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J. Dawson + +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: Masterman and Son + +Author: W. J. Dawson + +Release Date: August 21, 2011 [EBook #35608] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MASTERMAN AND SON *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t1"> +Masterman and Son +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +by +</P> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +W. J. DAWSON +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>Author of "A Prophet in Babylon," etc.</I> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +NEW YORK —— CHICAGO —— TORONTO +</P> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +Fleming H. Revell Company +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +LONDON AND EDINBURGH +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +Copyright, 1909, by +<BR> +FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +New York: 158 Fifth Avenue<BR> +Chicago: 80 Wabash Avenue<BR> +Toronto: 25 Richmond St., W.<BR> +London: 21 Paternoster Square<BR> +Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +CONTENTS +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +PART ONE +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +ARCHIBOLD MASTERMAN +</P> + +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="80%"> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="10%">CHAPTER</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="90%"> </TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">I. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap01">THE MASTER-BUILDER</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">II. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap02">A DISCUSSION</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">III. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap03">THE BIG STRONG BEAST</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap04">MRS. BUNDY</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">V. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap05">THE MAGIC NIGHT</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap06">YOUNG LOVE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap07">ENTER SCALES</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap08">THE ACCUSATION</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap09">THE CONTEST</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">X. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap10">THE FAREWELL</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +PART TWO +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +THE AMERICAN MADONNA +</P> + +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="80%"> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="10%">XI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="90%"> +<A HREF="#chap11">NEW YORK</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap12">MR. WILBUR MEREDITH LEGION</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap13">ADVENTURES OF AN INCOMPETENT</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap14">HE FINDS A FRIEND</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap15">THE MILLIONAIRE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XVI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap16">KOOTENAY</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XVII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap17">THE NEW LIFE</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +PART THREE +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +FATHER AND SON +</P> + +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="80%"> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="10%">XVIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="90%"> +<A HREF="#chap18">THE AMALGAMATED BRICK CO.</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap19">THE FEAR</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap20">THE RETURN</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap21">THE VERDICT</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap22">MRS. BUNDY PHILOSOPHISES</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap23">THE LAST HOME</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXIV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap24">THE NEW WORLD</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap01"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +PART ONE +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +ARCHIBOLD MASTERMAN +</H2> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +I +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE MASTER-BUILDER +</H4> + +<P> +Archibold Masterman, tall, heavily-built, muscular, and on the wrong +side of fifty, was universally esteemed an excellent specimen of that +dubious product of modern commerce, the self-made man. At twenty he +was a day-labourer, at thirty a jobbing builder, at forty a contractor +in a large way of business. At that point may be dated the beginning +of his social efflorescence. It was then that he began to wear +broadcloth on week-days, and insisted on a fresh shirt every other day. +Hitherto careless of his appearance, he now took a quiet pride in +clothes, and discovered the uses of the manicure. A little later he +discovered that a man's position in society is judged by the kind of +house he lives in, and that it is social wisdom to pay a high rent for +a small house in a discreetly "good" locality, rather than a low rent +for a much better house in a deteriorated suburb. That was the year in +which he purchased Eagle House, a pompous, old-fashioned residence +standing in its own grounds in Highbourne Gardens. +</P> + +<P> +Highbourne Gardens was one of those London suburbs which contrive to +preserve a faint aroma of gentility for many years after the real +gentlefolk have left it. It had many old houses of the plain and +specious order, inhabited a century ago by great London merchants. In +the floors of these houses might be found vast beams of some foreign +wood, hard enough to turn the keenest chisel; in the gardens at their +backs were copper beeches, mulberry trees, and an occasional cedar of +Lebanon. Modern London, with its vast invasion of mean streets, +stopped respectfully before the proud exclusiveness of Highbourne +Gardens. It was one of the last localities to have roads which were +marked "Private," guarded by locked gates, and to employ watchmen in +faded liveries, who dwelt in tiny sentry-boxes and at stated hours +collected the letters of the residents. +</P> + +<P> +It was precisely the kind of neighbourhood for such a man as Archibold +Masterman to make his first social experiment, and he was quick to +recognise its advantages. Eagle House, Highbourne Gardens, was a +thoroughly respectable address; if it did not convey the impression of +social distinction, it clearly did imply solid competence, which was a +good deal better. Jones, the well-known city tailor, lived there, and +drove a pair of horses which any lord might envy; there were half a +dozen brokers who kept as good tables as any man in London; and there +was Loker, the famous manufacturer of soaps, whose rhymed +advertisements met the eye in every railway-carriage. According to the +views of Archibold Masterman, in his present stage of social +enlightenment, these illustrious persons composed a real aristocracy of +solid merit. +</P> + +<P> +Above all, there was in Highbourne Gardens a church, at which most of +these prosperous persons were regular attendants, and Archibold +Masterman was shrewd enough to see that such a church was admirably +adapted to the plan of social advancement which he had in view. It was +not an Episcopal church, it was true; but that scarcely mattered in a +neighbourhood which was by long tradition Non-conformist. It was +enough for him that it contained the people he wished most to know, and +his first act on settling at Eagle House was to rent the most expensive +pew in the church which then chanced to be at liberty. The day when he +took possession of this pew was a red-letter day in his life. He was +conscious that he was well-dressed, and that he and his family were +favourably remarked. Loker, the soap manufacturer, took the collection +in his aisle, and when Masterman put a new five-pound note upon the +plate, he knew that he had created a sensation. When he left the +church, Loker shook his hand with great cordiality, and from that hour +his position was assured. +</P> + +<P> +All this was, of course, many years ago. Since then he had played his +cards so well that he had become almost the best-known man in the +locality. He was certainly esteemed the wealthiest. He was a deacon +in the church, <I>vice</I> Loker deceased, and he now trod the aisles with +the collection plate, and kept a jealous eye upon its contents. Among +the church folk his record for generosity stood high. Among the +younger men the story of his life had become a stimulating tradition. +There were two versions of this tradition. In the young men's +societies, and at their annual club dinner, he was accustomed to tell a +touching story of how he once did a piece of humble work which no one +else would touch, and found his fidelity rewarded by sudden promotion, +which gave him his first real chance in life. This story never failed +to arouse loud cheers, and when irate parents found their boys +unwilling to black their own shoes or weed the garden, they would cry, +"Remember Masterman." Among a few old cronies in the building trade, +in convivial moments, this tradition took a different form. To them he +boasted that he bought his first plot of land by issuing a cheque when +he had nothing in the bank, only borrowing the money just in time to +prevent discovery. +</P> + +<P> +"It was a prison or a fortune," he was accustomed to remark. "And I +took the risk. I took the risk, and see what I am to-day." Whereat +his old cronies, particularly Grimes, a small builder in Tottenham, who +were all more or less under financial obligations to him, would applaud +him even more vigorously than the church young men. +</P> + +<P> +The whole character of the man may be discerned in the incident. That +he should have risked a prison to make a fortune was nothing to be +ashamed of; although he had sense enough to know that it was not the +kind of story which would be received with acclamation by the church +young men. Therefore to them he gave a milder version, suited to their +innocence. But in his heart he was proud of his own daring, still +prouder of his triumph. His blood thrilled pleasurably whenever he +recalled that perilous and nearly fatal morning—his sudden decision to +buy the land whose speculative value none but he could recognise, the +bold bluff he practised on the sellers, the false cheque which he knew +put the handcuffs oh his wrists, the mad, breathless rush across London +to secure the money at any rate of interest from any kind of lender. +And then the ecstatic moment when, just ten minutes before the bank +closed, he had paid in the five thousand pounds which saved his credit. +In the end he had made twenty thousand pounds out of that land, and +from that moment he dated his prosperity. He had taken risks, and that +was to him the equivalent of heroism. Life was full of risks, and the +man who dared nothing was a coward. It was the simple philosophy of +the buccaneer, the pirate, the adventurer. Had he lived a hundred +years earlier and been bred to the sea, he would have gloried in the +black flag, and would have competed with Captain Kidd for terrifying +fame. The very joy of living lay in taking risks. +</P> + +<P> +He had been taking risks ever since, although time and prosperity had +taught him caution and a more sober craft. Sometimes, and especially +since he had become a resident in Highbourne Gardens, he had resolved +to content himself with the kind of business which avoided speculative +perils, but the old instinct always proved too strong for him. Show +him an opportunity that offered the chance of great and sudden profit, +and he could no more help putting all he had in jeopardy to secure it +than can the old gambler refuse one more cast of the dice. But under +the chastenings of his new respectability he had become more and more +secretive in these dubious transactions. His own family never once +suspected them. All that they knew was that there were recurring +periods when he went about the house in grim silence, and sat up half +the night in the little room which he called his office. At such times +his face seemed to harden; new lines appeared about the eyes and the +firm mouth; but it always remained impassive and inscrutable. Some day +the cloud would lift suddenly; the grim toiler in the midnight office +came forth, jovial, loud-voiced, ten years younger; and there was a +period of joyous extravagance, a new pair of horses in the stable, a +conservatory added to the drawing-room, a large subscription to the +church funds, and the genial stir and tumult of dinner and lawn-tennis +parties. After a time the cloud rolled back again, but his friends +were alike ignorant of the causes that produced or the triumphs which +dissolved it. +</P> + +<P> +So Masterman lived his life, and it was part of the man that the church +had come to occupy a considerable place in it. He felt that he owed it +gratitude, for had it not done much to forward his social ambitions? +He no longer moved in it humbly, as a man sedulous of notice; he had +long since become its undisputed king. The day was past when he was +grateful for the hand-shake of a Loker: it was his turn now to confer +the favours which he once had sought. It represented an essential +feature in his triumph. When the time came that he sought public +honours, which he meant to do, the church would prove a valuable factor +in his ambitions. He would then get back all that he had given it, in +willing service. It pleased him to think that the church itself would +turn out a good investment when that time came. +</P> + +<P> +Not that he was destitute of all sense of religion; in his own way he +valued it, though not upon the grounds that were common with ordinary +pious folk. He thought it a good thing that men should have definite +views of truth, especially when their views encouraged them in the +belief that they would become in another world persons of as much +importance as they had been in this. As he understood the matter, it +was necessary for a man to have certain right beliefs in order that he +might become secure of the reversion of eternal happiness; and if that +were true, a man would be a fool who did not accept these beliefs. +Hence he was severely orthodox, and insisted on orthodoxy in his +family. He liked a good sermon, he liked good music, and it was part +of his pride that the Highbourne Gardens Church had both in all +excellence unapproachable by any of the lesser churches in the +neighbourhood. This was the limit of his apprehension as regards the +church. He recognised in it one of the great proprieties of life, a +kind of etiquette toward God which no moral human creature would refuse. +</P> + +<P> +That he was moral, in the ordinary meaning of the word, there could be +no doubt. Long ago, when he was a mere day-labourer, he had indulged +in a week's drunkenness, and had learned once for all the lesson that +success in life is not compatible with insobriety. He had been +discharged from his employment, and had spent a miserable month in +hunting work with a damaged character. From that hour he was a +water-drinker. Life, having taught him this lesson, proceeded to teach +him a second, that the man who means to succeed must not meddle with +the coarser passions. He had come near to an entanglement with an evil +woman, and had issued from it with a fixed conviction that the +pleasures of passion were never worth the price men paid for them. +Here the original hardness of his nature served him, and this was soon +reinforced by the temper of ambition. Cool, shrewd, alert, he became +too much enamoured of success to stop for wayside pleasures; he knew +the more recondite joy of climbing over the shoulders of disabled men +to seize the prize which they had forfeited. In a word, it paid him to +be moral, and his temperament jumped with his self-interest. +</P> + +<P> +But of morality in its higher forms of ethical ideals he knew nothing. +Deacon of a church as he was, he was still a pirate, a buccaneer, a +highwayman of commerce, thirsting for illicit adventure. There was a +grim humour in the situation of which he himself caught brief glimpses. +Like the bandit who makes a gift to the Virgin from his spoils, and +holds himself henceforth reconciled to heaven, so Masterman paid his +tithe to God, in the comfortable faith that no one had the right to +examine too closely the means by which it was obtained. +</P> + +<P> +"A hypocrite," the shallow reader will exclaim, but no word would be +farther from the truth, for the real and only hypocrite is he who, +having light to see the highest things, deliberately uses them to serve +his lower instincts. Masterman did nothing of the kind. He simply had +no higher light. Not even a jury with a damaging verdict, or a judge +with a scathing allocution, could have convinced him that it was a +wrong time to write a bogus cheque in an emergency, when twenty +thousand pounds hung upon the chance of his deceit being undiscovered. +He would have done it again to-morrow, done it proudly, with a kind of +fearless, misguided heroism. Life was like that, he would have said; +you took your chances. And what he would have said and done at +thirty-five, he would have said and done at fifty. There was a hard, +unmalleable quality in the man that turned the edge of all those fine +ethics which the preachers uttered. It was their duty to utter them, +no doubt; it was what they were paid to do; but what did they know of +life? What did John Clark, the minister of Highbourne Gardens Church, +comfortably paid, and living in a good house, know of life as Masterman +had found it? He was like a child playing in the shallows; he had +never known deadly contest with tides, and waves, and tempests. So +Masterman listened to him with a kindly irony, and went upon his way +totally unmoved by any delicate displays of pulpit rhetoric. +</P> + +<P> +Yet of late things had somewhat altered; he was conscious that there +was a changed atmosphere in the world. John Clark was preaching a +different kind of sermon, a bolder, plainer sermon, full of pungent +references to public evils and daily conduct. That would not have +mattered much, for Masterman was perfectly aware that he was John +Clark's master whenever he might choose to assert the rights of the +purse. But a much more pertinent and painful problem was gradually +rising in Masterman's own household. He had but two children, Helen +and Arthur, and upon the boy all his hopes were set. He had sent him +to Oxford, where he had done tolerably well; from the University he had +returned with a fund of new ideas which were to his father strange and +detestable. And among them was a vague socialism, which displayed +itself in vehement attacks on the common processes by which wealth was +acquired. There came a day when Masterman was aware, for the first +time, that he was face to face with a separate personality in his son, +which had its own springs of action and claimed its own liberty of +thought. And as the boy uttered his youthful diatribes, the father +began to wonder how much he knew about his own life, how far those +diatribes might be directed obliquely against himself. +</P> + +<P> +He listened in silence, with a difficult good-humour. He never +attempted to retort. When he did speak, he meant to speak once for +all, but he would choose his time. He often wondered what he should +say; whether he would tell the boy with a brutal frankness all about +his methods of business, or leave him to discover a little at a time, +when he entered the office, as in due time Masterman meant that he +should. But whatever he said or did, he would act with finality when +the time came. There were means of bringing Arthur to heel as well as +John Clark. +</P> + +<P> +The present trouble was that Arthur seemed greatly to approve John +Clark's teaching. He quoted it, amplified it, and insisted on its +rightness. And yet in all this the father knew quite well that his son +could intend no disloyalty to him. The boy's frank gray eyes had no +deceit in them. But they also flashed an unmistakable challenge on the +world. The father could not but admire the boy. He was no fool, he +often told himself with a bitter smile. Perhaps these new opinions of +his were, after all, mere froth; it might be wise to let him talk +himself out. Surely he must come to see life from the commonsense +point of view, which of course was Masterman's. So the father eagerly +debated, and once more the light burned late in the little office, and +as the days passed, his mouth grew grim and the lines deepened on his +face. Here was a problem much more difficult than buying land without +money, and it was not solved by mere daring. +</P> + +<P> +So matters stood when John Clark preached his notorious sermon on +jerry-building, in which he accused without mercy the men who ran up +rotten buildings for the poor as thieves and assassins. +</P> + +<P> +Archibold Masterman heard the sermon, and left the church with a +frowning face. For the rest of the Sabbath he shut himself up in his +office, and a heavy silence dwelt in Eagle House. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap02"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +II +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +A DISCUSSION +</H4> + +<P> +It was in Masterman's office that the informal +meeting of some of the leading church officials +took place next day. The meeting had been +preceded by what was known as "a high tea," +for the customary evening dinner was dispensed with +when deacons were the guests. This was done out +of deference to the inferior position of some of the +younger deacons, who had not yet attained the social +dignity of late dinners. +</P> + +<P> +Masterman, however, took care that this substitutionary +meal did credit to his own social superiority. +Where the younger deacons were accustomed to +provide for the entertainment of their brethren plates of +exiguous ham, manifestly bought at the cookshop, +insufficient salads frugally overlaid with sliced eggs, and +a sparse variety of home-made cake and pastry, +Masterman spread a groaning table with a cold sirloin +of beef, a pair of fowls, and an entire ham, to say +nothing of thick cream and expensive fruits. Masterman's +coffee, too, was of a richness quite unapproachable +by the inferior decoctions of Beverley and Luke, +whose wives dealt at local shops, and were not above +using a certain detestable invention known as coffee +essence. Luke and Beverley also used gas fires in +their dining- and drawing-rooms, to save labour, +which was necessary when but one maid was kept; +whereas Masterman had a coal fire even in the hall, +and burned logs of wood in his living-rooms. Upon +Masterman's table there was also real silver of +undeniable price, and a vast silver urn; whereas Beverley +and Luke could pretend to nothing better than electro +imitations, which were not even silver-plated. So +that it was clear that though Masterman gave high +teas, they were scarcely distinguishable from evening +dinners; and if he was a deacon, he was by no means +a common deacon. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur Masterman had long ago come to regard +those diaconal high teas with a kind of sombre +merriment. It amused him to remark his father's difficult +adjustment to a form of meal to which he was not +used; his conflict between condescension and +hospitality; his manifest, and not quite successful, effort to +modify his blunt, domineering outspokenness to the +sensitive susceptibilities of his guests. He was aware +also, with a sort of pride, how big his father seemed +beside these men. He loomed above them like some +vast cathedral front over huddled houses. They were +city dwellers all, and had never been anything else. +They had the precise, neat manners of men accustomed +to formal ways of life. Their talk rarely went +beyond the gossip of church affairs, or the recapitulation +of something in the morning's paper. But no one +could look at Archibold Masterman without a sense +of something primitive and massive in the man. The +heavy frame, the great breadth of shoulder, the +clean-shaven face with its firm lines, the eyes, clear, +watchful, dominating, with a certain almost vulpine +intensity and hardness—all these declared a man at all +times unusual, but most unusual in contrast with +these men, who bore in every feature the evidence +of how cities by mere attrition grind men down into +conventional similarities. That the boy should fear +his father was natural, for Archibold Masterman was +a man whose will was law; that he should not wholly +understand him was also natural, for a vast world +of experience lay between them: but his pride in him +was a genuine and steadfast feeling, all the more +remarkable because the father was uneducated, and +the son had drunk deep of the waters of Oxford +scholarship. +</P> + +<P> +With the sister, Helen, the case was very different. +Arthur had inherited from his father the gift of +self-poise. He knew how to look at things with a single +eye, to meditate on them in silence, and to take up +an attitude of his own toward them. Helen's whole +nature was of lighter calibre. She was a girl easily +influenced by chance acquaintance, more ready to +enjoy life than to examine its underlying elements, in +all things more comformable to conventions. When +she came home from an expensive finishing-school, +she brought with her less her own character than a +character imposed upon her by her teachers. She took +her place in life with an instant alacrity of +adaptation; formed a dozen light-hearted friendships, +became popular for her vivacity and gaiety, and in her +heart thought her father dull. She had none of the +sense of his essential bigness that Arthur had. She +had no curiosity about him: he was simply an element +in the convenient furniture of her own life. She +sometimes wished him a little more polished, resented +his brusque manners, misunderstood his heavy silence, +and was inclined to be ironical about his social +ambitions. Yet these same social ambitions were the +chief common bond between them. Through them she +saw her road to a life that would gratify her vanity. +Somewhere, in the dim future, she discerned a golden +world, which she hoped to enter when her father's +force of character had broken down the barriers of +social caste. What her father's character really was, or +by what means he meant to reach that desirable golden +world, she did not ask. As long as the result was +reached, she had no curiosity about the process. +</P> + +<P> +The last person in the family group to be remarked +is the mother. She sat at the end of the long table, +dispensing tea and coffee with an air of weary +assiduity. In her youth she had had some claim to beauty, +and there still clung to her a kind of tired elegance. +Her hair, once blond, had become almost white, and +lay in rippled fullness over a forehead much lined. +Her face was without colour, the eyebrows dark and +beautifully curved, the eyes gray and clear, with a +certain startled expression, as if life had presented to +her little else than a series of unforeseen surprises. +She was a very silent woman; silence was her +dominating quality, but it was enigmatic silence. Persons +of effusive and flamboyant manners found her silence +scarcely distinguishable from scorn; people of +vivacious temperament called it stolidity; the general +impression among her acquaintance was that it was +significant of a nature at once cold and colourless. They +were all wrong, however. And those were yet further +from the truth who confused her silence with placidity. +There were times when a sudden flash of fire in the +gray, watchful eyes witnessed to an inner heat. If +she spoke little, it was not because she felt little—it +was rather because she realised the total ineffectiveness +of language to express her thought. Helen had +characteristically never tried to understand her mother. +But as Arthur had grown older, and especially since +his return from Oxford, he had often found himself +speculating on the real nature of his mother's +character. He saw her, an apparent automaton, content +to fill an automatic place in life, making no claims +for herself, offering no opposition to the claims of +others, apparently desirous of squeezing herself into +a position of neglected insignificance; but he was acute +enough to know that all this self-effacement was +artificial. What were her real relations with his father? +Was she a woman simply overborne by his superior +weight? How much of her silence sprang from fear +of his heavy-handed judgments? But no sooner did +such thoughts visit him than the boy recoiled from +them with a sense of their indelicacy. Not to +speculate at times upon the relations of his parents was +impossible in one who was just at that stage of +observation when the entire area of life is an object of +intense curiosity; but to cherish or pursue such +thoughts was too much like violating a privacy which +both nature and custom had declared sacred. Yet of +one thing he was sure: his mother's native force of +character was not inferior to his father's, and her +silence rested on a deep-lying intensity of +temperament, not on apathy. +</P> + +<P> +The meal pursued its common course of dullness. +Luke retailed some petty gossip about a family named +Vickars, who had recently joined the church; and +Beverley contrived to get upon his usual topic of fiscal +reform, producing as his own opinions the substance +of a leading article which had appeared in the +morning paper. No one took any notice of Beverley, but +Luke's topic of conversation proved more interesting, +especially to the only other deacon present, a middle-aged, +slightly gray man, with quick, crafty eyes, called +Scales. Scales kept the record of the seat-holders, and +felt that Beverley was intruding on his own peculiar +domain when he described the Hilary Vickars, the +new family which had joined the congregation. +</P> + +<P> +"I know them very well," he remarked. "They +have only taken two sittings, and they are not the +sort of people who will add much strength to the +church. They live in a small house in Lonsdale +Road—one of your houses, sir," he added, turning to +Masterman. +</P> + +<P> +"A very good class of people live in Lonsdale Road, +I believe," said Masterman drily. