for a commission!..." + +He lay very still, hoping that he would fall asleep soon, but sleep +would not come to him. He sat up in bed, and glanced about the room. + +"I suppose," he said aloud, "they're fighting now!" + +He lay down again quickly, thrusting himself well under the bedclothes +and shut his eyes tightly. "Oh, my God, isn't it horrible!" he groaned. + +He saw again that crowd of hurried soldiers detraining at Holyhead, +thinking that perhaps they were going to Ireland, but not quite sure ... +and he could see them stumbling up the gangways of the transport, each +man heavily accoutred; and sometimes a man would laugh, and sometimes a +man would swear ... and then the ship sailed out of the harbour, +rounding the pier and the breakwater, churning the sea into a long white +trail of foam as she set her course past the South Stack.... They could +see the lights on her masthead diminishing as she went further away, and +then, as the cold sea wind blew about them, they shivered and went +home.... Now, lying here in this stillness, warm and snug, Henry could +see those soldiers, huddled together on the ship. He could imagine them, +murmuring to one another, "I say, d'ye think we _are_ goin' to Ireland?" +and hear one answering, "You'll know in three hours. We'll be there +_then_, if we are!" and slowly there would come to each man the +knowledge that their journey was not to Ireland, but to France, and +there would be a tightening of the lips, an involuntary movement here +and there and then.... "Well, o' course, we're goin' to France! 'Oo the +'ell thought we was goin' anywhere else?" The ship would carry them +swiftly down the Irish Sea and across the English Channel ... and after +that!... + +"Some of them may be dead already," he murmured to himself. + +Torn up suddenly from their accustomed life, hurried through the +darkness along the length of England, and then, after long, cold nights +on the sea, landed in France and set to slaying.... + +"And they won't know what's it for?" + +But did that matter? Would it be any better if they were aware of the +cause of the fight? One lived in a land and loved it. Surely, that was +sufficient? + +In his mind, he could still see the soldiers, but always they were +moving in the dark. He could see very vividly the man who had asked +Perkins to write to his wife ... and it seemed to him that he was still +demanding of passers-by that they should write to her. "Tell 'er I'm all +right," he kept on saying. "So far, any'ow!..." + +He turned over on his side, dragging the clothes about his head, and +tried to shut out the vision of the soldiers marching through the fields +of France, but he could not shut it out. They still marched, endlessly, +ceaselessly marched.... + + +6 + +When they got to Scotland Yard, there was a great crowd of men waiting +to be enlisted. + +"You'd better come again, Gilbert," Henry said. "You'll have to hang +about here all day, and then perhaps you won't be reached!" + +"I think I'll hang about anyhow," Gilbert answered. + +He had become queerly quiet since the beginning of the War. The old, +light-hearted, exaggerated speech had gone from him, and when he spoke, +his words were abrupt and colourless. He took his place at the end of +the file of men, and as he did so, the man in front of him, a +fringe-haired, quick-eyed youth with a muffler round his neck, turned +and greeted him. "'Illoa, myte!" he said with the cheery friendliness of +the East End. "You come too, eih?" + +Gilbert answered, "Yes, I thought I might as well!" + +"Well 'ave to wyte a 'ell of a time," the Cockney went on. "Some of +'em's bin 'ere since six this mornin'. Gawblimey, you'd think they was +givin' awy prizes. I dunno wot the 'ell I come for. I jus' did, sort +of!..." + +Some one standing by, turned to a recruiting sergeant and whispered +something to him, pointing to the guttersnipes in the queue. + +"Fight!" said the recruiting sergeant. "Gawd love you, guv'nor, they'd +fight 'ell's blazes, them chaps would!" + +Henry tried again to induce Gilbert to fall out of the queue and wait +until there was more likelihood of being enlisted quickly, but Gilbert +would not be persuaded. + +"You'll have to get something to eat," Henry urged. "They'll never get +near you until this evening, and if you've got to fall out to get food, +you might as well fall out now!" + +"I think I'll wait," Gilbert repeated. "Perhaps," he went on, "you'll +get me some sandwiches. Get a lot, will you. This chap in front of me +doesn't look as if he'd brought anything!" + +"You could get a commission, Gilbert, easily," Henry said. + +"I don't think I should be much good as an officer, Quinny.... Go and +get the sandwiches like a decent chap!" + +Henry went away to do as Gilbert had bidden him, and after a while, he +returned with a big packet of sandwiches and apples. + +"I shan't wait, Gilbert," he said. "I can't stand about all day. I'll +come back when the rush is over...." + +"But why, Quinny?" + +"I'm going to join, too, with you!..." + +"You're going to join?... That's awf'lly decent of you, Quinny!" + +"Decent! Why? It isn't any more decent than your joining is!" + +"P'raps not, but I always think it's very decent of an Irishman to fight +for England. If there doesn't seem any chance of my getting in to-day, +I'll come back to tea. There's a fellow here says this is the second day +he's been waiting!" + +Henry went away. He walked along the Embankment towards Blackfriars, and +when he had reached the Temple, he turned up one of the steep streets +that link the Embankment to Fleet Street. + +"I'll go and see Delap," he said to himself. + +Delap was the editor of a weekly paper for which Henry had sometimes +written articles. Delap, however, was not at the office, but Bundy, the +manager of the paper, who was also the financier, was there. + +"It's all up with us," said Bundy. "We're closing down next week!" + +"Closing down!" + +"Yes. We're bust. Damn it, we're getting on splendidly, too. Just +turning the corner! We should have had a magnificent autumn if it hadn't +been for this...." + +He came away from Bundy, and walked aimlessly down Fleet Street. "Lots +of other people would have had a fine autumn if it hadn't been for +this," he thought to himself, and then he saw Leadenham and Crowborough, +who worked on the _Cottenham Guardian_. They were very pale and +tired-looking. + +"Hilloa!" he said, slapping Leadenham on the back. + +Leadenham jumped ... startled! "Oh, it's you," he said, smiling weakly. + +"Yes. What's up? You look frightened!" He turned to greet Crowborough. + +"Well, we're all rather jiggered by this," Leadenham replied. "We're +going to get something to eat. Come with us?" + +They went into a tea-shop and sat down. "Is the _Guardian_ all right?" +Henry asked. + +"Oh, yes," said Leadenham wearily, "as right as anything is. Nobody in +Fleet Street knows how long his job'll last. Half the men on the _Daily +Circle_ have had the sack. Some of our chaps have gone! Fleet Street's +full of men looking for jobs. About fifty papers have smashed up since +the thing began ... sporting papers mostly. It frightens you, this sort +of thing!..." + +He came away from Fleet Street as quickly as possible. The nervous, +hectic state of the journalists made him feel nervous too. + +"I'd better get among less jumpy people," he said to himself, and he +hurried towards Charing Cross. And there he met Jimphy. He did not +recognise him at first, for Jimphy was in khaki, and he would have +passed on without seeing him, had Jimphy not caught hold of his arm and +stopped him. + +"Cutting a chap, damn you!" said Jimphy.... + +"Good Lord, I didn't know you!" + +"Thought you didn't. Where you going?" + +"Oh, nowhere. Just loafing about. Gilbert's down at Scotland Yard trying +to enlist." + +"Is he, begad? Everybody seems to be trying to enlist. He'd much better +try to get a commission. I'm going home now. You come with me, Quinny. +Hi, hi!..." He hailed a taxi-cab, and, without waiting to hear what +Henry had to say, bundled him into it. + +"Lord," he exclaimed, as he leant back in the cab, "it's years an' years +an' years since I saw you. Well, what do you think of this for a bally +war, eh? Millions of 'em ... all smackin' each other. I'm going out +soon!" He leant out of the window and shouted at the driver, "Hi, you +chap, hurry up, will you! + +"I don't seem able to get anywhere quick enough nowadays," he said as he +sat back again in his seat. "You know," he went on, "we've never been to +the Empire yet, you an' me. Damned if we have! Never mind! We'll go when +the War's over!" + + +7 + +There were half a dozen women in the drawing-room with Cecily when Henry +and Jimphy entered it. In addition to the women, there were a +photographer and Boltt. The photographer had finished his work and was +preparing to depart, and Boltt was talking in his nice little clipped +voice about the working-class. It appeared that the working-class had +not realised the seriousness of the situation. The other classes had +been quick to understand and to offer themselves, but the +working-class.... No! Oo, noo! Boltt had written an article in the +_Evening Gazette_ full of gentle reproach to the working-class, but +without effect. The working-class had taken no notice. "Democracy, dear +ladies," said Boltt, with a downward motion of his fingers. "Democracy!" +A newspaper, a Labour newspaper, had been rather rude to Boltt. It had +put some intimate, he might say, impertinent, questions to Boltt, but +Boltt had borne this impertinent inquisition with fortitude. He had not +made any answer to it.... + +"Hilloa, Paddy!" Lady Cecily called across the room to Henry. "Aren't +you at the war?" + +"Well, no, I only got to London...." + +"Oh, but everybody's going. Jimphy and everybody! Except Mr. Boltt, of +course. He's unfit or something. Aren't you, Mr. Boltt?" + +"Ah, if I were only a young man again, Lady Cecily!..." + +"But he's writing to the papers, and that's something, isn't it?" Cecily +interrupted. "And I'm making mittens for the soldiers. We're all making +mittens. Except Mr. Boltt, of course." + +"Who was the johnny who's just gone out?" Jimphy demanded. "Was he the +chap who sells the stuff you make the mittens out of?..." + +"Oh, no, Jimphy, he was a photographer. We're all to have our +photographs in the _Daily Reflexion_...." + +"Except Mr. Boltt?" Henry asked maliciously. + +"No, Mr. Boltt's to be in it too. Holding wool. I've been photographed +in three different positions ... beginning to knit a mitten, half-way +through a mitten, and finishing a mitten. I was rather anxious to be +taken with a pile of socks, but I can't knit socks!..." + +"You can't knit mittens either," said Jimphy. + +It appeared that Lady Cecily's maid was allowed to undo her mistress's +false stitches and finish the mittens properly.... + +"Well, of course, I'm not really a knitter," Cecily admitted, "but I +feel I must do something for the country. I've a good mind to take up +nursing. I met Jenny Customs this morning, and she says it's quite easy, +and the uniform is rather nice...." + +"But don't you require to be trained?" Henry asked dubiously. + +"Oh, yes, if you're a professional. But I'm not. I'm doing it for the +country. Jenny Customs went to a First Aid Class, and learnt quite a lot +about bandaging. She can change sheets while the patient is in bed, and +she says he can scarcely tell that she's doing it. I should love to be +able to do that. She told me a lot of things, and I really know the +first lesson already. I can shake a bottle of medicine the proper +way!..." + +"Can't we have tea or something?" said Jimphy. "Oh, by the way, Cecily, +Quinn says that chap Gilbert Farlow's hanging about Scotland Yard...." + +"Goodness me, what for?" Cecily demanded in a startled voice. "He hasn't +done anything, has he?" + +"No, of course he hasn't. He's trying to enlist!" + +"Enlist!" she said. + +"Yes. Silly ass not to ask for a commission!" said Jimphy. + +Boltt burbled about the priceless privilege of youth. If only he were a +youngster once again!... + +They drank their tea, while Jimphy discoursed on the war. Henry had +entered Cecily's house with a feeling of alarm, wondering whether she +would be friendly to him, wondering whether he would be able to look +into her eyes and not care ... and now he knew that he did not care. +There was something incredibly unfeeling and trivial about Cecily, +something ... vulgar. While the world was still reeling from the shock +of the War, she was arranging to be photographed with mittens that she +had not made and could not make. The portrait would be reproduced in the +_Daily Reflexion_ under the title of "Lady Cecily Jayne Does Her Bit." +... But she was beautiful, undeniably she was beautiful. As he looked at +her, she raised her eyes, conscious perhaps of his stare, and smiled at +him.... + +"She'd smile at anybody," he said to himself. "If she had any feeling at +all for me, she'd be angry with me!" + +She came to him. "I wish you'd tell Gilbert to come and see me," she +said, sitting down beside him. + +"Very well," he answered, "I will!" + +"I'm sure he'll look awfully nice in khaki. And I should love to see him +saluting Jimphy. He'll have to do that, you know, if he's a private...." + + +8 + +He got away as soon as he could decently do so, and went back to +Bloomsbury. "That isn't England," he told himself, "that mitten-making, +posturing crew!" and he remembered the great queues of men, standing +outside Scotland Yard, struggling to get into the Army, and suffering +much discomfort in the effort. + +"Perhaps," he said to himself, "Gilbert's at home now. I wonder if he +managed to get in!" + +A man and a woman were standing at the corner of a street, talking, and +he overheard them as he passed. + +"'Illoa, Sarah," the man said, "w'ere you goin', eih?" + +"Goin' roan' the awfices," she answered, "to see if I kin get a job o' +charin'!" + +"Gawblimey!" said the man, laughing at her. + +"Well, you got to do somethink, 'aven't you? No good sittin' on your +be'ind an' 'owlin' because there's a war on, is there?" + +There was more of the spirit of England in that, Henry thought, than in +Cecily's mitten-making.... + +Gilbert was not at home when he reached the Bloomsbury boarding-house. +"Still trying, I suppose," Henry thought. + +There was a telegram for him. His father was ill again, "seriously ill" +was the message, and he was needed at home. + +He hurriedly wrote a note to be given to Gilbert when he returned, in +case he should not see him again, but before he had begun his packing, +Gilbert came in. + +"It's all right," he said. "I've joined. I've had a week's leave.... I'm +damned tired!" + +"My father's ill again, Gilbert. I've just had a telegram, and I'm going +back to-night!..." + +"I'm awf'lly sorry, Quinny!" Gilbert said, quickly sympathetic. + +"I met Jimphy at Charing Cross. He's in khaki. He took me back to tea. +Cecily's making mittens!..." + +"She would," said Gilbert. + +"She told me to tell you to go and see her!" + +"Did she, indeed?" + +"You'll stay here, I suppose," Henry went on, "until you're called up?" +Gilbert nodded his head. "Let me know what happens to you afterwards, +will you?" + +"Righto!" + +"I'll come back as soon as I can, Gilbert!" + + + + +THE SIXTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +Mr. Quinn died at Christmas. The old man, weakened by his long illness, +had been stunned by the War, and when his second illness seized him, he +made no effort to resist it. He would lie very quietly for a long while, +and then a paroxysm of fury would possess him, and he would shake his +fist impotently in the air. "If they wanted a war," he shouted once, +"why didn't they go and fight it themselves. They were paid to keep the +peace, and ... and!..." + +He fell back on his pillow, exhausted, and when Henry, hurrying up the +stairs to him the moment he heard the shout, reached him, he was gasping +for breath. "It's all right, son!" he said when he had recovered +himself. "It's all right!..." + +"It's foolish of you, father, to agitate yourself like that," Henry said +to him, putting his arms round him and lifting him into a more +comfortable position. + +"I can't help it, Henry, when I think of ... of all the young lads!... +By God, they'd no right to do it!..." + +"Hush, father!..." + +"They'd no right to do it! You'd think they were greedy for blood ... +young men's blood!" He pointed to an English newspaper lying on the +floor. "Did you read that paper?" he said. + +"Yes." + +"Houndin' them into it," the old man went on. "Yellin' for young men! By +God, I'd be ashamed ... parsons an' women an' old men that can't fight +themselves, houndin' young men into it! If they'd any decency, they'd +shut up...." + +"All right, father!" + +"The man that owns this paper ... whatshisname!..." + +"It doesn't matter, does it? Lie still and be quiet!" + +"I can't be quiet. Like a damned big monster, yellin' for boys to eat. +Has he any childher, will you tell me?..." + +"I don't know, father!" + +"Of course he hasn't. An' here he is, yelpin' in his damned rag every +day, 'Fee-fo-fum, I smell the blood of a young man!' Why don't they +shove him at the Front ... the very front!" + +"You must keep quiet, father!" + +"All right, Henry, all right!" + +He was silent for a few minutes, and then he began again, in a quieter +voice. "I'd have put the men that made it, the whole lot of them, in the +front rank, and let them blow themselves to blazes. Old men sittin' in +offices, an' makin' wars, an' then biddin' young men to pay the price of +them! By God, that's mean! By God, that's low!..." + +"But old men couldn't bear the strain of it, father!" Henry interjected, +and he recalled some of the horrors of the trenches where the soldiers +had stood with the water reaching to their waists; but Mr. Quinn +insisted that the old men should have fought the war they made. + +"Who cares a damn whether they can bear it or not," he said. "Let 'em +die, damn 'em! They're no good!" He turned quickly to Henry, and +demanded, "What good are they? Tell me that now!" but before Henry could +make an answer to him, he went off insistently, "They're no good, I tell +you. I know well what they're like ... sittin' in their clubs, yappin' +an' yappin' an' demandin' this an' demandin' that, an' gettin' on one +another's nerves; an' whatever happens it's not them that suffers for +it: it's the young lads that pays for everything. Look at the way the +old fellows go on in Parliament, Henry! By God, I want to vomit when I +read about them! Yappin' an' yappin' when they should be down on their +knees beggin' God's forgiveness...." + +He spoke as if he were not himself an old man, and it did not seem +strange to Henry that he should speak in that fashion, for Mr. Quinn's +spirit had always been a young spirit. + +"An' these wee bitches with their white feathers," he went on, "ought to +be well skelped. If I had a daughter, an' she did a thing like that, by +God, I'd break her skull for her!" + +"I suppose they think they're doing their duty, father, and they're +young!..." + +"There's women at it, too. I read in the paper yesterday mornin' that +there was grown women doin' it. There's nobody has any right to bid a +man go to that except them that's been to it themselves. If the women +an' the parsons an' the old men can't fight for their country, they can +hold their tongues for it, an' by God they ought to be made to hold +them...." + +He asked continually after Gilbert. + +"He's a sergeant now, father. He's been offered a commission, but he +won't take it!..." + +"Why?" + +"Oh, one of his whimsy-whamsies, I suppose. He says the non-commissioned +officers are the backbone of the Army, and he prefers to be part of the +backbone. You remember Ninian Graham, father?" + +"I do, rightly!..." + +"He's come home to join. He's in the Engineers!" + +Mr. Quinn did not make any answer to Henry. He slipped a little further +into the bed, and lay for a long while with his eyes closed, so long +that Henry thought he had fallen asleep; but, just when Henry began to +tiptoe from the room, he opened his eyes again, and suddenly they were +full of tears. + +"The fine young fellows," he said. "The fine young lads!" + + +2 + +And at Christmas, he died. He had called Henry to him that morning, and +had enquired about "The Fennels," which had lately been published after +a postponement and much hesitation, and about the new book on which +Henry was now working. + +"That's right," he said, when he heard that Henry was working steadily +on it. "It'll keep your mind from broodin'. How's the Ulster book +goin'?" + +"'The Fennels'?" + +"Ay. You had hard luck, son, in bringing out your best book at a time +like this, but never matter, never matter!..." + +"I don't know how it's doing. It's too soon to tell yet. The reviews +have been good, but I don't suppose people are buying books at present!" + +"You've done a good few now, Henry!" + +"Five, father." + +"Ay, I have the lot there on that ledge so's I can take them down easily +an' look at them. I feel proud of you, son ... proud of you!" + +He began to remind Henry of things that had happened when he was a boy. +His mind became flooded with memories. "Do you mind Bridget Fallon?" he +would say, and then he would recall many incidents that were connected +with her. "Do you mind the way you wanted to go to Cambridge, an' I +wouldn't let you," and "Do you mind the time you took the woollen balls +from Mr. Maginn's house?...." + +Henry remembered. Mr. Maginn, the vicar of Ballymartin, had invited +Henry to spend the afternoon with his nephew and niece and some other +children. They had played a game with balls made of coloured wool, and +while they were playing, Henry, liking the pattern of one of them, had +put it into his pocket. It had been missed, and there had been a search +for it, in which Henry had joined. He was miserable, and he wanted to +confess that he had the ball, but every time he opened his lips to say +that he had it, he felt afraid, and so he had refrained from speaking. +He felt, too, that every one knew that he had taken it, but still he +could not confess that he had it, and when they said, "Isn't it queer? I +wonder where it's gone!" he had answered, "Yes, isn't it queer?" They +had abandoned the search, and had played another game, but all the +pleasure of the party was lost for Henry. He kept saying to himself, +"You've got it. _You've_ got it!..." + +He had hurried home after the party was over, and when he reached the +shrubbery, he dug a hole and buried the ball in it. He had closed his +eyes as he took it out of his pocket, so that he should not see the +bright colours of it, and had heaped the earth on to it as if he could +not conceal it quickly enough ... but burying it had not quieted his +mind. He felt, whenever he met Mr. Maginn, that the vicar looked at him +as if he were saying to himself, "You stole the woollen ball!...." At +the end of the month, he had gone to his father and told him of it, and +Mr. Quinn had cocked his eye at him for a moment and considered the +subject. + +"If I were you, Henry," he had said, "I'd dig up that ball and take it +back to Mr. Maginn and just tell him about it!" + +Henry could remember how hard it had been to do that, how he had +loitered outside the gates of the vicarage for an hour, trying to force +himself to go up to the door and ask for the vicar ... and how kind Mr. +Maginn had been when, at last, he had made his confession! + +Oh, yes, he remembered!... + +"You were a funny wee lad, Henry," Mr. Quinn said, taking his son's hand +in his. "Always imaginin' things!" He thought for a second or two. "I +suppose," he went on, "that's what makes you able to write books ... +imaginin' things! Ay, that's it!" + +They sat in quietness for a while, and then Mr. Quinn fell asleep, and +Henry went down to the library and worked again on his new novel, for +which he had not yet found a title; and in his sleep, Mr. Quinn died. + + +3 + +Henry had finished a chapter of the book, and he put down his pen, and +yawned. He was tired, and he thought gratefully of tea. Hannah would +bring a tray to his father's room. There would be little soda farls and +toasted barn-brack, and perhaps she would have made "slim-jim," and +there would be newly-churned butter and home-made jam, which Hannah, in +her Ulster way, would call "Preserve." ... + +He got up from the table and went into the hall. + +"Will tea be long, Hannah?" he called down the stairs, leading to the +kitchens. + +"Haven't I it near ready?" she answered. + +He had gone up the staircase at a run, and had entered his father's +room, expecting to see him sitting up.... + +"Hilloa," he said, stopping sharply, "still asleep!" and he went out of +the room and called softly to Hannah, now coming up the stairs, to take +the tray to the library. "He's asleep, Hannah!" he said almost in a +whisper. + +"He's never asleep at this hour," she answered. + +And somehow, as she said that, he knew. He went back into the room and +leant over his father, listening.... + +"Is he dead, Master Henry?" Hannah said, as she came into the room. She +had left the tray on a table on the landing. + +Henry straightened himself and turned to her. "Yes, Hannah!" he said +quietly. + +The old woman threw her apron over her head and let a great cry out of +her. "Och, ochanee!" she moaned, "Och, och, ochanee!..." + + +4 + +He had none of the terror he had had when Mrs. Clutters lay dead in the +Bloomsbury house. He went into the room and stood beside his father's +body. The finely moulded face had a proud look and a great look of +peace. "I don't feel that he's dead," Henry murmured to himself. "I +shall never feel that he's dead!" + +"I wasn't with him enough," he went on. "I left him alone too often...." + +Extraordinarily, they had loved each other. Underneath all that +roughness of speech and violence of statement, there was great +tenderness and understanding. He spoke his mind, and more than his mind, +but he was generous and quick to retract and quicker to console. "I'm an +Ulsterman," he said once. "Ulster to the marrow, an' begod I'm proud of +it!" + +"But I'm Irish too," he added, turning to John Marsh as he said it, +fearful lest he should have hurt John's feelings. "Begod, it's gran' to +be Irish. I pity the poor devils that aren't!..." + +He was a great lover of life, exulting in his strength and vigour, +shouting sometimes for the joy of hearing himself shout. "And shy, too," +Henry murmured to himself, "shy as a wren about intimate things!" + +The sight of his father's placid face comforted him. One might cry over +other people, but not over _him_. Henry felt that if he were to weep for +his father, and the old man, regaining life for a moment were to open +his eyes and see him, he would shout at him, "Good God, Henry, what are +you cryin' about? Go out, man, an' get the fresh air about you!..." + +He put his hand out and touched the dead man. + +"All right, father!" he said aloud.... + + +5 + +There was much to do after the burial, and it was not until the +beginning of the Spring that Henry left Ballymartin. He had completed +his sixth novel, and had asked that the proofs should be sent to him as +speedily as possible so that he might correct them before he left +Ireland, and while he was waiting for them, he had travelled to Dublin +for a few days, partly on business connected with his estate and partly +to see his friends. Mr. Quinn had spent a great deal of money on his +farming experiments, the more freely as he found that Henry's books +brought him an increasing income, and so Henry had decided to let the +six hundred acres which Mr. Quinn himself had farmed. At first, he had +thought of selling the land, but it seemed to him that his father would +have liked him to keep it, and so he did not do so. He settled his +affairs with his solicitors, and then returned to Ballymartin; but +before he did so, he spent an evening with John Marsh, whom he found +still keenly drilling. + +"But why are you drilling now?" he asked. "This hardly seems the time to +be playing at soldiers, John!" + +"I'm not playing, Henry. I _am_ a soldier!" + +It was difficult to remember how many armies there were in Ireland. The +Ulster Volunteers still sulked in the North. The National Volunteers had +split. The politicians, alarmed at the growth of the Volunteer Movement +among their followers, had swooped down on the Volunteers and "captured" +them. John Marsh and Galway and their friends had seceded, and, under +the presidency of a professor of the National University, John +MacNeill, had formed a new body, called the Irish Volunteers. The +politicians, failing to understand the temper of their time, worked to +discourage the growth of the Volunteer Movement, and the result of their +efforts was that the more enthusiastic and courageous of the National +Volunteers seceded to the Irish Volunteers. + +"We're growing rapidly," John said to Henry. "They're flocking out of +the Nationals into ours as hard as they can. We've got Thomas MacDonagh +and Patrick Pearse and a few others with us, and we're trying to link up +with Larkins' Citizen Army. Mineely's urging Connolly on to our side, +but Connolly's more interested in the industrial fight than in the +national fight. But I think we'll get him over!" + +Their objects were to defend themselves from attack by the Ulster +Volunteers if attack were made, to raise a rebellion if the Home Rule +Bill were not passed into law, and to resist the enactment of +conscription in Ireland. The burden of their belief was still the fear +of betrayal. "But you're going to get Home Rule," Henry would say to +them, and they would answer, "We'll believe it when we see the King +opening the Parliament in College Green. Not before. We know what the +English are like...." + +Henry had suggested to them that they should offer the services of their +volunteers to the Government in return for the immediate enactment of +the Bill, but they saw no hope of such an offer being accepted and +honoured. "The minute they'd got us out of the way, they'd break their +word," said Galway. "Our only hope is to stay here and make ourselves as +formidable as we can. You can't persuade the English to do the decent +thing ... you can only terrorise them into it. Look at the way the +Ulster people have frightened the wits out of them!..." + +"But the Ulster people haven't frightened the wits out of them. I can't +understand you fellows! You sit here with preconceived ideas in your +heads, and you won't check them by going to see the people you're +theorising about. You keep on saying the same thing over and over again, +and you won't listen to any one who tells you that you've got hold of +the wrong end of the stick!..." + +"My dear Henry," said John, "our history is enough for us. Even since +the war, the English have tried to belittle the Irish. They've done the +most inept, small things to annoy us. They'd have got far more men from +Ireland than they have done, if they 'd behaved decently; but they +couldn't. They simply couldn't do the decent thing to Ireland. That's +their nature.... I'd have gone myself!..." + +"You?" + +"Yes. I think the Germans are in the wrong. I think they've behaved +badly, and anyhow, I don't like their theory of life. But the English +couldn't treat us properly. We wanted an Irish Division, with Irish +officers, and Irish colours, and Irish priests ... but no! They actually +stopped some women in the South from making an Irish flag for the Irish +regiments!... What are you to do with people like that. If they aren't +treacherous, they're so stupid that it's impossible to do anything with +them, and we'd much better be separate from them!" + +"I should have thought that Belgium showed the folly of that sort of +thing," said Henry. "A little country can't keep itself separate from a +big one. It'll get hurt if it does." + +"Belgium fought, didn't she?" John answered. "I daresay we should get +beaten, too, but we could fight, couldn't we?" + +Henry went away from them in a state of depression. It seemed impossible +to persuade them to behave reasonably. Fixed and immovable in their +minds was this belief that England would use them in her need ... and +then betray them when her need was satisfied. + +He went back to Ballymartin and corrected his proofs. + +"I'll go over to England next week," he said to himself