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh yes, of course—I know that; and in the changing +conditions of the neighbourhood a street of houses +like Lonsdale Road is a great benefit to the locality. +But this Hilary Vickars only rents a part of a house, +I am informed, and that is what I meant when I said +he wouldn't add much strength to the church." +</P> + +<P> +"Hilary Vickars," said Arthur. "Why, isn't he +a writer? I think I saw his name mentioned the other +day as the author of a novel which appeared this spring." +</P> + +<P> +"Very likely," said Scales. "Now I think of it, +some one told me he wrote for the papers. I wonder +now if he couldn't give the church a write-up in <I>The +Weekly Journal</I> some day?" +</P> + +<P> +"In that case he might prove a greater accession +to the church than you imagine," said Beverley, who +was always glad to score a point against Scales, whose +assumption of authority he disliked. +</P> + +<P> +Scales made no reply. He really had no information +about Hilary Vickars, beyond the fact that he +had taken a sitting in the church. As he never read +a book of any kind, nor a literary journal, he was +quite ignorant of Hilary Vickar's pretensions as a +writer. But since Beverley appeared to think Vickars +an acquisition of some value, he was eager to prove +the contrary. He remembered opportunely that it was +immediately after John Clark's sermon on jerry-building +that Vickars had applied for sittings, and +immediately said so, with a crafty glance at Masterman. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course I don't know what other people think," +he added, "but I consider that sermon an outrage." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur flushed. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you really?" he asked. "It seems to me that +to say that is to beg the whole question. The real, +and therefore the only, question is, Was it true?" +</P> + +<P> +Masterman turned his heavy, frowning gaze on Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"We won't discuss that here," he said. "If you +are ready, gentlemen, we will adjourn to my office." +</P> + +<P> +The men rose and left the room, Masterman leading +the way. When the office door closed, Masterman +at once began to speak. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't propose to beat about the bush," he said; +"it isn't my way. You all know just why we are +here, and what the subject of discussion is. It's Clark." +</P> + +<P> +The others remained silent. +</P> + +<P> +"Have you nothing to say?" he asked, with a +sombre glance at Scales. +</P> + +<P> +"We would all prefer to hear you first," said Scales. +"Have you any course to propose?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I have," said Masterman, in a formidable +voice. "I've had about enough of Clark. I know +he's a good preacher and all that, but he's greatly +changed. For weeks past he has been attacking people +from the pulpit. That's not the kind of thing we pay +him for, and it must stop. Unless it stops, either +he or I must leave the church, and it's for you to choose." +</P> + +<P> +Thus bluntly adjured, the fountains of discussion +were at once open. Masterman lit a cigar, and sat +before the big writing-table, smoking stolidly. He +had shot his bolt, and was pretty sure of its effect. +He had the great advantage of having meditated on +his course with sober boldness. He knew very well +that he could do without the church better than it +could do without him. He did not wish to leave it, +but he had now reached a point in his career when +he was relatively indifferent to its advantages. It +would not hurt him much if he did join the rival +Episcopal church in the neighbourhood, which had +recently become quite popular under a new incumbent +of mellifluous voice and no particular convictions. It +might even help him socially—conceivably it might. +But that was a course which he did not mean to take +except under extreme pressure. It would certainly +have the aspect of defeat, and to be defeated by John +Clark was intolerable. +</P> + +<P> +As he saw the matter, the issue was absolutely clear. +Clark could no longer hold his own if he should oppose +him. A church can always get a minister, but a +minister could not always get a church. If Clark should +recognise the weakness of his position, and amend his +ways—well, he was not vindictive, and he would accept +any reasonable compromise. No, he was neither +vindictive nor unreasonable, but he meant to have his way, +and the only question in debate was by what means he +should secure it. +</P> + +<P> +To Beverley's cautious platitudes and Luke's halting +remonstrances he scarcely listened, but when at last +Scales began to speak, he was all attention. He knew +better than to place Scales in the category with Luke +and Beverley. Although his social position was not +much superior to theirs, yet he had by suavity and +some real ability insinuated himself into a place of +some authority in the counsels of the church. People +listened to him. He always spoke with gravity, and +with a certain air of deprecation, as of one who +admitted his humility, but was quietly aware of his +importance. And he usually knew exactly what to say +to influence opinion, for he had a habit of collecting +privately the opinions of other people before he +announced his own. Nothing sounds so like wisdom in +debate as for a speaker to give back in clear form the +half-articulated opinions of his audience, and in this +art Scales was an adept. Therefore Masterman +listened to him eagerly, when he began in his usually +non-committal voice to array reasons and suggest a course. +</P> + +<P> +Open opposition would not do, he remarked. That +would in all probability stiffen Clark in his views, +and rally round him those who agreed with him. But +it was a known fact that Clark was about to pay a +long-projected visit to the Holy Land. Let them give +him a cordial send-off—they might even give him a +cheque toward his expenses. Then, when he was +gone, would be the time to call a special meeting to +inquire into the condition of the church. At such +a meeting people would speak freely, as they would +not if Clark were present. Of course no one could +prophesy exactly what might happen, but it would not +be surprising if a good deal of opposition developed +both to the minister and his views. +</P> + +<P> +"Which means in plain words?" interrupted Masterman. +</P> + +<P> +"That possibly he may not come back," said Scales +quietly. +</P> + +<P> +"I will be no party to getting rid of the minister," +said Beverley. +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly not," said Scales. "But it is possible—I +only say it is possible, you know—that he may resign." +</P> + +<P> +"Under compulsion, you mean?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not at all. Simply in recognition of inevitable facts." +</P> + +<P> +Masterman's grim mouth relaxed in a broad smile. +His eye rested on Scales with a glance of ironic +admiration. What a pity such a man was after all +only a superior clerk, with no opportunity to display +his diplomatic gifts except upon the narrow stage +of church affairs. Yet he was conscious too of a +curious element of repulsion which mingled with his +admiration of the clerk's astuteness. His mind, which +half an hour before had been filled with hot enmity +against the minister, now recoiled swiftly and inclined +to his defence, when he saw the kind of weapons +which Scales meant to use against him. He was a +man both by nature and by habit not delicate in his +use of means to attain an end; he could be both cruel +and unscrupulous upon occasion; but he had no taste +for deliberate perfidy, he had no capacity for +meanness, and he contemplated the narrow-shouldered, +suave-tongued clerk with a rising disgust. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't like your plan," he broke forth loudly. +"That Holy Land scheme of yours, getting rid of +Clark and then attacking him, it's mean, it's too much +like tying a rope across a road to trip up a man in +the dark whom you dare not tackle openly." +</P> + +<P> +"It's only a suggestion, sir," said Scales deferentially. +</P> + +<P> +"It had better remain a suggestion, then." +</P> + +<P> +He turned his back on Scales, and began to arrange +the papers on his desk. It was the signal that the +conference was over. Luke and Beverley soon left, +but Scales remained. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think you quite appreciate your own +position in this affair," Scales remarked. +</P> + +<P> +"My position? What do you know of my position?" +</P> + +<P> +"More than I cared to say before the others. I +would like to ask you a question." +</P> + +<P> +"Ask away," Masterman retorted grimly. +</P> + +<P> +"Well then, do you know the real reason why Clark +preached that sermon?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I suppose it was the expression of the +new-fangled socialism he professes." +</P> + +<P> +"In part, yes. But there was a personal element, +too. Do you recollect a church you built at Orchard +Green about ten years ago?" +</P> + +<P> +Masterman's face darkened, for he knew very well +what was coming. He had received more than one +letter lately from the trustees of Orchard Green Church, +who complained that the west wall of the edifice was +sinking, owing to imperfect foundations. It would +have to be rebuilt, and they naturally traced their +disaster to his bad workmanship. Hitherto he had +taken no notice of these letters. The people who +wrote them were not persons of any influence. They +had no legal claim upon him. Of course his work +had been properly certified by the architect at the +time of its completion, and in any case the lapse +of ten years made him immune from all responsibility. +Nevertheless, it was not an affair that +he cared to have generally known, and he was +startled at Scales' reference to the Orchard Green Church. +</P> + +<P> +"Well," Scales continued, "it seems Clark has +friends at Orchard Green. When he went to see them +a little time ago, they told him that the walls of the +church were sinking. They had uncovered a part of +the foundations to discover the cause, and had found +instead of sound concrete a rotten mixture of +oyster-shells and road-gravel. Of course they told him that +you were the builder, and he came back raging. Then +he preached his sermon." +</P> + +<P> +"And you disapproved his sermon?" +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly—certainly," Scales replied in an eager voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Even though his facts were right?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! I couldn't agree to that, sir. And I'm sure +you wouldn't admit it." +</P> + +<P> +Masterman threw away his cigar, lit another, and +stood regarding Scales with a sardonic eye. +Somehow the craft of the clerk did not appear to him the +admirable quality that it had seemed half an hour +earlier. To rob upon a large scale was one thing; +to cheat the mind into false conclusions was quite +another. The first he had done, and would do again; +but by a strange paradox this robber in action +remained honest in thought, and could not bring himself +to say the thing he did not mean. He felt again that +spasm of aversion to Scales, and with his aversion +there was mixed a strong curiosity to know just how +far the clerk's supple conscience would serve him, and +what was the part he wished to play. +</P> + +<P> +He wheeled suddenly upon Scales, and broke into +a harsh laugh. +</P> + +<P> +"Is that all you have to say?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, that is all." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, now listen to me. The facts about the +Orchard Green Church are all right. I admit them. +They wanted everything as cheap as could be; they +wanted me cheap; so I gave them cheap work just to +balance matters. Don't think that's an apology, for +it isn't. As for Clark, I don't object to his saying +anything he likes about the business, but I do object +to his saying it from a pulpit. He wants to injure me, +and so he can't complain if I get back at him. But +there's two ways of fighting a man—one's face to face, +and the other's by hitting him behind. I'm going to +fight honest. And do you know, Scales, much as I +dislike Clark, I really think I like him better than I +like you, after all." +</P> + +<P> +"I fail to understand——" Scales began. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh no, you don't; you're much too clever for that. +But if you do really want a little light, I'd have you +remember this—that Archibold Masterman was never +frightened yet by threats, and when he fights he fights fair." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap03"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +III +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE BIG STRONG BEAST +</H4> + +<P> +The next morning Masterman wrote a letter to the overjoyed trustees of +the Orchard Green Church, offering to make good without cost all +defects of workmanship in the building which might be justly charged to +him. He was careful to explain that while they had no legal claim on +him, he regarded this work as a debt of honour. +</P> + +<P> +He had just finished the letter when Arthur came into the office. +Arthur's manner was constrained and almost timid. Masterman, on the +contrary, was in his most jovial mood. He had just performed an act +which was not only good in itself, but wise and politic; for, of +course, he knew that his action toward the Orchard Green trustees would +become public, and would be quoted to his credit. +</P> + +<P> +"Well," he began, "getting a bit tired of doing nothing? Not that I +grudge you your liberty, you know. I promised you a year to look +around, before you settle to your life-work, and I shall stick to my +bargain. But I confess it will be a glad day for me when I write +'Masterman & Son' over my doors." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm very far from doing nothing, sir," he answered. "Oxford is one +world, and London quite another. I am learning every day a lot of +things Oxford never taught me." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course you are. London's a big world, and the things it has to +teach are the things that count. Not that Oxford isn't worth while +too. It gives a man a start in life nothing else can give. That's why +I sent you there, you know." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I know, father, and I am grateful to you." +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing to be grateful for, my boy. I owed it to you." His face +softened with a musing look very unusual with him. "I got no kind of +start myself, you know," he continued. "At fifteen I was working in a +brickfield. When I went home at night, my father used to beat me. I +don't think I ever hated any one as I hated my father. One day I +struck back, and ran away from home. Queer thing—I was always sorry +for that blow. I used to lie awake at nights for weeks after, +wondering if I really hurt the old man. From that day to this I never +saw him any more. But I'm still sorry for that blow. Sons shouldn't +hit their parents, anyway. I ought to have let him go on beating me; +he'd got the habit, and I could have stood it all right. Well, well, +it's such a long time ago that I can hardly believe it ever happened." +</P> + +<P> +He stopped suddenly, with a lift of the shoulders, as if he shook off +the burden of that squalid past. But the rude words had left the son +inexpressibly touched. A swift picture passed before his mind of a +gaunt boy toiling over heavy tasks, ill-paid, cruelly used, wandering +out into the world lonely and unguided, and a strong passion of pity +and of wonder shook his heart. Above all, those artless words, "Sons +shouldn't hit their fathers, anyway," fell upon him with the weight of +a reproach. Had he not already condemned his father in his thoughts? +He had known very well to whom Clark alluded in his sermon, and yet he +had approved. He had entered the office that morning with the fixed +intent of endorsing Clark's tacit accusation of his father. And now he +found himself suddenly disarmed. That old sense of something big about +his father came back to him with redoubled force. To start like that, +shovelling clay in a brickyard for twelve hours a day, and to become +what he was—oh! it needed a big man to do that, an Esau who was +scarcely to be judged by the standards of smooth-skinned, home-staying +Jacobs. +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't know you had suffered all that, father. You never told me +that before." +</P> + +<P> +"There's a sight of things I've suffered that I wouldn't like you to +know. But they were all in the day's work, and I don't complain. And +that's one thing I want to say to you, and I may as well say it now. +You've got a start I never had, and you won't suffer what I suffered, +but I want you to know that the world's a pretty hard place to live in +anyway. You can't go through it without being badly hurt somewhere. +You've got to take what you want, or you won't get it. Talking isn't +going to mend things: life's a big strong beast, and it isn't words but +a bit and bridle and a whip a man needs who is going to succeed. Now +you're at the talking stage, and I don't complain. You admire talkers +like Clark, and you think they are doing no end of good, don't you? +Well, you'll learn better presently. You'll find that the world goes +on much the same as it ever did, in spite of the talkers. I want you +to digest that fact just as soon as you can, and then you'll be ready +to step down into the thick of life where I am, and help me do the +things I want to do." +</P> + +<P> +"But, father, is what Clark said concerning you true?" +</P> + +<P> +"Do you want to discuss it with me?" +</P> + +<P> +"No; I have no right to ask that." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, you have. I want you to join in the business when you're ready, +and you've a right to know what kind of business it is, and, if you +like to put it so, what kind of person your partner is." +</P> + +<P> +"He is my father, and I love him. That is enough," said Arthur proudly. +</P> + +<P> +"No, it isn't enough. I had a father, and I didn't love him. But as +to this business of Clark's. He found out something against me, and +instead of coming to me about it, he preached a sermon on it, and for +that I don't forgive him. Well, what was it he found out? No more +than this—that ten years ago I had to do a cheap job, and I did it +cheaply. My work has held together ten years, which is about all that +could be expected at the price. Now I'll tell you what I've done. +I've agreed to do the work over again for nothing. There's the letter +which I've just written. You had better read it." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur took the letter, and read it slowly. His father had risen from +his desk, and stood watching him narrowly. Perhaps until that moment +he had never quite realised how much his heart was set on having his +son in the business with him. And he wanted above all things to win +the son's approval. Perhaps there was some underlying thought of this +kind in his mind when he wrote the letter. Not that he meant to alter +all the methods of his business to suit his son. Once in the business, +Arthur would learn what these were by imperceptible degrees, and would +grow accustomed to them. But just now the father's heart was wholly +set upon concession and conciliation. He remembered, with a rush of +tenderness, how he had long ago taught the boy to swim. He could still +see the slight, childish form shivering on the rock above the +swimming-pool. He had begun with threats, but had soon found them +useless. Then he had used persuasion and cajolery, until at last the +boy had slipt into the pool, and in a week was swimming with the best +of them. Well, it was like that now. If he could but cajole him into +the deep stream of life, that was enough; when the deep water heaved +beneath his feet, he would have to do what the others did in pure +self-defence. +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" he said at last. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur laid down the letter and turned a shining face upon his father. +</P> + +<P> +"It is a noble letter, father. Forgive me that I misjudged you." +</P> + +<P> +"That's all right, then." +</P> + +<P> +"You have taught me a lesson. I shall not forget it." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! don't take it too seriously, my boy. It is only a small affair, +after all." +</P> + +<P> +But each knew that it was not a small affair. In that moment these two +opposite natures were nearer together than they had ever been before, +and, although neither knew it, nearer than they would ever be again. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur left his father with a strong sense of exaltation. The cloud of +misgiving concerning his father's methods of business had miraculously +dissolved. In the quick rebound of feeling he was inclined to judge +himself intolerant and unjust, and his father's image glowed before his +mind, endued with heroic virtues. He shuddered when he thought of his +father's youth, with its dreadful disabilities; he kindled with +admiring ardour when the thought of his father's triumph over a weight +of circumstance which would have crushed a weaker man. If some of the +mire of the pit yet clung to him, if in many things he was crude, +violent, narrow, it was not surprising; the marvel was that his faults +were not more numerous and more unpardonable. As Arthur went to his +room, he caught a vision of himself in the mirror of his wardrobe—a +slight figure admirably clothed, a face fresh and unlined, with white +forehead and close curling hair, the picture of youth delicately +nurtured, upon whom the winds of life had not blown roughly—and he was +filled with compunction at the contrast afforded by that other picture +of a poor drudging boy toiling in a brickfield and beaten by a drunken +parent. In spite of all his superficial superiorities, he seemed a +creature of small significance beside this Titanic father of his. +</P> + +<P> +It was an exquisite spring morning, one of those mornings when London +draws her first fresh, unimpeded breath after the long, choking fogs of +winter. The lawn lay green beneath the window, presided over by a busy +thrush, who flirted his wings in the strong sunlight, and stopped at +intervals to address a long mellow note of rapture to the blue sky; the +japonica had hung the garden wall with crimson blossoms; the poplars +took the light upon their slender spires, till each burned with yellow +flame. Nature, unconquered by the gross antipathy of man, was invading +the brick Babylon, flinging brocades of light upon the beaten ways, and +filling them with the music of the pipes of Pan. Arthur could not +resist the call. +</P> + +<P> +He felt a need of solitude. He had many thoughts that cried aloud for +readjustment. He stepped out in the blither air, and took his way to +Hampstead Heath. Soon the narrow streets were left behind, the long +hill rose above him, and his feet trod the furze-clad slopes, little +altered since the day when Roman legions camped upon their crests, and +eighteenth-century highwaymen concealed themselves among their hollows. +He walked far and fast, meditating much on life. It seemed a wonderful +thing to be alive, where so many generations of men had fought and +perished, to be for a little time sole possessor of a world that had +cast off such myriads of tenants; and there came to him, with an almost +painful wonder, the sense of the richness of his opportunity. He would +make his own life something worthy. It was true, as his father had +said, that he started at a point of vantage not given to every one. By +so much that he started higher, he must soar higher, go farther. But +in the midst of all his exultant thoughts there intruded his father's +terse picture of life as a big strong beast only to be mastered by bit +and whip and bridle. And at that thought the tide of exaltation began +to leave him. He walked more slowly, became listless, was conscious of +weariness. It no longer seemed an easy and a rapturous thing to live; +life rose before him as a menace. +</P> + +<P> +In the early afternoon he came to the Spaniards' Inn, and entered it. +Coming from the brilliant air into the dim room of the inn, he did not +at first recognise a man already seated there, finishing a frugal meal +of bread and cheese and ale. The man was tall, with somewhat stooping +shoulders; his face was long and bearded, his forehead high, with thin +dark hair, his eyes dark and penetrating. He wore a flannel shirt with +a silk tie of some indeterminate colour akin to dull crimson. He held +a book in one hand, and read as he ate. +</P> + +<P> +As Arthur entered the room he looked up. +</P> + +<P> +"You don't know me, I suppose," he said genially. "But I know you by +sight at least. My name is Hilary Vickars." +</P> + +<P> +So this was Hilary Vickars, of whom he had heard Scales speaking at the +deacon's tea. Now that he looked at him more closely he recognised him +at once. Among the crowd of ordinary faces in the church, that face +had stood out with a singular distinctness. It was a face at once +grave and composed, sad and humorous; the face of a man who had striven +much and suffered much, but had retained through all a certain +vivacity, which was distinct from gaiety while including it. And all +these qualities seemed to rest upon a deeper quality of composure, so +that the final impression was of a man who through suffering had won +his way to some secret knowledge which gave him an air of gentle +authority. +</P> + +<P> +"I have often wished to know you," said Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"And I you." +</P> + +<P> +"Why should you wish to know me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! a fancy of mine. It is my business to study people. And you do +not look like the run of folk in Highbourne Gardens. Most of the folk +in Highbourne Gardens are dear, good, comfortable folk, but stodgy. +They are as alike as peas. I could tell you their exact method of +life, even to what they have for breakfast. They are products of +manufacture, all turned out just alike to the last hair, and all doing +just the same things every day, without the least variation. That is +what stodginess means." +</P> + +<P> +"And I am not stodgy?" Arthur laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"No; you are fluid. You have not hardened into shape yet. You are a +problem." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur looked at the dark, ironic face, and felt a sudden friendliness +for the man. It was a long time since he had conversed with a man of +ideas; he had scarcely done so since he had left Oxford. The church +young men he had found distasteful to him. They were good young men +for the most part, much enamoured of respectability, laboriously +virtuous, cherishing many mild scruples about the use of the world and +inclined to judge it by standards quite foreign to their real tastes; +but they had no mental horizons. They were also inclined to be a +little shy of him, as a rich man's son with a superior education; a +little envious, too, and not at home in his presence, so that +intercourse with them had not been easy. But here was a man who spoke +another kind of language; it was that language of ideas which at once +asserts kinship, among those to whom it is intelligible. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur drew his chair to the table, and soon found himself absorbed in +conversation. Hilary Vickars talked slowly, with hesitating pauses—a +trick which lent emphasis to what he said. It was as though he fumbled +for the right word, and then flashed it out like a sudden torch. +Arthur noticed, too, that he occasionally did not pronounce a word in +the way common among educated men. The variation was slight; it could +scarcely have been called erroneous; but it suggested some deficiency +of early training. Perhaps the boy's face betrayed his surprise too +ingenuously, for after one of these variations Vickars said abruptly: +</P> + +<P> +"I envy you. It was my dream to go to Oxford. I didn't dream true in +that case." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps you have done just as well without Oxford," said Arthur +generously. +</P> + +<P> +"No, I have never cherished that—delusion. Deprivations in middle +life don't matter; but deprivations in early life can never be made +up." He paused a moment, and then added. "I was a gardener before I +became an author." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur looked his surprise, whereat Vickars laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! I assure you," he said, "even gardeners have their dreams. Mine, +as I said, was Oxford, for I spent my youth within sight of her spires, +within sound of her bells. I believed I could become a scholar; +indeed, I still believe my old belief not quite foolish. I spent all +my money on grammars and dictionaries which I did not know were +obsolete, got to know the classics in a crude fashion, and went on +imagining that some day I might enter the University. Of course it was +all an absurd dream; you do not need to be told that. My first real +discovery in life was that learning is the privilege of wealth. That +led me to some other discoveries of the same nature, the sum of which +was that the great mass of mankind are born disinherited, and that I +was one of them. It hurt me dreadfully at the time, but in the long +run it was the making of me. It set me studying life as it is, not as +it once was in ancient times. And the more I studied it, the more I +came to admire common men and women, until at last I was glad that I +belonged to them. It is a great thing to know just to whom you belong; +no man does any kind of good work till he knows that." +</P> + +<P> +"But you are not a common man," Arthur interrupted. "You are a writer." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! I have some aptitudes that are not common, no doubt; I am +immodest enough to think that. But if I am a writer, I write of common +people. It is common life that interests me, the virtues, vices, +trials, heroisms, debasements, and nobilities of plain people. But I +did not mean to talk about myself, and you must forgive me." +</P> + +<P> +"There is nothing to forgive. What you say deeply interests me. My +father said a thing to-day about life which has been in my thoughts a +good deal, and you make me recall it. By the way, do you know my +father?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I know him." +</P> + +<P> +He spoke the words with a certain caustic accent which did not pass +unnoticed. +</P> + +<P> +"You mean you do not like him," Arthur replied with a flash of anger. +</P> + +<P> +"No, I don't say that. I know him merely as a type. But what did he +say?" +</P> + +<P> +"He said life was a hard business, in which one was sure to be hurt; +that it was a big strong beast which could only be subdued by whip and +bridle." +</P> + +<P> +"An excellent definition. Life is strong and cruel and hard. Men who +really live soon discover that." +</P> + +<P> +"Have you found it so?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. And I've seen the big strong beast tread thousands down—the +people who haven't got the whip and bridle." +</P> + +<P> +He spoke the words with remarkable intensity. They were flashed from +him rather than spoken. Then, as if ashamed of his display of feeling, +he rose from the table, and said in a matter-of-fact tone, "The evening +is coming on. I must be going." +</P> + +<P> +They went out of the inn together. The long gray road with its groups +of trees and dim houses lay before them; and, as the darkness deepened, +the distant lights of London flung a yellow conflagration on the sky. +"That's where the big strong beast lies," said Vickars. "You can hear +his mighty hooves at work." And, as he spoke, from that great caldron +of life, that lay packed and mist-swathed to the eastward of the road, +there did come up a sound as of waves upon a groaning beach, a sound of +crashing and rending, mingled with the dull thud of wheels and the +demoniac shriek of engine and of factory whistles. +</P> + +<P> +But he did not recur to the theme. The talk became trivial, +commonplace; once only did it touch a theme of interest, when Vickars +recalled how Coleridge and Keats and Haydon and Leigh Hunt had trodden +that same road, each with his own separate vision of what life meant, +and what man was meant to do in it. +</P> + +<P> +It was nearly dark when they reached the neighbourhood of Highbourne +Gardens. Presently Vickars stopped before a small house, one of many, +in a long gravelled street. The houses were all alike; each had its +strip of garden, its bow-window, its door with glass panels, its aspect +of decent mediocrity. There was still enough light to see that though +the houses were comparatively new, a kind of premature decay had +overtaken them. The iron garden-gates sagged upon their hinges, and +the bricks appeared to be joined with sand, which errand-boys had +picked out in deep grooves while waiting in the porch for orders. The +dilapidation of age may be respectable and even romantic, but in this +dilapidation of newness there was something inexpressibly depressing. +</P> + +<P> +"This is where I live," said Vickars. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think I was ever in this street before," said Arthur. "It +must have been built while I was at Oxford." +</P> + +<P> +"It was," said Vickars. "Your father built it." +</P> + +<P> +They said good-night and parted. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap04"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +MRS. BUNDY +</H4> + +<P> +A few days after Arthur's memorable conversation with his father, +Archibold Masterman entered on one of his recurring fits of gloom. He +went about the house silently, ate and drank in silence, took little +notice of any member of his family, and sat alone in his office till +long past midnight. The causes of his silence were, as usual, +inscrutable. Sometimes he looked on Arthur with a long, brooding, +wistful gaze, as if he would like to confide in him, but the confidence +never came. Possibly if he had followed up his recent burst of +tenderness with complete confidence, the boy might have been won. But +in Masterman's nature there was a curious element of perversity, which +often prevailed over the dictates of reason and even of self-interest. +It was this element of perversity that lay at the root of much that +seemed complex in his character, exhibiting itself sometimes in gusty +tenderness, sometimes in unscrupulous hardness, so that to the casual +observer he appeared a man of formidable moods, none of whose actions +could be predicated from any precedent experience. +</P> + +<P> +Once, when Arthur said timidly, "Can I be of any help to you in the +office, sir?" he replied curtly, "None whatever. I'll tell you when I +want you," and the boy said no more. His sister had gone away to spend +some weeks with a friend, his mother was as silent as his father, and +he was left more completely to himself than he had ever been. +</P> + +<P> +It was little wonder that he turned eagerly from that gloomy house to +the society of such friends as were available. Among these was Hilary +Vickars, for whom he had conceived a strong liking. He walked with him +occasionally in the afternoons, but as yet Arthur had not visited the +house. Another friend, whose house was always open to him, and had +been since he was a boy, was a certain Mrs. Bundy, a motherly, +cheerful, eccentric Scotchwoman. She was a person of extraordinary +slovenliness and good-humour, indefatigably kind, generous, and +light-hearted, who had been so used to carrying burdens herself that +she cheerfully shouldered other people's burdens as a kind of right. +Every one knew where Mrs. Bundy lived; lonely Scotch youths who had +come to London to push their fortunes found in her an ardent +sympathiser; and should one come to her sick with the shame of some +sudden defeat of virtue, he never failed to find in her a shrewd and +optimistic friend. Over such youths she exercised a directorship as +complete as that of a Jesuit Father; she inspected with a jealous eye +their morals and their underwear; mended for them, dosed them when they +had colds, fed them with anything that came to hand, took charge of +their money, made them small loans, and addressed them with apostolic +fervour upon the perils and the pitfalls of London life. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor laddies!" she would say, "they need mothering," and her ample +breast swelled with pity at the picture of their loneliness in shabby +London lodgings, where they did unequal battle with rapacious +land-ladies. Not that she herself was childless; she was the proud +mother of two of the most odious children in the locality, who spent +their whole time in making life intolerable to their neighbours. But +to her, of course, they were merely riotous young angels, whose +mischief was the proof of hearty spirits, and whose worst faults +reposed upon a solid base of good intentions. +</P> + +<P> +Life for these youngsters was merely a joke and an adventure, and, to +tell the truth, Mrs. Bundy's view of life was not unlike theirs. Her +whole existence had been fugitive and precarious, for her husband was a +speculator who had followed for thirty years the will-o'-the-wisp of +sudden fortune. He was a solemn little man, with large, dreamlike +eyes, whose immense power of industry had been almost uniformly turned +in wrong directions. At the whisper of gold, silver, lead, coal, +nitrates, oil, land-booms, he was ready at a moment's notice to wander +off into the most inaccessible places of the earth, from which he +returned sometimes penniless, and sometimes with a profusion of spoil +which he soon contrived to lose again. Most women would have tired of +these fruitless quests, but Mrs. Bundy's faith in her husband never +faltered, and all the strange caprices of his fortune did not +disconcert her. When her adventurer returned with bags of gold, she at +once rose to the occasion, moved into a larger house, rode in her +carriage for a few weeks, and thoroughly enjoyed the sunshine while it +lasted. When the luck failed, she went back contentedly to the +cheapest house she could find, used up her fine gowns in household +service, and waited hopefully for the return of Bundy. He always came +back, though more than once he had been away a whole year; and his +return was sometimes dramatic—as, for instance, when he appeared at +midnight, and flung a diamond necklace round her throat, while she hid +in her pocket a county-court summons for a year's milk bills which she +could not pay. +</P> + +<P> +"Come in wi' you, my bonny lad," was the usual greeting to Arthur, and +she would lead him into the kitchen with the air of a duchess +introducing him to a salon; for it should be said that at this time the +Bundy star was in eclipse. And then she would sit down and tell him +wondrous tales of people she had known, much too grotesque and tragic +for any reasonable world, with stories still more grotesque of the +wanderings of Bundy in Brazil and South Africa, and the narrow escapes +he had had of being a multimillionaire. Just now, it appeared, he was +engaged on some mysterious business in Canada, where a handful of +dollars judiciously expended might purchase an estate as large as +England. And she would tell these stories with such a vivid art, and +with such good faith and humour, that Arthur would roar with laughter, +which perhaps was what she wished him to do, for he often came to her +with a clouded brow. +</P> + +<P> +"It's small good staying in England these days, if you want to +prosper," she would remark. "What wi' all the ships upon the sea and +all the new lands that lie beyond, it's a shame for a youth to sit at +home. You don't get any fun out of life that way." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur might have retorted that there did not seem to be much fun in a +kind of life that left Mrs. Bundy sole tenant of a ruinous old house in +Lion Row, whose rent she could scarcely pay, while Bundy wandered in +Brazil or Canada, but Mrs. Bundy was so unaffectedly enamoured of her +lot that he never said it. On the contrary, there was sown in his mind +a little germ of adventure which was to ripen later on, and he got +exhilarating glimpses of the romance and bigness of life. +</P> + +<P> +She examined his hand one night, for she affected a knowledge of +palmistry, and ended by saying, "You'll have your adventures before +long"; and in spite of his entire scepticism, a pleasurable thrill shot +through his veins at the prophecy. +</P> + +<P> +"You've got a hand like Bundy's," she remarked; whereat he laughed, and +said rather rudely that he had no wish to resemble Bundy. +</P> + +<P> +"Bundy's had his bad times," she retorted, "but he's had his good times +too. But if you asked him, I don't think he'd regret anything, and +he'd live the same life again if he had the choice. And so would I, +for that matter." +</P> + +<P> +And then she swept across the kitchen in her soiled silk dress with the +air of pride and dignity that would have become a palace, and Arthur +was left reflecting on the happy courage of her temperament as +something to be greatly envied. +</P> + +<P> +He learned much from Mrs. Bundy in those weeks, and above all he +learned to love her. She was, in spite of all her eccentricities, so +motherly, and such a fountain of inexhaustible sympathy, that he got +into the way of confiding to her many of his private thoughts. +</P> + +<P> +One night he spoke to her about his father, and of his father's plans +for him. +</P> + +<P> +"He wants me to enter the business," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"And why not, laddie?" +</P> + +<P> +"Frankly, I don't like it." +</P> + +<P> +"That's neither here nor there. You've got to live, and as long as a +business is honest, one business is as good as another." +</P> + +<P> +"But is it honest?" +</P> + +<P> +He had not meant to ask the question. It came from him unawares. It +was a long-silent, long-concealed thought, suddenly become audible. +</P> + +<P> +"What is dishonest in it?" +</P> + +<P> +"I can't quite tell. But I do know that my father buys land for +speculative building, and puts up houses that are built of the +rottenest material, and sells them to ignorant people." +</P> + +<P> +"Aye, laddie, your father's like the man in the parable, 'an austere +man, gathering where he has not strawed.' But he's a strong man, is +your father. There's few stronger men than Archibold Masterman. +</P> + +<P> +"Strong, but is he good? I mean, is his way of life right?" +</P> + +<P> +"I canna' tell about that, laddie. But if I was you, I think I +wouldn't ask that question about my father. There's a lot of goodness +in men, and my conviction is that most men are about as good as they +know how to be. There's many people wouldn't call Bundy good, because +he's what they call a speculator, and has to live with wild men, and +doesn't go to church when he's home; but I know he's got a heart of +gold. He never cheated any man knowingly. He's lost himself much more +than men have lost by him. And he'd always give away his last penny to +the poor." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, but that's not the point. I know my father is good in that way. +Why, only the other day he rebuilt a church entirely at his own expense +for people who had no legal claim at all on him. But it's his +business, it's the method of it. And I must find an answer, for I must +join him in the business or refuse it." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, if you feel like that, refuse it, laddie. Not that I'll say +you're wise, nor even right. Fathers have some claims on their sons +after all, and these claims ought to come before your own tastes. Only +if you know you couldn't draw together with your father, and would only +make him and yourself unhappy trying to, then the best thing is to say +so at once." +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose you are right," he said in a lugubrious voice. And then he +added, "There's another trouble, too. How am I to get my living?" +</P> + +<P> +"You'll find that out fast enough when you become acquainted with +hunger," she said with a laugh. +</P> + +<P> +"But if I don't go into my father's business, God only knows what I can +do. I don't seem to be fitted for anything in particular." +</P> + +<P> +"I wouldn't worry about that, either," she replied. "There's very few +men do the things they think they're fitted for; but they find out how +to do other things that are just as important. There's Bundy, now; +you'll never guess what he thought himself fitted for when I married +him." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, what?" +</P> + +<P> +"A clergyman." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur laughed profanely. The thought of the nefarious Bundy, whose +life had been spent in the promotion of companies of a singular +collapsibility, as a clergyman was too ridiculous. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! you may laugh, but let me tell you he'd have made a first-rate +parson if he'd gone to college, and started fair." +</P> + +<P> +She spoke with heat, which immediately passed into laughter, as she +caught a glimpse of the whimsicality of the thing. +</P> + +<P> +"Ye canna' say Bundy has not a fine flow of language when he chooses, +and he can look as solemn as a bishop, and I'm sure he would have had a +fine bedside manner," she continued. "But my belief is that a man who +can do one thing well can do any other thing just as well." +</P> + +<P> +"That's a consoling faith, at any rate." +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't a faith, it's a fact. It's just a question of ability. The +worst of you London-bred lads is that you all want a place made for +you, and you don't see that the strong man makes a place for himself." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur did not quite like that, and he liked it the less because he +knew that it was true. For was not he London bred? Had not his path +been made easy for him? And how could that happen without some +emasculation of nature? To grow up in streets, carefully paved and +graded, punctually lit at night; to live in houses where a hundred +conveniences sprang up to meet the idle hand, to be guarded from +offence, provided for without exertion—ah, how different that life +from the primitive life of man, familiar with rain and tempest, with a +hundred rude and moving accidents, always poised upon the edge of +peril, and existing instant by instant by an indomitable exercise of +will and strength! For the first time he caught a vital glimpse of the +primeval life of man, and recognised its self-sufficing dignity. For +the first time he realised that the essence of all true living lay in +daring. It was a truth which neither London nor Oxford had imparted to +him. He had not even learned it through his own father, whom he knew +conventionally rather than really. Strangely enough, it came to him +now through the talk of Mrs. Bundy, wise with a wisdom which +vicissitude alone could teach, and through the somewhat sorry epic of +her husband's hazardous adventures. +</P> + +<P> +"The strong man makes a place for himself"—it was sound doctrine and +indubitable fact as well; but was he one of the strong? The question +hung upon the confines of his mind, a whispered interrogation, which +disturbed and sometimes tortured him. Youth is always a little +ludicrous, often pathetically ludicrous, and in nothing so much as in +its capacity for taking itself seriously. Life seems such an immensely +solemn business at one-and-twenty. Later on we discover that the +decisions on which we supposed angels waited are of scant interest to +any one but ourselves, and that the world goes on much the same +whatever we do or say. +</P> + +<P> +Yet youth is right, even in its crude vanity and egoism, for the +history of the world would be poor reading if it recorded nothing +better than the commonsense and commonplace performances of middle-age. +Mrs. Bundy, from her fifty years' coign of vantage, saw life as Arthur +could not see it; above all, she saw its width, which was a great +vision to attain. +</P> + +<P> +"No man really enjoys life," she said to him one day, "unless he starts +poor." +</P> + +<P> +"How do you make that out?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because the poor are the only people capable of adventures," she +replied. "As long as a man is poor, anything may happen to him; but +after he becomes rich, nothing happens." +</P> + +<P> +"But you would like to be rich, wouldn't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not rich enough to want for nothing," she replied. +</P> + +<P> +As usual she fell back upon her own experience for wisdom, and drew a +shrewd and humorous sketch of one of her episodic emergences into +wealth. +</P> + +<P> +"Bundy was really rich that time," she remarked. "He'd struck oil in +Texas, and had only to sit still and let the oil work for him. It was +good fun at first. We took a big house at Kensington, and Bundy spent +his time getting cheated over horses, and I spent mine being cheated +over sham Sheraton furniture, and when we tired of that we bought +pictures, until at last the house was so full of things we couldn't get +another stick into it. 'What shall we do now?' says Bundy. 'Let us +try being fashionable,' says I." [She uttered the word +"fash-ee-on-abell," with an indescribable drawling accent of contempt.] +"So we tried that, too, and drove in the Park, and gave dinner-parties, +and Bundy had to wear dress-clothes, though he never could make out how +to tie his white tie, and made more fuss than enough of it. We got +plenty of folk to eat our dinners, but a duller lot I never met. The +men all wanted to talk oil, and the women couldn't talk of anything but +dress, and men and women alike hung round Bundy, and let him know as +plainly as they dared that all they came for was to see if they could +get any oil-shares out of him. After a time we grew tired of being +fashionable, and Bundy says, 'I think we'll have a yacht.' So we +bought a yacht, though neither of us liked the sea, and we made out a +summer that way. And all the while the oil was pouring out of those +wells in Texas, and the money was pouring in, and we saw no end to it. +Then Bundy tried being a philanthropist, and that was really +interesting while it lasted. There wasn't a crank in London—nor, one +would suppose, in Europe, from the look of his mail-bag—that didn't +find him out. They sat upon his doorstep to catch him coming out, and +hunted him down the street, and all the men he'd ever known anywhere +claimed him as an old friend, so that the poor man lived the life of a +partridge on the mountains, as the saying is. He grew quite +old-looking, and lost his sleep, and after a time he didn't even read +what the papers said about him, which is a pretty bad sign in a man." +</P> + +<P> +"Poor Mr. Bundy!" said Arthur, in mock commiseration. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! you may well say it, laddie, and poor Mrs. Bundy, too, for I'd +never been so miserable in my life. You see, it was the dullness of +the thing that made us miserable. When you can get everything you +want, you don't want anything after a time." +</P> + +<P> +"And how did it end?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, one morning I lay a-bed late, for there was nothing particular +to get up for, and I could hear Bundy in his dressing-room, opening and +shutting drawers, as though he couldn't make up his mind what clothes +he wanted to wear. There came a knock on the outer door, and I heard a +crumpling of paper, and then he whistled. +</P> + +<P> +"'What is it?' I called out. +</P> + +<P> +"He didn't answer, but I heard him rampaging round. So I jumped out of +bed, and ran into the dressing-room, and there stood Bundy laughing to +himself, and upon my word he looked happier than I had seen him for +twelve months or more. +</P> + +<P> +"'What is it?' I says again. +</P> + +<P> +"And then he looked at me mighty solemn and queer, and says, 'Can ye +bear it?' +</P> + +<P> +"'Bear what?' says I. +</P> + +<P> +"'Oh! nothing much,' says he, 'only we're bust. The oil's given out.' +</P> + +<P> +"'Then we're poor?' says I. +</P> + +<P> +"'Poor we are,' says he—'poor as Job. For, you see, I've been +spending everything as it came, thinking that that oil would last for +ever, and now we're bust.' +</P> + +<P> +"'Hallelujah!' says I. 