when he had +revised the final proofs and posted them to his publishers. + + +6 + +Mrs. Graham had written to him when his father died. "_My dear Henry_," +she wrote, "_I know how you must feel at the death of your father, and I +know, too, that you will not wish to have your sorrow intruded on. A +letter is a poor thing, but, my dear, I send you all my sympathy. I +never saw your father, but Ninian has often spoken of him to me, and I +know that his loss must be almost unbearable to you. Perhaps he was +glad, as I should be glad, to slip away from the thought and memory of +this horrible war, and that may bring comfort to you. If you feel lonely +and unhappy at home, come to Boveyhayne for a while. You know how glad +we shall be to have you. It is very quiet here now, more than a hundred +of our men have gone into the Navy or the Army, and the poor women are +full of anxiety about them. Ninian has just been moved to Colchester. I +daresay he has written to you before this. If you would like to come to +Boveyhayne just send a telegram to me. That will be sufficient. Believe +me, my dear Henry, Your sincere friend, Janet Graham._" + + * * * * * + +He remembered Mrs. Graham's letter now, and he went to his writing desk +and took it from the notes of condolence he had received. Ninian and +Gilbert and Roger had written to him, short, abrupt letters that he knew +were full of kindly concern for him, and Rachel had written too. There +was a letter from Mary. + + * * * * * + +_Dear Quinny, you don't know how sorry I am. It must be awful to lose +your father when you and he have been such chums. I can only just +remember my father, and how I cried when he was taken away, and so I +know how hard it must be for you. Your friend, Mary._ + + * * * * * + +He read Mrs. Graham's note, and Mary's several times, and as he read +them, he had a longing to go to Boveyhayne again. The house at +Ballymartin was so lonely, now that his father's heavy footsteps no +longer sounded through the hall. Sometimes, forgetting that he was dead, +Henry would stop suddenly and listen as if he were listening for his +father's voice. Since his return from Dublin, he had felt his loss more +poignantly than he had before he went away. In the old days, his father +would have been at the station to meet him. There would have been a +hearty shout, and.... + +"I must go," he said to himself, "I must go. I can't bear to be here +now." + +He went down to the village and telegraphed to Mrs. Graham telling her +that he would be with her two days later, and while he was in the post +office, the _Belfast Evening Telegraph_ came in. + +"I'll take my copy with me," he said to the post-mistress, and he opened +it at once to read the news. There was a paragraph in a corner of the +paper, which caught his eye at once. It announced the death in action of +Lord Jasper Jayne. + +"My God!" he said, crumpling the paper as he gaped at the announcement. + +"Is it bad news, sir?" the post-mistress asked. + +"A friend of mine," he answered, turning to her. "Killed at the Front!" + +"Aw, dear," she said. "Aw, dear-a-dear! An' there'll be plenty more, +sir. There's young fellas away from the village, sir. My own nephew's +away. You mind him, don't you, sir! Peter Logan!..." + +"Peter Logan!" + +"Ay, he used to keep the forge 'til he married Matt Hamilton's niece, +an' then he took to the land. Nothin' would stop him, but to be off. +Nothin' at all would stop him. I toul' him myself the Belgians was +Catholics an' the Germans was Protestants, but nothin' would stop +him...." + +"Sheila Morgan's husband," Henry murmured. + +"Ay," she answered, "that was her name before she was married. He's +trainin' now, an' in a while, I suppose, he'll be off like the rest of +them. Och, ochanee, sir, isn't this a terr'ble world, wi' nothin' but +fightin' an' wringlin'? Will that be all you're wantin', sir?" + +"Yes, thanks," he said. + +Poor old Jimphy! They had all been contemptuous of him ... and now!... + +Cecily would be free now! Oh, but what of that? Poor Jimphy! He had not +wished for much from life ... and sometimes it had seemed that he had +got much more than he needed.... + +"The best of us can't do more than he did," Henry thought as he walked +home. "A man can't give more than he's got, and Jimphy's given +everything!" + + +7 + +He started up, and looked about the room, and while he listened, he +could hear the big clock in the hall sounding three times. He was +shivering, though he was not cold. In his dream, he had seen Jimphy, all +bloody and broken.... + +"Oh, my God, how horrible!" he groaned. + +He got up and went to the window, but he could not see beyond the high +trees, which swayed and moaned and took strange shapes in the wind. His +dream still held his mind, and as he looked into the darkness and saw +the bending branches yielding and rebounding, it seemed to him that he +saw the soldiers rushing forward and heard their cries, hoarse with war +lust or stifled by the blood that gushed from their mouths as they +staggered and fell ... and as he had seen him in his dream, so he saw +Jimphy again, running forward and shouting as he ran, until suddenly +with a queer wrinkled look of amazement on his face, he stopped, and +then, clasping his hands to his head, tumbled in a shapeless heap on the +ground ... but now it seemed to him that as Jimphy fell, his face +changed: it was no longer Jimphy's face, but his own. + +"My God, it's me!" he cried, shrinking away from the window, and +clutching at the curtains as if he would cover himself with them. "My +God, it's _me_!" + +He shut his eyes tightly and stumbled back to bed. He bruised himself +against a chair, but he was afraid to open his eyes, and he rolled into +bed, covering himself completely with the clothes, and buried his face +in his folded arms. In his mind, one thought hammered insistently: _I +must live! I must live! I must live!_ + + +8 + +"I'm run down," he said to himself in the morning. "That's what's the +matter with me. I'm run down!" + +His father's death had affected him, he thought, far more than he had +imagined. He would be all right again after a rest in Devonshire. It was +natural that he should be in a nervous state ... quite natural. He would +go straight to Boveyhayne from Liverpool. He could catch the Bournemouth +Express, and change at Templecombe. ... "That's what I'll do," he said, +and he hurried downstairs to prepare for his journey. + + + + +THE SEVENTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +He changed his mind at Liverpool. "I'll go to London first," he said, +"and see Roger and Rachel. I might as well hear anything there is to +hear!" And so he had telegraphed to Roger who met him at Euston. + +"Gilbert's going out in a few days," Roger said, when they had greeted +each other. + +"Out?" + +"Yes. He's going to the Dardanelles!... This job's serious, Quinny!" he +added grimly. "Our two months' estimate was a bit out, wasn't it? I +suppose you haven't heard from Ninian lately? He hasn't written to me +for a good while." + +"Not lately," Henry answered, "but I shall hear of him to-morrow when I +get to Boveyhayne. I'll write and let you know!" + +"My Big Army book's gone to pot, of course!" Roger went on. "At present +anyhow!..." + +"The War's done for the Improved Tories, I suppose?" + +"Absolutely. They've all enlisted. Ashley Earls is in the R.A.M.C. He +went in last week. He couldn't go before ... he was ill. You remember +Ernest Carr. He tried to enlist when the War began, but he was so +crippled with rheumatism that they hoofed him out. Well, he's been +living like a hermit ever since to get himself cured, and he says he's +going on splendidly. He thinks he'll be able to join before long...." + +"I wonder if I ought to join," he went on, more to himself than to +Henry. "I've thought and thought about it ... but I can't make up my +mind. I've got a decent connexion at the Bar now, and if I go into the +Army, I shall lose it. The fellows who don't go will get my work. And if +the War lasts as long as Kitchener reckons, I shall be forgotten by the +time I get back ... and I shall have to begin again at an age when most +men have either established themselves or cleared out of the profession +altogether. I want to do what's right, but I can't reconcile my two +duties, Quinny. I've a duty to England, of course, but I think I have a +bigger duty to Rachel and Eleanor. If they'd only conscript us all, this +problem wouldn't arise ... not so acutely anyhow. I suppose the +Government is having a pretty hard time, but they do seem to act the +goat rather! There's a great deal of talk about a man's duty to England, +but very little talk about England's duty to the man. However!..." He +did not finish his sentence, but shrugged his shoulders and looked away. + +"I don't feel happy," he went on after a while, "when I see other men +joining up, but I've got to think of Rachel and Eleanor.... When I was +going to meet you, Quinny, I passed a chap on crutches. His leg was +off!... He made me feel damned ashamed. I suppose that's why they let +the wounded go about in uniform so freely; to make you feel ashamed of +yourself. That's what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid I shall rush off to the +recruiting office in a burst of emotion ... and I must think of Rachel +and Eleanor!..." + +"I don't see why you should go before I do, Roger," Henry interjected. + +"Are you going, Quinny?" + +Henry flushed. It hurt him that there should be any question about it. + +"Yes," he said. + +"I don't think of you as a soldier, Quinny!" + +"I don't think of myself as one!" He paused for a moment, and then, +impetuously, he turned to Roger. + +"Roger," he said, "do you think I'm ... neurotic? Would you say I'm ... +well, degenerate?" + +"Don't be an ass, Quinny!" + +"I'm serious, Roger. I'm not just talking about myself, and slopping +over!" + +"You're highly strung, of course, but I shouldn't say you were neurotic. +You're healthy enough, aren't you!" + +"Oh, yes, I'm healthy enough, but I'm such a damned coward, Roger, and +sometimes some perfectly uncontrollable fear seizes me ... silly +frights. I never told you, did I, how scared I was when Mrs. Clutters +died!..." He told Roger how he had trembled outside the door of the dead +woman's room. "Things like that have happened to me ever since I was a +kid. I make up my mind to join the Army, and then I suddenly get +panicky, and I can almost feel myself being killed. I'm continually +seeing the War ... me in it, crouching in a trench waiting for the order +to go over, and trembling with fright ... so frightened that I can't do +anything but get killed ... and it's worse when I think of myself +killing other people ... I feel sick at the thought of thrusting a +bayonet into a man's body ... squelching through his flesh ... My +God!..." + +"Yes, I know, Quinny!" Roger said. "One does feel like that. But when +you're there, you don't think of it ... you're more or less off your +head ... you couldn't do it if you weren't. They work you up to a kind +of frenzy, and then you ... just let yourself go!" + +"But afterwards! Don't you think a man 'ud go mad afterwards when he +thought of it? I should. I know I should. I'd lie awake at night and see +the men I'd killed!..." + +A passenger in the train had told a story of the trenches to Henry, who +now repeated it to Roger. + +"One of our men got hold of a German in a German trench, and he +bayonetted him, but he did it clumsily. There wasn't enough room to kill +him properly ... he couldn't withdraw the bayonet and stick it in again +and finish the man ... and there they were, jammed together ... and the +German was squealing, oh, horribly ... and our men had to come and haul +the British soldier out of the trench. He'd gone off his head!..." + +"One oughtn't to think of things like that, Quinny!" + +"But if you can't help it? What terrifies me is that I might turn funk +... let my lot down!..." + +"You wouldn't. You're the sort that imagines the worst and does the +best. I shouldn't think of it any more if I were you. A month at +Boveyhayne'll pull you all right again...." + +"It's dying that I'm most afraid of. Some of these papers write columns +and columns of stuff about 'glorious deaths' at the front, but it +doesn't seem very glorious to me to be dead before you've had a chance +to do your job ... killed like that ... blown to bits, perhaps ... so +that they can't tell which is you and which is some one else!..." + +Roger nodded his head. "Our journalists contrive to see a great deal of +glory in war ... from Fleet Street, don't they, Quinny!" + +"Sometimes," Henry proceeded, "I think that the worst kind of cowardice +is to love life too much. That's the kind of coward I am. I love living. +I used to cry when I was a kid at the thought that I might die and not +be able to run about and look at things that I liked! And that makes you +funky. You're afraid to take risks, for fear you should lose your life +and have to give up the pleasure of living. I suppose that's what the +Bible means when it says that 'whosoever shall lose his life, shall find +it.' This hunt for security melts the marrow in your backbone!..." + +"Perhaps," said Roger. "Where you go wrong, I think, is in imagining +that courage consists in hurling yourself recklessly on things ... in +not caring a damn. I don't think that that's courage ... it's simply +insensibility ... a sort of permanent imperceptiveness. Really, Quinny, +if you don't feel fear, there's not much of the heroic in your acts. +That kind of man isn't much braver when he's plunging at Germans than +he is when he's plunging at a motor-omnibus or getting into a 'scrum' at +Rugger. He simply doesn't see any difference. It's something to plunge +at, and so he plunges. I haven't much faith in the Don't-Care-a-Damn +Brigade. They're more anxious to get V. C's than to get victories. Their +courage is just egoism ... they're thinking, not of their country, but +of themselves. The real hero, I think, is the man who makes himself do +something that he's afraid to do, who goes into a thing, trembling with +fright, but nevertheless goes into it. Did you ever meet Léon +Lorthiois?" he said quickly. + +"You mean the French painter who used to hang about the Café Royal?" +Henry replied. + +"Yes. He was killed the other day in France." + +"I hadn't heard. Poor chap!" + +"I think he showed extraordinary courage. He started off from London to +join the French Army ... all his friends dined him jolly well ... and +wished him good-luck, and so on, and then he went off. And a week later, +he turned up again with a cock-and-bull story about having been arrested +as a deserter. He said he'd escaped from prison and, after a lot of +difficulty and hardship, got back to England. But he hadn't done +anything of the sort. He'd funked it at the last. He got as far as +Dover, and then he turned back ... frightened. He stayed in London for a +while ... and then he tried again ... and this time he didn't funk it! +They say he was fighting splendidly when he was killed. Men have got the +V.C. for less heroic behaviour than that. He'd conquered himself. I used +to despise that fellow because he wore eccentric clothes and had his +hair cut in a silly fashion ... but I feel proud now of having known +him!" + + +2 + +Mary met him at Whitcombe, and they walked home, sending his trunk and +portmanteau on in the carriage with Widger. He had anticipated their +meeting with strange emotion, feeling as if he were returning to her +after a time of misunderstanding, richer in knowledge, more capable of +sympathy. He had not seen her since the first performance of "The Magic +Casement," and very much had happened to them since then. His desire for +Cecily seemed to have died. He had not troubled to visit her in London +... he could have found time to do so, had he been anxious to see her +... but he had not the wish. He had not written to her about Jimphy ... +he could not bring himself to do that ... and the thought that she might +wish to see him did not stir his mind. He felt for her what a man feels +for a woman he has loved, but now loves no more: neither like nor +dislike, but, occasionally, curiosity that did not last long. She moved +him as little as Sheila Morgan had done when he saw her in the field at +Ballymartin, big with child, watching her husband drilling. + +"There are permanent things in one's life, and there are impermanent +things ... and you can't turn the one into the other," he thought to +himself, as the little branch railway drove down the Axe Valley. "I +wanted Cecily ... and then I didn't want her. There's no more to be said +about it than that!" + +There were very few people waiting on the platform when the train drew +into Whitcombe, and so Henry and Mary saw each other immediately, and +when he saw her, standing on the windy platform, with her hand to her +hat, he felt more powerfully than he had ever felt it, his old love for +her surging through him. Nothing could ever divert him from her for very +long ... inevitably he would return to her ... whatever of permanence +there was in his life was centred in her. He led her out of the station +and they walked along the road at the top of the shingle ... and as they +walked, suddenly he turned to her and, drawing her arm in his, told her +that he loved her. + +"I haven't much to offer you, Mary ... I'm a poor sort of fellow at the +best ... but I need you, and!..." + +She did not answer, but she looked up at him with shining eyes.... + +"My dear!" he said, and drew her very close to him. + + +3 + +They went up the path over the red cliffs and then climbed the steep +steps that led to the top of the White Cliff. The night was beginning to +gather her clouds about her, but still they did not hurry homewards. Far +out, they could see the trawlers returning to the Bay, dipping and +rising and plunging and reeling before the wind as from a heavy blow, +and then, when it seemed that they must fall, righting themselves and +moving swiftly homewards. Beneath them, the sea splashed in great thick +waves that tossed their spray high in the air, and the gulls and +jackdaws spun round and up and down or huddled themselves in the shelter +of the cliffs. + +"Mary!" he said, putting his arm about her. + +"Yes, Quinny!" she answered so quietly that he could not hear her above +the noise of the sea and the wind. + +He raised her lips to his and kissed her. + +"My dear!" he said again. + + +4 + +There was news of Ninian for them when they reached the Manor. Mrs. +Graham, with his letter in her hand, met them at the door. + +"He's coming home on leave," she said. "He'll be here to-morrow night. +Then he's going out!..." + +She turned away quickly, after she had spoken, and they followed her +silently into the drawing-room. She stood for a while at the window, +gazing down the avenue where the oaks and the chestnuts mingled their +branches and made a covering for passers-by. + +"I'll just go upstairs," Henry began, but before he could leave the +room, Mrs. Graham turned away from the window and went to him. + +"I've put you in your old room, Henry," she said. "How are you! You +don't look well!" + +"I'm tired ... but I shall be all right presently. I'll just go upstairs +now!..." + +He left her hurriedly, for Mary was anxious to tell her mother of their +betrothal, and he wished her to know as quickly as possible. He dallied +in his room so that she might have plenty of time in which to learn +Mary's news. He sat on the wide window-seat and let his mind roam over +his memories. It was in this room that he had first told himself that he +loved Mary ... it was at this very window he had stood while he resolved +that he would marry Sheila Morgan, and again had considered what Ninian +and Gilbert had said about men who marry out of their class. Almost he +expected to hear the door opening as Gilbert walked in, just as he had +done then.... + +"It's no good mooning like this," he said to himself, and then he went +downstairs again. + +Mary was sitting beside her mother, holding her hand, and as he entered +she turned to look at him, and smiled so that he knew what he must do, +and so, without hesitation, he crossed the room to Mrs. Graham and +kissed her. + +"I'm very glad, Henry!" she said. "Sit down here!" + +She moved so that he could sit beside her, and when he had settled +himself, she put her hand on his shoulder. "It's nice to have you back +again," she said. + +They spent the time until dinner in desultory talk that sometimes lapsed +into lengthy silence. A high wind was blowing up from the sea, and when +they had dined, they drew their chairs close to the fire, and sat +quietly in the warmth of it. They could hear the heavy rustle of the +leaves as the trees swayed in the wind, and now and then raindrops fell +down the chimney and sizzled in the hot coals. The lamps were left +unlit, and the firelight made long shadows round the room, flickering +over the old polished furniture and the silverware and the dim +portraits of dead Grahams.... + +Mary moved from her chair and, placing a cushion on the floor between +Henry and her mother, she sat down and leant her head against him. He +bent forward slightly, and placed his hand on her shoulder, and as he +did so, she put hers up and took hold of it and so they sat in exquisite +peace and quietness until the rising wind, gathering itself together in +greater strength, flung itself heavily on the house and shook it +roughly. In the lull, they could hear the rain beating sharply on the +windows ... and as they listened to the noise of the storm, their minds +wandered away, and in their imagination they could see the soldiers in +France, crouching in the dark trenches, while the wind and rain beat +about them without pity; and in the mind of each of them, probing +painfully, was this persistent thought: Here we are in this comfort ... +and there they are _in that_! + + +5 + +When Mary had gone to bed, Mrs. Graham began to talk of her to Henry. + +"I always knew that she and you would marry, Henry," she said, "even +when you seemed to have forgotten about her. You ... you were very fond +of Lady Cecily Jayne, weren't you, Henry?" He nodded his head. He wanted +to explain that that was over now, that it had been a passing thing that +had no durability, but he could not make the explanation, and so he did +not say anything. "I thought her a very beautiful woman," Mrs. Graham +went on. "If I'd been a boy I think I should have loved her, too. Boys +are like that!" + +She was so gentle and kind and understanding that he lost his shyness, +and he confided in her as he would like to have confided in his mother +if she had been alive. + +"Inside me," he said, "I always loved Mary, even when I was obsessed by +... by some one else. I can't tell you how happy I am, Mrs. Graham. I +feel as if I'd got home after a long and bitter journey ... and I don't +want to go away again ever. Just to look at Mary seems sufficient ... to +know that she's there ... that I can put out my hand and touch her...." + +"Ninian will be glad, too," she said, speaking quickly to cover up the +difficulty he had in finishing his speech. + +"We've been awfully good friends, we four," he replied, "Ninian and +Roger and Gilbert and I. I've always felt about them that we could go on +with our friendship just where we left off, even if we were separated +from each other for years. We're all proud of each other. I used to +think, when we first lived in that house in Bloomsbury, that we'd never +separate ... that we'd form a sort of brotherhood of work and friendship +... Roger always preached about The Job Well Done ... but, of course +that was impossible. We were bound to diverge and separate ... all sorts +of things compel men to do that. Roger married, and now Gilbert and +Ninian are soldiers...." + +"I feel proud and afraid," Mrs. Graham said. "I'm glad that Ninian has +joined ... I think I should hate it if he hadn't ... and yet I wish too +that ... that he weren't in it. I'm not much of a patriot, Henry. I love +my son more than I love my country. I've never been able to understand +those women one reads about who offer their sons gladly. I don't offer +Ninian gladly. I offer him ... that's all. I know that men have to +defend their country, and I love England and I'm proud to be English ... +but when I've said all that, it's very little when I remember that I +love Ninian. I suppose that that's a selfish thing to say ... but I +don't care whether it is or not!..." She stopped for a moment or two, +and then, with a change of voice, she said, "Do you think the war will +last long, Henry?" + +"I don't know," he replied. "Nobody seems able to form any estimate. +When it began I thought it couldn't possibly last for longer than two +months, but it looks like going on for a very long time yet. We move +forward and we move back ... and more men are killed. That's the only +result of anything at present!" + +"It's strange," she murmured, "how indifferent one becomes to the death +lists. I thought my heart would break when I saw the first Devon +casualties, but now one simply doesn't feel anything ... just a vague +regret. Sometimes I think I'm growing callous. I can't feel anything +when I read that thousands of men have been killed and wounded. It's +almost as if I were saying to myself, 'Is that all? Weren't there +more?...' I'm not the only one like that. People don't like to admit it, +but I've heard people confessing ... I confess myself ... that I get a +... kind of shocked pleasure out of a big casualty list! ... Oh, isn't +it disgusting, Henry? One gets more and more coarse every day, less +sensitive!..." + +"Yes," he said, nodding his head and staring into the fire which was now +burning down. + +And everywhere, it seemed to him, that coarsening process was going on, +a persistent blunting of the feelings, an itching desire for more and +grimmer and bloodier details. One saw it operating in kindly women who +visited soldiers in hospital or took them for drives ... an +uncontrollable wish to hear the ghastlier things, a greedy anxiety for +"experiences." ... And the soldiers loathed these prying women in whom +lust had taken a new turn: the love lust had turned to blood lust, and +those who had formerly itched for men (and even those who had not) +itched now for horrors, more and more horrors.... "Tell me, now," they +would say, "did you kill any Germans? I suppose you saw some awful +things...." + +One saw this coarsening process operating on men with incredible +swiftness. Their tastes became edgeless ... they entertained themselves +with big, splashy things, asking for noise and glare and an inchoate +massing of colour, and crowds and crowds of bare girls. There was a +demand for Nakedness, not the nakedness of cleanly, natural things, but +the Nakedness that is partly covered, the Nakedness that hints at +Nakedness.... + +"That's inevitable, I suppose," Henry thought to himself. + +The sloppier journalists made a cult of blasphemy and foul speech. The +drill-sergeant was regarded as the most entertaining of humourists, and +decent men who had never done more than the normal and healthy amount of +swearing, began to believe that it was impossible to be manly unless one +bloodied every time one spoke: and swearing, which is a good and +wholesome and manly and picturesque thing, suddenly became like the +gibbering of an idiot.... One was led to believe that the drill-sergeant +spent his time in ordering men to "bloody well form bloody fours!" It +was immaterial to the sloppier journalists that the drill-sergeant did +not do anything of the sort ... and so the legend grew, of a great Army +going into battle, not with the old English war-cries on their lips or +with new cries as noble, but with "Bloody!" for their watch-word, and +"Who were you With Last Night!" for their war-song.... + + +6 + +"I often wonder what things will be like when the war is over," Mrs. +Graham said. "Men can't live like that without some permanent effect. +Their habits will be rougher, more elementary, I suppose, and they'll +value life less highly. I don't see how they can help it. You can't see +men killed in that careless way ... and feel any sanctity about life. I +think life will be harsher for women after the war than it was +before...." + +She remembered that Ninian's father had always declared that the +Franco-German War had brutalised Germany. + +"He'd lived in Germany for a long while," she said, "and people +admitted that Germany had changed after the War ... grown coarser and +leas kindly!..." + +They talked on in this strain until the clock chimed twelve. The storm +still blew over the house, but the rain had ceased, and when they looked +out of the window, they could see a rift in the clouds, through which +the moon tore her way. + +"Good-night, Henry," she said, bending towards him, and he kissed her +cheek and then opened the door for her. + +"Good-night!" he said. + + +7 + +Ninian came home on the next day, and when they had told him the news of +Henry's engagement to Mary, he was full of cheers. "Good!" he said. "Now +I shall be able to keep you in order, young fellow. I shall be a +Relation!..." + +"Oh, I've a note for you," he exclaimed, as they drove home. "It's from +Gilbert. I met him in town. He'll be on his way out before I get back. +He'd like to have come down here, but he couldn't manage it. He sent his +love to you, Mary, and you, mother! He looks jolly fit ... never seen +him look fitter!" + +He handed Gilbert's note to Henry who put it in his pocket. He would +read it, he told himself, when he was alone. + +"We're hopping off to France next week," Ninian said. "I suppose," he +added, turning again to Henry, "you saw that Jimphy Jayne was killed. +Rough luck, wasn't it? I met a fellow who was in his regiment ... home +on sick-leave ... and he says Jimphy fought like fifty. Gilbert says +Cecily's bearing up wonderfully!" + +"He's seen her then?" Henry asked. + +"Yes. She met him in the street ... and as he says, she's bearing up +wonderfully. He didn't say a great deal, but I imagine he didn't admire +the attitude much. Rum woman, Cecily!" He had grown together more since +he had been to South America, and his figure, that was always +loose-looking and a little hulking, had been tightened up by his +training. + +"I don't like your moustache, Ninian," his mother said, looking with +disfavour at the "tooth-brush" on his upper lip. + +"Nor do I," he replied, "but you have to wear something on your face ... +they don't think you can fight if you don't ... and this sort of thing +is the least a chap can do for his king and country. When are you two +going to get married?" + +His conversation jumped about like a squib. + +"Oh, not yet," Mrs. Graham hurriedly exclaimed. "There's plenty of +time...." + +"I should like to get married at once," said Henry. + +"No, not yet," Mrs. Graham insisted. "I won't be left alone yet +awhile...." + +There was a learned discourse from Ninian on lengthy engagements which +filled the time until the carriage drove up to Boveyhayne House, where +it was dropped as suddenly as it was begun. + +Indoors, Henry read Gilbert's letter. + + * * * * * + +"_My dear Quinny_," he wrote, "_I'm writing this in Soho with a pen that +was made in hell._" Then there was a splutter of ink. "_There_," the +letter went on, "_that's the sort of thing it does. I believe this pen +was brought to Soho by the first Frenchman to open a café here, and it's +been handed down from proprietor to proprietor ever since. Ninian and I +have been dining together, and as he's going down to Boveyhayne +to-morrow, I thought I might as well write to you because I shan't see +you again for a while. I'm off to Gallipoli in a day or two. I dined +with Roger and Rachel last night, and they told me that you looked +rather pipped before you went to Devonshire. I hope you'll soon be all +right again. I wish we could have met, but it can't be helped. We must +just meet when we can. It seems a very long while, doesn't it, since we +were at Tre'Arrdur together? It'll be jolly to be there again when the +war's over. You've no idea how interested I've become in this job, far +more interested than I ever imagined I should be. And I've changed very +largely in my attitude towards the War. I 'joined up' chiefly because I +felt an uncontrollable love for England that made me want to do things +that were repugnant to me, and also because I thought that the Germans +had behaved very scurvily to the Belgians; but I don't feel those +emotions now particularly. I do, of course, feel proud of England, and +the sight of a hedgerow makes me want to get up on my hindlegs and +cheer, but I've got something else now that had never entered into my +calculations at all ... and that is an extraordinary pride in my +regiment and a strong desire to be worthy of it. I've just been reading +a book about it, a history of the regiment, and it's left me with a +sense of inheritance ... as I should feel if I were the heir of an old +estate. This thing has a history and a tradition which gives me a +feeling of pride and, perhaps more than that, a sense of responsibility. +... 'You mustn't let it down' I keep telling myself, and I feel about +all the men who served in the regiment from the time it was formed, that +they are my forefathers, so to speak. I feel their ghosts about me, not +the alarming sort of spook, but friendly, sympathetic ghosts, and I +imagine them saying to me, 'Sergeant Farlow, you've got to live up to +us!' I've not told any one else about this, because I'm afraid of being +called a sloppy ass ... and perhaps it is sloppy ... but you'll +understand what I feel, so I don't mind telling you. I shall write to +you as often as I can, and you must write to me and tell me what you're +doing. I wish we could have gone out together. Sometimes I get a +creepy-crawly sort of feeling that nearly turns me inside out ... a +feeling that this is good-bye for good, but I suppose most fellows get +that just before they go out. I began another play about a month ago, +and I think it will be good, much better than anything else I've done. I +wish I had time to finish it before leaving home. This is rather a mess +of a letter, and I must chuck it now, for Ninian is getting tied up in +an effort to cultivate a cordial understanding with the waiter, and I +shall have to rescue them both or there'll be a rupture between the +Allies. Give my love to Mary and Mrs. Graham. I'd have gone to +Boveyhayne to see them if I possibly could, tell them. So long, old +chap!_ + + "_Yours Ever_, + + "_Gilbert Farlow_." + + * * * * * + +He showed the letter to Mary, and as he gave it to her, he felt a new +pleasure in his love for her, the pleasure of sharing things, of having +confidences together. + +"Gilbert's a dear," she said, when she had finished reading the letter. +"It would be awfully hard not to be fond of him!" + +He took the letter and put it in his pocket, and then he put his arm in +Mary's and led her to the garden where the spring flowers were blowing. +"I've had great luck," he said. "I have Gilbert for my friend and I have +you, Mary, to be my wife, and I don't know that I deserve either!" + +"Silly Quinny!" she said affectionately. + + +8 + +They spent the days of Ninian's leave in visiting all the familiar +places about Boveyhayne. It seemed almost that Ninian could not see +enough of them. He would rise early, rousing them with insistent shouts, +and urge them to make haste and prepare for a long walk; and all day +they tramped along the roads, up the combes and down the combes, over +commons, through woods, lingering in the lanes to pluck the wildflowers +that grew profusely in the hedgerows, or listening to the mating birds +that flew continually about them. They walked along the Roman Road to +Lyme Regis in the east, and along the Roman Road again to Sidmouth in +the west, returning in the dark, tired and hungry; and sometimes they +went into the roadside public-houses because of the warm, comfortable +smell they had, and because they liked to listen to the slow, burring +voices of the labourers as they drank their beer and cider and talked of +the day's doings. There was a corner of the Common, near the edge of the +cliff, where they could lie when the sun was warm, and look out over the +Channel to where the Brixham trawlers lay in a line along the horizon. +Westwards, the red clay cliffs ran up and down in steeply undulating +lines as far as they could see, and near at hand, in a wide valley +beyond the gloomy combe that leads to Salcombe Regis, they could very +plainly see the front of Sidmouth. In the east, they could look up the +wooded valley of the Axe, and, beyond the vari-coloured Haven Cliff, see +the Dorset Hills that huddled Charmouth and Bridport, and further out, +like an island in mist, the high reach of Portland Bill.... + +In this corner of the Common, they spent the last day of Ninian's leave. +Behind them was a great stretch of gorse in bloom, and brown bracken, +mingled with new green fronds, from which larks sprang up, singing and +soaring. They had eaten sandwiches on the Common, and in the afternoon, +had climbed down the steep side of the combe to a farm to tea, and, then +they had climbed up the combe again, and had sat in their corner, +watching the Boveyhayne trawlers blowing home; and as they sat there, +they became very quiet. In this solitude and peace, the outrage of war +seemed to have no meaning.... + +Ninian stirred slightly. He raised himself on his elbow and looked about +him.... + +"Let's go home," he said quickly, getting up as he spoke. He went to his +mother and helped her to rise, and when she was standing up, he took her +arm and drew it through his, and led her towards the village; and when +they had gone up the grassy path through the bracken, and were well on +the way home, Mary and Henry followed after them. + +"Ninian feels things more than he admits," Henry whispered to her. + + +9 + +They made poor attempts at gaiety that night, and Ninian tried to make +oratory about Engineers. He divided his discourse into two parts: one +insisting that the war would be won by engineering feats; the other +insisting that it might be lost because of the contempt of most of the +military men for Engineers, which, Ninian said, was another word for +Brains. "They don't think we're gentlemen," he said. "I met a 'dug-out' +last week, and he was snorting about the Engineers ... hadn't a happorth +of brains in his skull, the ass ... and I asked him why it was that he +thought so little of them. Do you know what he said? 'Oh,' says he, +'they're always readin' books an' ... an' inventin' things!' That's the +kind of chap we've got to endure! Isn't he priceless? I very nearly told +him he ought to be embalmed ... only I thought to myself he'd think that +was the sort of remark an engineer would make. Plucky old devil, of +course, but nothing in his head. If you shook it, it wouldn't rattle!... +He seemed to think he'd only got to say, 'Now, then, boys, give 'em +hell!' and the Germans 'ud just melt away. As I said afterwards, it's +all very well, to say 'Give 'em hell,' but you can't give it to 'em, if +you don't know what it's like!..." + +But the oratory failed, and the gaiety fizzled out, and after a while +Mrs. Graham, finding the silence and her thoughts insupportable, left +them and went to bed. + +"Come and say 'Good-night' to me," she said to Ninian as she left the +room. + +"All right, mother!" he answered. + +He tried to take up the theme of engineering again. "It's no good +trying to chivy Germans in the way you chivy foxes. You've got to think, +and think hard. That's where we come in!..." But it was a poor effort, +and he abandoned it quickly. + +"I think," he said, "I'll go up and say 'Good-night' to mother. You +two'll see to things!..." + +"Righto, Ninian," Henry answered. + +Mary came and sat beside him when Ninian had gone. + +"I'm trying to feel proud," she said, "but...." + +"Don't you feel proud?" he asked, fondling her. + +"No. I'm anxious. It would hurt mother terribly if anything were to +happen to Ninian," she answered. + +"Nothing will happen to him...." + +One said that just because it was comforting. + +"Quinny," she said, drawing herself up to him and leaning her elbows on +his knees, "do you love me really and truly?..." + +He put his arms quickly about her, and drew her close to him, and kissed +her passionately. + +"But you haven't loved only me," she said, freeing herself. + +He did not answer. + +"I've never loved any one but you," she went on. "I haven't been able to +love any one but you. I've tried to love some one else ... tried very +hard!" + +"Who was it?" he asked. + +"No one you knew. It was after I'd seen you with Lady Cecily Jayne. I +was jealous, Quinny!..." + +"My dear," he said, flattered by the oneness of her love for him. + +"But I couldn't. I just couldn't. I suppose I'm rather limited!" She +made a wry smile as she spoke. "I felt stupid beside her. She talked so +easily, and I couldn't think of anything to say. You must have thought I +was a fool, Quinny!" + +"No, Mary!..." + +"Oh, but I was. I got stupider and stupider, and the more I thought of +how stupid I was, the stupider I got. I could have cried with vexation. +Do you remember Gilbert's party ... I mean when it was over and we were +going home?" + +"Yes." + +"I _prayed_ that you'd come with mother and me. I thought Ninian would +go with mother, and you'd go with me ... but you didn't!" + +"I remember," he answered. "I wanted to go with you...." + +"Why didn't you?" + +"Some one came up ... I've forgotten ... something happened, and so I +didn't. I wanted to, Mary!" + +"I thought then that you and I would never! ... Why did you ask me to +marry you, Quinny?" + +"Because I love you, Mary...." + +"But ... did you mean to marry me or did you just ... sort of ... not +thinking, I mean!... Oh, it's awf'lly hard to say what's in my mind, but +I want to know whether you love me really and truly, Quinny, or only +just asked me to marry you impulsively ... when you weren't thinking?" + +"I came here loving you, Mary. I didn't mean to tell you about it so +soon as I did ... that was impulse ... I couldn't help it ... the moment +I saw you as the train came into the station, I felt that I must ask you +at once. It would have been rather awkward if you'd said, 'No.' I +suppose I should have had to go straight back to London again!... But I +came here loving you. I've loved you all the time ... even when I wasn't +thinking of you, but of some one else. I've come back to you always in +my thoughts!..." + +"Do you remember," she said, "the first time you asked me to marry you, +Quinny?" + +"Yes." + +"I've meant it ever since then. You hurt me when you went to Ireland and +didn't answer my letter...." + +"I know!" he exclaimed. + +"How do you know?" + +"I just know. And when I talked to you about it, that time in Bloomsbury +when you and Mrs. Graham and Rachel came to dine with us...." + +"I made fun of it, didn't I? But I had to, Quinny. You'd been unkind, +and I had to make some sort of a show, hadn't I? I had to keep my pride +if I couldn't keep anything else." + +"We've been stupid, both of us." + +"You have," she retorted. + +"I have," he said. "I've been frightfully stupid. That's what puzzles +me. I'm clear-sighted enough about the people I make up in my books. The +critics insist on my understanding of human motives, and I know that I +have that understanding. I can get right inside my characters, and I +know them through and through ... but I'm as stupid as a sheep about +myself and about you and ... living people. I suppose I exhaust all my +understanding on my books!" + +"Well, it doesn't matter, Quinny, dear," she said. "I'll understand for +the two of us!..." + + +10 + +In the morning, Ninian went away. They drove to Whitcombe Station with +him and saw him off. They had been anxious about Mrs. Graham and dubious +of her endurance at the moment of parting ... but she had insisted on +going to the station, and so they had not persisted in their +persuasions. And she had held herself proudly. + +"Good-bye, my dear," she said, hugging Ninian tightly, and smiling at +him. "You'll write to me ... often!" + +"Every day," he replied. "If I can!" + +It had been difficult to fill in the few moments between their arrival +at the station and the departure of the train. They said little empty +things ... repeated them ... and then were silent.... + +Then the train began to move, and Mrs. Graham, snatching quickly at him, +had kissed him as he was carried off. They stood at the end of the +platform, watching the train driving quickly up the valley until it +stopped at Coly. Then they heard the whistle of the engine, and saw the +smoke curling up, and again the train moved on, and then they could see +it no more. + +"We'll walk home," Mary whispered to Henry. "She'd much better go back +by herself!" + +And so they left her, still smiling, though now and then, her hands +trembled. + + + + +THE EIGHTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +A month after Gilbert and Ninian had left England, Henry went to London +for a couple of days on business connected with his books. Mrs. Graham +had asked him to return to Boveyhayne instead of going to Ireland, until +he was fully well again, and he had gladly accepted her invitation. He +had written a few pages of a new book that pleased him, and he was +anxious to complete the story before he entered the Army. Writing irked +him, but he could not abstain from writing ... some demon drove him to +it, forcing him to his desk when all his desire was to be out in the +lanes with Mary or sailing about the bay with Tom Yeo and Jim +Rattenbury. There were times when he loathed this labour of writing +which came between him and the pleasure of living, so that he sometimes +saw foxgloves and bluebells and primroses and violets and wild +daffodils, not as the careless beauty of a Devonshire lane, but as +picturesque material for a description in one of his chapters. And his +beastly creatures would not lie still in his study until he returned to +attend to them, but insisted on following him wherever he went, +thrusting themselves upon his notice continually, whether the time was +opportune or not. He would walk with Mary, perhaps to Hangman's Stone, +and suddenly he would hear her saying, "What are you thinking of, +Quinny?" and he would come out of his silence with a start, and say, +"Oh, my book, Mary!" and find that he had been walking by her side, +unaware of her, unaware of anything but these abominable paper people +who deluged his mind with their being ... and when they got to +Hangman's Stone, he thought always, "What a good title for a story!" + +"But I can't leave it alone," he would say to himself, and then he would +compare himself to a drunkard, eager to be quit of his drink, but unable +to conquer his craving. And he had pride in it, too. That was what +distinguished him from the drunkard and the drug-taker. They had no +pride in their drunkenness or their drugged senses, but he had pride in +his books, and constantly in his mind was the desire that before he +joined the Army, he should leave another book behind him, that his life +should be expressed substantially in a number of novels, so that if he +should die in battle, he would have left something by which men might +remember him. + +He had talked to Mary about his position, but she had insisted that this +was a decision he must make for himself. Her view, and the view of her +mother, was that a woman ought not to take the responsibility of urging +a man to endure the horror and danger of such a war as this. "Women +can't go into the trenches themselves," Mrs. Graham said, "and they've +no right to ask any one else to go!" That was what his father had said. + +"But somebody must go, and there are people who have to be told about +things," he objected. + +"I think," Mrs. Graham answered, "I'd rather be killed than be defended +by a man who was white-feathered into doing it, and I know I should +never be happy again if I'd nagged at a man until he joined the Army, +and he was killed.... I think that some women will have haunted minds +after this War!" + +"It's the Government's job to say who shall go and who shall stay," Mary +added. "That's what they're there for, and it's mean of them to shuffle +out of their responsibility and let a lot of flappers and old maids do +their work for them!" + +Then their talk had taken a new turn, and in the end it was settled that +Mary and he were to be married when the new book was finished, and then +he would join the Army. There had been a difficulty with Mrs. Graham, +but Mary over-ruled her. + +"I won't let him go until he marries me," she said, shutting her lips +firmly and looking very resolutely at her mother. + +"Roger and I might go in together," Henry suggested. "I had a letter +from him saying he thought he would join soon. Rachel's going to live in +the country...." + +"She can come here if she likes," Mrs. Graham interjected. "You'd better +tell her that when you go to town. She can stay with us until the war's +over...." + +"There's the baby, of course!" Henry reminded her. + +"I know," she answered. "I'd like to hear a baby in this house +again...." + + +2 + +London was strangely sensitive, easily exalted, easily depressed, +listening avidly to rumours, even when they were clearly absurd. It was +the least English of the cities, far, far less English than the villages +and country towns. London's nerves were often jangled, but the nerves of +Boveyhayne were never jangled. London jumped up and down like a +Jack-in-the-box, but Boveyhayne moved steadily on. There were times when +London was so un-English as to believe that England might be beaten ... +but Boveyhayne never imagined that for a moment. Boveyhayne did not +think of the defeat of England, because it had never occurred to +Boveyhayne that England could be beaten. Old Widger would sometimes say, +"They Germans be cunning!" or "Us'll 'ave to 'it a bit 'arder avore us +knocks 'un out!" but Old Widger never imagined for a moment that "'un," +as he always called the Kaiser, would not sooner or later get knocked +out, and so he went on with his work, pausing now and then to say, +"'Er's a reg'lar cunnin' old varmint, 'er be!" almost with as much +admiration as if he were talking of a fox or an otter that had eluded +the hounds many times. But the cunningest fox falls to the hounds in the +end of some chase, and Widger did not doubt that "Keyser" would fall, +too. Boveyhayne, was very English in its reserves and its dignity. +London might squeal for reprisals, but Boveyhayne never squealed. When +the Germans torpedoed a merchant ship, Old Widger said, "It hain't very +manly, be it, sir?" and that was all. Old Widger was not indifferent or +without imagination ... but he had self-respect, and he could not squeal +like a frantic rabbit even when he was in pain. He could hit, and he +could hit hard, but he did not care to claw and scratch and bite!... + +Henry disliked London then, but he comforted himself with the thought +that it resembled all capital cities, that its population was not a +native population, but one that shifted and changed and had no +tradition. Old Widger had lived in the same cottage all his life: his +father had lived there too; and his family, for several generations +before his father, had lived and worked in Boveyhayne. They had habits +and customs so old that no one knew the meaning of them. When Widger's +wife died, Widger and his family had gone to church on the Sunday after +her burial, as all the Boveyhayne bereaved do, and had sat through the +service, taking no part in it, neither kneeling to pray nor rising to +sing nor responding to the invocations. But Old Widger did not know why +he had behaved in that fashion, nor did any one in Boveyhayne. "Don't +seem no sense in it," he said, but nevertheless he did it, and nothing +on earth would have prevented him from doing it. It was the custom.... + +But there was no custom in London. There were no habits, no traditions, +nothing to hold on to in times of crisis or distress. There was no one +in London who had been born and had spent all his life in one house, in +a house, too, in which his father had been born and had lived and had +died. People took a house for three years ... and then moved to another +one. Locality had no meaning for them ... they hardly knew the names of +their neighbours ... they were not surrounded by cousins ... the roads +and streets had no meaning or memories for them ... they were just +thoroughfares, passages along which one walked or drove to a railway +station or a shopping centre.... + +And while Old Widger, if the thought had been put into his mind, would +stoutly have answered, "Us ain't never been beat!" a Londoner would have +answered, "My God, supposing we are beaten?..." Victory might be long in +being won. Widger would admit that. But "us ain't never been beat" he +would maintain. The Londoner would admit that victory might never be won +... and in making the admission, de-nationalised himself. Widger, +obstinate, immovable, imperturbable, kindly, unvengeful and resolute, +was English to the marrow ... and when Henry thought of England as a +conquering country, he thought of it as a nation of Widgers, not as a +nation of Cockneys. + +"And it _is_ a nation of Widgers," he said to himself. "The Cockneys +shout more, print more, and they squeal a lot, but the Widgers are in +the majority!" + +It was not until night fell that Henry's love of London was restored. +When the sky-signs were put out, and the shop-lights were diminished, +and the running flames announcing the merits of this one's whisky and +that one's tea were quenched, London became again an ancient city that a +man could love.... + +"It's worth fighting for?" Henry murmured to himself as he stood on the +terrace of Trafalgar Square, before the National Gallery, and looked +about him at the dusk-softened outlines and the rich highways of +shadows. One would not fight for the England that squealed through the +ha'penny papers ... one would gladly throttle that England ... one would +not fight for the England of the Stock Broker and the Mill Owner ... but +one would fight hard, fight until death, for the England of Old Widger +and the England of this darkened, dignified and beautiful London. + + +3 + +He had attended to his business with his publishers, and was walking +along the Strand towards Charing Cross, when he became aware of a thrill +of emotion running through the crowd that stood on either side of the +road. + +"What is it?" he said to a bystander. + +"The wounded!" was the answer. + +He pressed forward, and stood on the edge of the pavement, and as he did +so, the ambulances came put of the station. There was a moment of deep, +hurting silence, and then came cheers and waving handkerchiefs and sobs. +... There was a parson standing at Henry's elbow, and he cheered as if +he were intoning ... little sterilised hurrahs ... and there was a woman +who murmured continually, "Oh, God bless them! God bless them all!" +while she cried openly, unrestrainedly. Unceasingly, the ambulances +seemed to pass on to the hospitals, and the soldiers, pale from their +wounds and tired after their journey by sea and train, lay back in queer +disregard of the crowd that cheered them. Now and then, one moved his +hand in greeting or smiled ... but most of them were irresponsive, +dazed, perhaps hearing still the sound of the smashing artillery and the +cries of the maimed and dying, unable to believe that they were back +again in a place where there was no fighting, where men and women walked +and talked and did their work and took their pleasure in disregard of +death and a bloody and abrupt end.... There was a private motor-car in +the middle of the procession of ambulances, and inside it was a wounded +officer with his wife ... and she did not care who looked on nor what +was said, she held him in her arms and kissed him and would not let him +go.... + +"Oh, my God," Henry murmured to himself, as the cars went by, "I can't +bear this!..." + +He wanted to kill Germans ... it seemed to him then that nothing else +mattered but to kill Germans ... that one must put aside the generous +beliefs, the kindly intentions, one's work, one's faith, everything ... +and kill Germans; unceasingly, without relenting ... kill Germans; that +for every wound these men bore, for every drop of blood they had lost, +for every pang they had endured, for every tear that their women had +shed ... one must kill Germans. + +He withdrew from the crowd. Somewhere near at hand, there was a +recruiting office. He remembered to have seen a large guiding sign +outside St. Martin's Church. He would go there!... + +He had to wait until the procession of motor-ambulances had passed by, +and then he crossed the street and went to find the recruiting office. +"I'm excited," he said to himself. "I'm full of emotion. That's what I +am. I'm over-wrought. Those soldiers!..." + +In his mind, he could see the woman in the motor-car, hugging her +wounded husband ... and a soldier, lying on a stretcher in an ambulance, +with his head swathed in bandages, near a little window ... feebly +trying to wave his hand to the crowd.... + +"It's no good being sloppy," he told himself. "One can't win a war by +... spilling over. One's got to keep one's head!" + +He turned the corner of the Church and saw the recruiting office, +covered with posters, in a narrow lane. He walked towards it, slackening +his pace as he did so ... and then he walked past it. + +"I can't go in now," he thought. "I must see Roger first ... and there's +the book to finish ... and Mary!..." + + +4 + +He had seen Roger and Rachel, and was now on his way back to +Boveyhayne.... Roger had agreed that he would not join without Henry. "I +can't go yet," he had said. "When I've saved a little more, I'll go in. +I want to leave Rachel and Eleanor as secure as I can!" + +There was another boom in recruiting just then, following on another +German outrage. + +"It'll take them some time to shape the crowd they're getting now," +Roger had said, "so that we won't be hindering them if we hang back for +a while. I should have thought you'd want to go into an Irish regiment, +Quinny!" + +"It doesn't very much matter, does it, what the regiment is?" Henry had +answered. "The labels are more or less meaningless now. And I'd like to +be with some one I know!" + +He had given Mrs. Graham's invitation to Rachel, and Rachel had sent her +thanks to Mrs. Graham. She would be glad to go to Boveyhayne when +everything was settled. + +Things were clearer now. In a little while, Mary and he would be +married. Then he could go with Roger. He would have to see his lawyers +in Dublin ... there would be a marriage settlement to make and business +connected with the estate to settle ... and that done, and his book +ready for the printers, he would be free. + +"I wish the next two months were over," he said to himself. + +He had to change at Salisbury, and while he was waiting for the slow +train to Exeter, he met Mullally. He had looked at him, vaguely +wondering who he was and why his face should seem familiar, until +recollection had come to him, and then, with a return of the old +aversion, he had turned away, hoping that Mullally had not seen or +recognised him. But Mullally had recognised him, and, unable as ever to +understand that his acquaintance was not wanted, he came to Henry and +held out his hand. + +"I thought it was you," he said. "I wasn't sure at first, but when you +turned away ... there was something about your back that was familiar +... I knew it was you. _How_ are you? I haven't seen you since you left +Rumpell's, though I've heard of you, of course, and read of you, too! +You've become quite well-known, haven't you?" + +Henry smiled feebly, an unfriendly, unresponsive, mirthless smile, as +was his wont when he was in the presence of people whom he disliked. + +"I've often wondered about you," Mullally went on, unembarrassed by +Henry's obvious wish to get away from him. + +"Oh, yes," Henry replied, saying to himself, "I wish to God my train +would come in!" + +"Yes, I've often wondered about you," Mullally went on. "And about +Farlow and Graham and Carey. You were great friends, you four, weren't +you? I'd have called you 'The Heavenly Twins' only there were four of +you, and 'quadruplets' is a difficult word for a nickname, don't you +think? I mean to say 'The Heavenly Quadruplets' doesn't sound nearly so +neat as 'The Heavenly Twins.' It's funnier, of course! What's become of +them all? I saw somewhere that Farlow'd written a play, but I didn't see +it. I've read one or two of your books, by the way. Quite good, I +thought! What did you say'd become of them?" + +"Carey's in London ... at the Bar," Henry answered. "I've just been +staying with him. He's married!..." + +"Dear me! And has he any ... little ones?" + +Oh, that was like Mullally! He would be sure to say "little ones" when +he meant "children." + +"He has a daughter!" + +"Oh, indeed! He must be very gratified. And Farlow and Graham, how are +they, and what are they doing?" + +"Farlow's in Gallipoli and Graham's in France!..." + +"Oh, this dreadful war," Mullally exclaimed, wrinkling his features. +"I'm greatly opposed to it. I've been addressing meetings on the +subject!" + +"Have you?" Henry asked with more interest than he had previously shown. + +"Yes, I'm totally opposed to it. All this secret diplomacy and race for +armaments ... that's at the bottom of it all. My dear Quinn, some +members of the Cabinet have shares in armament works. It's easy enough +to see why we're at war!..." + +Henry could not prevent himself from laughing. + +"Do you mean to say you think they got up the war on purpose so's to get +bigger dividends on their armament shares?" + +Mullally shrugged his shoulders. "I don't wish to impute motives," he +said. "No, I should not care to do that. I believe in the good +intentions of my fellow man, but all the same, it's very peculiar. It +looks bad!..." + +"You always were a bloody fool, Mullally, and you're a bloodier one now. +Good afternoon!" said Henry, turning to look at the train which was now +entering the station. + +He hurried to secure a carriage, and while he was settling his bag on +the rack, he heard the voice of Mullally bleating in his ear. + +"I'm going to Exeter, too," he said. "I'll just get in with you. I have +a third class ticket, but if they ask for the excess, I can pay it!" + +"Oh, damn!" said Henry to himself. + + +5 + +"I can understand the difficulty you have in believing that people could +behave so ... so basely," Mullally said, as the train carried them out +of Salisbury. + +"I don't believe it at all," Henry answered, "and I think that any one +who does believe it is a malicious-minded ass!" + +"But they hold the shares ... you can see the list of shareholders at +Somerset House for yourself ... and they'll take the profits. I'm quite +willing to believe in the goodness of the average man ... in fact, I've +denounced the doctrine of Original Sin very forcibly before now ... but +I must say that there's something very suspicious about this business. +Very suspicious. And you know some of the soldiers are really +rather!..." + +"Rather what?" said Henry. + +"Well, I don't like saying anything about anybody, but some of them are +not all that they should be. They should set an example, and they don't. +I've heard some very startling things about the behaviour of the +soldiers. Very startling things. I don't want to say anything that may +sound unpleasant, but I suggest that you should read the Report of the +Registrar-General when it comes out. It will cause some consternation, I +can promise you. Young women, Quinn, simply can't be kept away from the +soldiers, and I've been told ... well!..." + +Again he shrugged his shoulders, and turned his palms upwards and raised +his eyebrows. A Member of Parliament had written to the _Morning Post_ +about it ... a Conservative member of Parliament, not a Liberal or a +Socialist, mark you, but a Conservative.... + +"Two thousand cases expected in one town," Mullally whispered. "Knows it +for a fact. Seen the girls!..." + +Mullally proposed a calculation. They were to work out the number of +unmarried girls who would shortly become mothers, using the Conservative +M.P.'s letter as a basis of calculation. + +"Thousands and thousands," he prophesied. "Hundreds of thousands. _All_ +illegitimate. I believe, of course, that we make too much fuss about the +marriage laws, Quinn, but still ... there are limits, don't you think? I +mean, we must make changes slowly, not in this ... this drastic fashion. +But what are you to