'That's the best news I've heard a long time.' +</P> + +<P> +"He looked at me a minute, kind of doubtful, and then he burst out +laughing, and says, 'I rather think I feel that way myself.' +</P> + +<P> +"'I knew you would,' says I. And then I put my arms round him, and we +danced round the room, and I give you my word that was the happiest +hour I ever spent in that big house at Kensington. You see, we'd both +been dying of dullness, though neither of us liked to say it. We'd got +where there weren't any adventures; and that's why life didn't seem +worth living." +</P> + +<P> +She looked at Arthur with humorous eyes, in which also there was the +gleam of motherly affection and solicitude. +</P> + +<P> +"You're dreadfully afraid of being poor, aren't you, my dear?" she +concluded. "London makes men feel like that. And it's because men get +afraid of life that they take the first comfortable groove that offers, +and then all the fun is over for them. Well, don't you be like that. +If I was you, I'd live my life, and let the question of getting a +living shift for itself. And remember what I say, for it's true—the +only people who really enjoy life are the poor, because they're the +only people who have lots to look forward to." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap05"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +V +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE MAGIC NIGHT +</H4> + +<P> +Coming home one night along the Lonsdale Road, Arthur found Hilary +Vickars standing at his garden gate, taking the air. It was June, that +most exquisite of all months in London, when the perfume of summer +finds its way into the narrowest streets, and the imprisoned people +thrill with a new sense of freedom and deliverance. In the soft +twilight even Lonsdale Road was touched with the idyllic; its impudence +of newness was concealed under a faint wash of mauve, and its tiny +gardens were fresh with the scent of mown grass. +</P> + +<P> +Hilary Vickars himself seemed softened with the hour; when he spoke to +Arthur there was a new kindness in his voice. Perhaps he could not +have explained his mood; few of us can explain these sudden softenings +that come to us, sometimes through the influence of external things, +sometimes from the welling up in us of founts of tenderness which we +had thought for ever sealed. A gust of wind among the trees, a bird's +song in the dusk, a girl's voice at her piano, in its first fresh, +unrestrained sweetness—who of us cannot recall how things as slight as +these have had a strange power to provoke some crisis of emotion, which +perhaps has coloured all our after-life? Hilary Vickars had been +listening that night to his daughter as she sang. She had sung a song +her mother had been fond of, and in the mind of the widowed man all the +past had leapt into agonised distinctness. And from that he had passed +to the perception of the daughter's likeness to her mother, and to the +pathos of her youth. Her voice yet lingered in the air, as he stole +out of the room, and stood bareheaded at the garden gate. And then he +saw Arthur coming up the road, and as his eye rested on the slim, +graceful figure he again realised this infinite pathos of youth. +</P> + +<P> +"He wants help, and I ought to help him," was his instant thought. +</P> + +<P> +Hitherto a kind of pride had imposed a barrier of reserve between +himself and Arthur. He had seen him as a rich man's son, the member of +a class for which he had only scorn and anger. But now he saw him +simply as a youth launching his frail bark upon the perilous sea of +life, and he loved him. So Nature wrought within him, using his +softened mood for her own ends, and with Nature came Destiny, casting +the first threads of her inscrutable design upon the loom of life. +</P> + +<P> +He held his hand with a lingering pressure, and then said, as if +obeying a resolve imposed upon his own will rather than suggested by +it, "Won't you come in?" +</P> + +<P> +He led the way into the house, and Arthur followed with a glad alacrity. +</P> + +<P> +The narrow hall-way opened upon a room at the back of the house, which +served both as living-room and library. The only light in the room +came from two candles on the piano brackets. Between them sat a young +girl, her fingers still upon the keys, her face, rayed with the nimbus +of the candlelight, turned upward with a charming air of expectation +and surprise. +</P> + +<P> +She was not beautiful, judged by the canons of exacting art; yet there +was no artist who could have been indifferent to her, for she possessed +an element of charm much more rare than beauty. The hair, dark and +abundant, was very simply dressed above a low white forehead; the face +was beautifully moulded, and expressed a delicate fatigue; the mouth, +too large for beauty, was mobile and eager; the eyes were a stag's +eyes, brown and full and limpid. It was in these that her charm was +concentrated. They held depth beyond depth, eyes into which the gaze +sank, fathomless as water in a well. +</P> + +<P> +She rose as her father and his guest entered the room. +</P> + +<P> +"My daughter, Elizabeth," he said. +</P> + +<P> +She bowed, and turned toward Arthur the regard of her unfathomable +eyes. Arthur stood transfixed. For a long moment his gaze clung to +hers, and a new, strange, pleasurable heat thrilled his blood. A +subtle, undecipherable telegraphy was in that clinging gaze. It was as +though soul challenged soul; the citadel of sentience in each awoke to +sudden life, and quivered at the shock of contact, with an emotion half +alarm and half delight. Then the veil fell between them, and the soul +of each receded into secrecy. +</P> + +<P> +It was a relief to each when Vickars lit the gas, and began to speak in +accents of conventional courtesy. +</P> + +<P> +"This is my work-room," he said. +</P> + +<P> +And indeed the room told its own tale. Bookshelves, closely packed, +covered each wall; the books lay in heaps upon the floor; and in their +midst stood a wide table piled with manuscripts, proofs, and notebooks. +There was not a single picture in the room, not an ornament of any +kind. Near the window stood a typewriter and a small table, and on the +other side of the window the piano. +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose there are few rooms in London that know more about +brain-toil than this room—that is, if rooms can receive impressions, +as I sometimes think they can," he continued. "Certainly none in +Lonsdale Road," he added with a smile. "Ah! that reminds me of a +story. When I first came to live here, there was the greatest +curiosity to know what I did for a living. Lonsdale Road could not +account for any man who did not go to the city every day, and therefore +refused to accept his credentials of respectability. I never knew how +far this aversion went till one day our little servant told us with +tears that she must leave us. It took a long time to draw from her her +reason. You would never guess it. At last she said, 'Mother say she +thinks you are a burglar.' And then I found that our neighbours had +actually woven this ingenious romance about us, and I am not sure that +they have discarded it even yet." +</P> + +<P> +He spoke lightly, and yet with an accent of resentment and of hurt +pride. To Arthur the story was a revelation of the social loneliness +of Vickars's life. But he was thinking less of the father than the +daughter. Once more his eyes sought that fair face, and he was +surprised to find no laughter in it; it was evident the story had +pained her. +</P> + +<P> +"Elizabeth does not like that story," said her father, noticing her +silence. +</P> + +<P> +"No, father, I do not. It makes me hate the world to think it treats +you unjustly." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! the world's very well, little girl," he replied. "One doesn't +expect justice from it. One should be content if the world merely +allows him to live." +</P> + +<P> +"Yet you are always fighting for justice. You know you are, father." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! justice for other people—that's a different thing. But the +condition of such a fight as that is to be indifferent to the question +of justice to one's self. That is a very small matter indeed." +</P> + +<P> +"That is how he always talks," she answered, with a charming +friendliness of appeal to Arthur. "He never thinks about himself." +</P> + +<P> +"There, there! we're getting very serious, little girl," Vickars +replied. "Suppose we change the subject. We don't often have a guest. +Don't you think a little supper and some music afterwards might fit the +occasion?" +</P> + +<P> +"How forgetful of me!" she said. She rose and left the room. +</P> + +<P> +"You mustn't take my fine sentiments too seriously, so I give you due +warning," he remarked. "Men who write books get into the way of +talking their own books. You'll find, as you come to know me better, +that there's a good deal of—of the artificial in me. The only merit I +have above other men is that I am conscious of it." +</P> + +<P> +"I have read your last book," said Arthur, "and I found nothing +artificial in it. I thought it a great book." +</P> + +<P> +"Have you? Well, I'm glad." His pale face was illumined for an +instant by the boy's ingenuous praise. "No, Arthur," he added, "it's +not great. It is merely true. And I think I can say this with real +sincerity—I care much more for its truth than for its greatness." +</P> + +<P> +"Are they not the same?" said Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"Not for this generation. This is the age of 'best sellers,' and the +book that is called great is usually the book that has least to say +about the truth of life." +</P> + +<P> +"I was not thinking of contemporary opinion." +</P> + +<P> +"Contemporary opinion is the only court of appeal we have. A book must +justify itself to the generation in which it is written, or be sure of +it no other generation will know anything about it. Yet I do sometimes +think that truth must make itself heard. I cherish the belief, in +spite of history and experience." +</P> + +<P> +He spoke with an accent of infinite dejection. Arthur could find no +words of reply. If, an hour before, he had been asked what kind of +life came nearest his ideal, perhaps he would have replied, "The +literary life," and he would have instanced Vickars. Now, as he looked +at the writer's tired face, it was as though the naked realities of +such a life lay before him, stripped of all delusive trappings. To +drain one's life-blood into books that no one read, to prophesy to deaf +ears and undiscerning eyes, ah! surely there must be a better way of +life than this; and on the instant he knew what that way was. That +warmth which still pierced his veins spoke to him more clearly than any +voice. To love—that was life. To live the lyric life of love—that +was better than to write of it. And straightway there came to him a +vision of wide plains and deep forests, dotted with the homes of men, +beneath whose roofs lip met lip in faithful kisses, and heart beat to +heart through long nights of sleep, and all the primeval life of man +went on in birth and death, as it had done since the gates of Eden +closed. Ah! infinite desirable delight of love, strong, and natural, +and enduring, on which the great seal of God had always rested! In +that moment he ceased to be a boy; his manhood rushed upon him; he +blushed, and in his heart a voice cried, "Elizabeth!" +</P> + +<P> +She re-entered the room at that moment, carrying a supper-tray, and +Arthur could not but observe the supple poise and grace of her young +figure. She moved easily, with a soft gliding motion; she was dressed +wholly in white, and conveyed an impression of a creature inimitably +virginal. The face had not lost its look of delicate fatigue, but it +was clear that this fatigue was of the mind rather than the body, and +owed itself to no physical defect. Both he and Vickars rose together +to clear a place upon the littered writing-table for the supper-tray, +and in performing this act his hand touched hers. It was but a +feather's touch, but it thrilled him, and his very flesh seemed to +dissolve in a fire of rapture. Again he sought her eyes, but now they +were averted. The moment passed like a chord of music that left the +air vibrating. It seemed to him that all the world must know what had +happened. +</P> + +<P> +Then the current of his life ran back into its normal channels, and he +found himself talking with excited eagerness. The meal was as simple +as a meal could be, but for him it had ambrosial flavours. She sat +quite silent, listening, apparently unaware that he talked for her +alone. Vickars caught the gaiety of his good spirits, and talked as +eagerly as he. The conversation soon found its accustomed +grooves—books, and London, and the interminable comedy and tragedy of +man. Presently Vickars happened to mention a young poet who had lately +died, and Arthur asked if he had known him. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, he came here once. It was in his last days, when he had finally +discovered that the world had rejected him. But he never knew why he +was rejected." +</P> + +<P> +"Why was he rejected?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because he could only sing of the past. He had no vision of the +modern world. He despised it, and his contempt blinded him to its real +significance. +</P> + +<P> +"I do not think that is quite just, father," said Elizabeth. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! I forgot to say," said Vickars, with an admiring glance at his +daughter, "that Elizabeth is a much better critic than I. She is a +better critic because she is a kinder." +</P> + +<P> +"No, it's not that, father. My criticism, such as it is, is only +feeling, and I felt that poor Lawson was just finding his way to the +right method when he died. Don't you remember those lines on London in +his last sonnet?— +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O Calvaries of the poor, dim hills of pain,<BR> + Whose utmost anguish is not nail or thorn,<BR> + The beaten blood-smeared brow, the soft flesh torn,<BR> +But this, that ye are crucified in vain.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +The man who wrote those lines surely saw the modern world, and realised +its significance." +</P> + +<P> +She recited the lines slowly, in a low fluty voice which would have +imparted dignity and music to much worse lines. Arthur listened +entranced. Surely there was magic in this summer's night, a magic of +the soul as well as of the flesh. His hand had touched hers, but now +her mind revealed itself, and thrilled his with a subtler contact. In +one swift glimpse he understood her exquisite sensitiveness, her +pitifulness and tenderness, her strength and goodness; it was as though +the Madonna's halo rested for an instant on that fair brow, and awed +him into worship. He drew a long breath, and now, when his eyes sought +hers, her gaze was not averted. She accepted the challenge of his eyes +with complete sincerity, and with a frankness which was the last effect +of complete innocence and modesty. +</P> + +<P> +The voice of Vickars broke the spell. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, you are right," he said; "you usually are." And then, turning to +Arthur with a whimsical smile, "Do you know Elizabeth writes my books +for me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Typewrites, he means. That is all, I assure you," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"And corrects my blunders, which are many." +</P> + +<P> +"Only the spelling. Father never could spell, and when he is in +difficulties he makes a hieroglyphic with his pen, and leaves me to +decipher it." +</P> + +<P> +"I am afraid the critics find it hieroglyphic too," said Vickars, with +a return to his dejected manner. "I sometimes wish we had Grub Street +back again, with all its tribe of famished hacks; they at least would +understand a book that deals with poverty. But who are the critics +to-day? They are gentlemen with settled incomes who write in +comfortable armchairs, and know as little about real life as the +tadpole knows of the ocean. The result is they simply cannot +understand the things I write about. They persuade themselves that +such things don't exist. What can one say of them but the accusation +which is as old as time—'having eyes they see not, and ears they hear +not, and hearts they do not understand'?" +</P> + +<P> +"They will surely understand one day," said Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! one day—but when? When the common people have forced them to see +and understand. For there is my real hope, after all—the common +people. They know what they want, and don't go to the critics for +their opinions. A venomous review may do much to injure a young +author; but if he goes on writing undismayed, the time comes when +reviews, whether bad or good, don't affect him. If he can justify +himself to the common people, he is certain to triumph in the long run. +But there, we are getting too serious again. Let us forget books, and +have some music. One can find solace for any kind of disappointment in +music. It is the only art that makes a universal appeal." +</P> + +<P> +Elizabeth rose and went to the piano, stooping as she went to kiss her +father's brow. +</P> + +<P> +She played nothing that was not familiar, but it seemed to Arthur that +all she played was the expression of her own personality. She played +on and on, wandering at will from Chopin to Tchaikowsky, and in the +profound melodies of the great Russian her whole spirit spoke. And it +seemed to Arthur that the Spirit of the World spoke too—a romantic and +enchanted world, and yet a world of infinite yearning and pain, of love +and battle and heroism, till he saw, as it were, the weird procession +of human life, with white faces strained in final kisses, hands that +rose above encroaching waves to touch and part, hearts that broke in +ecstasies of love and joy and sorrow. The cool night breeze came in at +the open window, the leaves whispered as it passed, and at intervals +the deep voice of London ran like an undertone inwoven with the music. +O wonderful, various, inscrutable world, what, bliss to be alive in it, +even though it be for the briefest moment! But there was a bliss +beyond bliss, unspeakable, unimaginable, not to live alone, but to love +as the greatest hearts have loved, and surely that was the final +message of this magic hour! Time, and the years, and all the +centuries, and all events and histories, seemed to concentrate +themselves in one fair girl, from whose slender fingers came this music +of the world; she alone was important; she was the race itself in its +final flower of love and loveliness. So ran the incoherent thoughts of +youth, songs rather than thoughts, the wordless musical out-cries of a +heart waking to a knowledge of itself, and finding all outer objects +lit with the glamour of the magic hour. +</P> + +<P> +The music ceased abruptly. There was a dull repeated thud upon the +wall. +</P> + +<P> +"What on earth is that?" cried Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, merely our neighbours," said Vickars. "Poor souls! they rise +early and work hard, and I suppose they want to go to bed." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, I shouldn't have thought they could have heard as plainly as +that." +</P> + +<P> +"That's because you don't live in Lonsdale Road," said Vickars with a +smile. "Why, I can hear the children sneeze next door. And there's a +crack in the party wall, big enough for light to shine through, and I +know when the light appears that they are going to bed. My dear +fellow, I honestly believe it's only the paper that holds the walls +together at all." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur blushed furiously, for he had remembered what Vickars had +forgotten, that the house was the work of Archibold Masterman. It was +a horrible irruption of the commonplace upon the magic hour. +</P> + +<P> +Vickars, recognising his mistake, turned the conversation into ordinary +channels. Arthur still clung to the vanishing skirts of his romance. +Once more he thrilled as he touched Elizabeth's hand in farewell, but +as he went out into the cool dusk it seemed as though Life strode +beside him, a dark and menacing figure, no longer lyrical and friendly. +</P> + +<P> +"What can they think of my father?" he thought, as he walked home. And +behind this lay another thought: "If they think ill of my father, as +they have a right to, can they think well of me?" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap06"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +YOUNG LOVE +</H4> + +<P> +A month had passed, a wonderful month; it was as though the whole of +life had flowered in that month. All the days and years that had +preceded it had been but so many roots and tendrils which had stored +the strong essences of life, that at last they might display themselves +in this miraculous bloom! It is the flower that blooms but once, this +exquisite flower of young, adoring love. Maturer years may bring the +strength of calm affection, the heat of turbulent passion, but, in the +incredible romance of sex, once only comes the wonder-hour, when the +whole world is dipped in splendour, winged with song, glittering with +the fresh dew of young desire. We who are older recall that hour with +a kind of mournful wonder. Just to wake and think she wakes too, she +breathes the same morning air, was an intoxicating thought. And what +beautiful and foolish things we did: how we kissed the scrap of paper +that bore the adored name, watched the adored shadow on the blind, were +at once so bold and shy, so determined and so fearful, so daring and so +absurdly sensitive. No one else had ever loved as we loved; we alone +possessed the immortal secret, and the knowledge of that secret +separated us from common men and common life. Yes, we are older now, +wiser and colder too, and the flesh no longer thrills with ecstasy at +the touch of lip or hand; but who would not give all this late-found +wisdom to recapture for a moment this divine folly of first love? +</P> + +<P> +Arthur gave himself to the divine folly with complete abandonment. He +did all the foolish things that lovers do: sat night after night in +Vickars' room, pretending interest in the father while his eyes never +left the daughter; trembled when she spoke, shivered when her dress +touched his hand, shrank from her as if unworthy to touch the hem of +her garment, and in the same moment longed to clasp her in his arms. +He waited long hours just to gaze an instant into the depths of her +timid eyes; gazed with ardour, and then flushed for shame, as one +convicted of an outrage. When he left the house he walked only to the +end of the street, came back again, and in the darkness watched the +house, wondering what room was hers, and picturing her silent in the +innocence of sleep. What if the house should burn? What if some +outrageous wrong should violate her slumber? What if she should die in +the night? When he went home at last, to the grim silence of Eagle +House, it was to dream of her; and no sooner did he wake than he must +seek Lonsdale Road, finding fresh joy and amazement in the impossible +fact that she was still alive. +</P> + +<P> +All this time his father said not a word to him, and made no question +of his comings and goings. He passed him with averted face, his eyes +not unkindly but absorbed, for it was a time of panic in the city, when +richer men than he watched the trembling balance of events, which meant +sudden triumph or sudden ruin. But with the unconscious cruelty of +youth Arthur discerned none of these things. The material life had +practically ceased for him; wealth and poverty were alike terms of no +significance; they belonged to a world so far removed that he no longer +apprehended it. It was enough for him that the punctual day awoke him +with a new cup of happiness; with its first beam he mounted to the +heaven of his romance, and there dwelt among rosy clouds, with the +singing of the morning stars in his ears. +</P> + +<P> +With Vickars it was different; him Arthur saw daily, and he could not +dismiss him from his consideration. He had begun by admiring him with +youthful ardour; he sincerely liked him; but now a new question +disturbed their relationship—did Vickars approve of him? He was at +pains to understand Vickars' view of life, for he knew that whatever +his view was, it was Elizabeth's too. Had she not typewritten all his +books for him? Did not her mind speak in them as well as his? And he +knew instinctively that in both father and daughter there was a certain +resolute fibre of conviction which could not be softened by mere +sentiment. They each lived by some kind of definite creed; in a sense +they were Crusaders pledged to loyalty to that belief; and if he were +to become to either what he hoped to be, he knew that he must +understand their attitude to life. +</P> + +<P> +It piqued Arthur that Vickars said so little to him on these matters. +But one night the opportunity arrived. Vickars had been busy over some +literary task; when Arthur came into the room, Elizabeth was putting +the cover on her typewriter and gathering up a mass of MSS. +</P> + +<P> +"Come in," said Vickars. "You find me at a good moment. I have just +finished a piece of work that has given me a vast deal of trouble." +</P> + +<P> +"Another novel?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, not exactly. I suppose it is fiction in form, and no doubt most +people will regard it as fiction in essence too; but as a matter of +fact it is a plain statement of what is wrong with the world, and a +proposition for its remedy." +</P> + +<P> +"That sounds rather formidable, doesn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"It would be formidable if the world would take it seriously. But they +won't. I don't suppose it will even get read. I am by no means sure +that it will even get printed. My publishers are considered bold men, +but they are only bold along lines thoroughly familiar to them. Show +them something new, really and truly new, and they will most likely be +frightened out of their wits." +</P> + +<P> +"Is it as bad as that?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's not bad at all. It's absolutely plain commonsense. I wonder who +the fool was who first talked of commonsense? My experience teaches me +that sense is the most uncommon thing in the world. Most men are so at +home with folly that nothing is so likely to alarm them as the +irruption of real rational sense." +</P> + +<P> +"I wish you would tell me all about it," said Arthur earnestly. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you?" said Vickars, with an ironic smile. "Well, I don't know +about that. You see, at heart I am a fanatic, and, like all fanatics, +I should expect you to agree with me. If you didn't, I might not—like +you. And then there's Elizabeth. I rather think she agrees with me. +And she might not—like you." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh no, father," Elizabeth began, and then flushed and dropped her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh yes," he retorted. "Why, don't you know that the one great +divisive force in society is opinion? I like the man who agrees with +me, and I dislike the man who doesn't; and although I may accuse myself +of intolerance, and persuade myself that he possesses all kinds of +virtues, I shall still go on disliking him, because I think him stupid. +And he will dislike me for the same reason—he will think me stupid." +</P> + +<P> +He rose from his writing-table, lit a pipe, and stood with his hands +behind him, with that whimsical smile upon his face which Arthur knew +so well. +</P> + +<P> +"No," he continued, with a sudden flash of passion, "I don't suppose I +shall get heard. The nearer truth you come in your writing, the less +likely are you to get heard, for above all things men hate truth. They +crucified truth two thousand years ago on Calvary; and they have been +doing it ever since. Yet truth is the most obvious thing in the world, +to any one who is sincere enough to discern it. You want to know what +I think, what I have been writing about. Well, I will tell you. I +have simply put down in plain English a series of facts which are all +indisputable. That war is folly, to begin with, and if the cost of +armies and navies were removed, the prosperity of Europe would be +instantly doubled. That the reckless growth of cities is folly, and if +you could make the people stay upon the land by giving them land on +equitable terms, three-fourths of the poverty would disappear. That +unlimited commercial competition is folly, and that if you could make +nations act as a great co-operative trust, only producing what each +nation is best fitted to produce, and only as much of any commodity as +was really needed, you would cure all the ills of labour. And I say +all this is absolutely obvious. Every one knows it, though every one +ignores it. It is so obvious that if God would make me sole dictator +of the world for a single year, I would guarantee to make the world a +Paradise. I wonder God doesn't do it Himself, instead of letting man +go on age after age mismanaging everything, with the result that a few +are rich and not happy, and the multitude are poor—and miserable. So +now you know just the sort of man I am. Didn't I tell you I was a +fanatic?" He broke off his harangue with a laugh. "Now how do you +like me?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"I like you better than I ever did," said Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! you think you do. But remember my definition: you only really +like the man with whom you agree. Do you agree with me?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think I do." +</P> + +<P> +"Then what are you going to do with your own life?" +</P> + +<P> +The abrupt question struck upon the mind with a sharp clang, like the +sudden breaking of a string on a violin. It was the old question which +Arthur had debated so often and so wearily. During this lyric month of +love it had been forgotten, his mind had been bathed in delicious +languor; but now the question returned upon him with singular and +painful force, and his mind woke from its trance. What was he to do +with his life? And as he asked the question, for the first time he +caught a full vision of the gravity and splendour of existence. Man +was born to do, not alone to feel, to act as well as love. And +beautiful as love was, he saw with instant certainty that in creatures +like Elizabeth it rested on a solid base of intellectual idealism. +That was its final evolution: it was no longer the wild, passionate +mating of forest lovers; it was a thing infinitely delicate and pure, +infinitely complex and sensitive, in which the spirit, with all its +agonies and exultations, was the dominating force. +</P> + +<P> +For a breathless moment he was conscious of the grave eyes of Elizabeth +resting on him with an anxious tenderness of inquisition. Then he +answered in a low voice, "I wish to make my life worthy of the highest. +That is as far as I can see." The speech was the implied offer of +himself to Elizabeth, and she knew it. Her face was suffused with +happy light, and her breast rose and fell in a long satisfied sigh. +</P> + +<P> +"That is as far as any one need see," said Vickars. And then the tense +moment broke, and the conversation flowed back into ordinary channels. +</P> + +<P> +From that hour began a real intimacy with Vickars which had a great +influence over his own character. Hitherto he had admired the man +without understanding his real aims. Now he began to comprehend these +aims. Vickars had spoken truly when he described himself as a fanatic, +but his fanaticism was so wise and so gentle that it provoked love +rather than antagonism. And it had also a certain restful and +melancholy quality which was infinitely touching. He did not expect to +be heard, and he knew that he would not prevail; yet he would at any +time have suffered martyrdom with cheerful courage. Many men have +found it not difficult to die for a faith which they believed would +move on to triumph by the way of their Golgotha; but Vickars was +prepared to die for a faith which he knew must fail. He had no +illusions; he saw all things in a clear bleak light of actual fact, +knew the world ill-governed and man incurably foolish, but not the less +he was willing to sacrifice himself for convictions which the world +called absurd. His speech about what he would do were he dictator of +the world was not mere rhetoric; it was his genuine belief that life +was at bottom a very simple business, and that mankind missed available +happiness merely by perverse repudiation of the simplest principles of +happiness. So he gave himself in hopeless consecration to the +exposition of these principles; and if the martyr is great who can die +because he sees the crown and palm waiting for him in the skies, how +much greater is he who can die expecting no reward? +</P> + +<P> +It was only by degrees that Arthur came to recognise these qualities in +Vickars. What he did not recognise at all was that the influence of +Vickars was slowly loosening all the moorings that held him to his own +former life. Although he had not said it openly, he knew now that he +could not join his father in the business. He was careful to frame no +accusation of his father even in his own most secret thoughts, but he +knew that their ways lay apart. This life his father loved of scheming +and of toiling, with its empty wealth and emptier social rewards, had +no attraction for him. It was too crude, too barbarous; and beside it +the life of Vickars, in its noble poverty, shone like a gem. He did +not judge his father, but he judged unmercifully the society in which +he moved, especially the church society, with its pettiness of +interest, its lack of idealism, and its honour for smooth hypocrites +like Scales; and this set him wondering why Vickars went to church at +all. He asked him the question one day. +</P> + +<P> +"I go for Clark's sake principally," he replied. "He is the one +pulpit-man in the neighbourhood who has a real glimpse of truth, and I +feel it my duty to support him." +</P> + +<P> +"But what about the Church itself?" +</P> + +<P> +"You mean, what do I think of it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"I think that it will disappear, that, in fact, it is in process of +disappearance. Dry rot has set in, and so, though it looks stately and +stable, it is like the towering mast of a ship, only held upright by a +thin varnished skin, but rotten at the core. It will last as long as +the weather is fine; when a storm comes, it will fall." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, but what has happened? I don't think I understand." +</P> + +<P> +"Something has happened that very few persons have observed. Wealth +has bought the Church; it is in the proprietorship of the rich. They +finance it, they dictate its policies, and naturally those policies are +not going to be hostile to themselves. Then it has ceased to be +democratic in any true sense. It will be charitable to the poor, but +it will not be just. Thus its very charity is a bribe to make men +forget justice. And besides this, the note of conviction has left the +pulpit. Half the preachers spend their time in apologies for +Christianity, and the apologetic person soon finds himself despised. +The centre of gravity has shifted, and the people who do believe most +heartily in Christianity are people outside the churches—men like +Tolstoi, for example. Why is it that the Church is always complaining +of its want of success? It ought to succeed as nothing else can. It +has privileges and attractions which no other institution has. The +reason is that its vitality has run out. It has the dry rot, as I +said, and the only skin that holds the thing together is the custom of +worship. That also is becoming spotted with decay, and when the decay +eats through the outer skin, the end will come." +</P> + +<P> +"But we must have religion." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, we must have religion; but the Church and religion are not +synonymous terms. The Founder of the Christian religion stood outside +the Church." He paused a moment, with that curious hesitation which +marked the movement of emotion in him. Then he laid his hand upon +Arthur's shoulder, and said in a gentle voice, "Do you remember what +you said you would do with your life? You said you wished to make it +worthy of the highest. 'The utmost for the highest'—that's it, isn't +it? Well, you needn't bother your head about the Church. That saying +of yours is a tolerably complete definition of religion. You'll find +it more than sufficient, if you'll be true to it." +</P> + +<P> +There were many conversations such as this between Arthur and Vickars +in this wonderful summer month. Life and love, like twin flowers on +one stem, were opening, their petals simultaneously for Arthur. His +mind flowered in contact with Vickars, his heart in contact with +Elizabeth; for though the girl said little, her silence was eloquent of +the bond of complete sympathy which existed between her father and +herself. He tacitly included her in all his views of life. And it was +clear that she gave him adoring discipleship—the discipleship of a +young girl, long motherless, who had drawn from him all the elements of +thought and will in her own character. It was a beautiful +relationship, rare always, but especially rare in that conventional +society which surrounded them, in which women were merely the butterfly +appendages of men whose chief work in life was to provide them with the +means of easy gaiety. +</P> + +<P> +Vickars did not press his opinions upon Arthur; he was much too wise +and gentle to play the pedant. If Arthur learned much from him, it was +by indirection; knowledge came to him unconsciously, as an atmosphere +to be breathed, rather than as a lesson to be mastered. Vickars had a +curious knack of evading controversy. He would flash a winged sentence +on the air, satisfied that it would find its mark; and then dismiss the +subject with a laugh, or with the usual comment, "But we are growing +too serious; let us have some music." Then Elizabeth would open the +piano, and find her way to some solemn theme of Beethoven or +Tchaikowsky, and the soft, perfumed wind would blow across the room +from the open window, and the divine melodies would lift the spirit +into worlds of unimaginable agony or rapture. But all the time the +word that had been spoken would vibrate through the music, till the +music seemed its real interpretation; and thus it was endowed with new +vitality and emphasis by Elizabeth's playing. "How well she +understands him!" Arthur would reflect, wondering at the perfect bond +of sympathy between them; and then, with a pang of yearning, "Will she +ever understand me like that?" +</P> + +<P> +In such moments he trod the lover's hell, which is as real as the +lover's heaven. He could never attain to her. He saw the miraculous +freshness and richness of her nature, and knew the crudeness of his +own. What was there in him that she should desire him? This very bond +of sympathy between her and her father, so rare and sensitive, became +his menace. She could not <I>want</I> him; but, O God! with what an agony +of yearning did he want her! And then, as he sat disconsolate, with +head resting on his hand, she would turn to him, as if she divined his +thoughts, with a gaze infinitely pitiful and kind; and his eyes clung +to hers for an instant in mute appeal and adoration, and something told +him that there was yet a void in that virgin heart that he alone could +fill. O exquisite terrors, authentic agonies, brief sky-daring hopes, +surely it were worth all the millions of years of slow evolution from +the brute to touch but for an instant so painful and delicate a bliss! +</P> + +<P> +One night—it was a Sunday night—the three sat together in the little +room. +</P> + +<P> +Vickars was unusually silent. +</P> + +<P> +"You look depressed, father. What is it?" said Elizabeth. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, nothing personal, my child. I think it's merely the spectacle of +the congregation at church to-night that has disturbed me." +</P> + +<P> +"What was wrong with the congregation?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing was right, I think. Didn't you notice how stolid they +looked—and in the presence of truths and hopes so vast, that had they +believed them, they must have leapt to their feet and shouted in +ecstasy?" +</P> + +<P> +"That would be a novelty indeed," she smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"It would have been natural," he replied. "But alas! who is natural? +Most people never live at first-hand. They are plagiarists. Arthur, +don't be a plagiarist. It cuts the fibre of sincerity. It's like +drinking stale water from a dirty cup. But there," and then came the +usual comment, "let us have some music." +</P> + +<P> +And Elizabeth began to play. Perhaps it was the suggestion of the +Sabbath evening that made her play sweet and solemn airs from Handel. +Presently she wandered into old hymn-tunes, and finally began to play +"Nearer, my God, to Thee." +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly she stopped, for Vickars had left the room. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I forgot!" she cried. "I ought not to have played that." +</P> + +<P> +While she spoke, her father returned. His face was pale: he held in +his hand a miniature of a woman. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you remember what to-day is?" he said in a soft, shaken voice. +"Twenty years ago to-day. And that was the last thing she played ... +and then she went ... in the night ... upon her long journey. And it +all seems but an hour ago. O my child! you are so like your mother." +</P> + +<P> +He kissed her forehead. +</P> + +<P> +Twenty years ago, and love still fresh! Arthur bowed his head before +the sacred vision. He rose to go. He felt he had no right to look on +that unveiled immortal sorrow. +</P> + +<P> +Elizabeth stood for a moment with him at the garden gate. +</P> + +<P> +"Could you?" ... He stopped, for emotion choked him. "Could you ... +love me like that?" +</P> + +<P> +He could see her tremble, and in the dim light he could divine her +startled gaze. His hand clasped hers. +</P> + +<P> +She pressed his for a single moment, turned, and fled. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap07"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +ENTER SCALES +</H4> + +<P> +August had come with its heavy, brooding heat, and the idyllic weather +had disappeared. There were no more fresh breezes, tempering the hot +sunlight, no more cool nights of lingering twilight; over the weary +city spread a pall of stifling haze, and the atmosphere had the +flatness of an unaired room. The trees turned brown, and the leaves +began to fall, as though it were autumn, not summer. The greenness of +the parks had vanished, and the pleasant sward had become a dirty gray, +upon which vast tribes of ragged children camped. August in London, +when from countless miles of brick walls and stone pavements heat is +radiated; when roads steam beneath the casual visitations of the +water-cart, and barefooted urchins paddle in the gutters, and the city +sprawls like a languid drab too tired to be conscious of her +dishevelment; August, when a million hearts feel a dull ache of +yearning for green fields and open spaces, and in fortunate homes +guide-books are being studied, routes of travel discussed, boxes +packed, fishing-tackle and golf-clubs overhauled, and carriages, piled +high with trunks, with pale, excited children gazing from their +windows, day by day roll down every street, and converge at last in the +wild pandemonium of the great terminal stations which are the doorways +of the country. +</P> + +<P> +In Eagle House such preparations were in process, but it was a joyless +business. Masterman had informed his family that there would be no +Scotland for them this year; times were hard, and they must make the +best they could of Brighton. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sure Brighton will cost just as much as Scotland," objected his +daughter. +</P> + +<P> +"It's near London, and I can't afford to be far from town this year," +he replied. +</P> + +<P> +"We don't know any one there, father. All the people we know are going +north. Why can't we?" +</P> + +<P> +For this young lady was accustomed to get her own way in most things, +and to consider every one her enemy who opposed her. There was not +much of her physically; she was <I>petite</I> and graceful, with irregular +features, pretty hair, and shallow blue eyes which showed no evidence +of a soul; but like many small persons, she had a wonderful gift of +obstinacy. As a rule, she could do as she liked with her father in +small ways, by means of a childish wheedling manner, which concealed +her obstinacy; but every now and again she came upon a hard strata in +his nature which turned the edge of her assaults, and it was so now. +Of course, she did not so much as perceive the grim lines that had +written themselves upon his tired face during the past two months. +Neither did she believe his plea of poverty. It was merely a selfish +whim of his to be near London through August, and she must needs be +sacrificed to his whim. +</P> + +<P> +"At any rate, you might choose a better place than Brighton," she +retorted petulantly. +</P> + +<P> +"I might choose, but I don't," he retorted. "There's a good train +service to Brighton, and it suits me. It will have to suit you, too." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sure I would just as soon stay in London," Arthur interrupted; and +he was rewarded by a glance of intense disdain from his sister's eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"No; you'll go to Brighton with the others." And Masterman, not +knowing the private thoughts of Arthur, was gratified with his remark. +He saw in it the evidence of that serious sense of duty which was +presently to make him the kind of man for whom business is an imperious +master. "You see, we must go somewhere. If we didn't, folk might +talk. I've had a pretty hard time, my boy, but it's nearly over now. +And I want you to go to Brighton for a reason of my own. There are +some people there I'd like you to meet." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course I'll do as you wish, father." +</P> + +<P> +"That's the proper spirit," he replied kindly. +</P> + +<P> +But when Masterman left the room, Helen turned upon her brother +spitefully. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! you needn't think I don't know why you want to stop in London," +she cried. "I know where you spend your evenings. You're not nearly +so clever as you think you are." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you?" he replied, trying in vain to subdue the hot blood that +rushed to his cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I do. And you just wait until father knows. I've a great mind +to tell him." +</P> + +<P> +"You can tell him anything you wish," he replied proudly. +</P> + +<P> +"And do you wish it?" +</P> + +<P> +And with this Parthian shot she drew her small figure up in anger, and +left the room. +</P> + +<P> +But the Parthian arrow left its wound, for it was tipped with subtle +poison. Magic months are exquisite experiences; but the pity of it is +that the magic is rarely so complete that the outlines of the plain +world are totally obliterated. Helen's words were a sword that slashed +a great rent in the purple curtains of young love, and the outer world +lay visible. No use to turn the eyes away or to patch the rent; there +lay the fact of things, palpable enough. Did he wish his father to +know his love for Elizabeth? He had never yet faced the question. But +the moment it was asked he saw with fatal prescience all that it +implied. He had chosen not alone Elizabeth, but with her a path of +life, an ideal of conduct. That path led out into a strange, uncharted +world, the very existence of which his father had not so much as +surmised. And he knew that his father never could be brought to see it. +</P> + +<P> +He knew this, but he knew also that he himself had reached a clearness +of vision of which nothing could deprive him. He had seen the land +very far off, and henceforth his eyes could see no other. He was vowed +to the highest, as men had been in days of knighthood, and he must +follow the gleam wheresoever it led. To his father it would all seem +the wildest folly; no doubt in that forgotten dream-time of the world, +to men bartering in the market-place or reaping in the fields, young +Sir Galahad must have seemed mad as he rode past singing, into the +haunted forest. It would be no better now; nay, it would be far worse, +for was not the world one vast clamorous marketplace, no longer merely +disdainful but actively antagonistic to the dreamer? Not that he was +worthy to rank himself with the Sir Galahads; he was merely a boy, +intoxicated with the new wine of love and life; but nevertheless he had +his ideal of what life should be, and he meant to pursue it. To one +thing at least he had attained—he was not afraid of poverty. Hilary +Vickars had taught him that, by showing him how little outward +circumstance can affect the inner peace of the soul. And when all +things are said and done, perhaps that is the greatest truth that a +youth can learn, for if it does not necessarily produce heroism, it at +least makes it possible. For it is through fear of poverty that men +sell their souls; and not until that ignoble fear is gone does the soul +have a chance to live. +</P> + +<P> +But he did not wish to challenge his father to the conflict till the +proper hour came. The clash must come, but he would leave the foreseen +moment in the hands of time. It could not be long delayed, but he +would not anticipate it. And in so determining he was thinking of his +father rather than himself. His father might be wholly wrong in his +method of life, but that old sense of his father's bigness still +dominated him. Primeval, proud, scarred with savage conflict, he saw +his father rise before him; he could not but admire even while he +censured; and simply because he knew that it was in his power to wound +the giant in a vital part, he was afraid to strike. +</P> + +<P> +So in the first week of August the Masterman household accomplished its +annual exodus, and Arthur found himself one of five hundred tenants in +a vast hotel at Brighton. Brighton is not precisely a pleasant place +in August—"a sea without a ship, and a shore without a tree"—but +undeniably it has at all seasons a certain strong glitter of life, and +its shipless sea is an inexhaustible reservoir of tonic breezes. But +poetry does not breathe in the air of Brighton, and Arthur's heart was +at the stage when poetry is indispensable to happiness. He could have +been relatively happy in some deep Scotch glen, whipping a stream for +the infrequent trout, and listening unconsciously to the wind-music in +the fir-tops; for though he would still have been separated from +Elizabeth, he would have seen her face mirrored in the stream, and +heard her voice in the wind, and have felt her presence in the wide +peacefulness. But the hard materialism of Brighton jarred upon his +senses. It was London over again, a cleaner and a meaner London. The +same kind of face met him everywhere—the heavy, soulless face of men +who have their portion in this world. In the men it was a +clean-shaved, rubicund face, in the women it was puffed and sometimes +rouged; and this face was reduplicated everywhere—in the hotel, on the +parade, on the pier, till it became a persecution such as one suffers +in dreams. Looking at these faces, Arthur had not only a strong +repulsion, but he knew the cause of it; these faces were the mirror of +unclean souls. There was something dark and turbid in them, a mire of +sin washed up from the abhorred depth of life; these eyes all had the +same expression, something of greed and glassy insolence and vulpine +shrewdness, and the mouths had the same looseness of sensual thirst. +Perhaps he did not see with entire justice, for Elizabeth's face hung +like a picture in his heart, before which he had built a shrine and lit +a lamp of faith; or perhaps he did see with perfect lucidity the souls +of these fellow creatures of his, simply because that lamp of pure love +in his heart gave him light. At all events, he hated Brighton, and +betook himself daily to the green empty Downs, and sometimes as far as +Chantlebury Ring, where the width of the world could be felt once more, +and the shy voice of love might be heard, like a cuckoo-note, in the +great sylvan silences. +</P> + +<P> +Helen had soon found friends, and was now quite reconciled to Brighton; +his mother, more fragile than ever in appearance, was content to sit +still all day, looking at the smooth sea-plain with its gem-like +glitter. More than once he was moved to open all his heart to his +mother, and there were times when her eyes seemed to invite his +confidence; but always between them was that gulf of silence, for which +speech could frame no bridge. He wondered much about this silence of +hers. It was scarcely apathy; no eyes could be as bright as hers if +the heart were apathetic. It seemed rather to be a resolved +incuriousness about things around her, a turning away of the face from +life, as from something dreadful, that had only pain to offer her. +Could one imagine a human creature, with "a bright, sunshiny day after +shipwreck," sitting beside an empty sea, willing to think of nothing +that came before or after, but just to breathe, and watch, and +wait—that was the kind of impression Mrs. Masterman made upon the +mind. Arthur was always delicately tender with her. He hung about her +chair, arranged her shawl or pillows, was quick to perceive her wishes; +but in the very kiss with which she rewarded him there was restraint. +The time was to come when he was to know what it meant, but that time +was not yet. Now, as in all the later years which he could recall, her +one wish seemed to be to efface herself, and to take up as little room +in life and in the thoughts of others as possible. +</P> + +<P> +He was greatly surprised one night, when he came back to the hotel from +a long walk over the Downs, to find his father in conference with +Scales. There was a mass of papers lying on the table, and it was +clear the two men were deeply interested in them. +</P> + +<P> +"Come in," said Masterman. "We're busy, you see, but we'll soon be +through now." +</P> + +<P> +Scales greeted him with his usual smooth civility, and, as usual, it +was a little overdone. +</P> + +<P> +"Shall I wait?" said Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"No. You'd better dress for dinner. Scales is going to spend the +night here. I have something to say to you later on." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur left the room without remark; but as he was dressing the thought +suddenly took hold on him, What did his father want with Scales? +</P> + +<P> +He knew that his father did not like the man, and that made their +present relation the more unintelligible. He had heard his father +speak with brusque scorn of Scales' plan to punish John Clark, by +getting him off to the Holy Land, and then starting a church revolution +in his absence. That the man was false was beyond doubt. Falsity +looked out of his narrow, deprecating eyes, falsity breathed in his +smooth voice, falsity declared itself in his obsequious manners. Under +no possible circumstances could such a man play fair either as friend +or foe. Judas was such another as Elisha Scales, and Judas was an +apostle as Scales was a deacon. +</P> + +<P> +And here Arthur laughed at the absurdity of the suggestion. +</P> + +<P> +"He'll find it hard to betray father," he said. +</P> + +<P> +But not the less he was uneasy. There was something in the man that +was sinister, supple, diabolically adroit, and he felt instinctively +that his presence in his father's room boded no good for any one. +Suddenly there recurred to his memory his father's statement that there +were persons in Brighton he wanted him to meet, and he felt sure that +it was to Scales he referred. Yes, it must be so, because no one else +who could claim his father's acquaintance had appeared in Brighton; +and, if it were so, it argued some kind of compact or pre-arrangement +with Scales. +</P> + +<P> +That night, however, nothing was said that could illumine the +situation. Scales spent the night in the hotel, was closeted late with +his father, and accompanied him to London on the following day. +</P> + +<P> +Another day passed, and then his father sent for him. +</P> + +<P> +"Arthur," he began, "I'm not going to interfere with our compact. I +gave you till the end of September to make your mind up about the +business, and I don't want you to speak a word until then. But there's +a matter of business on which I want your help now." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not much good at business, father. I don't think I ever shall be." +</P> + +<P> +Masterman ignored the confession. +</P> + +<P> +"You don't know that until you try." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course, if there's anything in which I can help you, father, I'll +do my best." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, you're old enough to use your eyes, and that's all I want of +you. Sit down, and let me explain." +</P> + +<P> +Thereupon he explained. It seemed that Scales had got wind in the +broker's office where he was managing clerk of a certain amalgamation +of several brick companies which was likely to come off before long. +One of these companies was in Sussex, not far from Brighton. It was in +difficulties, had been a long time, and might be bought cheap. +Masterman proposed to buy it, and then resell to the trust when it +should be formed. Properly handled, there might be a fortune in the +transaction. +</P> + +<P> +"I thought you didn't trust Scales," said Arthur quietly. +</P> + +<P> +"And I don't. Not an inch farther than I can see him. I know very +well he'd sell the shirt off my back if he got a chance." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course he's not working for nothing." +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly not. If he were, I should distrust him still more. You'll +find that in business no one does anything for nothing." +</P> + +<P> +"But I don't see anything I can do, father." +</P> + +<P> +"That's the point I am coming to. I dare not go to look at this Sussex +property. I'm known. If I appeared upon the scene, they'd spring the +price at once. But you can go to see it. It's at Leatham, not more +than twenty miles away. What I want you to do is to go to the village, +stop at the inn for a few days, make all the inquiries you can, +quietly, and then report to me. Will you do it?" +</P> + +<P> +How could he refuse? It was at least a break in the dull monotony of +Brighton. And he was really touched, too, by his father's faith in him. +</P> + +<P> +"But I have no expert knowledge, father, and surely that is what you +need." +</P> + +<P> +"Not at all. They'd suspect an expert. All that is wanted is a pair +of good eyes, and good commonsense. I think you have these." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well, father, I will go. When do you want me to start?" +</P> + +<P> +"At once. You can't be too quick." +</P> + +<P> +"I will start this morning, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"That's the spirit I like," said Master-man. "It will be the first bit +of business you ever did for me, and it won't be the last." +</P> + +<P> +On that pious hope Arthur made no comment. He could not refuse to do +what his father asked, and he did it the more readily because in his +own mind he knew it would be likely to prove both the first and the +last act of the kind he would perform. +</P> + +<P> +"I daresay Scales will turn up at Leatham. Behave to him as civilly as +you can." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll try, sir." But he said it with so wry a smile that his father +laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"He'll be civil enough to you, never fear." +</P> + +<P> +Of course, thought Arthur. Judas was no doubt a pleasant-mannered +gentleman, and the very pattern of civility—until he bared his fangs. +</P> + +<P> +So Arthur went to Leatham, and for the first time found himself in +contact with that mysterious world of business in which his father +lived. At first this contact produced an almost pleasurable sensation, +such as the swimmer feels when the sting of the salt water thrills his +nerves. It was all so new, this contact with rough reality. He found +the owner of the brickfield an old man, as skilled in craft as Ulysses. +The old man came to see him in the village inn, and played the game of +cross-purposes with inimitable subtlety. He supposed the young +gentleman wanted to settle there? No? Well, it was a fine +neighbourhood, few better, and the sport was considered good. +Interested in business? Well, for a safe paying business there was few +things like bricks. People must have bricks, because they must have +houses. He was an old man, and had an idea of retiring. If the young +gentleman was interested in bricks, he'd like him to come over the +works some day. Not that it could be supposed he was interested. +Bookish, wasn't he? Been to college? Well, lots of college men went +into business now, and even titled ladies kept bonnet-shops. So he'd +heard. He was really an amusing old man, and Arthur enjoyed his +company more than could have been supposed of a young Sir Galahad. +</P> + +<P> +His father had not been mistaken when he had credited him with a pair +of good eyes and cool commonsense, and the more he used his eyes the +less he thought of the possibilities of the Leatham brick-works. It +was clearly a bankrupt concern. It was handicapped by being four miles +from the rail. It had been able to do a small local trade for several +years, and that was about all it was ever likely to do. If there was a +fortune in it, it was of such microscopic proportions that it needed +keener eyes than Arthur's to discover it. +</P> + +<P> +On the Saturday night Scales came down, deferential and obsequious as +usual, but clearly a little ill at ease. Arthur dined with him in the +old-fashioned inn-parlour, and after dinner came at once to the point. +He said bluntly that he believed the Leatham Brick Manufacturing Co. +was a worthless property. +</P> + +<P> +Scales smiled enigmatically. +</P> + +<P> +"You appear to dissent," said Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"No, not altogether. I never thought much of it myself." +</P> + +<P> +"Then why do you want my father to buy it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, to resell it, of course." +</P> + +<P> +"If it's worthless, you can't resell it." +</P> + +<P> +"It won't be worthless if your father gets it. If it's worthless now, +it's because it hasn't been developed. The present owner hasn't had +the money to put into it. Your father will develop it." +</P> + +<P> +"And then? +</P> + +<P> +"Make it a company." +</P> + +<P> +"And then?" +</P> + +<P> +"Resell it to the Amalgamated Brick Trust." +</P> + +<P> +"And if the Amalgamated doesn't want it?" +</P> + +<P> +"But they will. It's my business to look after that." +</P> + +<P> +"Then why not let the present owner sell it to the Amalgamated? He's +worked it all his life. If there's a fortune to be made out of it, as +my father seemed to think, it's that poor old man who ought to get +it—not my father." +</P> + +<P> +"That's not the way business is done." +</P> + +<P> +"It seems to me the way it should be done. It's the only honest way." +</P> + +<P> +Thereupon Scales entered on an exposition of the methods of modern +business, according to which it seemed that fortunes were only made by +snatching advantages from the weak who could not hold them. Arthur +listened in silence, and as Scales proceeded the boy's face had a +curious likeness to his father's in his grimmest mood. +</P> + +<P> +"It's no good," he broke out at length. "If that is what business +means, it seems to me to be nothing better than organised theft. I'm +sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Scales—for no doubt you hope to make +something yourself out of this fine scheme—but my father expects me to +report honestly what I think, and I shall report against the purchase." +</P> + +<P> +"You'll regret it if you do." +</P> + +<P> +"I should regret it all my life if I didn't." +</P> + +<P> +"Think over it. Don't act hastily." +</P> + +<P> +And as he spoke there was something like a tremor of anger in the suave +voice. +</P> + +<P> +"I've done my thinking already," said Arthur. "There's only one thing +more I want to say. If the transaction were never so honest, there's a +weak place in your scheme which I think my father will appreciate. It +is that he has only your word for it, Mr. Scales, that the Amalgamated +will, buy the property, and, to be quite frank, I don't trust your +word." +</P> + +<P> +He left the room and went to bed. The next morning he returned to +Brighton. The first thing that met his eyes as he entered his room was +a letter from Elizabeth. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap08"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE ACCUSATION +</H4> + +<P> +It was a very brief note, simply informing him that Hilary Vickars was +ill, and wished to see him. +</P> + +<P> +An hour later he was in the train. Fortunately he had written his +report of the Leatham business before he left the village, and this he +left upon his father's desk. As he went up to London he read and +re-read Elizabeth's brief note, in a conflict of torture and delight. +There was but one phrase in it which impressed the personality of the +writer. "I am alone with father, and very anxious," she wrote. He +felt the throb of her heart in those words, and he realised that she +leaned on him for strength. His own heart swelled with tenderness at +the thought. There is a kind of pain which is so exquisite that it +becomes joy; he realised such a pain now, an immense yearning to take +the lonely girl to his bosom, and kiss her wet eyelids, and defend her +from the imminent sword of sorrow. +</P> + +<P> +He stood at the door of the little house in Lonsdale Road. The street +lay silent in the August heat, the little patch of grass was brown and +parched, there was an aspect of forlornness over everything. A sudden +terror smote him: what if it were Elizabeth herself who was ill? His +hand trembled as he rang the bell. The door opened softly, and there +stood Elizabeth, pale and quiet as a spectre. +</P> + +<P> +"Elizabeth!" +</P> + +<P> +Her hand lay in his, her beautiful eyes, swimming in tears, met his; he +drew her to him in one long kiss. It was the first time he had kissed +her, and how often had he imagined the ecstasy of that kiss! It had +come at last, but not with the kind of ecstasy he had imagined, yet +with the diviner ecstasy of sorrow. The rose of her heart was yielded +to him, but it was wet with tears. +</P> + +<P> +"Elizabeth!" +</P> + +<P> +She withdrew herself from his embrace, saying simply, "I wanted you so +much." +</P> + +<P> +And in that brief phrase all was said, and each knew that henceforth an +irrevocable vow bound their hearts together. +</P> + +<P> +She took his hand, and together they went into the room where they had +so often talked. The desk was littered with papers, half-corrected +proofs, unanswered letters, the mute, pathetic witness of an arrested +hand. +</P> + +<P> +"How long ago is it?" he whispered +</P> + +<P> +"Four days." +</P> + +<P> +"What is it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Typhoid, the doctor thinks." +</P> + +<P> +"Can I see him?" +</P> + +<P> +"It was he who told me to write you. He wants to see you." +</P> + +<P> +"And you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I wanted you too." +</P> + +<P> +There was a tender reproach in the words, which he was quick to +recognise. +</P> + +<P> +"I should not have asked the question. Forgive me." +</P> + +<P> +"No, you need not have asked it." +</P> + +<P> +They went upstairs together. Vickars lay very straight and quiet in +the bed, his face pallid, his eyes closed. He roused instantly at +their entrance, and at once began to speak in a weak, eager voice. +</P> + +<P> +"So you see I'm caught at last," he said with difficult cheerfulness. +"I've never had an illness—ailments, but not illness—and I don't +quite know what to make of it. It's an experience that makes one +humble." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't talk, father. It exhausts you," said Elizabeth. +</P> + +<P> +"On the contrary, it keeps me cheerful," he said, with the old +whimsical smile. "Habit, I suppose. And besides, I have certain +things to say to Arthur." +</P> + +<P> +Elizabeth took the hint and left the room. Arthur sat beside the bed +in awkward silence. +</P> + +<P> +Presently Vickars said abruptly, "You love her?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, with all my heart." +</P> + +<P> +"I thought so." +</P> + +<P> +He was silent for some moments. Then he said, "A month ago I suppose I +should almost have hated you for that confession. She is all I have; I +have always wanted to keep her wholly to myself.... I have dreaded +this hour.... But I see now it is the course of nature. I may have to +leave her soon—I don't know. But I'm glad now you love her. Yes, I +think I'm glad, and I wished to tell you so." +</P> + +<P> +"I hope you'll soon be better." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! do you? But then, you see, I might not feel the same toward you. +But there—that's irony. You know that. Honestly, I'm glad you love +her." +</P> + +<P> +His eyes closed, and Arthur, sitting silently beside the bed, could not +but mark the change in Vickars since last he saw him. The bones of the +face showed white through the stretched, transparent skin, the eyes +were sunken, and new lines had been etched upon the forehead. It came +to him, in a rush of pity and of admiration, that he loved this man. +And there came to him also some dim perception of the depth of that +sacrifice which Vickars endured in resigning his sole jealous claim +upon Elizabeth. It is seldom that young love attains to this vision. +It is all hot eagerness, imperious and intense with the overmastering +impulse of sex, and blind to the tendrils of old affection which it +tears apart to reach its goal. But to Arthur there was granted a truer +vision, a nobler temper, because love in him had always had a sacred +meaning, and had never been the more clamorous cry of sex. +</P> + +<P> +It was as though Vickars divined his thoughts. He opened his eyes, and +said, "Bring me my notebook. It is lying on the table." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur brought the book. +</P> + +<P> +"I want to read you something. It was written by a wayward man of +genius, who made many blunders both in thought and morals, but he +understood love, and the one best thing in all his life was that he did +know how to love. Listen. 'To love we must render up body and soul, +heart and mind, all interests and all desires, all prudences and all +ambitions, and identify our being with that of another.... To love is +for the soul to choose a companion, and travel with it along the +perilous defiles and winding ways of life; mutually sustaining when the +path is terrible with dangers, mutually exhorting when it is rugged +with obstructions, and mutually rejoicing when rich broad plains and +sunny slopes make the journey a delight, showing in the quiet distance +the resting-place we all seek in this world.'" +</P> + +<P> +The words, beautiful in themselves, had a strange solemnity as Vickars +read them. It was as though all the ages spoke in them, as though one +overheard in some dim cathedral the low whispering of multitudes of +lovers, confessing the ultimate secret of both life and love. +</P> + +<P> +He put the book down, sank back upon his pillow, and began to talk in a +low, intense voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I loved like that.... A companion of the soul, that was what I +found. Women are such delicate and fragile creatures, but oh! so +strong—much stronger than we are; and a good woman is the strongest of +all. The heavier the load you lay upon them, the happier they are. I +know. I should have fallen by the way but for her. She always smiled +at difficulty ... such a tender, smiling mouth she had ... like a fresh +flower in the sun. Then God took her. She went smiling—her last word +a word of encouragement to me, her eyes signalling courage as they +closed. And Elizabeth is like her. She has carried my burdens and +borne my sorrows.... Poor child! it may be I have leaned too heavily +on her. Well, well. God forbid I should grudge her her right to joy. +Take her, Arthur, and don't lean too heavily upon her." +</P> + +<P> +Instinctively Arthur knelt beside the bed. His eyes were full of +tears. Vickars stretched out his hand, and laid it on his head. There +was no need of further words. +</P> + +<P> +When he next spoke, it was with his old manner of whimsical humour. +</P> + +<P> +"If I must needs have a son, I don't want an idle one," he said. "I +want you to help me, Arthur." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll do anything I can." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, this is what I want you to do. You will find the proofs of my +new book downstairs on my desk. They must be corrected at once, or the +book will miss the autumn season. Will you correct them for me?" +</P> + +<P> +"If Elizabeth will let me," he said with a smile. +</P> + +<P> +"I think she will let you. I am sure she would let no one else." +</P> + +<P> +"Then I'll begin at once." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, that's a load off my mind. And don't you think I'm going to +die, for I'm not. But I'm in for a hard fight, there's no doubt of +that. Now go to Elizabeth—and the proofs. I'm tired out, and will +sleep. I've never been lazy in my life before, and it's a new and +quite exquisite sensation." +</P> + +<P> +From that hour a strange chapter of life began for Arthur. Eagle House +was closed, and he took refuge with Mrs. Bundy. He wrote his father a +brief note, saying he was detained in London, and would not return to +Brighton. He had not the courage to tell him the whole truth; that +revelation would come soon enough, and he did not wish to antagonise +his father by an abrupt declaration of his position. To this note his +father made no reply. +</P> + +<P> +Most of his hours were spent in the little house in Lonsdale Road. +There he toiled over Vickars's new book. Much of it consisted of rough +drafts, which he had to copy and piece together as best he could. In +this delicate work he could obtain no counsel from Vickars. +</P> + +<P> +Of Elizabeth he saw much, and yet far less than he would have imagined +possible. She was constantly at her father's bedside. And as the days +wore on, the fight for life in that shadowed room became intense. A +silent pressure of her hand, a silent kiss—and she would glide from +him like a ghost, and disappear into the gloom of that upper chamber. +</P> + +<P> +One night it happened that she had gone to rest, worn out with long +watching, and Arthur took her place at Vickars' bedside. For a long +time Vickars lay in complete stupor. The gray dawn was near, and a +milk-cart rattled down the road. The noise roused him for a moment, +and he began to speak in half-delirious words. +</P> + +<P> +"The old story," he said. "Rotten work, and human lives to pay for it. +The poor ... the poor pay for everything in this world ... with their +blood. And the rich sit in houses splashed with the blood of the poor, +and don't even know it.... I always knew the drains were bad. I +always said they smelt of death. But that damned builder didn't +care—not he. He only laughed ... laughed." +</P> + +<P> +The voice trailed off into an incoherent whisper. +</P> + +<P> +When Vickars began to speak, Arthur listened drowsily; but as he +finished, his entire mind sprang into vivid apprehension. It was as +though a sudden torch flared through his brain. +</P> + +<P> +What did the sick man mean? And with the question there came back to +Arthur's memory a snatch of conversation at the deacons' tea, when he +had first heard the name of Hilary Vickars. He recalled the suave, +purring voice of Scales explaining to his father that the Vickars were +inconsiderable people, living in Lonsdale Road—"in one of your houses, +sir." +</P> + +<P> +"I always said the drains smelt of death. But that damned builder +didn't care. He only laughed." +</P> + +<P> +And the builder was his father. +</P> + +<P> +A blackness of great horror fell upon him. He struggled against it, as +against an overwhelming tide. Could it be that Vickars knew this +dreadful thing all the time, knew it even when he had laid his hand +upon his head, and welcomed him as a son? It seemed hardly possible. +He told himself that after all he had nothing to go upon but a few +delirious words. Perhaps Vickars was not thinking of his own case at +all. It might have been simply some scene in one of his books which he +rehearsed—a snatch of drama flung out by the toiling, unconscious +brain. But in his heart he knew that such an explanation was untrue. +An inner force of conviction, stronger than reason, affirmed the +reality of Vickars' words. The delirious mind had uttered a tragic +truth which the conscious mind had concealed. +</P> + +<P> +The dawn had now come. He heard Elizabeth going down the stairs +silently. How could he meet her? Perhaps she also knew the truth, had +known it all the time. He hastily wrote a note, saying that he had +gone for a walk, and would return in an hour. Vickars still slept. He +knew that in a few minutes Elizabeth would be with him. He went softly +down the stairs, and let himself out into the Lonsdale Road. +</P> + +<P> +In the freshness of the morning air his tragic suppositions seemed +incredible. Life lay round him in its wide security of joy; birds +sang, flowers bloomed, men were astir; everything breathed of honest +industry, honest kindness, and it seemed a thing impossible that behind +this fair show of things there lay unimaginable depths of cruelty. He +passed Eagle House, shuttered and silent, and he fell to thinking of +his father. Stern, inscrutable, resolute he knew his father to be, but +he had never known him cruel. Yet if he had done this thing he was a +monster. He had made a compact with death for money. Over the porch +of Eagle House there hung a Virginia creeper, already touched with the +first rusty crimson of autumn, and to the boy's wild imagination it was +a stain of blood. "Splashed with blood of the poor," Vickars had +said.... Yet, at that moment, every memory of his father that he could +summon up was kind and gracious. He remembered his generosities to him +during his university career, his patience with him while he waited for +a decision on which his heart was set in burning eagerness, his trust +in him over the Leatham business, and all that pride and love which had +a thousand times met him in his father's glance. But he knew also that +in the scales of justice even such memories as these were worthless. +They could not outweigh deliberate fraud. He must know the truth; he +was merciless in his appetite for truth; until that hunger was +satisfied there was no place for kinder thoughts. +</P> + +<P> +It struck him all at once that there was an easy way to satisfy his +doubts. The doctor would know the exact truth, and to the doctor he +would go. +</P> + +<P> +Ten minutes later he stood in the doctor's waiting-room. Dr. Leet was +not yet up. He would be down in half an hour. +</P> + +<P> +Presently the doctor entered, a somewhat formal, gray, middle-aged man, +with a hesitating manner which had grown upon him in the constant +effort to avoid hurting the susceptibilities of patients who asked +awkward questions which he was unwilling to answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, you come from Mr. Vickars? Nothing wrong, I hope?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, doctor. I left him asleep." +</P> + +<P> +The doctor nodded and waited. +</P> + +<P> +"I came to ask you a question, doctor." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"It's about Vickars. I want to know the cause of his illness. I have +a good reason for asking." +</P> + +<P> +"The cause? Well, you see, Vickars had been run down for a long time +before he became ill. He had probably worked too hard for years. That +meant a certain devitalisation, which made him susceptible to fever." +</P> + +<P> +"And is that all?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, not altogether, of course. There is still the question of the +fever itself." +</P> + +<P> +"That is what I want to know, doctor. I shall be very glad if you tell +me plainly what you think." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, there's not much room for conjectures. Drains, of course. +Lonsdale Road had been a perfect nest of typhoid germs for years. I +don't know who built the street, but I do know that, whoever he was, he +was a scoundrel. The drains run under the kitchen floors, and I'll be +bound that there isn't one that is not a death-trap. I've seen some of +these drains exposed, and I give you my word for it that the pipes are +not so much as cemented together." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur turned sick and pale. Then he said quietly, "My father built +those houses." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, my dear sir," began the doctor, "I'm sorry I spoke. I had no +idea." +</P> + +<P> +"You need not apologise," said Arthur. "I asked a plain question and +expected a plain answer. I understand that Vickars is the victim of +bad drains?