expect? When the very Cabinet Ministers are proved +to have shares in munition works, is it any wonder that the common +soldier runs riot?..." + +"I get out at the next station," said Henry. + +"Do you?" said Mullally. "But I thought you didn't change until you got +to Whitcombe Junction?" + +"I don't" said Henry, "but I get out at the next station!" + +"I see," said Mullally. + +"About time," Henry thought. + + +6 + +After dinner, he asked Mary to walk to the village with him. + +"Isn't it late?" Mrs. Graham objected. + +"Oh, no," he answered. "It's a beautiful moonlight night, and I feel I +want to stretch my legs. I've been cooped up in the train best part of +the day. Come along, Mary!" + +"I'll just get my coat," she said. + +When they were ready, he put his arm in hers, and they walked down the +long lane, past the copse and through the pine trees, to the village. + +"It's very quiet to-night," Mary said. + +"Extraordinarily still," he answered. + +There was no one in the village street and there were no lights shining +from any of the windows, except from the bedroom of a cottage near the +sea. + +"They've all gone to bed very early, haven't they?" he said, glancing +about the deserted street. + +"But it isn't early, Quinny," she replied. "It's quite late. It must be +nearly ten o'clock. We had dinner much later to-night because your train +was so long in getting in!" + +"Well, they're missing a gorgeous night, all of them," he exclaimed, +holding her tightly. + +They walked to the fisherman's shelter and stood against the iron rail +on top of the low cliff. The moon had made a broad path of golden light +across the bay, from the shingle to the pinnacle on the nearer of the +two headlands, and they could see the golden water flowing through the +hole in the cliff. + +"I'd love to bathe now," Mary said. "I'd love to swim all along that +splash of moonlight to the caves and back again...." + +A belated sea-gull cried wearily overhead and then flew off to its nest +in the cliffs. + +"The water's awfully black looking outside the moonlight," Henry +exclaimed. + +"Ummm!" she answered. + +They shivered a little in the cold air, and instinctively they drew +closer to each other. Beneath them, lying high on the shingle, were the +trawlers, lying ready for the morning when the fishermen would push them +down into the sea. + +"Tom Yeo and Jim Rattenbury are going to have a motor put into their +trawler," Mary said. "It'll make a lot of difference to them. They'll be +able to go out even when there isn't any wind." + +Henry did not answer. He had a strange sense of fear that was +inexplicable to him. He seemed to be outside himself, outside his own +fear, looking on at it and wondering what had caused it. He felt as if +something were pulling at him, trying to force him to look round ... and +he was afraid to look round.... He shuddered violently. + +"Are you cold, Quinny?" Mary said anxiously, turning to him. + +"Yes," he answered quickly, wishing to account for his sudden shivering +in a way that would not alarm her. "We'd better go back!..." + +What was the matter? Why was he so suddenly afraid and so strangely +afraid? If it had been dark, very dark, and he had been alone ... but it +was bright moonlight ... so bright that one could almost see to read ... +and Mary was with him ... and yet he was afraid to look round at the +White Cliff. Something inside him, apart from him, seemed to feel that +if he looked up the long steep path over the White Cliff ... _he would +see something_. + +"Come on, Mary!" he said, turning to go, and turning in such a way that +he could not see the Cliff. + +They walked rapidly up the street.... "That'll warm me," he explained +to Mary ... and as he walked, he was afraid to look back. + +"What the devil's the matter with me?" he kept saying to himself until +they reached the end of the lane leading to the Manor. + +"You're walking too quickly, Quinny!" Mary said, holding back. + +"I'm sorry, dear," he exclaimed, slackening his pace reluctantly. + +He had never had this sensation before ... as if a fear had been stuck +on to him, a fear that was not part of his nature, a thing outside him +trying to get inside him.... He forgot that Mary had complained of the +rapidity with which he was walking, and he set off again. The pine trees +had a black, ominous look, and the sound of the wind blowing through +their needles was like continuous moaning. + +"Are you trying to win a race, Quinny?" Mary said. + +He laughed nervously. "No. I'm ... I'm sorry!..." + +As they passed the copse, he shut his eyes, and so he stumbled over the +rough ground and almost fell. + +"What is it, Quinny?" Mary demanded, catching hold of him. + +"It's nothing," he said. "I'm tired, that's all...." + + +7 + +He shut the door behind him quickly, and fastened the bolts. Mary had +gone into the drawing-room, and when he had secured the door, he +followed her. + +"Mother's gone to bed," she said, and then, going to him and putting her +hands on his shoulder, she added, "What is it, Quinny? Something's upset +you. I know it has!" + +He looked at her for a few moments without speaking. + +"Tell me, please!" she insisted. + +He put his arm about her and led her to the armchair by the fire, and +when she was seated, he sat down on the floor beside her. + +"I didn't want to tell you until we got home," he said. "I didn't want +to frighten you...." + +"What was it? Was there anything there?..." + +"I don't know what it was, Mary, but I suddenly felt frightened ... a +queer kind of fright. I was afraid to look round for fear I should see +something ... I don't know what ... on the cliff. I felt that something +wanted me to look round, and I wouldn't. I didn't dare to look round. +All the way up the street, I felt that something wanted me to look +round.... I'm not afraid now!" + +"How queer," she said in a low voice. + +"I've never felt anything like it before ... half afraid and half not +afraid!..." + +He began to talk about Mullally. "He's a toad, that fellow," he said, +"an ... an enlarged toad!" + +"I'm going to bed," she interrupted. "Good-night, Quinny!" + +She bent her face to his. + +"Good-night, my dear!" he said, kissing her fondly. + + +8 + +Three days later, when he had almost forgotten his fright on the cliffs, +he went down to the village to get the morning papers. + +"What's the news," he said to one of the villagers whom he met on the +way. + +"'Bout the same, sir. Don't seem to be much 'appenin' at present," the +man replied. + +He went on to the news agency and got the papers, and then, hastily +glancing at the headlines for the more obvious news, he tucked the +papers under his arm and went slowly back to the Manor by another road +than the one by which he had come into the village. There was a field +with a hollow where one could lie in shelter and see the whole of the +bay and the eastern cliffs in one direction, and the Axe Valley in +another, and here he sat for a while, smoking and reading and now and +then trying to follow the tortuous windings of the Axe as it came down +the marsh to the sea. + +"If Ninian were here," he said to himself, "he'd start making plans to +straighten it out!..." + +He glanced through the war bulletins, with their terrible iteration of +trenches taken and trenches lost. People read the war news carelessly +now, almost wearily, so accustomed had they become to the daily report +of positions evacuated and positions retrieved, forgetting almost that +at the taking or the losing of a trench, men lost their lives. + +"There isn't much in the paper this morning," he said, and then he +turned to a page of lesser news, and almost as he did so, his eye caught +sight of Gilbert's name. His grip on the paper was so tight that he tore +it. He stared at the paragraph with startling eyes, reading and +re-reading it, as if he were unable to comprehend the meaning of the +thing he read.... Then, as understanding came to him, he gaped about +with vacant eyes. + +"Oh, my God!" he cried, "Gilbert's been killed!" + + +9 + +He got up, half choking, and scrambled out of the field. A labourer +greeted him, but he made no answer. He ran up the road, and as he ran, +he cried to himself, "Gilbert's dead ... it isn't true ... it isn't +true!..." + +He thrust open the gate and ran swiftly up to the door. + +"Mary!" he shouted. "Mary! Mary!!..." + +She came running to him, followed by her mother. + +"What is it?" she cried, and her heart was full of fear. + +Mrs. Graham clutched at him. "It isn't ... it isn't...." + +He sank down into a chair and buried his head in his hands. "Gilbert's +dead," he said. "He's been killed!..." + +Mary knelt beside him, and drew his head on to her shoulder. She did not +speak. There was nothing that could be said. She knew that Gilbert and +Henry had cared for each other as men seldom care ... and no one, not +even she, could bring comfort to the one who was left. So she just held +him.... + + +10 + +Mrs. Graham had left them alone. Her fear had been for Ninian, and when +she heard Gilbert's name, her relief was such that she had hurried from +the room lest Henry, stricken by the death of his friend, should see her +face. + +"I know now," he said when he was calmer, "what it was on the White +Cliff. He wanted to tell me, Mary. He wanted to tell me ... and I +wouldn't look round. Oh, my God, I wouldn't look round!" + + + + +THE NINTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +It was unbelievable that Gilbert was dead. In his mind, Henry could see +him, careless, extravagant, always good-tempered and sometimes strangely +wise and understanding ... and he could not believe that he would never +see him again, that all that youth and generosity and promise should be +turned so untimely to corruption. Gilbert's friends would not even know +where his grave was ... they would not have the poor consolation of +finding a place that was his, marked out from all the other places.... +He had been seen, running forward ... and then he was seen no more.... + +"Perhaps," Henry said to comfort himself, "he's been taken prisoner. We +shall hear later on that he's been taken prisoner!..." + +He snatched at any hope. Men had been posted among the dead ... and +then, after a time of mourning, had come the news that they still lived. +Perhaps Gilbert was lying somewhere ... wounded ... and after a while, +news of him would come. Other men might die, but it was incredible that +Gilbert should be killed.... + +He became obsessed with the belief that Gilbert still lived. He went +about expecting to see him suddenly turning a corner and shouting, +"Hilloa, Quinny!" At any moment, a door might open, and Gilbert would +walk in and say, "Well, coves!" There was a printed copy of "The Magic +Casement" in the house, and Henry would pick it up, and turn over the +pages.... "But he can't be dead," he would say to himself, as he +fingered the book. "It's absurd!..." Even when hope died, there came +times when the belief in Gilbert's survival thrust itself into his +mind. When the _Lusitania_ was torpedoed, he said to himself, "Why, we +saw her just after the war began, Gilbert and I, and we cheered!..." + +The brutality of the war smote him hard. In less than a year from the +day when they had stood on the rocks at Tre'Arrdur Bay, lustily cheering +as the great Atlantic liner sailed up the sea to the Mersey, Gilbert was +dead and the proud ship was a wreck, sneakily destroyed.... + +Gilbert had left the beginning of a play behind him. He had regretted +that he could not finish it before going out to the peninsula ... had +believed that in it he would create something finer and deeper than he +had yet done ... and now it would never reach completion. The mind that +imagined it was no more than the rubbish of the fields when the harvest +is gathered.... + +His own work became tasteless to him. He turned with disrelish from his +manuscript. "What's the good of it," he said to himself, whenever he +looked at it. He tried to put himself into communication with Gilbert's +spirit, remembering that night below the White Cliff, when, he now +believed, Gilbert had tried to tell him of his death. A month before, he +would have ridiculed any one who suggested to him that he should attempt +to speak to the dead. "Spookery!" he would have said. But now, in his +eagerness to atone, as he said, for his failure to respond when Gilbert +had tried to speak to him, he put faith in things that, before, would +have seemed contemptible to him. But with all his will to believe, he +could not call Gilbert to him. There was a blankness, a condemning +silence.... + +"I failed my friend," he groaned to himself once, "When he felt for me +most, I ... I failed him!" + + +2 + +He had gone up to the Common with Mary, and had lain there, talking of +Gilbert ... of what Gilbert had been doing this time a year ago ... of +something that Gilbert had said once ... of an escapade at Rumpell's ... +and then Mary and he had gone home across the fields. As they walked up +the lane to the house, they saw a telegraph messenger ahead of them. +They quickened their pace. There was an anxious, strained look on Mary's +face, and as the messenger, hearing them behind him, turned and stopped, +she made a clutching movement with her hands. "Oh, Quinny!" she said, +turning to him with frightened eyes. The boy waited until Henry went up +to him, regarding them both with curiosity. + +"Is it for us?" Henry asked, knowing that it was, and the boy nodded his +head. "I'll take it," he went on. "It'll save you the trouble of going +up to the house!" + +"Thank you, sir!" the messenger said, and then he handed the telegram to +Henry. "Is there any answer, sir?" he asked. + +"I don't know," Henry replied. "We'll ... we'll bring it down to the +post-office, if there is!" + +He knew that there would not be any answer.... + +The boy went off, looking back at them now and then, over his shoulder. + +"Shall I open it, Mary!" Henry said. + +"Do you think?..." She did not complete her sentence for she was afraid +to utter the thought that was in her mind. + +"If it should be bad news," Henry said, "we'd ... we'd better prepare +her for it!" + +They stood there, holding the telegram still unopened, as if they could +not make a decision.... + +"Open it, Quinny!" Mary said at last, and he opened the buff envelope +and took out the form. + +_The Secretary for War regretted!..._ + +He looked up from the telegram, and saw that Mary was standing in a +strained attitude, waiting for him to speak. + +"Is it ... is it _that_?" she said, almost in a whisper. + +He bowed his head. "Yes," he said. + +She did not speak. She stood quite still, looking at him as if she were +trying to find something, but did not know where to look for it. He +moved nearer to her, and took hold of her hand and drew her close to +him, and she lay quietly in his arms.... There was a bird singing very +clearly over their heads, and suddenly, while they stood there, silently +consoling each other, two wood pigeons flew out of the highest tree, +making a great beating of wings as they flew off across the fields. +There was a robin in the hedge, turning its head this way and that, and +regarding them with curiosity.... + +She stirred, and then withdrew herself from his arms. + +"We must go home," she said, "and tell mother!" + + +3 + +Mrs. Graham was in the garden, and she came to the gate as she saw them +approaching, waving her hand and smiling at them. + +"Will you tell her, Quinny," Mary said, and she slackened her pace +slightly and dropped behind him. + +He turned to look for her. "Come with me," he said. "I can't tell her +... alone!" + +There was a chilly fear over both of them. They felt that this blow +would strike her down, that she would not survive it. Ninian was the +beginning and the end of her life. If Ninian were gone, everything was +gone. This house, the farm, the fields were without purpose if Ninian +were not there to own them.... They went slowly forward, and as they +approached they saw her smile vanish, and a puzzled look come in its +place. She had waved her hand and smiled at them, but they had not waved +back to her, they had not answered her smile ... and then she saw the +telegram in Henry's hand. She made a quick movement, opening the gate +and coming rapidly to them. + +"What is it?" she said, hoarsely. + +He could not think of anything to say.... + +"It's from the War Office, mother," Mary said. + +He stood ready to put his arms about her and support her.... + +"Give it to me," she said, holding out her hand for the telegram, and he +passed it to her. + +They stood silently before her while she read it. Then Mary went close +to her. "Mother!..." she said. + +Mrs. Graham did not make any answer to Mary. She still held the telegram +in her hands, and gazed at it, reading it over and over.... + +"Mother, dear!" Mary reached up, and put her arms about her mother's +neck. + +"Yes, Mary," she answered very calmly. + +But Mary could not say any more. She buried her head on her mother's +shoulder, and the tears that she had been holding back, would not be +held back any longer, and sobs burst from her that seemed as if they +would choke her. + +"My dear," said Mrs. Graham, raising Mary's face to hers, "we must ... +we must be brave!" + +She turned to Henry. "Take her in," she said, "and ... and comfort her!" + +He went to them, and put his arm about Mary, and led her to the house. +"Won't you come in, too?" he said, turning to Mrs. Graham. + +"No, Henry," she answered. "Not yet. I want to be out here. I ... I want +to be alone!" + +She moved away, going slowly down the avenue of trees until she reached +the orchard, and then she went into it, and was hidden by the apple +trees.... + +He led Mary into the house. "We can't do anything, Mary," he said. +"We're ... we're all caught in this thing ... and we can't do +anything...." + +She went to her room, and when he had seen the door close behind her, he +turned to go back to the drawing-room. He would have to write to Roger. +"First it was Gilbert ... then it was Ninian ... presently, it will +be!..." + +He shuddered, and tried to shut the thought out of his mind. + +There was a servant in the hall. "Tell the others," he said in a cold, +toneless voice, "that Mr. Ninian ... has been killed in France!" + +"Oh, sir!..." the girl cried, clasping her hands together. + +He did not wait to hear, and she hurried down the passage to the +kitchens. + +"Two of us gone now," he said to himself. + +He searched for writing materials, wandering round and round the room +until he forgot what it was he wanted. "I'm looking for something," he +said aloud, "I'm looking for something, but I don't know what it is!..." + +Then he remembered. + +"I mustn't let myself go," he said to himself. "I must keep a hold of +myself. I've got to look after them ... they'll want some one to ... to +lean on!" + +He began the letter to Roger. "_Dear Roger_," he wrote, and then he +dropped his pen. He sat with his elbows resting on the table, staring in +front of him, but seeing nothing. "First there was Gilbert," he was +saying to himself, "then there was Ninian ... and presently there will +be ... _me_!" + +One could not believe it. One could not believe it. Why it was only a +little while ago that Ninian was here, in this very room, telling them +how clever the Engineers were. They were to win the war, these +Engineers, unless stupid people, like the "dug-out," prevented them from +doing so. There, in that corner there, over by the fire, that was where +he had sat, and told them of the Engineers. He had lain back in his +chair, carelessly throwing his leg over the arm of it.... And when Mrs. +Graham had risen and left the room, unable to stay any longer, and had +called to him to come to her room and say "Good-night!" he had looked +anxiously after her, and then, after a little while of fidgetting and +poor effort to talk lightly, had gone to her.... + +How could one believe it! How could any one believe that this hideous +nightmare was true!... that this horrible thing which devoured young men +was not a creature of a fevered mind.... Presently the blood would cool +and the eyes would see clearly ... and Ninian's great shouting voice +would roar through the house, and Gilbert would stroll in, and say +"Hilloa, coves!..." + +There was a sound of steps in the passage, and he sat up and listened. +Then the door opened and Mrs. Graham came in. There was a bright look in +her tearless eyes. Her lips were firmly closed, and he saw that her +hands were clenched. He stood up as she entered, and looked at her as +she came towards him. She came close to him and laid her hand on his. + +"Poor Mary," she said, softly, "we ... we must comfort poor Mary!" + +She looked about the room. "Where is she?" she asked, turning to him +again. + +"Upstairs," he answered. + +She went towards the door. "I must go and comfort her," she said. "She +was ... very fond of ... of Ninian!" + +He followed her to the door, afraid that she might break down, but she +did not break down. She gathered her skirts about her, and went up the +stairs to Mary's room, and her steps were firm and proud. He could hear +the rustle of her skirt on the landing as she passed along it out of his +sight, and then he heard her knocking on Mary's door. + +"Can I come in, Mary?" she asked in a clear voice. + +He could hear the door opening ... and then he heard it being closed +again. + +He stood at the foot of the stairs, listening, but there was no need of +him. He turned away, and as he did so, Widger came into the hall. The +old man stood for a moment or two without speaking. Then he made a +suppliant movement with his trembling hands. + +"It b'ain't true!..." he mumbled thickly. + +"Yes, Widger," Henry answered, "it is." + +The old man turned away. "I knowed 'un ever since 'e were a baby," he +said, and his lips were quivering. "Praper li'l chap 'e were, too! + +"It b'ain't right," he went on, looking helplessly about him. Then his +voice took a firmer, more definite note, "Where's missus to?" he asked. + +"She's upstairs, Widger," Henry answered. "I don't think I'd say +anything to her at present, if I were you!" + +"Very well, sir!" + +He moved away. The vitality seemed to have gone out of him, and suddenly +he had become old ... senile ... shuffling. + +"They'm wisht times, sir!" he said, as he left the hall. + + +4 + +Henry wrote to Roger, telling him of Ninian's death, and when he had +finished the letter, he went out to post it. He could not sit still in +the house ... he felt that he must move about until he was worn and +exhausted. Mrs. Graham was still with Mary, but perhaps by the time he +returned, they would be able to come downstairs again. The pride with +which Mrs. Graham had supported herself in her grief seemed to him +almost god-like. Once, in the South of Ireland, he had seen a peasant +woman bidding good-bye to her husband. As the train steamed out of the +station, she howled like a wounded animal, spinning round like a +teetotum, and waving her hands and arms wildly. Her hair had tumbled +down her back, and her eyes seemed to be melting, so freely did she weep +... and then when the train had disappeared round a bend of the track, +she dried her eyes and went home. Her grief, that had seemed utterly +inconsolable, had been no more than a summer shower.... He had had +difficulty in preventing himself from laughing, and he could not +restrain a feeling of contempt for her. "They write plays about that +kind of silly howling at the Abbey Theatre, and call it 'the Celtic +twilight.' No dignity, no decency!..." + +He had heard sentimental Englishmen prating about "the tragic soul" of +Ireland because they had listened to hired women _keening_ over the +dead. "But that isn't grief," he had said to them. "They're paid to do +that!" The Irish liked to splash about in their emotions ... they +wallowed in them.... + +But Mrs. Graham's grief was more than a summer shower. Henry knew +instinctively that Ninian's death had killed her. She might live for +many years, but she would be a dead woman. She would show very little, +nothing, to those who looked to see the signs of woe, but in her heart +she would hoard her desolation, keeping it to herself, obtruding her +sorrow on no one ... waiting patiently and silently for her day of +release, when, as her faith told her, she and her son would come +together again.... + +"It's unfair," he told himself, "to compare the grief of an illiterate +Irishwoman with the grief of an English lady!" + +But then he had seen the grief of poor Englishwomen. Four of the +Boveyhayne men had been drowned in a naval battle. He had gone to the +memorial service in Boveyhayne Church, and had seen the friends of those +men mingling their tears ... but there had been none of this emotional +savagery, this howling like women in kraals, this medicine-man grief.... + + +5 + +They were both in the drawing-room when he returned. + +"I've written to Roger," he said, to explain his absence. "Perhaps," he +went on, "there are other letters you'd like me to write?" + +"Yes," she said, "it would be kind of you, Henry!..." + +There was Ninian's uncle, the Dean of Exebury, and Mr. Hare, with whom +he had worked ... they must be told at once ... and there were other +relatives, other friends. He spent the evening in doing the little +services that must be done when there is death, and found relief for his +mind in doing them. + +"I told the servants," he said, looking up from a letter he was writing. +"Old Widger wanted to see you!..." + +"Poor Widger," she said. "He and Ninian were so fond of each other!" + +She got up and went to the door. "I must go and say something to him," +she said. "He'll feel it so much!" + +She closed the door behind her, and he sat staring at it after she had +gone. The matchless pride of her, that she could forget herself so +completely and think of the subordinate sorrow of her servant when she +might have been absorbed by her own! + +He turned to Mary who was sitting near him, and reached out and took her +hand in his, but neither of them spoke. + +What was there to say? Ninian was dead ... old men had made a war, and +this young man had paid for it ... and everywhere in Europe, there were +mourners for the young, slain for the folly and incompetence of the old +and the worn and the impatient. + +He released Mary's hand, and resumed the writing of his letter. Before +he had finished it, Mrs. Graham returned to the room. + +"Poor Widger," she said, "he ... he cried!" + +She came to the table where Henry was writing, and placed her hand on +his shoulder, and looked concernedly at him. + +"Aren't you tired, Henry?" she said. + +"No, thanks!" he answered, glancing up at her and smiling. + +"You mustn't tire yourself!" she bent over him and kissed his forehead +lightly. "You've been a great help, Henry," she said. + + +6 + +But in her room, where none could see her, she shed her tears.... + + + + +THE TENTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +He had returned to Ireland. In Dublin, he found a strange mixture of +emotions. Marsh and Galway and their friends were drilling with greater +determination than ever, and occasionally they were to be seen parading +the streets. Some of them wore green uniforms, shaped after the pattern +of the khaki uniform of the British Army, but most of them wore their +ordinary clothes, with perhaps a bandolier and a belt and a slouch hat. +They carried rifles of an old make, and had long, clumsy bayonets slung +by their sides. It seemed to Henry as he watched a company of them +marching through College Green that these men were not of the fighting +breed ... that these pale clerks and young workmen and elderly +professors and hungry, emaciated labourers were unlikely to deal in the +serious work of war ... and when he met John Marsh in the evening, he +sneered at him. Marsh kept his temper. He was more tolerant now than he +had been in the days when he had tutored Henry at Ballymartin. He +admitted that the Sinn Feiners were widely unpopular. There were many +reasons why they should be. Dublin was full of men and women mourning +for their sons who had died at Suvla Bay ... and were in no mood for +rebellion. + +"The war's popular in the Combe," he said. "The women are better off now +than they were in peace times. That's a handsome tribute to +civilisation, isn't it? The country people are the worst. They're rich +... the war's bringing them extraordinary prosperity ... and some of our +people are tactless. But we've got to go on. We've got to save Ireland's +soul!..." + +Henry made an impatient gesture. "Why do you talk that high-falutin' +stuff," he said. + +"It isn't high-falutin' stuff, Henry. I'm speaking what I believe to be +the truth. The English have tried a new way to kill the Irish spirit, +and by God they look like succeeding. They couldn't kill it by +persecuting us, they couldn't kill it by ruining us, but they may kill +it by making us prosperous. I feel heart-broken when I talk to the +farmers. Money! That's all they think about. They rob their children of +their milk and feed them on tea, so's they can make a few more pence. +Oh, they're being anglicised, Henry! If we can only blow some of the +greed out of them, well have done something worth while!" + +He was more convinced now than ever that the Irish were to be betrayed +by the English after the war. + +"Look how they minimise our men's bravery at the front. Even the _Irish +Times_ is protesting!..." + +It seemed to Henry to be ridiculous to believe that the English +government was deliberately depreciating the work of the Irish soldiers, +and he said so. "They hardly mention the names of any regiments," he +pointed out. + +But John Marsh had an answer for him. He produced a despatch written by +a British admiral in which was narrated the story of the landing at +Suvla Bay and the beaches about Gallipoli. + +"He mentioned the name of every regiment that took part in the landing, +except the two Irish regiments that did the hardest work and suffered +the most deaths. I suppose that was an accident, Henry, a little +oversight!" + +"You don't think he left them out on purpose, do you?" + +"I do. So does every man in Ireland, Unionist or Nationalist. You see, +we know this man in Ireland ... he's a well-known Unionist ... a bigot +... and there isn't a person in Ireland who doesn't believe that he +deliberately left the names of Dublins and the Munsters out of his +despatch. He forgot, when he was writing it, that he was a sailor, and +remembered only that he was a politician ... the kind that dances on +dead men's graves!" + +It was difficult to argue with Marsh or with any one who thought as he +thought, in face of that despatch. The omission was inexplicable if one +did not accept the explanation offered by Marsh. The tradition of the +sea is an honourable one, and sailors do not do things like that ... the +scurvy acts of the cheaper politicians.... + +"You make a fence about your mind, John," said Henry, "and you spend all +your efforts in strengthening it, so that you haven't time either to +look over it and see what's beyond it, or to cultivate what's inside it. +You're just building up barriers, when you should be knocking them +down!" + +It was useless to be angry with Marsh or to argue with him. In +everything that was done, he saw the malevolent intent of a treacherous +people. + +"Look at this," he said one evening when the English papers had come in, +and he pointed to a leading article in the _Morning Post_ in which the +writer stated that the bravery of the Irish soldiers showed that the +Irish people had now no feeling or grievance against the English, and +therefore Home Rule was no longer necessary. "Already, they're plotting! +They defile the dead ... they use our dead men as ... as political +arguments!" + +"But the _Morning Post_ has no influence in England," Henry retorted +angrily. "It's only read by footmen and sluts!..." + +"Some of our people are dubious," John went on. "They're inclined to +take your point of view, and trust the English. I'll read this paper to +them. That'll pull them up. We'd have been content with Home Rule +before, but we want absolute separation now. We don't want to be +associated with a race that makes bargains on bodies!..." + +"You're doing a damned bad work, John!..." + +"I'm helping to keep Ireland Irish, Henry!" He paused for a few moments, +and then, laughing a little self-consciously, he proceeded. "Do you know +that poem of Yeats's?" + + _It's with O'Leary in the grave. + Romantic Ireland's dead and gone._ + +Henry nodded his head. + +"Well, we're going to see whether we can't make Yeats re-write it. +Good-night, Henry!" + + +2 + +He stayed in Dublin for a few weeks, gathering up old threads and +working on his novel; but the book made slow progress, and so, thinking +that if he were in a quieter, less social place, he could work more +quickly, he went home to Ballymartin, and here, soon after he arrived, +he received a letter from Roger, announcing that he intended to enter +the artillery almost at once. "_I can get a commission_," he wrote, +"_and so I shall go in. You said something about wanting to join at the +same time as me, but perhaps as you are going to be married to Mary +shortly, you'll want to wait until afterwards. If I were you I should +apply for a commission in an Irish regiment._" + +He put the letter down abruptly. Ever since the death of Ninian, he had +felt convinced that the four friends were to be killed in battle. +Gilbert had been the first to join, and Gilbert was the first to be +killed. Then Ninian joined ... and Ninian died. Roger, too, would be +killed, and so would he, when he joined. The death of Gilbert had seemed +to him to be a casual thing, a tragic accident, but when Ninian had been +killed, it had seemed to him that here was no fortuity, that Gilbert and +Ninian had died inevitably, that Roger and he, when they went out, would +be unable to escape this destiny ... and everything that he had done +since Ninian's death had been done in that belief. He would finish a +book, he would marry Mary, he would settle his estate as best he could +... and then he would make the end that Gilbert and Ninian had made.... + +But now, as he put Roger's letter down, he had a swift, compelling +desire to dodge his destiny, to elude death, to alter the course of +things. Why should he die? Why should he yield himself up, his youth, +his work, his love, his hope of happiness and renown and honour ... to +this consuming thing! He could look to years of happiness with Mary, +years of work on his books, years of enjoyment of things won and earned +... and he was to give up all that promise and go to a bloody death in +war? Not every man who went was killed or even wounded ... one knew that +... but _he_ would be killed ... he knew that, he told himself, as well +as he knew that he was then alive. Sensitive-natured men, such as he, +were bound to be killed ... they had not the phlegm of men with blunter +natures ... they would not be able to keep still when stillness meant +safety ... their nerves would go, and in that hideous hell of noise and +battering, of men killing or being killed, his mind might be +destroyed.... + +That seemed to him to be the worst thing of all. He might not be killed +... he might be made mad.... + +"I can do other work," he said to himself. "I can work for Ireland. I +can try to make things friendlier here!..." + +He planned a group of Young Irishmen, as he named them, to do for +Ireland what Roger's Improved Tories had hoped to do for England. They +could study the conditions of Irish elementary education; they could try +to make a survey of Irish wealth in the hope of discovering the +incidence of its distribution; they could make an enquiry into work and +wages, and try to stimulate the growth of Trades Unionism. He could help +to make opinion, to create a social consciousness, to establish a +tradition of honourable service to the community.... There were a host +of things he could do, valuable things, for Ireland, things that were +not now being done by any one. He knew people in Dublin, Crews and +Jordan and Saxon and men like them, who were of his mind and would work +patiently at dull things in the hope of getting an ordered community. +Railways! One had to get the Irish railways reorganised and grouped. If +one could solve the problem of traffic, so that the East and West and +North and South of Ireland would be as accessible to each other as the +East and West and North and South of England, one would have made a +large movement towards a better state.... + +That was what he would do. He would help to construct things, not to +destroy them. He was not afraid to go to the war ... that was not the +reason why he was resolving that he would refuse to be a soldier. It was +because he could do better, finer work by living for Ireland than by +dying for England. People throughout Europe were already perturbed at +the waste of potential men in war ... wondering whether, after all, it +was a wise thing to let rare men, men of unique gifts go to war. Was it +really wise of England to let such a man as Gilbert Farlow, with the +rare gift of comedy, be lost in that haphazard manner? Ninian had had +the potentialities of a great engineer. Would it not have been wiser to +have kept him to his railway-building than to have let him fall, as he +fell, to the bullet of a sniper?... Already people were asking such +questions as these. If he were to go out, and were to be killed, would +they not say, "This man had gifts that marked him out from other men. We +ought not to have wasted him!" Well, why should he be wasted? He was not +afraid. He insisted that he was not afraid. It needed high courage to +stand up and say, "I am a man of special gift and I will not let that +gift be wasted in war!" That, in effect, was what he was preparing to +do. People would speak behind his back ... speak even to his face ... +and call him a coward! Well, let them do so.... + + +3 + +But in his heart, he knew that he was afraid to go. Almost he deceived +himself into believing that he was behaving well in refusing to join the +Army so that he might devote himself more assiduously to Ireland and his +work ... but not completely did he persuade himself. The fear of death +was in him and he could not allay it. The fear of mutilation, of +madness, of blindness, of shattered nerves sent him shuddering from the +thought of offering himself as a soldier ... and mixed up with this +devastating fear was a queer vanity that almost conquered the fear. + +"If I were to go in, I might do something ... something distinguished!" + +There were times when he gave himself up to dreams of glory, saw himself +decorated with high awards for bravery. He would imagine himself +performing some impossible act of courage ... saving an Army Corps from +destruction ... showing resource in a period of crisis, and so bringing +salvation where utter loss had seemed inevitable. But these times of +glory were few and brief: he saw himself most often, killed +ingloriously, inconspicuously, one of a crowd, blown, perhaps, to pieces +or buried in bombarded earthworks; and through his dreams of glory and +his plans for work in Ireland, there stubbornly thrust itself this +accusation: I'm a coward! I'm a coward! I'm a coward! + +In England, men were charging the queer people who called themselves +Conscientious Objectors with cowardice, but the charge seemed a baseless +one to Henry. He did not believe that he could endure the odium and +obloquy which some of the Conscientious Objectors had borne. There was +courage in the man who said, "I will fight for my country!" but that +courage might be less than that of the man who said, "I will not fight +for my country!" Henry was not a Conscientious Objector, nor could he +understand the state of mind of the man who was. He was a coward. +Inside him, he knew that he was a coward. Inside him, he accused himself +of cowardice. Everything in his life showed that he was a coward, that +he shrank from physical combats, from tests of courage, that sometimes +he shrank from spiritual contests.... + +"I ought to tell Mary," he said to himself. "I can't marry her without +telling her that I'm ... a funk!" + +But he temporised even in this. "I'll wait a little while longer," he +said. "Perhaps later on!..." + +Always he wanted to thrust the unpleasant thing a little further off; It +was as if he had said to himself, "I won't deal with it just yet ... and +perhaps it won't need to be dealt with!" + +"I'll finish my book first," he said, "and then I'll tell Mary. Perhaps +the war will be over!..." + + +4 + +Mary wrote to him twice every week. Rachel Carey and her baby were +staying at Boveyhayne Manor now, and Mary was glad of their company in +the house, for the child gave Mrs. Graham pleasure. She enquired +continually about his book. "_What a pity_," she wrote once, "_that it +was not finished before Roger went into the Army. Then you could both +have gone in together._" And he had written, "_Yes, it is a pity the +book was not done before Roger joined up ... but it'll soon be finished. +I'm getting on excellently with it. When it's finished, I'll come over +to Boveyhayne, and then we'll settle just when we shall get +married!..._" + +Then came a mood of abasement, and he wrote a long, incoherent letter to +her, telling her that he had resolved that he would not go into the +Army. "_Because I'm a coward, Mary. I've thought the thing over from +beginning to end, thought about it until I became dizzy with thinking, +and this is the end of it all: I'm a coward. I haven't the pluck to go +into the Army. That's the truth, Mary! I make excuses for myself ... I +pretend that this is England's war, not Ireland's, and tell myself that +an Irishman who joins the British Army should be regarded in the way +that an American, who joined, would be regarded ... that Irish soldiers +in the British Army are Foreign Legionaries ... and I twist my mind +about in an effort to make excuses like that, to convince, not you or +any one else_, but me. _I think I could convince_ you _that I ought not +to join, but I can't convince myself. I'm not joining, simply because +I'm a damned coward, Mary. I'm not fit to be your husband, dear. I +wasn't fit to be the friend of Gilbert and Ninian. I'm a contemptible +thing that runs to its burrow when it hears of danger. I'm glad my +father is dead. He hated the war, but he'd have hated to know that I was +not in it. He took it for granted that I would go ... never dreamed that +I wouldn't go. If he'd thought that I wouldn't join, he would never have +talked to me about the war in the way he did. My father was a proud man, +Mary, as proud as your mother, and I think he'd have died of shame if +he'd thought I was funking this. I don't know what you'll think of me. I +know what I think of myself. I simply can't face it, Mary ... that +bloodiness and groaning and stench and unending horror. That's the truth +about me. I'm a coward, and I'm not fit for you. I'd fail you, dear, if +you needed me. I fail everybody. I fail everything. I'm rotten through +and through...._" + + +5 + +But he did not send the letter to her. He had read it over before +putting it in the envelope. "Hysterical," he said to himself, calmer now +that he had vented his feelings. "That's what it is!" + +He was about to tear it up, but before he could, do so, his mind veered +again. "I'll put it away," he said. "I'll leave it until the morning, +and read it again. Perhaps I'll think differently then. I ought to tell +Mary. I can't go on just not joining, and letting her gradually +suspect. I ought to go to her, and tell her straight out. When my book's +done I'll go to her...." + +"What sort of a man am I?" he said again. "Analysing myself like this +... turning myself inside out ... poking and probing into my mind!... +Fumbling over my life, that's what I'm doing! Why don't I stand up to +things? What's the meaning of me? What am I here for?" + +If he could only strip himself to the marrow of his mind, if he could +only see inside himself and know what was his purpose and discover the +content of his being.... + +"I'm morbid," he said. "I'm too introspective. I ought to look out of +myself. But I can't. It isn't my fault that my eyes are turned inwards. +I'm made like that. I can't alter my make. I can destroy myself, but I +can't alter my make.... + +"Perhaps," he thought, "if I were to take more exercise, if I were to go +for long walks, I'd think less about these things. I'd get healthier +notions. If I were to enlist, go into the ranks, and endure all that the +men endure, that might make my mind healthier. All that drill and +marching.... + +"But it's the spirit of me that's wrong," he muttered aloud. "It's not +my body ... it's _me_!" + +"I must work. I must work hard, and forget all this torturing!..." + +He wrote furiously at his book, and gradually it came to its end. "I'll +go down to Dublin again," he said, when it was finished "and see if I +can't do something there that'll make me forget things!" + +He stayed at Ballymartin until he had corrected the proofs of the new +book, and then some business on the estate kept him at home for nearly +another month. It was not until well in the New Year that he was able to +leave home, and almost at the last moment he decided not to go to +Dublin, but to travel from Belfast, by Liverpool, to Boveyhayne. Mary +had asked him to spend Christmas with them, but he had made an excuse: +estate business and his book; because he could not yet bring himself to +tell her of his cowardice. He felt that when he did so, she would end +their engagement, and he wished to keep her love as long as he could. He +wrote to her very frequently, more frequently than she wrote to him, +telling her of Irish affairs. She had had difficulty in understanding so +many things, but she was eager to know about them. He had filled a +letter with bitter complaint of the corruption in Irish civic life, and +she had asked why he believed in Home Rule. "_If you can't trust these +people to manage a municipality, how can you trust them to manage a +nation?_" And he had written a lengthy epistle on the state of Ireland. + +"_You see, dear_," he wrote, "_it isn't reasonable to expect us to undo +in a generation work which it took your country several centuries to do. +Your people have steadily destroyed and corrupted my people. I know +they're trying to make amends, but they mustn't expect miracles. You +can't wave a wand over Ireland, and say 'Let there be light!' and +instantly get light. You've got to remember that Ireland is populated +largely by the dregs of Ireland ... what was left after your countrymen +had persecuted and exiled and hanged the most vigorous and most +courageous men we had ... and it'll take a generation or two, more +perhaps, to get a decent level again. The most powerful man in Dublin at +this minute is a haberdasher who owns almost everything there is to own: +newspapers, conveyances and heaven knows what; and he has the mind of +... well, an early nineteenth-century mill-owner! John Marsh spends a +deal of time in vilifying the English as a mean-minded people, but my +God, he has only got to look round the corner in Dublin, to see +mean-minded men by the hundred. He wrote to me the other day, crowing +because his Volunteers had prevented the application of conscription to +Ireland, and that's a frame of mind I don't understand. He's an +idealist, but all his ideals are being employed to enable mean-minded +and greedy men like the farmers to go on being more mean-minded and +greedier. The principal argument seems to be that the Irishman must stay +at home and make money out of the war. That's a long way from the days +of the 'wild geese' and the order of chivalry, isn't it?_ + +"_I'm a Home Ruler because I want to see a sense of responsibility +cultivated in these people, and you can't have a sense of responsibility +until you've got something for which you are responsible. I don't doubt +that out of this heart-breaking population, a decent-minded population +will come. After all, the first settlers in Australia weren't much +better than the people who control the Dublin Corporation, were they? If +John Marsh had been about the world more, had had to manage things, and +if Mineely and Connolly and the Dublin Labour people had not been +embittered beyond all sanity of judgment by that haberdasher I mentioned +earlier in this letter, they'd have been useful in the way that I want +Crews and Jordan and Saxon and all those patient people to be useful._ + +"_I wish you could meet Crews and Jordan and Saxon. They're very +dissimilar, but they've got something like the unifying motive of a +monastery, and they're willing to serve and to plod and to be patient. I +fight with Saxon because he's a pacifist, but like all pacifists he's a +very pugnacious person, and he can get frightfully angry, but it's +pitiful to see him when he's been angry, because he's so sorry +afterwards. I'm not a pacifist, but I haven't a tenth of his pluck. He'd +endure anything, that man. Crews and Jordan are younger than he, and +very brainy. Crews looks as if he were one of the Don't-Care-a-Damn +Brigade ... Dublin's full of them ... but he does care. He has a +curiously subtle brain, and I do not know any one so imperturbable as he +is. He never loses his temper ... at least I've never seen him lose it +... except, so he says, with stockbrokers and haberdashers and that kind +of rubbish. Jordan is one of the brainiest men in Ireland ... that, I +suppose, is because he has got some English blood in him: a +cynical-looking man, but that's all his fun. And he works, my goodness, +he works!_ + +"_It's with men like these that I want to work, because I believe that +they will prepare the place for the foundation of a decent commonwealth. +They aren't miracle-mongers, thank God, like John Marsh and Galway and +Mineely. They aren't up in the sky to-day and down in the mud to-morrow. +They keep to the level._ + +"_Then there's the Plunkett House lot. You remember, I told you about +Sir Horace Plunkett and the Co-operative Movement. Well, I want to get +Crews and Jordan and Saxon to link themselves on to the Plunkett House +people and form the nucleus of a new Irish Group. There are a few of the +men at Trinity College who will come into it, but I'm afraid all the men +at the National University are under the influence of Marsh and +MacDonagh and the sloppy romantics._ + +"_You see, dear, don't you, that this job of making a commonwealth of +worth in Ireland is a long and difficult one. That's why we've got to be +very patient. Everything's against us. We have a contemptible press, a +cowardly crowd of corrupt politicians, a greedy people, an ignorant and +bigoted priesthood (that includes the Protestant clergy) and a complete +lack of social consciousness and plan of life. But then, what's life +for, if it isn't to cope with difficulties like that...._" + + +6 + +There was snow, thick and long-lying, on the ground when he reached +Boveyhayne, and the _crunch-crunch_ of it under their feet, as Mary and +he walked home, gave him a feeling of pleasure, and the cold, bracing +air exhilarated him so that he laughed at things which would otherwise +barely have made him smile. The antics of Rachel's daughter, as related +to him by Mary, seemed extraordinarily entertaining, and when he drew +Mary's arm in his and pressed it tightly, he felt that there was nothing +in heaven or on earth more to be desired than the love of a woman and +the love of a child. He had a sense of age, of a passed boundary, that +made him feel much older than Mary. "Here I am, listening to her as she +talks gaily about a child's pranks, nodding my head and laughing, too +... and in a little while I shall tell her everything ... and then I +shall go ... and we will not laugh again together. I'm holding her arm +closely in mine, and presently I shall kiss her lips, and she will put +her arms about me with the careless intimacy of lovers ... and then I +shall tell her everything ... and she will kiss me no more ... and our +intimacy will shrivel up!..." + +He wished to prolong his pleasure in this walk through the snow, and so +he took her back to the Manor by long roads and roundabout ways. They +did not climb up the old path over the cliff because that was so much +shorter than the hair-pin road.... "I must tell her soon," he said to +himself, "but before I tell her, I must feel the most of her love for +me!" + +He listened to her, not for what she was saying, but for the sound of +her voice, and made short answers to her so that he might interrupt the +flow of her speech as little as possible. When he returned along this +road, he would come alone and for the last time, and so, that his memory +of her might be full, he would be no more than her auditor and watcher. +Just to have her by his side, her arm in his, and hear her ... that was +sufficient. + +They walked through the village and when they came to Boveyhayne lane, +he said to her, "Isn't there a longer way, Mary!" and she laughed at +him, bantering him because of his sudden desire for exercise; but she +yielded to him, and they took the longer road that led them past the +Roman quarries to the fir tree, standing in isolation where the main +roads meet. + +"Mary," he said, as they came in sight of the house, "I want to tell +you something ... something important!..." + +"Yes, Quinny!" + +"But not now, dear. To-night! Or to-morrow, perhaps!" + +She pinched his cheek in a pretence at anger. "You were always very +vague, Quinny!" she said. + +"I know," he answered. "It's a kind of ... cowardice, that, isn't it? +I'm vague because I dislike ... am afraid ... to be definite. I'm a +frightful coward, Mary!..." + +He might approach the subject by these devious ways, he told himself. He +had not meant to talk to her about his failure in courage until she and +he could be alone in the evening ... this walk together was to be the +final lovers' stroll, unmarred by any bitterness ... but even in his +effort to postpone the time of telling, he had prepared to tell her ... +and perhaps it was better that she should know now. Here, indeed, in +this snowy silence, they were free from any intrusion. It might not be +possible to make his confession to her without interruption from Rachel +or Mrs. Graham ... and some feeling for the fitness of things made him +decide that this outdoor scene was a better place for his purpose than +the lamplit interior of the Manor. Through the blown branches of the +hedges he could see the thick sheets of snow spread over the fields. The +boughs of the fruit-trees in the orchard showed very black beneath their +white covering, as if they felt cold, and he looted away quickly to the +haystacks in the farmyard that seemed so warm in spite of the snow. The +dusk was drawing in, and the grey sky was darkening for the night.... + +"Mary," he said, so abruptly that she looked up at him enquiringly. +"Let's walk back a little way...." + +"But, Quinny, it's getting late. They'll wonder what's happened to us!" + +"I want to tell you ... now, Mary!" + +He compelled her to turn, as he spoke, and they walked slowly back +towards the fir tree. + +"What is it, Quinny?" she asked tenderly, as if she would comfort him. + +"I ... I want to tell you something!" + +"Yes?" + +"I hardly know how to begin. It's very difficult, dear...." + +"What is it, Quinny?" she demanded, more anxiously. + +But still he would not tell her ... he must have her love a little +longer. + +"Mary, I love you so much, dear ... oh, I feel like a fool when I try to +tell you how much I love you!" + +"I know you love me, Quinny!" + +"And now ... this very minute ... I love you far more than I've ever +loved you. Every bit of me is in love with you, Mary. You're very sweet +and dear!..." + +She had a sense of impending disaster, but she did not express it in her +words. "And I love you, Quinny!" she said. "I can't love you more than +I've always loved you!..." + +"Could you love me less than you've always loved me?" he asked, turning +and standing before her so that his eyes were looking into hers. + +"I don't know," she answered. "I've never tried!" + +He did not say any more for a few moments, but stood with his hands on +her shoulders, looking steadily into her eyes, while she looked steadily +into his. Then he took his hands from her shoulders and drew her into +the shelter of his arms, and kissed her, letting his lips lie long on +hers. + +"What do you want to tell me?" she said in a whisper. + + +7 + +Then he told her. + +"I wrote to you when I was at Ballymartin," he said, "but I did not +post the letter. I brought it with me. I meant to destroy it because I +thought it was too emotional, and then I thought that perhaps I had +better let you see it so that you might judge me, not just as I am now, +talking to you quietly like this, but as I was when I wrote it!" + +He took the letter from his pocket and gave it to her. + +"I had to tell you, Mary. I couldn't marry you without letting you know +what kind of man I am. I'm too frightened to go to the Front. At the +bottom of all my excuses, that's the truth." + +She did not speak, but stood with his letter in her hands, turning it +over.... + +"I've tried to persuade myself," he went on, "that I'm of special +account, that I ought not to go to the war, but I know very well that in +a time like this, no one is of special account. Gilbert said something +like that at Tre'Arrdur Bay when I told him that his life was of greater +value than the life of ... of a clerk. I suppose, the finer a man is, +the more willing he is to take his share in war, and if that's true, I'm +not really a fine man. I'm simply a coward, hoarding up my life in a +cupboard, like a miser hoarding up his money. I should have been the +first to spend myself ... like Gilbert and Ninian. I'm the only one of +the Improved Tories who hasn't gone! ... Oh, I couldn't offer you +myself, dear. I'm too mean ... I'm a failure in fineness.... I used to +feel contempt for Jimphy Jayne ... but he didn't hesitate for a moment. +It never entered his head not to go. The moment the war began, Gilbert +enlisted, and I suppose Ninian must have left that railway the very +minute he heard the news. I was never quite ... never quite on their +level, Mary, and I don't suppose I ever shall be now!" + +She moved slightly, as if she were tired of remaining in one position, +and were shifting to an easier one, but still she did not speak, nor did +she raise her eyes to look at him. + +"I'm not fit to be your husband," he said. "I'm not fit to be any +woman's husband, but much less yours. Even now, when I 'm standing here +talking to you in this safety, the thought of ... of being out there +makes me shiver with fear. It's the thought of ... of dying!... I think +and think of all those young chaps, all the fellows I knew, robbed of +their right to live and love, as I love you, and work and make their end +in decency and peace ... and I can't bear it. I want to save myself from +the wreckage ... to hide myself in safety until this ... this horror is +ended!" He paused for a while, as if he were searching for words and +then he went on. "There was an officer in my carriage to-day ... going +on to Whimple ... and he told me about poison gas ... the men died in +frightful agony, he said ... and then he talked about machine guns.... +'They can perforate a man like a postage stamp,' he said.... Isn't it +vile, Mary?" + +Her head was still bent, and as she did not make an answer to him, he +turned to look away from her. He remembered how Sheila Morgan, in her +anger at his cowardice, had struck him in the face and had furiously +bidden him to leave her.... Mary would not strike him, but she, too, +would bid him to go from her.... + +He felt her hand on his arm. + +"Quinny!" she said very softly, and he turned to find her standing +nearer to him and looking up at him with no less love than she had +looked at him before he had made his confession to her. + +"I don't love you, Quinny, only for what's fine in you," she said, and +her speech was full of hesitation as if she could not adequately express +her meaning. "I love you ... for _all_ of you. I just take the bad with +the good, and ... and make the best of it, dear!" + +"You still want me, Mary?..." + +"My dear," she said, half laughing and half crying, "I've always wanted +you!... Oh, what's the good," she went on with an impetuous rush of +words, "of loving a man only when he comes up to your expectations. I +want to love you even when you don't come up to my expectations, +Quinny, and I do love you, dear. It hasn't anything to do with whether +you're brave or not brave, or good or bad, or great or common. I just +love you ... don't you see?... because you're _you_!..." + +He stared at her incredulously. He had been so certain that she would +bid him leave her when she learned of his cowardice. + +"But!..." + +"Come home," she said. "You must be very tired, and cold!" + +She put her arm in his, and drew him homewards, and he yielded to her +like a little child. + +As they turned the corner of the apple-orchard, they could see lights +shining from the windows of the Manor, making a warm splash on the snow +that lay in drifts about the garden. There was a great quietness that +was broken now and then by the twittering of birds in the hedges as they +nestled for the night, or the cries made by the screech-owls, hooting in +the copse. + + +8 + +Mrs. Graham and Rachel had left them alone for a while, after dinner, +and as he sat, with her at his feet, fondling her hair, she spoke of her +feeling for him again. + +"I've wondered sometimes," she said, "about your not joining ... it +seemed odd ... but I thought that perhaps there was something that would +explain it. I'd like you to join, Quinny ... I can't pretend that I +wouldn't ... but I don't feel that I ought to ask you to do so. If I +were a man I should join, I think, but I'm not a man, and I'm not likely +to have to suffer any of the things that a man has to suffer if he goes +... and so I don't say anything. I don't know why I'd like you to go ... +I ought to be glad that you haven't gone because I love you and I don't +want to lose you ... but all the same I'd like you to go. It isn't just +because other men have gone, and I don't feel any desire for revenge +because Ninian's been killed ... it's just because England's England, I +suppose...." She laughed a little nervously. "I can hardly expect you to +feel about England as I do. You're Irish!.." + +"I've made that excuse for myself, Mary. Don't you make it for me. I +know inside me that the war isn't England's war ... it's the world's +war. John Marsh admits that much. He doesn't like English rule in +Ireland, but he doesn't pretend that German rule would be better ... not +seriously, anyhow. No, dear, I haven't that excuse. I know that if we +lose this war, the world will be a worse place to live in than it is. I +haven't any conscientious objection ... I don't feel that we are in the +wrong ... I feel that we're in the right ... that we never were so right +as we are. I'm simply anxious to save my skin. And even if I felt that +John Marsh were right in being anti-English, I don't feel that I have +any right to take up that attitude. England's done no wrong to my +family.... You see, dear, I haven't any excuse that's worth while ... +except the wish to preserve my life ... and that's a poor excuse. When I +think of being at the Front, I think of myself as dead ... lying out +there ... without any of the decencies ... until I'm offensive to the +men who were my friends ... until they sicken at the stench of _me_!..." + +"Don't, dear!" she murmured. + +"Perhaps I shall conquer this ... this meanness. I want to conquer it. I +want to behave as I believe. I believe that there are things one should +be glad to fight for and die for ... and I want to feel glad to fight +for them and be ready to die for them. But now I feel most that I want +to be safe ... to go on living and living and enjoying things...." + +"But can you enjoy things if they're not worth dying for, Quinny? If +England weren't worthy dying for, would it be worth living in! That's +how I feel!" + +"That's how I _think_, Mary, but it isn't how I _feel_. I feel that I +want to be safe no matter what happens ... if civilisation is to go to +smash and we're to be driven back to savagery, distrusting and being +distrusted ... I feel that I don't care ... that I want to be safe, to +go on living, even if I have to live in a cave and hide from +everything.... Oh, my dear, don't you see what a poor thing I am!" + +"Yes," she said simply. + +"And yet you're willing to marry me?" + +"Yes. I can't help loving you, any more than I can help loving my +country. I can't explain it and I don't want to explain it. If I were a +man and England were in the wrong, I'd fight for England just because +she's England. Everything makes me feel like that. When Ninian was +killed, something went on saying, 'You're English! You mustn't cry! +You're English!' And when I look at the trees outside, I feel that +they're English, too, and that they're telling me I'm English ... that +somehow they're special trees, different from the trees in other +countries ... that they've got something that I've got, and that I've +got something they've got ... something that a French tree or a German +tree hasn't got.... Oh, I know it's silly, but I can't help it ... and +when I used to walk about the lanes and fields after Ninian's death ... +I felt that the birds and the grass and the ferns and everything were +saying 'You're English!' and I wanted to say back to them, 'You're +English, too!...' I suppose people feel like that everywhere ... those +friends of yours in Ireland must feel like that about Ireland ... and +Germans, too!..." + +He nodded his head. "It's a madness, this nationality," he said, "but +you can't get a cure for it. Even I feel it!" + +"Quinny!" + +"Yes, Mary!" + +There was a nervous note in her voice. She got up, so that she was on +her knees, and fingered the lapels of his coat. + +"Quinny!" she said again, and he waited for her to proceed. "I ... I +want us to get married ... soon! You'll probably go into the Army ... +nobody could go on feeling as you do, and not go in ... and I'd like us +to ... to have had some time together ... before you go. I don't want to +be married to you just ... just a day or two before you go. I ... I want +to have lived with you and to ... to have taken care of your house ... +with you in it!..." + +He folded her in his arms. + +"You will, Quinny?" she said. + +"Yes," he answered. + + + + +THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +They were to be married as soon as Lent was over. Mrs. Graham, reluctant +to lose Mary, had pleaded for delay, urging that Ballymartin was so far +from Boveyhaven that she would seldom see her. "Two days' post," she +protested. + +"But you'll come and stay with us, mother," Mary declared, "and we'll +come and stay with you!" + +It would be quite easy for Henry to come to Devonshire, for he could +carry his work about with him. Then Mrs. Graham had yielded to them, and +it was settled that the marriage was to take place at the beginning of +May. Neither Mary nor he had spoken again of the question of enlistment. +She had said all that was in her mind about it, and what followed was +for him to decide. + +He went back to Ballymartin. There were things to be done at home in +preparation for the coming of a bride. The house had not known a +mistress since his mother's death, and his father had been too +preoccupied with his agricultural experiments to bother greatly about +the interior of his house. So long as he could find things more or less +where he had left them, Mr. Quinn had been content. + +"You won't overhaul it too much, Quinny?" Mary said to him, "because I'd +like to do some of that!" + +He had promised that he would do no more than was immediately necessary; +and then he went. + +"I shall have to go to Dublin," he had told her. "There'll be a lot of +stuff to settle with lawyers!" Her settlement, for example. "I'll go +home first, then on to Dublin, and then back here. I shall get to +Boveyhayne just after Easter!" + + +2 + +Mr. Quinn had not greatly bothered about the interior of the house, but +Hannah had, and although there were things that needed to be done, there +was less than he had imagined. + +"I'm going to be married, Hannah!" he said to her soon after he had +arrived home. + +"Are you, now?" she exclaimed. + +"Yes. You remember Mr. Graham?..." + +"Ay, poor sowl, I mind him ... the nice-spoken, well-behaved lad he +was!..." + +"Well, I'm going to marry his sister!" + +"It'll be quaren nice to think o' this house havin' a mistress in it +again, an' wee weans, mebbe. I was here, a young girl, when your father +brought your mother home ... I mind it well ... she was a quiet woman, +an' she stud in the hall there as nervous as a child 'til I went forrit +to her, an' said, 'Ye're right an' welcome, ma'am!', an' then she +plucked up her heart, an' she give me a wee bit of a smile, an' said +'Thank ye, Hannah!' for your father told her who I was. An' she used to +come an' talk to me afore you were born ... she was terrible frightened, +poor woman. Ay, she was terrible frightened of havin' you! Your father +couldn't make her out at all. It was a quare pity!" + +He let her ramble on, for he wanted now to hear about his mother, of +whom he knew so little. There was a portrait of her in the house, a +fair, slight, timid-looking woman who seemed to be shrinking out of the +frame. It was odd to think that she was his mother, this frightened +woman of whom he had no memory whatever, for whom he had no tender +feeling. He had loved his father deeply, but he had no love for his +mother. How could he feel love for her? He had never known her!... But +now he wanted to know all that Hannah knew about her, for Hannah perhaps +had known more about her than any one. Hannah had cared for her, pitied +her.... + +"Yes, Hannah!" he said, so that she might proceed. + +"She was sure she was goin' to die, an' I had the quare work to keep her +quiet. An' she was terrible feard of dyin'!" + +He listened to her with a strange feeling of pain. All that he had +endured at the thought of fighting had been endured by his mother at the +thought of giving him birth. He felt that now, at last, he knew his +mother and could sympathise with her and love her. + +"But sure what was the sense of bein' afeard of that," Hannah Went on. +"God wouldn't be hard on the like of her, the poor, innocent woman. I +toul' lies til her, God forgive me, an' let on to her that people made +out that it was worse nor it was to have a child ... but she had a +despert bad time of it, for she was a weak woman, with no body in her at +all, an' a poor will to suffer things. She never was the better of you!" +She smiled at him sadly. "Never! An' she took no interest in nothin' +after that ... she could hardly bear to look at you ... an' you her own +wee son. She didn't live long after you come, an' mebbe it was as well, +for God never made her to contend with anything. I was quaren fond of +her. Ye had to like her, she was that helpless. She couldn't thole any +one next or near her but myself ... and so I got fond of her, for a body +has to like people that depends on them. Will your wife be a fair lady +or a dark lady, Master Henry?" + +He realised that she wished him to describe Mary to her. + +"She's dark," he said. "Not at all like her brother!" + +"Ay, he was the big, fair man that was a credit to a woman to have!" + +"I have her photograph upstairs," Henry went on, "I'll go and get it. +You'd like to see it, wouldn't you?" + +"Deed an' I would," she answered. + +He got the photograph and gave it to her, and she took it in her hands +and looked at it very steadily. + +"She's a comely-lookin' girl," she said, handing it to him again. "She +has sweet eyes an' a proud way of holdin' her head. She shud be a good +wife to you. I'll be glad to see her here, for dear knows, it's lonesome +sittin' in the house with no one to look after. I miss your da sore, +Master Henry, an' it's seldom you're here now!" + +"I'll be here much more in future, Hannah!" + +"Well, thank God for that! I like well to see the quality in their +houses, an' them not to be runnin' here an' runnin' there, an' not +thinkin' of their own place an' their own people. An' I pray to God +you'll have fine childher, an' I'll be well-spared to see them growin' +up to be a credit to you!" + +The old woman's patient service and love seemed very noble to him, and +he went to her and took her hand. "You're the only mother I've ever +known, Hannah!" he said. "You've always been very good to me!" + +"An' why wouldn't I be good to you?" she exclaimed, raising her fine +blue eyes to his. "Aren't you the only child I ever had to rear? Dear +bless you, son, what else would I be but good to you?" + +And suddenly she put her arms about him and kissed him passionately, and +as she kissed him, she cried: + +"God only knows what I'm girnin' for!" she exclaimed, releasing him and +drying her eyes. + + +3 + +He wandered about the house, touching a chair or fingering a curtain or +looking at a portrait, and wondered how Mary would like her new home. It +was not an old house, nor had the Quinns lived in it from the time it +was built, and so Henry could not feel about it what Ninian must have +felt about Boveyhayne Manor, in which his ancestors had lived for four +centuries. But it was his home, in which he had been born, in which his +mother and father had died, and it seemed to him to be as full of +memories and tradition as Mary's home. The war had broken the line of +Grahams, broken a tradition that had survived the dangers of four +hundred years. That seemed to Henry to be a pity. Perhaps, he thought, +this worship of Family is a foolish thing. There was a danger in being +rooted to one place, in letting your blood become too closely mingled, +and a tradition might very well become a substitute for life; but when +all that was said and admitted, there was a pride in one's breeding that +made life seem like a sacrament, and the years but the rungs of a long +ladder. Once, in the days of the Bloomsbury house, they had talked of +tradition, and some one had related the old story of the American +tourist who was shown the sacred light, and told that it had not been +out for hundreds of years. "Well, I guess it's out now!" the American +replied, blowing the light out. They had made a mock of the horrified +priest and had protested that his service to the flame was a waste of +life and energy and time. And when they had said all that they had to +say, Ninian, speaking more quietly than was his wont, had interjected, +"But don't you think the American was rather a cad?" + +They had argued fiercely then, some of them protesting that the +American's disregard of a worn convention was splendid, virile, +youthful, god-like. Roger, Henry remembered, had sided with Ninian so +far as to admit that the American's behaviour had been too +inconsiderate. "He might have discussed the matter with the priest ... +tried to persuade him to blow it out himself!" but that was as far as he +would go with Ninian. + +"I admit," Ninian had retorted, "that it was a foolish tradition ... but +don't you think the American was rather a cad. It was better, wasn't it, +to have that tradition than to have none at all?" + +Now, standing here, in this house that had been his father's, and now +was his, and would, in due time, be his son's, if ever he should have a +son, it seemed to him that Ninian had been right in his contention. And +just as Mary, moving through the Devonshire lanes, had felt that +everything proclaimed its Englishness and hers, making them and her part +of each other, so he, looking out of the window across the fields, felt +something inside him insisting, "You're Irish. You must be proud! You're +Irish! You must be proud!..." + +He remembered very vividly how his father had led him to this very +window once and, pointing towards the fields, had said, "That's land, +Henry! _My_ land!..." + +And because he had been proud of his land, had been part of it, as it +had been part of him, he had been willing to spend himself on it. There +seemed to Henry to be in that, all that there was in patriotism. +Irrationally, impulsively, unaccountably one loved one's country. The +air of it and the earth of it, the winds that blew over it and the seas +that encircled it, all these had been mingled to make men, so that when +there was danger and threat to a man's country, some native thing in him +stirred and compelled him to say, "This is my body! This is my blood!" +and sent him out, irrationally, impulsively, unaccountably, to die in +its defence. There was here no question of birth or possessions: the +slum-man felt this stirring in his nature as strongly as the landlord. +In that sudden, swift rising of young men when war was declared, each +man instinctively hurrying to the place of enlistment, there were men +from slums and men from mansions, all of them, in an instant, made +corporate, given unity, brought to communion, partaking of a sacrament, +becoming at that moment a sacrament themselves.... + + +4 + +But if this stirring in one's nature made a man both a sacrament and a +partaker of a sacrament, was there not yet something horrible in this +spilling of blood, this breaking of bodies? Was this sacrament only to +be consummated by the butcher? Was there no healing sacrament which, +when a man partook of it, gave him life and more life! Was there not an +honourable rivalry among nations, each to be better than the other, to +replace this brawling about boundaries, this pettifogging with +frontiers? Was there to be no end to this killing and preparing for +killing? Would men, from now on, set themselves to the devisal of +murderous and more murderous weapons of war until at last an indignant, +disgusted God, sick of the smell of blood, threw the earth from Him, +caring nothing what happened to it, so that it was out of His +consciousness?... + +While he looked out of the window, the dusk settled down, and he could +see the mists rising from the fields. He drew the curtains, and went and +sat down by the fire. There was a faint odour of burning turf in the +room, and as he watched the blue spirals of smoke curling up the +chimney, he remembered how he had trudged across Dartmoor once, and, +suddenly, unexpectedly had turned a corner of the road, and looked down +on a village in a hollow, and for a moment or two had imagined he was in +Ireland because of the smell of burning turf that came from the cottage +chimneys. + +"We and they are one," he murmured to himself. "Our differences are but +two aspects of the same thing. Our blood and their blood, our earth and +their earth, mingled and made sacramental, shall be to the glory of +God!" + +The door opened, and Hannah came in, carrying a lighted lamp. + +"I just thought I'd bring it myself," she said. "I'd be afeard of my +life to let Minnie handle it. Dear knows, but she'd set herself on fire, +or mebbe the house, an' that'd be a nice thing, an' a new mistress +comin' to it. Will I put it down here by your elbow?" + +"Anywhere, Hannah!" he answered. + +"I'll just rest it here then, where it'll not be too strong for your +eyes. Yon ought to have the electric light put in the house. Major +Cairnduff has it in his house, an' it's not half the size of this +one.... Will I get you something?" + +"No, thank you, Hannah!" + +"A taste of some thin' to ate, mebbe, or a sup to drink?" + +"Nothing, thank you!" + +She went over to the fire. "Dear bless us," she said, "that's no sort of +a fire at all. What come over you, to let it get that low!" + +"I didn't notice it, Hannah!" + +"'Deed an' I don't suppose you did ... moidherin' your mind about one +thing an' another! There'll be a different story to tell when the +mistress comes home. Mark my words, there will! Dear, oh, dear, oh, +dear!..." + + +5 + +"I'm going to Belfast to-night, Hannah," he said when he had been at +home a few weeks. "I want to catch an early train to Dublin to-morrow." + +"Yes," she said. + +"When I come back, I shall bring my wife with me!" + +"God bless us and save us," she exclaimed, "it'll be quare to think of +you with a wife, an' it on'y the other day since you were a child, an' +me skelpin' you for provokin' me. Well, I'll have the house ready for +yous both when you come!" + +"Will you tell Matier to harness the horse...." + +"I'll tell him this minute. That man's near demented mad at the thought +of you marryin'. 'Be the hokey O!' he says whenever I go a-near him, an' +then he starts laughin' an' tellin' me it's the great news altogether. +'I wish,' says he, 'the oul' lad was alive. He'd be makin' hell's blazes +for joy!' Och, he's cracked, that fella. I tell him many's the time it's +in the asylum he should be, but sure, you might as well talk to the +potstick as talk to him. He'll drive you to the station with a heart +an' a han', and the capers of him when you both come back'll be like +nothin' on God's earth!" + +"So long as he doesn't capsize us both into the ditch!..." + +"Him capsize you! I'd warm his lug for him if he dar'd to do such a +thing!..." + + + + +THE TWELFTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +He had been to the offices of Messrs. Kilworth and Kilworth in Kildare +Street, and had seen Sir John Kilworth and settled as much of his +business as could then be done. Now, wondering just what he should do +next, he made his way to Stephen's Green and entered the Park, and while +he was standing on the bridge over the lake, looking at the dark fish in +the water, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turning round, saw John +Marsh. + +"I didn't know you were in Dublin," John said, holding out his hand. + +"I haven't been here very long," Henry answered, "and I'm going away +again after Easter. I'm going to be married." + +"Married!" + +"Yes ... to Ninian Graham's sister. I've often talked of you to her. You +must come and stay with us when we get back to Ballymartin." + +"Yes. Yes, I should like to! I hope you'll be happy, Henry!" He spoke in +a nervous, agitated way that was not habitual with him, and Henry, +looking more closely at him, saw that he was tired and ill-looking. + +"Aren't you well, John?" he asked. + +"Oh, yes. Yes, I'm quite well. I'm rather tired, that's all. I've been +working very hard!" + +"Still drilling?" + +"Yes ... still drilling!" + +"What are you doing at Easter, John?" Henry asked. + +Marsh looked at him quickly, almost in a startled fashion. "At Easter!" +he repeated. "Oh ... nothing! Why?" + +"You and I might go for a long walk through the mountains," Henry +answered. "We could walk to Glendalough and back again. It would just +fill up the Easter holidays. Let's start to-morrow morning. I'm staying +at the Club. You can meet me there!" + +"No, I'm sorry, Henry, I can't go with you!..." + +"Why not? You said you'd nothing particular to do!" + +"I'm going to Mass in the morning...." + +"Well, that doesn't matter. We can start after you've been. Come along, +John. You look washed-out, and the tramp'll do you good!..." + +Marsh shook his head. "I can't go, Henry," he said. "It isn't only +to-morrow morning that I want to go to Mass ... I want to go the day +after ... and I want to go with all ... all my people on Easter Sunday!" + +"You've grown very religious, John. Do you go to Mass every morning?" + +"I've been every morning now for a month. You see, one doesn't know ... +well, perhaps I am growing more religious. I won't keep you now. Perhaps +I shall see you again!..." + +"Why, of course, you'll see me again. Heaven and earth, man, anybody'd +think you were going to die, the way you talk!" + +Marsh did not speak. He smiled when Henry spoke of dying, and then +looked away. They were still standing on the bridge, and he leant on the +parapet and looked down on the lake. + +"Queer things, fish!" he said. + +"Not nearly so queer as you are," Henry answered. "Why won't you come +with me? You won't want to be cooped up in Dublin all Easter, do you?" + +"Cooped up!" + +"Yes. Two or three days of mountain air 'ud do you a world of good. +You'd better come with me!" + +"No, I can't," he answered so abruptly that Henry did not press the +matter again. "When are you going to be married, Henry?" he asked, +speaking in his old, kindly tone again. + +"At the beginning of May ... less than a fortnight now!" + +Marsh turned away from the water, and stood with his back to the +parapet. "Why don't you spend Easter with your fiancée?" he said. + +"That isn't quite possible, John. I should only be in the way, if I were +there now!" + +"Or at Ballymartin. It would be rather nice to spend Easter at +Ballymartin!" + +"Well, I will, if you'll come with me...." + +"I can't do that. I don't think I should stay in Dublin at Easter if I +were you...." + +"Why?" + +"Oh, it'll be dull for you. People go away. There's not much to do. I +should go to the North or over to England or somewhere if I were you!" + +Henry felt resentful. "You seem damned anxious to get rid of me, John," +he said. "You won't come into the mountains with me, and you keep on +telling me to clear out of Dublin!" + +Marsh turned to him quickly, and put his hand on his arm. + +"My dear Henry," he said, very gently, "you know that I don't feel like +that. I thought you'd be ... I thought you'd have a happier Easter out +of Dublin, that was all. That place in Wales, where you went with poor +Farlow...." + +"Tre'Arrdur Bay?" + +"Yes. Why don't you go there? It really isn't much further than +Glendalough." + +"You can't walk to it, John, and you can walk to Glendalough!" + +"Oh, well, if you won't go ... you won't go, and there's an end of it. +Good-bye!" + +"Wait a bit. Come and dine with me to-night!" + +"I can't, Henry!" Henry made an angry gesture. "Don't be hurt," Marsh +went on quickly. "I have things to attend to. You see, I didn't know you +were here. I'm on my way now to a ... a committee meeting. I'll come and +see you to-morrow, if I can manage it. I'll lunch with you somewhere!" + +"All right. I'll meet you here at one, and we'll lunch at the +Shelbourne. By the way, John, aren't there some races on Monday?" + +"Yes ... at Fairyhouse!" + +"Well, couldn't we go to them? I've never seen a horse-race in my +life!..." + +"I don't think I can manage that, Henry!..." + +"Oh, damn you, you can't manage anything. Well, all right, I'll see you +to-morrow!" + +"Good-bye, then!..." + +He went off, leaving Henry on the bridge staring after him, and as he +went towards the Grafton Street gate, there was something slightly +incongruous about his look. + +"I know what it is," Henry said to himself. "His coat's too big for him. +He always did wear things that didn't fit him!" + + +2 + +Marsh did not keep the appointment. Soon after one o'clock, a boy came +to Henry, and asked him if he were Mr. Quinn, and when Henry had assured +him that he was, he said, "Mr. Marsh bid me to tell you, sir, that he's +not able to come. He says he's very sorry, but he can't help it!" + +The lad repeated the message almost as if he had learned it by heart. +"Oh, very well!" Henry said, offering money to him. + +"Ah, sure, that's all right, sir!" the lad said, and then he went away. + +"I suppose," Henry said to himself angrily, "he's at his damned drilling +again!" + +He lunched alone, and then took the tram to Kingstown, and walked from +there to Bray along the coast. He felt dispirited and lonely. Jordan and +Saxon were out of Dublin ... Jordan was in Sligo, he had heard, and +Saxon was staying with his uncle near the mountains. He knew that Crews +lived in Bray, but he had forgotten the address. "Perhaps," he thought, +"I shall see him in the street...." + +"Lordy God!" he exclaimed, "I'd give the world for some one to talk to. +John Marsh might have tried to meet me. Fooling about with his ... +penny-farthing volunteers!" + +"In a little while," he said to himself, as he descended into Killiney +and walked along the road by the railway station, "I shall be married to +Mary, and then!..." + +He remembered what she had said to him at Boveyhayne, "I'd like you to +go, Quinny ... I can't pretend that I wouldn't...." + +He stood for a while, leaning against the wall and looking out over the +crumpled sea. "I don't know," he said to himself, "I don't know!" + + +3 + +He climbed to the top of Bray Head, and while he stood there, his mind +was full of thoughts that beat backwards and forwards. In olden times, +the histories said, Ireland had sent a stream of scholars over the waste +places of Europe to fertilise them and make them fruitful. "Now," he +thought bitterly, "we send 'bosses' to Tammany Hall...." + +He tried to envisage the means whereby Ireland would be brought to the +measure and the stature of a dignified and honourable nation ... "not +this brawling, whining, cadging, snivelling, Oh-Jesus-have-mercy-on-us +disorder!" and he saw only a long, tedious, painful process of +self-regeneration. "We must rise on our own wings!" + +"But first we must be free, free from the bondage of history, free from +the bondage of romance, free from the bondage of politics, free from the +bondage of religion, and free from the bondage of our bellies!" + +"There are four Irishmen to be conquered and controlled: the Publican, +the Priest, the Politician and the Poet...." + +"We cannot be friendly with England until we are equal with England ... +but England cannot make us equal with her ... we can only do that +ourselves!" + +"England is our sister ... not our mother!..." + +"Catholicism is Death ... and Intolerance is Death. Wherever there is +Catholicism there is Decay that will not be stopped until the people +protest. Wherever there is Intolerance there is a waste of life, a +perversion of energy. When the Protestant ceases, and the Catholic +begins, to shout 'To Hell with the Pope,' there will be glory and life +in Ireland...." + +He tried to plan a means of making a change of mind in Ireland. "We must +make opinions and active brains!" and so he saw himself urging his +friends to abandon parliaments to the middle-aged and the second-rate, +while they bent their minds to the conquest of the schools. "Let the old +men make their speeches," he said aloud as if he were addressing a +conference. "We'll mould the minds of the children!" + +They must exult in service. "I believe in Work ... in the Job Well Done +... in giving oneself without ceasing ... in the holy communion of men +labouring together for something which is greater than themselves ... in +spending oneself with no reward but to know that one is spent well!..." + +They would enlist the young men of generous mind. They would open their +minds to the knowledge of the wide world, and would pity the man who was +content only to be an islander; and they would give the harvest of their +minds to their juniors, so that they, when they grew to manhood, might +find greater ease in working for the common good. They would demand, not +privileges, but responsibilities. "If we cannot make decisions, even +when we decide wrongly, then we are not men!" + +"We must kill the Publican, we must subdue the Priest, we must humiliate +the Politician, and chasten the Poet...." + +"In all our ways, O God, let us guide ourselves!..." + +It seemed to him that God was not a Being who miraculously made the +world, but a Being who laboured at it, suffered and failed, and rose +again and achieved.... He could hear God, stumbling through the +Universe, full of the agony of desire, calling continually, "Let there +be Light! Let there be Light!..." + + +4 + +He looked about him. Behind him, lay the long broken line of the Wicklow +mountains, with the Sugar Loaf thrusting its pointed head into the +heavens. There in front of him, heaving and tumbling, was the sea: a +miracle of healing and cleansing. It would be good, he thought, to spend +one's life in the sound of the sea, taking no care for the lives of +other men, content that oneself was fed and comfortable. "But that would +not be enough. There must be Light and More Light!" + +"God," he said, "has many forms. In that place, he is a Quietness ... in +this place, a Discontent ... in a third place, a Quest." + +"But here, God is a Demand. 'Let there be Light! Let there be more +Light!'" + + +5 + +He went home and wrote to Mary. "_My impulse is to tell you no more than +this, that I love you. I wrote to you this morning, and I have nothing +to add that is news. But I feel an overpowering desire to insist on my +love for you ... to do nothing for ever but love you and love you.... +You see the mood I'm in! I went out of Dublin to-day, sulking and +depressed because John Marsh had failed me and I was lonely, but now I'm +extraordinarily happy. I feel that I have only to stretch out my hand +and touch you ... and then I shall be depressed no more. This is not a +letter. It has no beginning and it will have no end. It's an outpouring. +To-night is very beautiful. I went up to my bedroom a few moments ago, +and sat at the window looking over Stephen's Green. There was a blue +mist hanging over the trees, and the sky was full of light and colour. I +do not believe there is any place in the world where one sees so much of +the sky as in Dublin. It reaches up and up until you feel that if a bird +were to pierce the clouds with its beak, it would tear a hole in the +heavens and let the universe in. And while I was sitting there, I felt +very near to you, dearest. In ten days we shall be married, and then you +will come with me and see these places, too. I shall become Irish over +again when I show you my home, and I shall watch Ireland taking hold of +you and absorbing you and making you as Irish as I am. You'll go on +thinking that you're English until some one speaks disparagingly of +Ireland, and then you'll flare up, and you'll be Irish, not only in +nature, but in knowledge. Ireland does that to people, so you cannot +hope to escape. Good-night, my very dear!_" + + +6 + +On Sunday, he went into the mountains, and in the evening he returned to +Dublin. There was an extraordinary quietness in the streets, though they +were crowded with people ... the quietness that comes when people are +tired and happy. As he crossed O'Connell Bridge, he stood for a few +moments to look up the Liffey. The sunset had transmuted the river to +the look of a sheet of crinkled gold, and the sunlight made the houses +on the quays look warm and lovely, even though they were old and worn +and discoloured. "In her heart," he thought, "Dublin is still a proud +lady, although her dress be draggled!" + +He turned to look at a company of Volunteers who were marching towards +Liberty Hall. There were little girls in Gaelic dress at the head of +them, accompanied by a pale, tired-looking woman, with tightened lips, +who stumped heavily by the side of them; and following them, came young +men and boys and a shuffling group of hungry labourers, misshapen by +heavy toil and privation ... and as the company passed by, girls stood +on the pavement and jeered at them. They pointed to the woman with +tightened lips, and mocked at her uniform and her tossed hair.... + +"They're fools," Henry thought, looking at them as they went wearily on, +"but, by God, they're finer than the people who jeer at them. They ... +they are serving something ... and these Don't-Care-a-Damners aren't +serving anything!..." + +There was a man at his elbow who turned to him and said, "Them lads 'ud +run like hell if you were to point a penny pop-gun at them! If a peeler +was to take their names, they'd be shiverin' with fright. They'd fall +out of their trousers with the terror'd be on them!" + +Henry did not answer. Indeed, it seemed incredible that there was any +fight in them ... if he had been asked for his opinion, he might have +said something similar to what this stranger had said to him ... but he +hated to hear the man's disparagement, and so he did not make any answer +to him. + +"I'd rather have them on my side than have him," he thought as he moved +away, "with the stink of porter on him!" + +It sickened him to see the generosity and the youth walking in the +company of the hopelessness of Ireland, training themselves in the +means of killing. "If they'd put all that energy and enthusiasm into +something that will preserve life and make it deeper and finer, nothing +could prevail against them. If only John had more intellect and less +emotion ... if Mineely and Connolly were less bitter!" + +He walked along Grafton Street, turning phrases over in his mind, angry +phrases, bitter things that he would say to John Marsh when he met him. + +"What have young lads and girls to do with Hate and Death?" he said to +himself, as if he were talking to Marsh. "You're perverting them from +their purpose! You're robbing God of His due ... of the hope that fills +His Heart with each generation!" + +"But it's no good talking to him ... he's too fond of spilling over. If +he were like Yeats, content to love Ireland at a distance ... to 'arise +and go now' no further than the Euston Road ... he might achieve +something, and at all events, he'd be harmless!" + +He turned out of Grafton Street into Stephen's Green. + +"To-morrow," he said to himself, "I'll go to Fairyhouse!" + +And then he went to his Club. He was tired and sleepy, and soon after +supper, he went to bed. + + +7 + +It was late when he awoke and so, feeling lazy after his day's climbing, +he resolved that he would not go to the races. "I'll loaf about," he +said, "and to-night I'll go to a theatre." There was a letter from Mary +and one from Roger. "_Gerald Luke was killed in France last week, and so +was Clifford Dartrey. Goeffrey Grant has been wounded badly. The +Improved Tories have suffered heavily in the War...._" Roger wrote. + +When he had breakfasted, he left the Club and walked towards Sackville +Street. He would go to the Abbey Theatre, he thought, and book a seat +for the evening performance. + +There was an odd, bewildered look about the people who stood in groups +in Sackville Street. + +"What's up?" Henry said to a bystander. + +"Begod," said the man, "I think there's a rebellion on. That's what this +woman says anyway!" + +"A what?" + +"A rebellion or something of the sort. You can ask her yourself! Begod, +it's a quare day to have it. The people'll not enjoy themselves at +all...." + +Henry turned to the woman who was standing in the centre of the group, +endlessly relating her experience. + +"I went to the Gener'l," she said, "an' I said to the man behin' the +counter, 'Gimme two ha'penny postcards an' a penny stamp an' change for +a shillin', if you please!' and I hadn't the words out of my mouth 'til +a man in a green uniform ... one of them Sinn Feiners ... come up to me, +an' pointed a gun at me, an' toul' me to go home. 'Go home yourself!' +says I, an' I give his oul' gun a push with my hand, 'an' who are you to +be orderin' a person about?' 'If you don't go on when I tell you,' says +he, 'I'll shoot you!' an' I declare to my God he looked as if he'd blow +the head off you. 'Well, wait till I get my change anyway,' says I. +'Ye'll get no change here,' says he. 'I will so,' I said, and I turned +to the man behind the counter, but, sure, God bless you, he wasn't +there. 'Well, this bates all,' says I to the Sinn Feiner, 'an if the +peelers catches a houldt of you, you'll get into bother over the head of +this!' I picked up my shillin', an' I went out. The place was full of +them. They were orderin' everybody out, except a couple or three +soldiers that they made prisoners. An' if you were to go down there now, +you'd see them, young fellas that I could bate with my one hand, cocked +up behin' the windas with guns in their hands, an' telling people to +move on out of that...." + +Some one came into the group, and said "What's that?" and she turned to +him and began again. "I went in to the Gener'l," she said, "an' I said +to the man behin' the counter, 'Gimme two ha'penny postcards....'" + +Henry made his way out of the group of listeners, and walked down the +street towards the General Post Office. + +"It's absurd," he said. "Ridiculous! A rebellion!" + +But something was toward. On the roof of the Post Office there were two +flags, a green flag with a motto on it, and a tri-colour, orange, white +and green. There was hardly any wind, and the flags hung limply from +their staffs, but as Henry approached the Post Office, the wind stirred, +and the green flag fluttered enough for him to read what was printed on +it. It bore the legend IRISH REPUBLIC. + +"It's a poor sort of performance, this!" he said as he came up to the +building. + +All the windows on the ground floor were broken, and many of those on +the upper floors, and in each window, on sacks laid on piled furniture, +were one or two young volunteers, each with a rifle cocked.... + + +8 + +There was a holiday mood on the people. They had come out to enjoy +themselves, and here was an entertainment beyond their dreams of +pleasure.... It was a dangerous kind of joke to play ... one of them +oul' guns might go off, and who knows who might get killed dead ... and +it was a serious thing to seize possession of the Post Office ... if the +peelers was to come an' catch them at it an' bring them before the +magistrates, they'd be damn near transported ... but it was the great +joke all the same. Whoever thought there would be the like of that to +see, and not a penny to pay for it.... The minute the peelers came up +... where in hell were the peelers? + +It was then that they began to believe that there was more than a joke +in this rebellion. There were no policemen to be seen anywhere. "That's +strange now! There ought to be a peeler or two about!..." + +Then some one, pale and startled, came by. "They've killed a policeman!" +he said. "The unfortunate man! I was coming past the Castle, and I saw a +Sinn Feiner go up to him and blow his brains out. Not a word of warning! +The poor man put up his hand to bid them go back ... they were trying to +get into the Castle ... and the Sinn Feiner lifted his rifle and shot +him dead!..." + +"Begod, it's in earnest they are!..." + +"But what can they do? They can't hold out against the British Army...." + +"They might do a lot, now! They're mad, the whole of them! What in hell +do they want to start a rebellion for?..." + +Henry moved away. He went from group to group, listening to one for a +while, and then moving on to another. There were many rumours already +flying through the crowd. The Germans had landed in the West, and were +marching to Dublin. A "mysterious stranger" had been captured on the +coast of Kerry a few days before. "It was Casement!" The German Navy had +made a raid on England, and the British Fleet had been badly beaten.... + +A youth, holding a rifle with a fixed bayonet, stood on sentry-go in the +middle of the street. He was very pale and tired and nervous-looking, +but looked as resolute as he looked tired. He did not speak to any one, +nor did any one speak to him. He stood there, staring fixedly in front +of him, watching and watching.... + +There was a sound of rumbling carts, and the noise of people cheering, +and presently a procession of wagons, loaded with cauliflower, and +guarded by armed Volunteers, came out of a side street, and drove up to +the Post Office. + +"The Commissariat!" some one said. "Begod they'll be tired of +cauliflower before they're through with that lot!" + +It was comical to see those loads of cauliflower being driven past. +Ireland was to fight for freedom with her stomach full of +cauliflower.... + +There was a Proclamation of the Republic on a wall near by, and he +hurried to read it. + +"What's the thing at the head of it?" a woman asked, gazing at the +Gaelic inscription on top of the Proclamation. + +"That's Irish," the man beside her replied. + +"I know that. What does it mean?" + +"Begod, I don't know...." + +Henry read the Proclamation through, and then re-read the finely-phrased +end of it! + + _We place the Irish Republic under the protection of the Most High + God, Whose Blessing we invoke on our arms, and we pray that no one + who serves that cause will dishonour it. In this supreme hour the + Irish nation must by its valour and discipline, and by the + readiness of its children to sacrifice themselves for the common + good, prove itself worthy of the august destiny to which it is + called._ + +"That's John," he said to himself, "or MacDonagh! And they began the +thing by killing an unarmed man! Their fine phrases won't cover that +mean deed!..." + + +9 + +He went back to his Club, and on the way, found that the rebels were in +possession of Stephen's Green. The gates were closed, and at each gate +were armed guards. He looked through the railings, and saw some boys +lying on the turf, with their rifles beside them. They did not move nor +look up, but lay very still and quiet, with a strange, preoccupied +expression on their faces. A little further on, other lads were digging +up the earth. + +"What are you doing?" he said to one of them, and the lad straightened +himself and wiped the sweat from his brow. + +"I don't know, sir!" he said, smiling nervously. "I'm supposed to be +diggin' a trench, but I think I'm diggin' my grave!..." + +A trench! When he looked at the poor scraping of earth and sod, he felt +a fierce anger against Marsh and his friends swelling in his heart "They +haven't the gumption to know that this is the worst place they could +have chosen to entrench themselves, even if they knew how to make +trenches!" On all sides of the Green were high houses, from which it +would be easy to pick off every man that lay in the trenches.... + +There were carts and motor-cars drawn across the street to make a +barricade, and most of the gates of the Green had garden-seats and +planks lying against them. There were even branches, torn from the trees +and shrubs, thrust through the railings.... + +He went into his Club to lunch. "They're in the College of Surgeons, +sir!" a servant said. "They say Madame's in the Green!..." + +"Madame?" he said vaguely. + +"Yes. Madame Markiewicz. They killed a policeman...." + +"Do you mean the man at the Castle?" + +"No, sir. I didn't hear of him. They killed this one on the other side +of the Green. There's cold lamb and cold chicken, sir!" + +"I'll have lamb!..." + +He hurried over his meal. He had little appetite for eating, and when he +had finished, he went to the smoking-room and wrote to Mary. "_Don't be +alarmed if you see anything about an Irish Rebellion in the +newspapers_," he wrote. "_It will probably be over by to-morrow. I'm +quite all right. You're not to worry!..._" And when he had finished it +he went out and posted it. "Good Lord!" he said aloud, as the letter +fell into the box, "I forgot that they've got hold of the General. I +don't suppose there'll be a collection!" + +He returned to the Club, but he could not keep still. There was no one, +except the servants and himself, in the house, and the emptiness of it +made him feel restless. Looking out of the window, he saw little girls, +like those he had seen on Sunday night, running about the Green, busy on +errands.... + +"The Kids' Rebellion!" he said to himself.... + +He left the club, and walked round the Green again, and as he passed the +College of Surgeons, two men appeared on the roof, and proceeded to +unfold the Republican tri-colour. They were clumsy, and they fumbled +with it, entangling the cords ... but at last they got it free, and then +they hauled it to the top of the flagstaff. The people on the pavement +below watched it as it fluttered in the light breeze, but none of them +spoke or cheered. The rebels in the Green made no sound either. The +Republican flag was hauled to its place in silence. + +"They don't seem very grateful for their deliverance," Henry thought, +glancing at the bystanders as he moved up the street. There was a crowd +of people on the edge of the pavement, and he thrust himself into it, +and glanced over the shoulder of a woman at the ground. There was a mess +of thick, congealing blood splashed on the road and the kerb. + +"That's where the peeler was killed!" the woman said to him.... + +He edged out of the crowd as quickly as he could, feeling sick with +horror, and again he felt a bitter anger against John Marsh. + +"He was going to Mass every morning, damn him, to make sure of his own +soul, but he didn't give the policeman time to make any preparation. All +his high motives and his idealism tumble down to that ... that mess on +the pavement!..." + + +10 + +"But what's the Government doing?" he wondered. + +There were no police, no soldiers, no authority anywhere. It seemed +unbelievable that a number of armed youths and men could seize a capital +city without opposition of any kind. He wondered whether there was any +truth in the rumours that had been floating about the city all day. +Could it possibly be that the Germans had effected a landing in Ireland +and were marching on the city? Could it be true that the British Fleet +had been destroyed by the German Fleet? Had the Government thrown up the +sponge?... + +He met O'Dowd, an official whom he had seen several times at the Club. +"Where's the Government?" he asked.... + +"Well, to tell you the truth, Quinn, I don't know. I believe there's an +election going on at Trinity College. It's a damned comic affair, this!" + +"Comic!" + +"Well, I mean to say, it's a bit rum, isn't it?" + + +11 + +He went back to the Club in the evening. There were no lights in the +streets, and as the dusk settled down, the crowds of holiday-makers +began to move homewards. There were no trams running and few cars to be +seen, and the tired crowd that had been standing or walking about all +day, dragged itself home listlessly and heavily. There was a sense of +foreboding over the people, and some of them glanced apprehensively +about them. The thing had been funny in the daylight, but it was getting +dark now ... and who knew what might be lurking in the shadows? It was +strange that there were no police to be seen anywhere, and stranger +still that the soldiers had not appeared.... + +There was a Sinn Feiner on guard at the gate near Henry's Club, and +sitting at the open window, Henry could see him very distinctly: a +little, red-haired, angry man, who chewed his moustache and gaped about +him with bloodshot eyes. There were other Sinn Feiners with him, but he +was the most distinctive. He could not stay still: he moved about +continually, going into the Park and coming out again, challenging +passers-by, sloping his rifle and ordering it, and then sloping it +again. "The thing's getting on his nerves," Henry thought, as he watched +him; and while he watched, an elderly man came past the Shelbourne Hotel +in the uniform of a naval officer. The Sinn Feiners saw him, and the +red-haired man ordered his subordinates to arrest him. They ran across +the street and attempted to seize him, but he resisted, and raised his +walking stick to defend himself. A rebel caught hold of the stick, and +the two men stood there, against a gateway, struggling to wrest the +stick from each other. The up-and-down movement of their arms was like +the quick, jerky movement of figures in a film, and for a moment or two, +Henry wanted to laugh ... but the desire died when he saw the red-haired +man raising his rifle and aiming at the old man's heart.... + +"Oh, my God, he's going to shoot him!" he shouted out, jumping up from +his seat and leaning out of the window. "Don't shoot him ... don't shoot +him!" he cried. It seemed to him that he was yelling at the top of his +voice, but that could not have been so, for no one turned to look ... +and yet he could hear the red-haired man distinctly. + +"I have ye covered," he was saying, "an' I'll shoot ye if ye don't give +in!..." + +The old man held on to the stick for a moment or two, and then, +straightening himself, he surrendered; and the rebels led him into the +Park. Through the trees, Henry could see him being conducted before a +rebel officer who saluted him and began to interrogate him. Then the +procession moved off into the centre of the Park, and the little angry, +red-haired man returned to the gate. + +"In the morning," Henry exclaimed to himself, "in the morning, that +little swine will sing another song!" + + +12 + +A horse-drawn cab came down the street, and as it approached, the guard +at the gate turned out, and challenged the driver. "Halt!" they shouted. + +"Ah, g'long with you!" the driver replied, whipping up his horse. + +"Halt!" they called again, and a third time "Halt!" but the driver did +not heed them, and then they fired at him.... There was a clatter of +hooves on the street, and the horse fell to the ground, striking sparks +from the stones as it struggled to rise again. The driver did not pause: +he jumped from his box with amazing celerity and disappeared so swiftly +that the rebels could not catch him. And while the horse lay struggling +on the street, a motor-car came by, and again the rebels sent out their +challenge, and again the challenge was ignored. "Halt! Halt! Halt!..." +The chauffeur drove on, and the rebels fired on the occupants of the +car. There was a swift application of brakes, and the car slithered up +against the pavement ... and as it slithered, a man stood up beside the +driver, holding his hand to his side, and yelled, "Oh, I'm dead! I'm +dead!..." + +The chauffeur hurried away.... + +The rebels gathered round the shrieking man. "Why didn't you stop when +we challenged you!" they demanded. + +"Aw! Aw! Aw!" he answered.... + +"Like a stuck pig!" thought Henry. "Squealing like a stuck pig!" + +His head was rolling, but he was able to walk. "He's not much hurt," +Henry murmured to himself, "but he's damned frightened." + +"Aw, what did ye do it for? Aw! Aw! Aw!..." + +"Take him to the hospital!..." + +They led him a little way towards the hospital of St. Vincent de Paul, +and then, for some reason, changed their minds, and took him into the +Park. It was difficult now to see what was happening. There was a +derelict tram near the club, and beyond that, still pawing at the +ground, was the wounded horse.... + +"Why don't they shoot the poor beast!" Henry exclaimed. + +But it would not enter their minds to put the animal out of pain. They +were Catholics, and Catholic peoples, the world over, are cruel to +beasts. Too intent on pitying their own souls, to have pity on +animals.... + + +13 + +He closed the shutters and turned on the light. "I wonder where John +is?" he thought as he did so. "_This_ is why he couldn't come to +Glendalough with me. What the hell does he think he's going to gain by +it?" He glanced about the room. "It's damned odd," he said aloud, "but I +don't feel frightened. I should have thought I'd feel scared.... Of +course, as there was going to be a rebellion, I'm rather glad I'm here +to see it!" + +He went to his bedroom and got a pack of patience cards. + +"There'll be no theatre to-night!" he said. "I think I'll play 'Miss +Milligan.' ..." + + +14 + +The silence of the house made him feel restless. + +"I'll go to bed," he exclaimed. "I may as well get all the sleep I can." + +He went to his room, and stumbled towards the windows. + +"I'll close the shutters while I'm undressing;" he went on. "I don't +want to be 'potted' needlessly!" + +He tried to see into the Park, but the great masses of trees that +undulated like a rough sea, prevented him from seeing anything. There +were figures at the gate ... on guard! + +"I wonder if that little red-haired man's still there," he thought. +"Poor devils! Some of them must feel damned queer to-night!..." + +He closed the shutters, and switched the light on, and then, when he had +undressed he darkened the room again. "I must have some air," he said, +opening the shutters. + +He climbed into bed. Now and then a rifle-shot was fired, and sometimes +there was a succession of shots.... + +"In the morning," he said, as he turned on his side and closed his eyes, +"they'll be cleared out of that!..." + + + + +THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +He awoke suddenly, and sat up in bed. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "I've +been asleep!" It was still dark, but less dark than it was when he came +to bed. He could just see the time by holding his watch close to his +eyes. "Four," he murmured. It was strange that he should have slept at +all, for there had been spasmodic firing all night. He got out of bed, +and went across his room to the window, and looked out, and as he +looked, the wounded horse struggled to rise, pawing the ground feebly, +and then fell over on its side. "It isn't dead!..." When he had looked +at it last, it had been lying very still, and he had thought it was +dead. + +He looked across the road to the Park gates, but could not see any one +standing there. "Perhaps they've gone!" There was a shapeless thing +lying on the ground, outside the gates, but he could not make out what +it was. In the dim light, it looked like a great piece of paper ... the +debris of a windy day. + +There was no movement anywhere ... the horse was still now ... but now +and then a single shot rang out, and then came a volley. "You'd think +they were just trying to make a noise! I wonder what's been happening +all night," he said, as he went back to bed. + + +2 + +He fell asleep again, and when he awoke, wakened by a heavier sound of +shooting, it was almost six o'clock, and it was light. "That must be the +soldiers," he thought, listening to the heavier rifle fire. He sat up +in bed, and glanced about the room. "I _was_ an ass not to keep the +shutters closed," he said aloud. "A stray bullet might have come in here +... I wonder whether the shutters would stop a bullet. After all, Bibles +do!..." + +He could just see the Republican flag floating from the flagstaff on the +roof of the College of Surgeons. "They're still there, then!" And while +he sat looking at it, he heard the sound of some one, wearing heavy +boots, coming down the streets, making loud clattering echoes in the +silence. "That's funny!" he said. "People are going about already. +Perhaps it's over ... practically over!..." + +He got out of bed, and as he did so, he heard the sharp rattle of +rifles, and when the echo of it had ceased, he could not hear the noise +of heavy treading any more. He stood still in the centre of the room, +listening, and presently he heard a groan. He ran to the window and +looked out. In the roadway, beneath him, an old man was lying on his +back, groaning very faintly. + +"They've killed him!" Henry murmured, glancing across the road at the +hotel, from which the sound of firing had come. "They didn't challenge +him ... they just shot him!" + +Four times, the old man groaned, and then he died. He was lying in the +attitude of a young child asleep. One leg was outstretched and the other +was lightly raised. His right arm was lying straight out from his body, +and the hand was turned up and hollowed. Very easy and natural was his +attitude, lying there in the morning light. He looked like a labourer. +"Going to his work," I suppose. "Thinking little of the rebellion. Just +stumping along to his job ... and then!..." + +There was a bundle lying by his side, a red handkerchief that seemed to +be holding food ... and flowing towards it, trickling, so slowly did it +move, from his body was a little red dribble.... + +Henry looked at him with a feeling of curiosity and pity. He had never +seen a man killed before. He had never seen any dead person, not even +Mrs. Clutters, until his father died. He had purposely avoided seeing +Mrs. Clutters' body ... something in the thought of death repelled him +and made him reluctant to look at a corpse, and so, when he had been +asked if he would like to see Mrs. Clutters, he had made some evasive +reply. It had been different when his father died. He had looked on him, +not as a dead man, but as his father, still, even in death, his father, +able to love and be loved. When he thought of death, he thought, not of +Mr. Quinn, but of Mrs. Clutters, and always it seemed to him that the +dead were frightful.... But this old man, a few moments ago intent on +getting to his work in time, and now, cognisant, perhaps of all the +mysteries of this world, had nothing frightful about him. There was +beauty in the way he was lying in the roadway ... in that careless, +graceful attitude ... as if he were gratefully resting after much +labour.... + +He looked across the roadway, and now it was plain that the shapeless +thing that had looked in the dim light like paper blown to a corner by +the wind, was a dead man. He, too, was lying on his back, with his legs +stretched straight out and slightly parted ... and while Henry looked at +him, it seemed to him that the man was familiar to him. The brown +dust-coat he was wearing!... And then he remembered. It was the +red-haired, angry-looking, nervous man, who had chewed his moustache and +gaped about him with bloodshot eyes.... + +He dressed, and went downstairs. The servants were up, and moving about +the house, and one of them came to him. + +"Will you have your breakfast now, sir!" she asked, and when he had +answered that he would, she said, "There's no milk, sir. The milkman +didn't come this morning!" + +"It doesn't matter," he replied. "I'll have it without!" + +He went to the front of the house, while his breakfast was being +prepared, and looked out of the window. In the bushes on the other side +of the road, he could see a youth, crawling on his stomach, and dragging +a rifle after him. He raised himself on to his knees, and glanced up at +the hotel, where there were some soldiers who had been brought in during +the night, and when he had raised himself, the soldiers in the upper +windows saw him, and fired on him. He got up and ran across the path +towards the shelter of the trees, and as he ran, the bullets spattered +about him. Then he staggered ... and Henry could not see him again. + + +3 + +An ambulance came and the bodies of the rebel and the labourer were put +into it and taken away. The horse had been hauled to the pavement, and +it lay in a great congealed mess of blood that had poured from a gash in +its throat.... + + +4 + +Later in the morning, the people began to move about, and after a while +the streets were full of sightseers. It was possible now to learn +something of what happened on the previous day and during the night. +There had been fierce fighting in places. Soldiers were hurrying from +the Curragh, from the North of Ireland, from England. The thing was +serious ... the rebels had seized various strategic points, and were +determined to fight hardly. During the night, realising that Stephen's +Green was a dangerous place to be in, they had left it for the shelter +of the College of Surgeons. Some of them were still there, sniping from +safe points. + +Henry went out and wandered about the streets. If there were soldiers in +Dublin, there were very few, and the rebels still had possession of the +city. He listened to the comments of the people who passed him, and as +he listened, he realised that there was resentment everywhere against +the Sinn Feiners. Behind one of the gates of the Park, a Sinn Feiner +was lying face downwards in the hole he had made to be a trench, and the +crowd climbed up the railings to gape at him. A youth thrust his way +through the people and peered at the dead man, and then he turned to the +crowd and said to them, "Let's get the poor chap out and bury him!" A +girl looked at him resentfully, and hurried to a towsled woman standing +on the kerb, and told her what the youth had said, and instantly the +woman rushed at him and hit him about the head and back. "No, ye'll not +get him out," she yelled at him. "Let him lie there an' rot like the +poor soldiers!" + +"They forgot, the Sinn Feiners, that these women's husbands and sons are +at the Front!" Henry thought. + +What madness was it that possessed them to rise? A little group of men +and boys had set itself against a Power in the interests of people who +did not desire their services. They could not hope to win the fight ... +they had not the gratitude or the good wishes of the people for whom +they were fighting. What were they going to do next? They had taken the +Post Office and the College of Surgeons and other places because there +was no one to prevent them from taking them ... but what were they going +to do next? They could not, even the wildest of them, believe that this +immunity from attack would last forever. Was there one among them with +an idea of the future of Ireland, of the complexities of government?... + +He wanted to get hold of a leader of them and ask him just what he +proposed to do with Ireland?... + + +5 + +The rumours this day were wilder than they were on Monday. A man assured +Henry that the Pope had arrived in Ireland on an aeroplane and that Dr. +Walsh, the Catholic Archbishop of Dublin had committed suicide the +minute he heard of the outbreak of the Rebellion. Then the rumour +changed, and it was said that the Pope had thrown himself from the roof +of the Vatican. Lord Wimborne, the Viceroy, had been taken a prisoner, +and was now interned in Liberty Hall.... The Orangemen, sick of England, +were marching to the support of the Sinn Feiners, under the leadership +of Mr. Joseph Devlin! Ireland was entirely surrounded by German +submarines in order to prevent British transports from landing +troops.... + + +6 + +There was looting in Sackville Street. Henry had made his way towards +the General Post Office, for he had heard that John Marsh was there, and +while he stood about, hoping that he might see him, the looting began. +Half-starved people swarmed up from the slums, like locusts, and seized +all they could find. They destroyed things in sheer wantonness.... + +"Well, if a city is content to keep such slums as Dublin has, it must +put up with the consequences!" Henry thought. And while he watched, he +saw John Marsh going to a shop which was being looted. He hauled a +hulking lad out of the broken window and flung him back into the crowd. + +"Damn you," he shouted, "are you trying to disgrace your country?" He +pointed his rifle at the crowd. "I'll shoot the first one of you that +touches a thing!" + +But it was impossible for them to control the looters, and while John +guarded one shop, the crowd passed on to another. + +"John!" said Henry, going up to him and touching his arm. + +He started and turned round. His face was drawn and haggard and very +pale. + +"Henry!" he said, smiling. "I wondered who it was. I wish you'd gone +away when I asked you to go. It wasn't because I wanted to get rid of +you, Henry. I wanted you to be out of this ... so that you could go and +get married in peace!" + +"You can't win, John. You know you can't win!..." + +"I know we can't win a military success! ..." He drew his hand across +his eyes. "My God, I'm tired, Henry!" he said. "I'm worn out. I haven't +slept since Saturday night...." + +"John!" + +"Yes, Henry, what is it?" + +"Come away with me. You know you can't win ... you can't possibly win. +Well go over to England together...." + +"I'm fighting England, Henry, not visiting it!" + +"You can hide there for a while ... until you can get away to France or +America!" + +"Go away and leave them now, Henry?" + +"Yes. The longer you hold out, the worse it'll be for everybody. The +people are against you ... I've heard things to-day that I never +expected to hear in Dublin...." + +"I know they're against us. We thought there would be more on our side, +but that's all the more reason why we should fight. The people are +getting too English in their ways, Henry ... they think too much of +money. All those women in the Combe ... do you know why they're against +us? ... because they can't get their separation allowances! We won't win +a military success ... we all know that ... McDonagh and Pearse and +Connolly and Mineely and all of us ... we know that ... but well win a +spiritual success!" + +"A spiritual success?" + +"Yes. Well remind the people that Ireland is not yet a nation and that +there are Irishmen who are still willing to die for their country. +They've become very English, but they're not altogether English, Henry. +They've still some of the old Irish spirit in them, and we may quicken +that!" + +"Nothing will ever convince you, I suppose, that the English aren't a +robber race?..." + +"Nothing. I daresay the mass of the people are decent enough, but I +don't know and I don't care. All that matters to me is that my +countrymen shall not become like them!..." + +"You're ruining the work of thirty years, John. Blowing it up in a +childish rage!..." + +"You always thought I was a fool, Henry, but I don't think as you think. +We won the Home Rule Act by fair and constitutional means ... and +they've done us out of it. The Ulster men had only to yell at them, and +they gave in. Do you think they'll keep their word after the War?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, I don't. They'll use that damned Amending Act to cheat us as +they've cheated us before. No, Henry, this is a poor hope, but it is a +hope. You see, when we're beaten and those of us who are left alive, +surrender, the English will be sure to do the right thing ... from our +point of view! That's one of the things we count on. They'll put us down +with great firmness. They'll make an example of us. They'll shoot us, +Henry ... and when they do that, we'll win. We're not popular now ... +oh, I don't need you to tell me that ... but we'll be popular then. The +English will make us popular!" + +"Isn't it a little mean, John, to hit them when they aren't looking?" + +"Mean! They've hit us often enough, haven't they? They got us on the +ground when we were sick and kicked us. Why shouldn't we take advantage +of them?" + +"The Germans!..." + +"Why shouldn't we go to the Germans, or to any one who is willing to +help us? Wolfe Tone went to the French!..." + +"You won't come away with me?" + +"No. I came here to die, Henry, not to be safe!" + +They stood for a few moments in silence, looking at each other, and then +John put out his hand to Henry who took it in his. + +"I must get back now," John said. "Good-bye, Henry. I don't suppose I +shall ever see you again. If we lose, you and your friends can come and +try your way. I've always wanted to die for Ireland ever since I was +able to understand anything about my country, and I shall get my wish +soon. Good-bye, Henry!" + +"Good-bye, John!" + +"I hope you and your wife will be very happy!" He made a wry smile, as +he went on. "I'm afraid you won't be able to get to England just as soon +as you wished. If you'd gone when I asked you to go!..." + +"I must get back now," he said again. + +"Yes, John!" + +"I'm glad I saw you. I wondered last night where you were...." + +"And I wondered where you were." + +"I was here. I've been here since Monday morning!" + +He moved a few steps away, and then turned back. + +"I've always liked you, Henry," he said, taking Henry's hand in his, +"even when you made me angry. I wish you were on our side...." + +"I see no sense in this sort of thing, John!" + +"I know you don't. And perhaps there isn't any sense in it, but that may +not matter. It's something, isn't it, to find men still willing to die +for their ideals, even when they know they haven't a chance of success? +The Post Office is full of young boys, who want nothing better than to +die for Ireland. Well, that's something, isn't it, in these times when +most of our people aren't willing to do anything but make money? +Good-bye again!" + +He went back to the Post Office, very erect and very proud and very +resolute. + +"By God," said Henry to himself, "I wish I had the heart to feel what he +feels!" + + +7 + +He was sitting in the smoking-room of the Club, trying to write. He had +written to Mary earlier in the evening, assuring her of his welfare, and +Driffield, a Treasury official, who had come into the Club for a few +moments, had offered to try and get it put into the special mail "pouch" +which was sent from the Castle every day to London. "You mustn't say +anything about the Rebellion," he said. "Just say you're all right. I +can't promise that it'll go off, but I'll do my best!" The restless, +excited feeling which had possessed him since the beginning of the +rebellion still held him, and he was unable to continue at anything for +long. All day he had wandered about the city, learning more of its +backways than he had ever known before. He had penetrated more deeply +into the slums than he had done when he had explored them with Gilbert +Farlow, and it seemed to him that there was nothing to be done with them +or with the people in them. They were decaying together, and the sooner +they decayed, the better would it be for Ireland. All his counsels that +day were counsels of despair. What was the good of working and building +when this was the material out of which a nation must be made? What was +the good of trying to make sure foundations when impatient, +undisciplined people like John Marsh came and threw one's work to the +ground? Was it not better that every Irishman of alert and vigorous mind +should leave Ireland to rot, and choose another country where men had +stability of mind and purpose?... + +"But one must go on trying. If the house be pulled down, we must build +it up again. One must go on trying...." + +He would get his friends together, and they would plan to save what they +could from the wreckage. "And then we'll begin again! Whatever happens, +we must begin again!" + +He was tired of playing Patience, tired of reading, and tired of +sitting still. Perhaps, he thought, he could write. It would be odd +afterwards to think that he had written a story during a rebellion. +There was a great German ... who was it? ... Heine or Goethe?... Oh, why +couldn't he remember names!... who had gone on writing steadily, though +there was battle all about him.... He settled himself to write, though +he had no plan in his mind, and as he wrote, he felt that the story, +whatever it might grow to be, must be comic. "I feel like a clown making +jokes in the circus while his wife is dying," he said to himself.... + +But his restlessness persisted, and after a while he put his manuscript +aside, and took up a book which he had found in the bookcase: William +James's _Pragmatism_: and began to read it. He remembered a discussion +of Pragmatism by the Improved Tories, when Gilbert had described a +pragmatist as an unfrocked Jesuit.... + +And while he was burrowing into the first chapter, thinking more of +James's graceful style than of his matter, there was a great rattle, an +incessant hammer-and-rasp noise in the street. + +"Good God!" he exclaimed, jumping up and dropping the book, "what's +that?" + +Then it ceased, and there was a horrible quietness for a few moments, +followed by the crack-crack of rifles, and then again the +ra-ra-ra-rat-rat-rat-rattle-rattle.... + +"Machine guns!" he exclaimed. He knew instinctively that they were +machine guns. "It ... it startles you, that noise!" + +It went on, rattling, with little pauses now and then as if the gun were +taking breath, for an hour or more: a paralysing sound, as if some giant +were drawing a great stick swiftly along iron railings. + +"I think I'd better put the light out," he said, going across the room +to where the switch was, and as he went there was a cracking sound in +the window, and a bullet flew across the room and lodged in the +wall.... + +He switched the light off, and stood for a while in the dark. Then he +opened the door and went out and stood on the landing. The servants were +sitting huddled together on the staircase, nervous looking, indeed, but +not frightened. It seemed to him to be remarkable that these girls +should have kept their nerve as finely as they had. He smiled at them, +as he closed the door behind him. + +"They're making a lot of noise, aren't they?" he said. + +"Isn't it awful, sir?" one of them answered. + +He did not speak of the bullet which had come into the room. "It must +have been a stray," he thought, "and there's no sense in upsetting +them!" + +"The soldiers are firing across the Green," he said aloud, "at the +College of Surgeons. I think we're safe enough here, but I'd keep away +from the windows!..." + +"Yes, sir, we are!" + +He went to his room, and sat at the window. At this height it was +unlikely that any stray bullet would come near him. But he could not see +any one. He could hear the wild-fowl crying in the Park ... distinctly, +in the pause of the firing, he could hear a duck's quack-quack.... + + +8 + +He went to bed, and tried to sleep, but could not. The firing from the +machine-guns was intermittent now, but it still went on, and there was a +continuous crackling of rifle-fire. Several times he got up and looked +out ... he had a curious and persistent desire to see whatever was going +on ... to be in it ... extraordinarily he was anxious not to miss +anything. _He was neither afraid nor aware of the fact that he was not +afraid._ He had simply the sensation that exciting things were +happening, that he wanted to see as much of them as possible, that he +was excited, that his blood was flowing rapidly through his veins, that +there was something hitting the inside of his head, thumping it. Then +when he was tired of straining to see into the darkness, he went back +to bed again, and closed his eyes and tried to sleep. And sometimes he +succeeded in sleeping for a while ... but always the noise of the +machine-guns woke him.... + +He went to the window when the dawn broke, and looked across the Green +to the College of Surgeons. + +"It's still flying," he muttered as he watched the tri-colour flowing in +the wind. + + +9 + +And now the Rebellion began to bore him. He could not work, and the +walks he could take were circumscribed. He walked down to Trinity +College and stood there, watching the soldiers on the roof of the +College as they fired up Dame Street to where some Sinn Feiners were in +occupation of a newspaper office, or along Westmoreland Street towards +the Post Office. Wherever he went, there was the sound of bullets being +fired ... but after a while, the sound ceased to affect him. There were +snipers on many roofs ... and people had been killed by stray bullets +... but, although the sudden crack of a rifle overhead made him jump, +the boredom grew and increased. He wanted to get on with his work.... + +The soldiers were pouring into Dublin now ... more and more of them. + +"It'll be over soon," he said to himself. + +It seemed to him then that the thing he would remember always was the +dead horse which still lay on the pavement, becoming more and more +offensive. Wherever he went, he met people who said to him, "Have you +seen the dead horse?" Impossible to forget the corrupting beast, +impossible to refrain from saying too, "Have you seen the dead horse?" +Magnify that immensely, increase enormously the noise, and one had the +War! Noise and stench and dead men and boredom!... + +He wandered about the streets, seeing the same people, listening to the +same statements, making the same remarks, wondering vaguely about food. +He had seen high officials carrying loaves under their arms, and little +jugs of milk.... + +"I wish to God it was over," he exclaimed. "I'm sick of this ... +idleness!" + +He spoke to a soldier in Merrion Square. "Do you like Dublin?" he said. + +"Oh, fine!" he answered. "We've been treated champion. I 'aven't seen +much of it yet, of course," he went on. "I've been 'ere ever since I +landed!" He pointed to the pavement. "But I know this bit damn well. You +know," he went on, "we thought we was in France when we arrived 'ere. +Couldn't make it out when we saw all the signs in English. I says to a +chap, as we was walking along, ''I,' I says, 'is this Boolone?' 'Naow,' +'e says, 'it's Ireland.'" + +"And what did you say?" said Henry. + +"I said 'Blimey!'" He moved to the kerb as the soldier further along the +street called "Pass these men along" and when he had called the warning +to the next soldier, he returned to Henry. "I say," he said, "wot are +these Sinn Feiners? I mean to say 'oo are they? Are they Irish, too?" + +Henry tried to explain who the Sinn Feiners were. + +"But wot they want to do? Wot's the point of all this ... this +'umbuggin' about? We don't want to fight Irish people ... we want to +fight Germans!..." He looked about for a moment, and then added, as if +to clinch his statement, "I mean to say, I _know_ an Irish chap ... 'e's +a friend of mine ... but I don't know no bloody Germans, an' wot's more +I wouldn't know them neither ... dirty lot, I calls 'em!" + +"You know," he went on, "this is about the 'ottest bit of work a chap +could 'ave to do. These snipers, you know, they get on your nerves. I +mean to say, 'ere you are, standin' 'ere, you might say, in the dark an' +suddenly a bullet damn near 'its you ... or mebbe it does 'it you ... +one of our chaps was killed in front of that 'ouse last night ... they +been swillin' the blood away, see!..." Henry looked across the road to +where a man was vigorously brooming the wet pavement. The soldier +proceeded: "Well, you don't know where it's comin' from. 'E's up on one +of these 'ere roofs, 'idin', an' you're down 'ere ... exposed. 'E kneels +be'ind the parapet, an' 'as a shot at you, an' then 'e 'ops along the +roof to another place, an' 'as another shot at you.... You don't 'alf +begin to feel a bit jiggery when that's 'appening'...." + + +10 + +There was no malice in that soldier. He was puzzled, as puzzled as he +would have been if his brother had suddenly seized a rifle and lain in +wait for him. He looked upon the Irish as his comrades, not his enemies. +"I mean to say, we're all the same, I mean to say!..." He had been in +camp at Watford. "We was in a picture-palace, me an' my pal ... a whole +lot of us was there ... and then a message was put on the screen: 'All +the Dashes report at once!' I never thought nothink of it you know. Of +course, I went all right. But I thought it was just one of these +bloomin' spoof entrainments. They done that to us before ... two or +three times ... just to see 'ow quick they could do it ... an' I was +gettin' 'a bit fed-up with it. I'd said 'Good-bye' to a girl three times +... an' it was gettin' a bit monotonous. 'At it again,' I says to my +pal, as we hooked back to the camp, but when we was in the train, an' it +didn't stop an' go back again, I says to 'im, ''Illoa,' I says, 'we're +off!' An' I 'adn't said 'Good-bye' to 'er this time. I thought to +myself, 'I won't make a bloomin' ass of myself this time!' An' there we +was ... off at last! 'This is a nice-old-'ow-d'ye-do!' I says. I didn't +want the girl to think I was 'oppin' it like that ... sayin' nothink or +anythink.... When we got to Kingstown an' 'eard we was in Ireland ... +well, I mean to say, it _surprised_ me, I tell you.... Wot I can't make +out is, wot's it all about? I mean to say, wot do these chaps want?" + +"They want to be free!..." + +"But ain't they free? I mean to say, ain't they as free as me?" + +"They don't think so." + +"Well, wot can I do that they can't do?" + +Henry did not know. "You ast me anythink," the soldier went on, "they're +a lot freer'n wot we are. I mean to say, we got conscription in our +country, but they ain't got it 'ere...." + +There was another interruption, to enable a motor-cyclist to pass along. +When he returned to Henry, he said, "You know, when we got 'ere, an' all +the people come out their 'ouses an' treated us like their long-lost +brother, we couldn't make it out at all, an' when we 'eard about the +Sinn Feiners, we didn't know wot to think. I mean to say, we didn't know +'oo they was. One of our chaps thought they was black ... you know ... +niggers ... but I told 'im not to be a bloody fool. 'They don't 'ave +niggers in Ireland,' I says, 'They're the same as us,' I says. 'I mean +to say ... they're _white_!...'" + + +12 + +He wrote to Mary again, hoping that he would be able to get it into the +Castle "pouch," and then he went to seek for Driffield who had promised +to try and send his previous letter to England by the same means, and +Driffield, very dubious, took the letter and said he would do what he +could. She would be full of alarm ... he did not know whether she had +received his messages, and, of course, he had received none from her. It +was Thursday now, and still the rebellion was not suppressed. The city +was full of dead and wounded men and women, and there was difficulty +about burial. He thought of people in the first grief for their dead, +unwilling that the hour of interment should come ... and then, when it +came, and there could not be interment, suddenly finding their grief +turned to consternation, and what had been the object of mourning love, +become abhorrent, so that there was an unquenchable desire, a craving +that it might be taken away.... + +It was dangerous to be out of doors after seven o'clock, and so, since +no one came to the Club, and it was impossible to read or write, he +spent most of the evening in brooding.... If the rebellion were not +speedily suppressed, it might be impossible for him to get to Boveyhayne +in time for his marriage ... but the rebellion could not last very long +now, and at worst his marriage would only be postponed a little while. +His mind moved from thought to thought, from Mary to Gilbert and Ninian, +then to John Marsh and his father and to the boy in Stephen's Green who +had been told to dig a trench, but thought that he was digging his grave +... and then, inconsequently, he saw in his imagination the ridiculous +figure of a looter whom he had seen in Sackville Street, swaggering up +and down, clothed in evening dress, and carrying a lady's sunshade. He +had a panama hat on his head, and was wearing very thick-soled brown +boots ... and loosely tied about his waist were a pair of corsets.... + +He laughed at the remembrance, and as he laughed, he looked towards the +window, and saw a great red glare in the sky. From the centre of the +city, flames were reaching up, vast and red and terrible.... + +"Good God!" he exclaimed, "the place is on fire!" + + +13 + +The fire continued during the whole of the next day. It was impossible +to get near the burning buildings, and so, though people knew of the +fire, they did not know of its extent. The south side of the city, +separated from the north, where the fire was, by the river, knew +nothing of what was happening across the Liffey. It seemed now, this +horror following on the horror of the fighting, that Dublin must be +destroyed, that nothing could save it from the flames.... Then, by what +efforts no one can ever realise, the fire was controlled, and the +reddened sky became dark, and frightened citizens went to their beds to +such sleep as they could obtain. + + +14 + +The next day, the Rebellion collapsed. Henry had walked out of Dublin, +for it was easier now to move about, and coming back in the afternoon, +suddenly felt that the Rebellion was over. A man came cycling past at a +great pace, and as he went by, he shouted to Henry, "They've +surrendered!" and then was gone. There was a cooler feel in the air. It +seemed to him that a great tension had been relaxed ... that, after a +day of intolerable heat, there had come an evening of cool winds. As he +approached the city, he could see groups of people standing about in the +road, and he went to one of them, and asked if the news were true. + +"Some of them's surrendered," he was told, "but there's a lot of snipers +still about!" + +They could hear desultory firing as they spoke. + +"Ah, they'll give in quick enough now," a man said. "Sure, they can't +hold out any longer!" + +He hurried back to the city, and when he reached the Club, he saw that +the tri-colour was no longer flying over the College of Surgeons. + + + + +THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER + + +1 + +On Sunday morning, he met Lander, who had a military pass, and together +they went to Sackville Street.... There were some who had said that this +was the proudest street in the world. It had little pride now. Where +there had been shops and hotels, there were now heaps of rubble and +calcined bricks. The street was covered with grey ash that was still +hot, and one had to walk warily lest one's feet should be burnt. The +Post Office still stood, but the roof was gone and the inside of it was +empty: a hulk, a disembowelled carcase.... + +"MacDonagh and Pearse and Connolly have been taken," said Lander. "They +say Connolly's badly wounded...." + +"Have you heard anything of ... of John Marsh?" + +"Yes. He's dead. They say he was killed soon after the fighting began +... in the street!..." + +Henry did not speak. He glanced about him at the ruin and wreck of a +city which, though it had many times filled him with anger, yet filled +him also with love; and for a while he could not see clearly.... +Somewhere in this street, John Marsh had been killed. He had died, as he +had desired, for Ireland, and a man can do no more than give his life +for his country ... but what was the good of his dying? It was not +enough that a man should die ... he must also die well and to purpose. +Oh, indeed, John had believed that such a death as this would be a good +death, to much purpose, but it is not the dead who can judge of that ... +it is the living to whom now and forever is the task of judging what the +dead have done. + +"It's a pity," said Lander, "that the slums weren't destroyed, too!..." + +"Perhaps," Henry answered, "we can build a finer city after this!" + +"Perhaps," said Lander dubiously, for Lander knew the ways of men and +had small faith in them. + + +2 + +They walked along the quays until they reached the Four Courts, and +while they were standing there, a sickly woman, with a fretful, whining +voice, plucked at Henry's arm. + +"Is it over, mister?" she said, and when he nodded his head, she turned +away, exclaiming fervently, "Oh, thanks be to the Holy Mother of God!" + +"The Holy Mother of God had damned little to do with it," Henry said to +Lander. "It was machine guns...." + + +3 + +Lander had obtained a permit for him, so that he could go to England, +and in a little while, he would leave the Club and go to Westland Row to +catch the train to Kingstown. There was a strange quietness in his +heart. He had lived through a terror and had not been afraid. He had +seen men immolating themselves gladly because they had believed that by +so doing they would make their country a finer one to live in. + +"It was the wrong way," he said to himself, "but in the end, nothing +matters but that a man shall offer his life for his belief!" + +Gilbert Farlow and Ninian Graham had not sought, as he had sought, to +escape from destiny or to elude death. It was fore-ordained that old men +would make wars and that young men would pay the price of them ... and +it is of no use to try to save oneself. John Marsh, too, had had to pay +for the incompetence and folly of old men who had wrangled and made +bitterness ... And now, in his turn, he must pay the price, too. One +must die ... in that there is no choice ... but one may die finely or +one may die meanly ... and in that there is choice. Gilbert and Ninian +and John, each in his way, had died finely. It might have been that he +would have died meanly in Dublin, casually killed, for no purpose, for +no cause.... Well, he had not been killed meanly. There was still time +for him to live on the level of his friends. If youth has had committed +to it the task of redeeming the world from the follies of the Old, Youth +must not shrink from the labour, even though it may feel that the Old +should redeem themselves.... + +He would go to Boveyhayne and marry Mary, and then he would take her to +his home ... he must do that ... and when he had given his house to her, +he would enlist as a soldier. "Life isn't worth while, if one is afraid +to lose it ... a year or two more, what do they matter if a job be +shirked?" "It isn't the time one lives that matters," he went on, "it's +what one does in the time!" + + +4 + +As the mail-boat steamed out of the harbour, he climbed to the top deck +and stood there gazing back at the shore. Exquisitely beautiful, Ireland +looked in the evening glow. Up the river, in an opal mist, he could see +Dublin, still sore from her latest wounds, and here close at hand, he +saw the waves of mountains reaching far inland, each mountain shining in +the light with a great mingling of colours. Beautiful, but more than +beautiful! Other lands had beauty, too, more beauty, perhaps, than +Ireland, but if he were leaving them as he was now leaving Ireland, he +should not feel the grief that he now felt. This was his land ... his +own country ... and the elements which had been mingled to make it, had +been mingled also to make him, and he and it were one. It was strange +that he should carry so heavy a heart to Boveyhayne, when he should have +gone there gladly ... but it was not of Mary or his marriage that he was +then thinking. It was of the farewell he was making to this old city +which had known much grief and many troubles. When he returned to +Ireland he would go straight to Ballymartin, by Belfast, from England. +He would not see Dublin again. Firmly fixed in his mind, was that +belief. He would serve ... and he would die. Foolish, he told himself, +to think like that, but, even while he was rebuking himself, the thought +thrust itself into his mind again.... + + +5 + +The boat was almost out of sight of land. He had stood at the end of the +deck, gazing back at Ireland until only the clouded head of a mountain +could be seen, and then that too had been hidden. He turned and looked +forward, and as he did so, he saw in the distance, low in the sea, the +hulls of three ships of war. The mail-boat slowed down, as they +approached, to let them pass. Naked and lithe, they looked, as they +thrust their bodies through the sea, sending the water up from their +bows in shining arches. He could see the men standing about the decks, +looking steadily ahead ... and then the war-ships passed on to their +work, and the mail-boat gathered up speed and plunged on towards Wales. +Over there, he thought, somewhere in that haze, is England, and beyond +England, France and Flanders and the fields of blood and pain.... + +PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + + * * * * * + +The following pages contain advertisements of Macmillan books by the +same author. + + +_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ + +John Ferguson: A Play in Four Acts + + _Cloth, 12mo., $1.00_ + +In Europe Mr. Ervine is perhaps better known for his contributions to +the theatre than for his fiction, a number having been presented by the +Irish Players at the Abbey Theatre in Dublin. "John Ferguson" is as +serious and important a piece of work as he has ever done. In the +development of his plot Mr. Ervine not only evidences a skill in +characterization, but he shows also a knowledge of technique and a +marked ability in the creating of suspense. + +"Never have the tragedies of everyday life been presented in dramatic +form more truthfully or more poignantly."--_The Dial._ + +"The conspicuous merits of the play consist in its perfect naturalness, +its progressive interest, the consistency, variety, and vitality of its +personalities, the deep emotional interest, of situations arising out of +contrasted character, and the easy action of its hidden machinery. This +work puts Mr. Ervine in the first rank of living dramatists. It may be +commended confidently to all discerning readers on its literary merits. +In the theatre it would be irresistible, if a competent cast could be +found for it"--_The Nation._ + + +Four Irish Plays + + _Cloth, 12mo., $1.00_ + +The plays are "Mixed Marriage," "The Magnanimous Lover," "The Critics," +and "The Orangeman," first produced in 1911, 1912, 1913 and 1914, +respectively, the first three at the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, and "The +Orangeman" at the Palace Theatre, Maidstone. + +"Establishes the author in the front rank of the realistic dramatists of +the Irish Theatre.... As a veracious study of life and character among +Irish working classes ... it is superior to anything written by Synge, +Yeats, or Shaw.... The piece, in its realism, earnest purpose, and +dramatic force, is worthy of John Galsworthy, and has the additional +merit of being almost entirely free from anything like special pleading. +Never prolix or oratorical, the compact and homely dialogue is full of +shrewd observation and sage comments, pertinent to the contributory +causes of a conel private and public tragedy.... The play is as able as +it is significant, one well worthy of the boards of a National +Theatre."--_The Nation_ (Commenting on "Mixed Marriage," the first of +these plays.) + + +Alice and a Family + + _Cloth, 12 mo., $1.25_ + +"Alice is a sharp witted, sensible child of the London streets. ... She +looks after a family that has lost its director, the mother, while the +father has been thrown out of the work he knows by an accident.... It is +a lower level of life than Dickens explored, that of the London laboring +man; it is handled as sympathetically and as vividly as Dickens might +have and with no trace of the false sentimentality that afflicted him at +times.... Alice is a child to be loved and admired and not to be +forgotten soon. It is a capital story and a fine piece of work ... as +enjoyable a blend of fun and hard sense as we have met in a long +while."--_New York Sun._ + +"Just wholesome human nature working in one of the short and simple +annals of the poor. The best of Dickens without his too profuse +pathos."--_Reedy's Mirror._ + +"A juvenile Mrs. Wiggs, not of the cabbage patch, but of the London +pavements ... a wholesome bit of lite illumined with an optimism that +even poverty cannot dim."--_Duluth News-Tribune._ + +"St John G. Ervine has firmly established his claim to a place in the +ranks of those younger writers to whom we look for the worth-while +novels of the future."--_New York Times._ + +"A delightfully entertaining story, full of humor and common sense +philosophy.... St John G. Ervine has already won a place as one of the +foremost of the present day novelists."--_Independent._ + +"One of the most brilliant novels I have read in recent +years."--_William Lyon Phelps._ + + +MRS. MARTIN'S MAN + + By ST. JOHN G. ERVINE + + _Cloth, 12mo, $1.35_ + +The central figure in this truthful picture of Irish home life is Mrs. +Martin--an exceedingly interesting character---a, steadfast, +self-reliant woman who through the exercise of common sense averts a +domestic tragedy and brings harmony into a troubled household. No less +an unusual creation, however, is James--"Mrs. Martin's Man." Intolerant, +overbearing but yet possessed of a certain romantic attractiveness, he +is one of the most commanding characterizations of recent fiction. + +Mr. Ervine's style is agreeable; it is simple and full of the tang and +flavor of Irish speech, though there is little of the conventional +dialect usually connected with Irish stories. The theme is marked by an +absence of cant and conventionalism and by a love and wisdom for mankind +that are most pleasing. + +Though this is Mr. Ervine's first novel, his plays depicting Irish +characters have been produced with considerable success at the Abbey +Theatre in Dublin. In "Mrs. Martin's Man" as in his dramas, he gives a +faithful portraiture of the simple folk of Erin. + +"A story of remarkable power and workmanship."--_N. Y. Sun._ + +"An intimate picture of Irish life. Brings with it the force of an +overwhelming truth. It is not merely plausible, it is convincing from +its first word to its last"--_Boston Transcript._ + +"An almost perfect literary performance, and a most interesting and +unhackneyed story."--_N. Y. Globe._ + +"Far out of the usual groove of fiction.... One of the finest, most +sincere stories which have come this way for many a year."--_Brooklyn +Eagle._ + +"I have seldom read so spontaneously appealing a story of Irish life. It +breathes the frank open nature, the naive humor of Ulster in every line. +One could not imagine a more pathetic, yet withal noble figure than +Martha Martin."--_London Globe._ + + +Eight O'clock and Other Studies + + _Cloth, 12mo., $1.00_ + +Mr. Ervine presents in this book a remarkable collection of intimate +human studies. These short sketches, seventeen in number, are rare bits +of realism, truthful pictures of the life of the common people. + +"If evidence were needed, these short stories are sufficient to prove +that the best in fiction may sometimes be put into the briefest +form."--_Boston Transcript._ + +"The author is an artist in life and an economist in expression."--_New +York Globe._ + +"This little book of 'Studies' presents a very considerable variety both +of treatment and of theme.... Contains in miniature the substance of +many large and imposing books; it is at once artistic, thoughtful, and +significant."--_New York Times._ + +"Practically all the sketches are written in a humorous vein, but the +opening one, 'Eight O'Clock,' is a little tragedy in dialogue that is +very touching. The book should afford a great deal of amusement for the +discriminating reader who knows good work when he perceives +it."--_Springfield Republican._ + + THE MACMILLAN COMPANY + Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHANGING WINDS*** + + +******* This file should be named 29902-8.txt or 29902-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/9/9/0/29902 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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