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, yes, primarily. Of course, run down as he was, he might have +fallen ill, any way. But honestly I can't say that I believe this. +The real cause is only too clear." +</P> + +<P> +"Then Eliz—Miss Vickars is in danger too?" +</P> + +<P> +"Any one is in danger who lives in those houses," said the doctor +hotly, forgetting his usual caution. "They are mere death-traps, I +tell you. And though I don't want to hurt your feelings, yet I am +bound to say that in my opinion a highway robber who takes your purse +upon a public road is a respectable person compared with the rascal who +condemns scores of decent people to certain suffering, and some to +certain death, for the sake of a few pounds of illicit gain." +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you, doctor. I think I'll go now." +</P> + +<P> +He groped for his hat, like a blind man. +</P> + +<P> +"You'd better wait a little while," said the doctor. "Stop, and have +some breakfast with me." +</P> + +<P> +And then Arthur's self-control broke. He leant against the library +shelves, covering his face with his hands. +</P> + +<P> +"O my father," he cried, "how could you do it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't take it too hardly," said the doctor. "Perhaps he didn't know +... surely he didn't think." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, he knew," said Arthur, turning on the doctor a pair of flaming, +tear-wet eyes. "He's done it before. He once put oyster-shells and +road-gravel into the foundations of a church instead of concrete. I +heard him say so. He must have done it many times. And he doesn't +care. People die, and he doesn't care. And I'm his son ... the son of +a man who is a scoundrel." +</P> + +<P> +He pushed the astonished doctor aside, and somehow found his way into +the open air. There lay the world, even as he had left it, but its +aspect was wholly changed. In the fresh morning light it had smiled +upon him, it had seemed honest, it had breathed security of joy; now +the mask of hypocrisy was gone, and it was an old, evil, wrinkled face +that leered at him. It was the stage of tragic passions, it was full +of the habitations of cruelty. +</P> + +<P> +"Splashed with blood of the poor"—so he saw the world at that moment, +a red grotesque, a grim crimson horror. And he saw his father, too, +clothed in the same blood-red livery of crime. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap09"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IX +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE CONTEST +</H4> + +<P> +The troubles of the young are apt to move the ridicule of the mature, +who have long since discovered that even tragedies can be outlived, +disasters forgotten, and the worst defeats repaired. That there is a +strange and stubborn resilience in life, which enables us to survive a +thousand shocks, is indeed a wonderful quality which is needed to +explain the persistence of the race. But the final view of life is +never the immediate view, and, whatever we may think now of ancient +sorrows, unless the memory is quite dulled we know well that they were +once real and terrible enough. The child's terror of the dark, his +bitter tears over slight or injustice, his first agony of homesickness, +his rage against acts of cruelty or tyranny, the wounds inflicted on +his tenderness or pride—these things may appear to us now absurd or +insignificant episodes in the process by which we adjusted ourselves to +the social scheme; but it may be doubted if any tears were bitterer +than these, any later sorrow comparable with these young sorrows that +left us dumb with fury and astonishment. The years bring healing and +forgetfulness—or perhaps it were truer to say, a tougher skin, a less +sensitive organism; but, if we care to examine our hearts, most of us +would find that the scars of these earliest wounds run deep and are +ineffaceable. +</P> + +<P> +How well does the writer recollect a certain mournful morning when he +stood at bay in the corner of a large school playground, tormented by +the jeers and blows of a jovial crowd of young bullies, who found +occasion for fresh mirth in every fresh impotent spasm of rage and +grief. Since that day he has wept over open graves, said farewell to +so many of those he loved that the unseen world seems less uninhabited +than the seen, been betrayed by friends he trusted, been humiliated in +a thousand ways by the cruelty or stupidity of men, but he has known no +sorrow quite as keen as that sorrow, and no betrayal that seemed quite +so cruel as the act by which his parents gave him to the wolves in that +brutal playground. He can jest about the story now, but in his own +private heart that fatal morning still looms tragic, and there are +times when he still wakes out of painful dreams with the old horrible +sense of forsakenness that he felt then. +</P> + +<P> +So he finds it impossible to treat lightly Arthur Masterman's first +cruel astonishment when the revelation of his father's misdoing was +made plain to him. If Arthur had been more observant, he would have +learned it by degrees, and so its force would have been broken; if he +had not built up for himself an admired image of his father, the shock +would have been easier to bear. As it was, the revelation came with a +shattering blow which shook his life to the centre. And the blow +struck him precisely at the point where he was most sensitive. His +father had all but slain Vickars, who was his friend, and he might yet +strike down the daughter who was dearer to him than his own life. He +had as good as planned their death, for what he did he had done +deliberately, well knowing the issue of his deeds. And how many more +were there who were his helpless victims? How many graves had he +filled? Where would the harvest of disgrace and death end? The doctor +was right—the highwayman who took a purse was a reputable citizen +compared with the criminal who wilfully sowed the seeds of death among +innocent people for a few pounds of illicit gain! And he was the son +of the man who had done this; the very clothes he wore, the food he +ate, the books he read, were purchased by his father's sin. +</P> + +<P> +To Vickars, slowly recovering from a mortal sickness, he dared not +speak, to Elizabeth still less. So he took refuge with Mrs. Bundy, +whose bosom was an open hospice for all sorts of vicarious sorrows. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, well!" she said cheerfully, "Didn't I tell you that your father +was like the man in the parable, 'an austere man, gathering where he +had not strawed'? But it takes all sorts to make a world, laddie, and +your father's none so bad as some." +</P> + +<P> +"That's poor comfort," he replied gloomily. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor it may be, but it's not to be forgotten. I mind the time when +Bundy was in trouble, and it was your father helped him. Did I ever +tell you that?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, he did. He lent Bundy what he asked, and did it cheerfully." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! I don't doubt he can be generous, but that's not the point. It's +not what he may do with his money, but how he makes it." +</P> + +<P> +And then he proceeded to pour out all the bitterness of his heart in +hot, indignant words. He raged like a man blind with pain, who knows +not how or where his blows fall. +</P> + +<P> +"You cannot justify him," he cried. "God knows I've tried hard enough, +but I cannot. Dr. Leet said he was a scoundrel, and I, his son, could +not contradict him. I have tried to think he did not know, but this is +a thing he must have known. It's a hard thing to hear your father +called a scoundrel, and be silent. And I was silent, for I knew that +it was true." +</P> + +<P> +"Hush, hush, laddie! It's not for you to say that." +</P> + +<P> +"I must say it. There are hundreds of people saying it. And I am his +son—the son of a scoundrel." +</P> + +<P> +If Arthur had not been blinded by his anger he would have known why +Mrs. Bundy sought to stop the torrent of his words. For, while he was +speaking, young Scales had entered the house, and stood in the doorway +watching this unusual scene. The Scales family had returned that +evening from their holiday, and it had occurred to young Benjamin +Scales to call at Mrs. Bundy's, where he would be sure to find some of +his acquaintance. Young Benjamin was not a pleasant youth; he had a +mean, narrow face, like his father, and wore eye-glasses, not from any +defect of vision, but because he imagined that they gave him an air of +cleverness, and among his strong antipathies was jealousy of Arthur. +So what more natural than that he should seize avidly on Arthur's angry +words, and duly report them to his father, who in turn waited his +opportunity of reporting them to Archibold Masterman. +</P> + +<P> +The opportunity came a few days later, when Scales went to Brighton to +see Masterman upon the Leatham business, which was still undecided. +Scales knew very well why it was undecided, and his grudge against +Arthur had grown by careful nursing. And now, thanks to Arthur's angry +words, he had the means of avenging himself. +</P> + +<P> +Masterman had, of course, read Arthur's report, and was secretly +delighted with it. It was an admirable piece of writing, plain and +convincing, and it was expressed with a lucidity to which he was not +accustomed in similar documents. "The boy has brains," he said, as he +read it; "he will go far." It was the first time he had tested those +brains on any practical affair, and his pride in his son was great. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not at all sure Arthur isn't right," he said to Scales, and so he +had postponed decision from day to day. +</P> + +<P> +But the time had now come when the decision must be made, and Scales +was fully resolved that that decision should be favourable to his own +interests. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't deny," he said, "that your son's report is admirably done, but +you must recollect that he has no real experience of business. And +besides——" +</P> + +<P> +"Besides what?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think he will ever understand business." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"From words he said to me. From words he has said to others." +</P> + +<P> +"What words? Tell me plainly what you mean?" +</P> + +<P> +"I had rather not." +</P> + +<P> +"Now look here, Scales," said Masterman, "either you have said too much +or not enough. In a few weeks Arthur will be my partner, and the +sooner you begin to think of him in that way the better for our future +relations." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think he will ever be your partner," said Scales quietly. +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because he is a wild, impracticable boy," said Scales, throwing away +his caution. "Because he told me that business—your business and +mine—was, in his opinion, organised theft. Because he has been going +about saying that you are a scoundrel——" +</P> + +<P> +"What's that?" cried Masterman, rising to his feet. His face was pale +and terrible, and his attitude so menacing that Scales was afraid. But +in that mean heart hate was stronger than fear, and it supplied a +certain desperate courage. +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't mean to tell you, sir. But you ought to know it. Ask what +he has been doing in London this last fortnight. Ask him where he has +been. I can tell you. He has been living with Hilary Vickars, he has +been making love to his daughter. Vickars is a Socialist. And your +son shares his views, and he has said publicly that your methods of +business prove you a scoundrel." +</P> + +<P> +"Is that true?" said Masterman. +</P> + +<P> +"It is God's truth. Do you think I would have come between father and +son with a lie that was bound to be found out." +</P> + +<P> +"No; I believe if you lied, you'd choose a safe lie, Scales," he said +bitterly. +</P> + +<P> +"You are unjust to me, sir. I have never lied to you. I don't lie +now." +</P> + +<P> +"That will do," said Masterman. +</P> + +<P> +"But what will you do?" +</P> + +<P> +"That's my affair," he retorted grimly. +</P> + +<P> +"But it's my affair too, sir. I want to know whether your son's report +is to go against my experience and yours? whether you will complete +this Leatham purchase or not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! I wasn't thinking of that." He turned away, and stood for some +moments looking out of the window in silence. Then he walked rapidly +to his desk, unlocked a drawer, and took out Arthur's report. "This is +my reply," he said. He tore it in pieces, slowly, almost methodically, +and trampled it beneath his feet. "Come in an hour," he added. "I +will sign the purchase papers. Now go." +</P> + +<P> +"I hope you'll forgive me, sir——" +</P> + +<P> +"What's that?" he roared in sudden rage. "'Go!' I said. Man, can't +you see I'm dangerous? Go——" +</P> + +<P> +The door banged behind the retreating Scales, and Archibold Masterman +was alone. +</P> + +<P> +So this was the end of all his hopes, his dreams, his ambitious +purposes for Arthur! For he did not think of doubting the story Scales +had told him. He knew very well that Scales would never have dared to +tell the story if it were not true. In a swift moment of agonised +apprehension he knew also that there had always been an element of +insecurity in those very hopes and purposes on which he had set his +heart so eagerly. His son had always stood aloof from him, there had +always been some impalpable barrier between them. Yet of late he had +been much less conscious of this barrier than he had ever been. Arthur +had shown himself willing to meet his father's wishes, and in the +Leatham business he had displayed practical faculties for which he had +not given him credit. Instinctively Masterman knew that something had +happened of which even Scales had not the clue. +</P> + +<P> +If Arthur had been guilty of any of the common indiscretions of youth, +he could have forgiven him readily; he would indeed have almost +welcomed the opportunity, since it would have destroyed the barrier +between them. But this was a different matter. He caught a galling +vision of his son as his judge and critic publicly condemning him; no +father could condone that. He had been too lenient with him, too +generous. He had as good as admitted his superiority, he had even been +humble before him. And this was the result—his son forgot all +gratitude, all decency even, and denounced him as a scoundrel. The +word stung him like a gadfly. His heart began to harden into cold, +pitiless anger towards his son. +</P> + +<P> +Yet he must give him a hearing. That was only fair. And he was too +proud to seek it. His first instinct was to wire Arthur to come to +Brighton at once, but this would be to admit an importance in the +situation which he was resolved to ignore. In a day or two the family +would be back in London, and then the opportunity would come. +</P> + +<P> +The opportunity came a few days later. +</P> + +<P> +Eagle House was reopened, and the common forms of life were +re-established. Dinner was just over. Helen was chattering about the +new friends she had made at Brighton, but no one else had anything to +say. A heavy restraint rested like a cloud over the family. Mrs. +Masterman sat silent as usual, Arthur had not said a word during the +meal, Masterman had replied to Helen's ceaseless small talk in curt +monosyllables. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur rose quietly to leave the room, when his father's voice arrested +him. +</P> + +<P> +"Arthur." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, father." +</P> + +<P> +"I want to see you." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well, sir." +</P> + +<P> +The words were colourless in themselves, but to one ear in that room +they rang like a clash of swords. Mrs. Masterman looked up, her face +quivering and eager. Her eyes sought Arthur, and as he passed her +chair she pressed his hand. Arthur understood that silent overture, +and was grateful for it. +</P> + +<P> +"Come into the office," said Masterman, rising from the table. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur followed obediently. The hour long foreseen had come, and upon +the whole he was glad. He was sick of suspense, sick of the deceit of +eating his father's bread with bitter resentment in his heart, but not +the less he trembled. There was a strangling pressure in his throat, +his heart swelled, a vein in his temple throbbed painfully. He had +long rehearsed the hour; he had shaped every phrase that he would use +to sharpest meaning; but now he felt unaccountably dumb. And, as if +memory herself turned traitor, a sudden picture flashed before him of +how, years ago, in some childish illness, his father had sat beside his +bed, had taken him upon his knee, and had hushed him to sleep upon his +bosom. It passed through his thoughts like a strain of music, like the +fragrance of incense from an altar, subtly suggestive of a forgotten +sacredness in old affections and of their inalienable claim upon his +heart. And with it came that old sense of bigness in his father. +Strange how that persisted, but it did. This rough mass of man, this +big fighting figure, this man of many combats, did he really understand +him? And he replied with the sadness of a great pity that he +understood him too well, and he saw the gulf between them. +</P> + +<P> +But there was no such touch of grace or tenderness in the father's +mind. He also had rehearsed this hour, but with an extraordinary +vehemence of rage, which grew by what it fed on. He had come to +conceive himself a too generous and indulgent parent wronged by an +ungrateful child. And worse still, he had come to conceive of Arthur +as a weakling, who refused the battle of life; a fool, who wanted life +arranged on a plan of his own; an attitudinising Pharisee, who held +himself aloof from realities, and said to the man who grappled them, +"Stand aside, I am holier than thou." Well, he would teach him! He +would give him a lesson which he would never forget. His only mistake +had been that he had not done it long ago. +</P> + +<P> +The moment the door was closed he wheeled round upon him with a +formidable gesture. +</P> + +<P> +"I want a word with you," he said, "and I'll thank you not to interrupt +till I'm done. It seems I've got a son that doesn't approve me. Well, +I could bear that, but what I can't bear is to have a son that is fool +enough to go about saying so. It seems I'm not good enough to be the +father of this son. I'm a scoundrel, so he says, and he says it with +my meat in his belly and my clothes on his back. My father was a hard +man, and beat me, but I never told other folk what I thought of him. I +never went whining to other folk and called my father names. I bore +what I had to bear, and kept my mouth shut. But it seems I've got a +son that must be talking. Well, I'm going to take care that he talks +where I can't hear him. I thought to take him into my business—the +more fool I. Business! Let me tell you business needs commonsense, +which it seems you haven't got. And business needs a still tongue, +which you'll never get, to say nothing of some kind of decent faith +between partners, which you haven't a notion of. Partners! Why, let +me tell you, I'd sooner take the most ignorant boy in my office and +make him my partner than you! He'd at least have commonsense enough to +know which side his bread's buttered, which you'll never know. So +that's at an end, and you know my mind." +</P> + +<P> +"But, father, you are unjust to me. You don't understand." +</P> + +<P> +"What don't I understand?" +</P> + +<P> +"What was in my thought." +</P> + +<P> +"It's not a thing I'm at all anxious to understand," he retorted grimly. +</P> + +<P> +"But you must. I won't be condemned unheard." +</P> + +<P> +"But you condemned me unheard." +</P> + +<P> +This was a shaft that drew blood. It was true, Arthur knew it to be +true; he had taken the word of other people against his father. +</P> + +<P> +"There were circumstances——" he began. +</P> + +<P> +"Circumstances? Every fool pleads circumstances," Masterman +interrupted. "Give it the right name, you that are so honest, and say +lying gossip." +</P> + +<P> +"No, it was not gossip, father." +</P> + +<P> +And thereupon he went over the whole story of the illness of Vickars, +his visit to Dr. Leet, and the doctor's angry denunciation of the +builder of the Lonsdale Road houses as a scoundrel. He spoke with +quiet force, and his father listened in perfect silence, but with +averted face. +</P> + +<P> +"Have you done?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, father." +</P> + +<P> +"Are you sure you've omitted nothing?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, that is all." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, now listen to me. Dr. Leet may be right or wrong in what he +says—I don't know, and I don't care. The only thing I know is that +when I built those houses I gave the best value I could at the price. +I've told you before that if I am paid a cheap price I give cheap work. +All the talking in the world can't upset that position—it's plain +business." +</P> + +<P> +"But if people die through the cheap work! O father, you can't mean +what you say!" +</P> + +<P> +"A good many people have lived in Lonsdale Road and haven't died. Your +doctor is an old woman, telling fairy-tales. But even if he were +right, I disclaim responsibility. I give the best value I can for the +money; if people won't pay for things, they can't have them. <I>I</I> +didn't set the standards of business. They existed before me, and +they'll exist after me. If I hadn't built those houses, some one else +would have built them, and probably worse." +</P> + +<P> +"But the dishonesty of it!" cried Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"Dishonest? Well, I'll admit that too, if you like. But whose +dishonesty? Find me a business in London that isn't dishonest. It's +London itself that is dishonest. It insists on having what it hasn't +paid for, and won't pay for. It prefers shoddy because it's cheap. It +has no right to complain of what it gets." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur listened in appalled silence; before this brutally lucid +exposition of what business meant, it seemed as though all his fine +ideals of right and justice were so many burst bubbles. For a long +moment it was as though he saw the world streaming past him, like a +dark torrent thronged with dead faces, upon whose agonised pale lips +was the eternal accusation of things as they are. +</P> + +<P> +"Father, it can't be right!" he cried. +</P> + +<P> +"There's a power of things isn't right in this world, as you'll find +out some day. And talking won't put 'em right, either. But that +brings me to what I wanted to say. It's about the thing you omitted to +mention when you told me your story." +</P> + +<P> +"What was that, father?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'll tell you. You can show me what's wrong in my business, and now +I'm going to show you something that's wrong in your conduct. If I +told you you'd behaved like a sulky young whelp, you'd say I was +unjust, wouldn't you? Well, that's just what you've done." +</P> + +<P> +"Father——" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't interrupt. You've had your say, and I mean now to have mine, +and be done with it. If you'd come to me when this thing began to +trouble you, I'd have talked it over with you frankly. But what did +you do? You kept away from me. You did worse. You went about +repeating what Dr. Leet said. You hadn't even the common decency to +wait until you'd seen me. You hadn't even the gratitude to recollect +that I'd done the best I could for you, and was planning to do more. +You behaved just like a bad-hearted little boy who goes about letting +folks think that his father is his enemy. That's pretty behaviour in a +son, isn't it? But it seems that's the kind of son I've got. And for +that I don't forgive you. You've made it clear that you and I can't +draw together." +</P> + +<P> +"I never meant anything of the kind." +</P> + +<P> +"Never meant! What kind of excuse is that? It's what every +slack-baked youth in the office says when he's played the fool. And +when a youth can find nothing better to say than that, I fire him. And +I'm going to fire you." +</P> + +<P> +"I am entirely in your hands, father. I can see that I was wrong in +not coming to you at once. What more can I say?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's too late to say anything. You can't undo wrong by just saying +you are wrong. The plain fact is, I can't trust you. There's only one +end for it—you must go your way, and I mine." +</P> + +<P> +There was a rough dignity in Masterman as he uttered these words which +was profoundly moving. Had he been only angry, violent, or satirical, +Arthur could have borne it. He would have been sustained by the +justice of his cause. But now that very justice on which he had relied +for strength broke beneath him like a rotten prop. He who had been so +keen for justice was himself unjust. He saw himself—an implicit +parricide, a child who had taken arms against his father. And he saw +with a sudden agonised clearness of perception his father's nature, +with its strange blending of rugged virtue and unscrupulous craft, its +hard, indomitable fibre shot through by soft veins of tenderness, his +public traffic with dishonour almost counterbalanced by his stern +reticence under the early cruelties he had endured, and his honourable, +stoical silence under their brutal ignominies—he saw all this, and he +saw himself as weak, hysteric, foolish, crying out for justice in +another, but blind to the folly of his own behaviour. +</P> + +<P> +"I am sorry, father," he said in a broken voice. +</P> + +<P> +"That's the first sensible word you've said to-night. Only, you see, +it comes too late. You and me's got to part. Our roads lie different." +</P> + +<P> +"What do you wish me to do, father?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know. I want to think things over. You'd better go now." +</P> + +<P> +And then with a sudden savage burst of anger, as Arthur left the room, +he shouted after him: "You can take my compliments to Dr. Leet, and +tell him he's a confounded interfering fool!" +</P> + +<P> +But there was more of pain than anger in this violent dismissal. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap10"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +X +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE FAREWELL +</H4> + +<P> +The night had fallen upon Eagle House. Arthur sat alone in his bedroom +at the open window. A soft wind talked to itself in the branches of +the big mulberry tree on the lawn; a few placid stars shone in the +blue-black heavens, then the late moon like a yellow fire; a nested +sparrow chirped contentedly beneath the eaves; and, like a solemn wash +of waves upon a hidden beach, London moaned and murmured through all +its vast circumference. Out of the deep night the Spirit of his own +Youth arose, and sat beside him. +</P> + +<P> +"Listen to me," said the Spirit. "I bring with me two swords—Faith +and Courage. Gird them on." +</P> + +<P> +But London laughed. A soft derision shook the leaves upon the mulberry +tree, and the waves upon the hidden beach were scornful. +</P> + +<P> +"You have your life to live. Live it," said the Spirit. +</P> + +<P> +But the stars, like eyes, turned slowly toward him in despairing irony. +"How many millions have we heard say that," they whispered, "and each +has been overcome in turn, and has sunk in nameless dust." +</P> + +<P> +"You are not as the nameless millions," said the Spirit. "You are +yourself, with your own right and power to live." +</P> + +<P> +And at that the heavens moved, and an infinite procession of scarred +brows and sad eyes, passed by, and a multitude of lips whispered, "We +said that once, but Life was too strong for us." +</P> + +<P> +"Nevertheless, thou canst conquer Life," said the Spirit. +</P> + +<P> +"Nay, Life will conquer thee," replied the legions of the dead. "Let +be. Submit. Why strive when all strife is vain?" +</P> + +<P> +And then, out of the deep well of his misery, a bubble of light swam +up, and something in his soul cried, "I will not submit! I will gird +on the two swords of Faith and Courage. I will conquer Life!" +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +<SPAN STYLE="letter-spacing: 4em">*****</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P> +He had sat so long in absorbed silence that he was unconscious that the +door of the room had opened and shut. The noise of the closing door, +gentle as it was, roused him like a clap of thunder. He turned at the +sound, and saw his mother. +</P> + +<P> +She was robed in white, a white silk shawl was drawn over her head, and +in the dim light she looked like a gentle apparition. +</P> + +<P> +"Mother!" he cried. +</P> + +<P> +She came toward him with outstretched arms. +</P> + +<P> +And then, as by a magic touch, he became a little child again. She sat +besides him, drew his head down upon her warm bosom, put her arm round +his neck, and whispered, "I know." And beneath her gentle caress, +thawed as it were by the mere warmth of contact with her, something +hard and cold in his own heart dissolved and drained itself away in +delicious tears. He wept unrestrainedly, as a child weeps who is in no +haste to cease from weeping, lest the consolation for his tears should +cease with the tears themselves. And the chief sweetness of it all lay +in the silence of their communion. Neither spoke because there was no +need of speech. He knew that he was comprehended, and this is the +final ecstasy of all communion. From this faithful bosom he had drawn +his life; these hands had been the first to touch him; and as they had +long ago bound up his childish bruises, so now their very touch drew +the hurt out of his pained heart. He drank life from her again; he was +conscious of a warm inflowing flood of strength, of restful power, of +quiet blessedness. +</P> + +<P> +When at last he lifted his eyes he saw her transfigured. The frost of +silence had melted from her face; he caught in the dim light the +sparkle of her eyes, divined rather than discerned the flush of her +cheek and the new youth and vehemence of her aspect. +</P> + +<P> +"Mother!" he said again. +</P> + +<P> +She quietly pushed him from her, and gazed deep into his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"And now let us talk," she whispered. +</P> + +<P> +"You know what has happened?" he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I know." +</P> + +<P> +"O mother, what am I to do?" +</P> + +<P> +"You must do right, my son." +</P> + +<P> +She was silent for a moment, and he felt her hand tighten as it held +his own. Then she said abruptly, "I have my confession to make before +I can counsel you." +</P> + +<P> +"Your confession, mother?" +</P> + +<P> +"Can't you see that one is needed? Have you never asked yourself the +reason for my silence, my aloofness, and my lack of interest in life? +Did you never feel yourself that these things were unnatural, that +there must be a reason for them, and that the reason must be tragic? I +am going to tell you that reason. I have waited for this hour for +years—O my God, what dreary, fearful years! I have watched your +growth with terror, Arthur—yes, with terror, because I feared what you +might become. Do you know what I feared? God forgive me! I feared +you might be like your father. I watched every little seed of thought +as it opened in you, fearful of what flower it might bear. I studied +every glance, every sign of disposition, every drift of temperament; +weighed your words, analysed them endlessly through sleepless nights, +gazed into your mind and heart with dread and yearning. No one knows +what I suffered when you went to Oxford. There was not a night when I +did not lie awake for hours thinking of you. I said, 'Here he will +meet the world in all its grossness, and he will succumb to it, as a +thousand others have done. He will lose his fineness; he will become +like the rest.' Each time when you came home I met you with a kind of +terror. I dared scarcely look into your face for fear of the record I +might find written there. A mother reads the signs that no one else +can read. She knows, as no one else can know, the secret potencies +within the nature of her child. And knowing what I did of life, I was +terrified; and it was because I feared to look I stood aloof, that I +shunned even speech with you, that I have shut myself for years within +a wall of ice. Arthur, can you forgive me?" +</P> + +<P> +"O my poor mother! it is I who should ask forgiveness, because I did +not understand you better." +</P> + +<P> +She stooped to kiss his forehead, and went on relentlessly: "No; I see +now that I was wrong. I denied myself to you. I should have given +myself to you all the more because I feared for you. But surely I have +been punished—punished by the loss of how many moments like this! And +I might have had them! What can ever give me back the kisses I have +never kissed?" +</P> + +<P> +"Mother, I will not have you talk like that. I have never doubted that +you loved me. And I love you all the more for what you have endured +for me. Yes, I knew you suffered—I always understood that." +</P> + +<P> +"I suffered—but I have not yet told you the deepest cause. I must +tell you that too." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't want to know, mother. I have no right to know." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; it is your right to know." +</P> + +<P> +There was anguish in her voice now. The yellow rays of the sinking +moon, falling on her face, revealed a white, strained contour, as +though flame and marble mingled. +</P> + +<P> +"Listen, Arthur. I must go back through the years to the time when I +married your father. I was young, gay, inexperienced, and as +lighthearted as a girl could be. Your father had a greatness of his +own—never think that I doubt that—and when I first met him I thought +him the most wonderful man in all the world. No man was ever better +calculated to impress the senses of a young girl. I gave him what was +almost adoration, unthinking adoration. Of course I knew that I shared +only one part of his life, but what did I care? Women are usually +content if men love them; they do not care to ask what kind of life the +men they trust live when they are away from them. Of the nature of +your father's business life I could hardly form a guess. It was not my +concern, and I was happy in my ignorance until—until a day came when I +had to know. +</P> + +<P> +"I will spare you details, Arthur. I have said enough when I say that +the discovery I made was that your father's business was based on +merciless chicanery and fraud. I begged him on my knees to alter it. +I told him that I was willing to live anywhere, to do anything, to +suffer any privation, rather than eat dishonest bread. At first he +argued with me, as one might with a foolish child. He told me he was +no worse than other people—all businesses were like that; he was as +good as circumstances permitted; and he laughed at what he called my +pretty Puritanism. Then, when he saw that I was in earnest, he grew +angry. +</P> + +<P> +"'Haven't I given you everything you possess?' he cried. +</P> + +<P> +"'You shall give me no more,' I answered. 'You have taken from me much +more than you gave.' +</P> + +<P> +"'What have I taken?' +</P> + +<P> +"'My belief in you, my belief in life,' I answered. And then, in my +hot anger, I told him all that I had learned, and how I abhorred to +live softly at the price of cruel suffering in others, and refused to +profit by the wages of robbery. He turned pale at that, for he saw +that I knew something which went beyond legalised dishonesty. +</P> + +<P> +"From that hour our lives were separate. I never again wore my girlish +finery; I ate as little as I could; I lived in solitude. I knew that +nothing I could say would influence him. I was condemned to futility. +It was in that year of our final quarrel you were born. O my boy, can +you understand now with what terror I looked at your little innocent +face as it lay upon my bosom? For many, many months I wished you dead +for fear of what you might become. I have watched the growth of your +father's wealth with far deeper alarm than men have ever watched the +coming of poverty. I could discern in it nothing but a threat to you. +I have wasted myself in tears and prayers for you, all the time telling +myself that prayers were in vain. And now—praise be to the God I have +insulted!—I find my prayers miraculously answered. Arthur, my son, +you have stood the test. Your soul has overcome the forces of your +blood. I live to-night, I live for the first time in twenty years, and +God restores to me the years that the locust has eaten." +</P> + +<P> +Her impassioned speech thrilled him like the note of rapture in the +voice of a saint. And as she spoke, with that pale moonlight lighting +her face like a flame, it was as though the saint's halo rested on her +brow; she was the creature of a vision, ineffably pure and tender, +clothed in the eternal sacredness of motherhood. He had rested his +head upon her bosom while he wept; he knelt now, and laid it on her +knees. +</P> + +<P> +"O my son, my son," she cried, "I planned for this long before you were +born, but I never thought it would come true. It was for this I +chastened myself with tears and fasting, hoping that the life I +nourished might be freed from the stain I feared. But I had no faith. +I could only bring God my timidity; I could only plead my agony; I had +no strength to bring to Him. Yet He heard me, and after all the +doubting years He has given me the desire of my heart." +</P> + +<P> +"And I never understood," he whispered. +</P> + +<P> +"But you understand now, and I am repaid in full," she answered. "When +I saw you go out with your father to-night into the office, I knew the +great battle of your life had come, and something told me you would not +fail." +</P> + +<P> +"Yet I did fail, mother. He made me feel that I had wronged him." +</P> + +<P> +"I know. He told me." +</P> + +<P> +"He said I had behaved like a bad-hearted little boy. He humbled me to +the dust." +</P> + +<P> +"I know that too. That is why I came to you, my dear. I knew that you +would need me." +</P> + +<P> +"I do need you, mother. Everything is dark and perplexed to me. It +seems that though I have done right, I have done it in the wrong way." +</P> + +<P> +"The great thing is to have done right. That atones for everything +with God, I think." +</P> + +<P> +"But I don't see the next step, mother." +</P> + +<P> +"We never do, till we take it. But I can see it. Shall I tell you +what it is?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, mother." +</P> + +<P> +"It is the step I did not take—that is why I see it so clearly. You +must go away. You must take your life into your own hands. You must +begin it all over again. Women cannot do that; men can. Only now and +then does a woman claim her own personality, and for her the risk is +terrible. But a man can do it; he is meant to do it. That is where he +finds his greatness." +</P> + +<P> +"But that will be to leave you, mother. How can I do that, especially +now, when I know what your life has been?" +</P> + +<P> +"It is the fate of mothers, dearest, and it is a joyous fate. What +matter where you go? I shall still live in you. Don't you see, dear, +that my life reaches its height to-night, and through you? I have paid +twenty years of loneliness and tears for this hour, and I find the +price light. Do you think I grudge a few more years of separation? +And they will not be lonely. I have wept my last tears for you. I +have triumphed after all, and nothing can rob me of my triumph." +</P> + +<P> +The supreme self-abnegation of that speech was too great to be +understood all at once. It came upon him by degrees; perhaps it would +be true to say that it was only after many years, when he stood beside +his mother's grave, that he understood its full significance. But +enough of that significance was felt even now to fill his soul with +wonder. He saw only the first page in the sacred gospel of motherhood, +but he caught its meaning. To ask nothing, to give everything, to +purchase momentary rapture with the grief of years, to toil without +reward, to love and be forgotten, to yield flesh and heart for the +nurture of the seeds of life in others, to create for them the +unparticipated victory—that was the destiny of motherhood, a thing not +less sacred than the love that once endured the Cross for man. To find +himself so loved was an overwhelming thought. Beneath its weight he +lay breathless, in an ecstasy of marvel. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, you must go away," she continued. "Shall I tell you why?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, mother, tell me." +</P> + +<P> +"Because if you stay in London you will never find your freedom. In +London the net is drawn so close that individuality is strangled. +London insists upon conformity. It grinds men down by slow attrition +to a common likeness. I have thought it all over. It is because there +are cities like London, full of avarice and pleasure, that the best men +grow into criminals without knowing it. Your father might have been a +good man if he had never seen London. +</P> + +<P> +"And there is another reason too. Your father, in spite of his anger, +will not give you up. He will try to keep you near him, even though +you are not his partner in the business. He will bribe you by his +generosity, subdue you by his forgiveness. And he is a strong man, +remember, who always gets his own way sooner or later. Don't you know +that, Arthur?" +</P> + +<P> +"Do you mean that his very love for me is a peril, mother?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, that is what I mean, my dear. You don't know what it means to be +subject to the constant pressure of a strong man who loves you. But I +know. It is that which has reduced my own life to futility. If I had +hated your father, my hatred would have given me strength to leave him. +But because I loved him, I learned to distinguish between him and his +sin. Oh! there have been many times when I have been almost overcome; +times when I have said, 'What is the use of struggle?' It were wiser +to submit at once, to accept a strong man's love with gratitude, to ask +no questions, to become like the rest. I have never really submitted, +but I have compromised, and that has meant futility! But you are +different. You have your chance to escape, to build your own life. I +don't want your life to be futile, as mine has been. It is the torture +of all tortures. Arthur, I think I would rather see you dead!" +</P> + +<P> +"But you, mother, how can I leave you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Have I not told you I wish you to go? Do you think I am so selfish, +dear, that I would have you stay with me to your loss? That would be +my loss too, and a worse loss than any I have yet endured. My heart +says, Stay; but see, I pluck the weakness from my heart. Arthur, I +command you to go." +</P> + +<P> +She rose as she spoke. The moon had sunk. The first gray gleam of day +was in the sky, and suddenly the earliest sunbeam clothed her. In that +fuller light he saw her face irradiated. +</P> + +<P> +"I will go," he said. +</P> + +<P> +She drew him to her, and kissed his brow. +</P> + +<P> +"There speaks my own true son," she said. +</P> + +<P> +For some moments a deep silence filled the room. A bird twittered in +the dawn-light; London turned like a weary sleeper on a couch of pain; +a wind, fresh from the fountains of the day, blew hopefully, with a +hint of free seas and far-off lands. +</P> + +<P> +"Promise me one thing, my son." +</P> + +<P> +"What is that, mother?" +</P> + +<P> +"It is that whatever your life may be, it shall be honest. Rich or +poor, defeated or successful, accept no gain by violence, win no +pleasure by dishonour. O my son, you know why I say this, you know +what I mean by it." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I know, mother, and I promise." +</P> + +<P> +"And go at once, my dear. I have foreseen this hour and have provided +for it. You will not go without money. You need not be ashamed to +take it; it is yours. I have saved it, and for you. And now God bless +you, my dear, dear son!" +</P> + +<P> +She withdrew herself from his arms and was gone. The full day shone +now, and from its shining summits Arthur heard the bugle cry, calling +him to distant lands and new life. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap11"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +PART TWO +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +THE AMERICAN MADONNA +</H2> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +NEW YORK +</H4> + +<P> +If he had been able to earn his living in any conventional and accepted +way, he would not have been on his way to join the S.S. <I>Saurian</I> as +she lay off the landing-stage at Southampton on that bright September +morning. The poor must needs learn a trade, because a trade is +necessary to mere existence; but it is the tragedy of the rich and the +semi-rich that, when once deprived of the artificial security of +riches, they are helpless. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur had plenty of time to do battle with this afflicting thought as +he travelled down to Southampton. It accompanied him, like a voice of +irony, in the rushing wheels; flashed upon him in the sentinel +telegraph posts, each bearing aloft its spark of silent fire; saluted +him from a hundred fields where men stood bare-armed beside the loaded +wains; mocked him in casual glimpses of firm faces behind the glass of +signal-boxes, in hurrying porters at the points of stoppage, in groups +of labourers leaning lightly on spade or mattock, as the train +thundered past. In all these faces, common as they were, there was a +look of proud efficiency. In every sight and sound was the vindication +of human toil. These men, each in his several way, had solved the +problem of life. Each had learned to do something which the world +wanted done. They did the work required of them, undistracted by +problems and philosophies; asked no questions concerning the structure +of society or the nature of life; were content to add their stone to +the cairn, to pass on and be forgotten, and to earn the final simple +elegy, "home have gone and ta'en their wages." +</P> + +<P> +But Arthur—what did he know of this primeval life of man, which had +gone on from the dawn of the world, unchanged by change of dynasties, +by the readjustment of nations, by the birth and death of a hundred +intricate philosophies, literatures, reforms, social experiments, +social reconstructions? He knew less than the humblest child who +followed the reapers in the field, or began the perilous process of +existence by earning casual pence in the mine or factory. Like so many +youths in an age when all forms of hand-labour have lost their dignity, +he had learned a hundred things which lent a false glamour to +existence, but not one which supplied its vital needs. He had +accumulated accomplishments, but had not developed efficiencies, as +though one should adorn and decorate a machine in which the works were +lacking. +</P> + +<P> +"Let me reckon up my capital," he thought as the train rushed on; "let +me ascertain my authentic stock-in-trade. I have some knowledge of +Greek literature and Roman history, but it is probable that in all this +train-load of human creatures there are not half a dozen who would +attach the least value to my knowledge. I can decipher old French +chronicles with fair success; I know enough of music to understand the +theory of counterpoint, and enough of poetry to construct a decent +sonnet; and, so far as I can see, these are not commodities which +possess any marketable value. I have thirty pounds given me by my +mother; but if my life depended upon my earning thirty pence, I know no +possible method by which I might wrest the most wretched pittance from +the world's closed fist. I am, in fact, an incompetent, but through no +fault of my own. It seems that I have been elaborately trained to do a +great number of things which no one wants done, but not one of the +things for which the world makes eager compensation. What were mere +pastime to the savage is to me an inaccessible display of effort; left +alone with the whole open world for my kingdom, it is doubtful if I +could build a house, grow a potato, bake a loaf, or secure the barest +means of life. Such is my deplorable condition that it is +possible—no, entirely certain, that the poorest emigrant in this +rushing freight of men and women would scruple to change places with +me. That's a pretty situation for a gentleman of England and an Oxford +graduate, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +He smiled mirthlessly at the thought. Yet while it humiliated him, +youth asserted its right sufficiently to extract from it a certain +flavour of exhilaration. He was at all events coming to grips with the +reality of living. He had been like a boy swimming upon bladders; the +bladders were now removed, and a potent and tremendous sea throbbed +beneath him. Since he could depend no more on artificial aids to life, +it followed that life must needs develop its own latent forces. There +surely must be such forces in himself, an elemental manhood which must +justify itself. There recurred to him a saying of Hilary Vickars. +They had been discussing one night the infinite and elusive question of +wherein lay the wisdom of life, when Vickars had abruptly said, +"Practice is the only teacher. You learn to walk by walking, to swim +by swimming, to live by living. The child has no theory about walking: +he simply walks, at the price of a thousand tears and bruises. In the +same way we must make the experiment of living in order to learn how to +live. It is the same with religion. We make the experiment of God +before we can find God. The particular folly of men to-day is that +they think wisdom comes by talking about wisdom. One honest attempt to +do something, however blunderingly, is worth a lifetime of discussion +about how it should be done." +</P> + +<P> +"Yet Browning held that the great thing planned was better than the +little thing achieved," he had responded. +</P> + +<P> +"Browning also was a talker rather than a doer," Vickars had replied. +"He misleads men by the very robustness of his talk into the notion +that great dreams can take the place of great actions. Don't let him +mislead you. Remember what I say, that the great business of life is +to live, not to criticise life." +</P> + +<P> +He remembered the words now, and they acquired new significance as he +studied the faces of his comrades. There were four men in the carriage +with him, one of them middle-aged, the others mere youths. The +middle-aged man had a good, plain, country face, with a fringe of gray +whisker; two of the youths were clearly country-bred, the third had the +alert look and pallor of the city. The middle-aged man sat in stolid +silence, with his big knotted hands folded on his knees; the two +country youths watched the flying fields with eagerness; the city youth +had produced a zither, on which he was strumming hymn-tunes. "Safe in +the arms of Jesus," was the tune he strummed. +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you, sir," said the middle-aged man. "It kind of cheers one up +a bit to hear that." +</P> + +<P> +"It's the only tune I really know," said the youth apologetically. +"You see, I'm only a beginner." +</P> + +<P> +"My little girl used to sing it. Learned it in a Sunday school at +Newcastle. She's dead now." +</P> + +<P> +The simple words had the effect of dissolving the reticence of these +chance travellers. They began to talk, and very soon each was relating +his history. The two country youths had the least to say. They had +heard there was work in America with good pay; in that statement their +entire history was comprehended. They had not the least idea of the +country they were going to; its very geography was as much a mystery to +them as the binomial theorem; they were, in fact, staking everything +upon a rumour, and Arthur found their very ignorance at once deplorable +and wonderful as an expression of the hopeful courage of the human +heart. The London youth was more garrulous, and slightly better +informed. It seemed he had a relative who had promised him a place in +a small business which he managed near Philadelphia. +</P> + +<P> +"I am a clerk, you know. A man who is a good clerk can always get on +in any commercial centre. Except in London. There everything's +congested, too many people and not enough work to go round. "England," he +pronounced oracularly, "is done. Her day's over." +</P> + +<P> +It seemed the younger men endorsed this verdict with surprising +unanimity. Each was a fugitive from an unequal battle. Men could not +live on the land, because of high rents and exorbitant taxation; +neither could they live in cities, because over-population and +excessive competition had reduced wages to starvation point; "England +was all very well for the rich—let them live in it as they could—but +a poor man couldn't, and that was about the size of it." +</P> + +<P> +"But surely you two could live well enough," said Arthur to the country +youths. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, live—yes," said one; "but what is there at the end of it all? +Nothing but the workhouse." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, that's it," said the middle-aged man slowly, "but there's +workhouses in the States, too. Don't you be deceiving of yourselves. +England ain't no worse than other places." +</P> + +<P> +"And why are you leaving it then, I'd like to know?" said the London +youth. +</P> + +<P> +"Because I've had a trouble, young man." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur's heart warmed toward this unwilling exile. The London youth, +with his glib denunciation of England, disgusted him; the two country +youths could by no stretch of charity be accounted interesting; but +this grave, silent man who had "had a trouble" made an instant appeal +to his sympathy. He began to talk with him, and little by little drew +his history from him. It seemed his name was Vyse; he was a riveter by +trade, had worked in the great shipyards of Clydebank, Newcastle, and +Belfast, earning excellent wages, and had acquitted himself with +industry and honour. Here was a man who had done something tangible +and something that endured. Doubtless at that moment the work of his +hands was distributed throughout the world; again and again he had +stood silent as the vast hull upon which he had toiled trembled on the +slips, took the water, and presently disappeared upon the plains of +ocean, there to encounter the strangest diversities of fate, to be +buffeted by the vast seas of the North Atlantic or the Horn, to be +washed with phosphorescent ripples in the heart of the Pacific or among +the coral islands of the South Seas, to fight the ice-floes of the +Arctic, or sleep upon the waters of the Amazon. Here, thought Arthur, +was the very poetry of labour; these disfigured hands held the threads +that bound the world together, and round this plain man lay an horizon +as wide as the farthest seas. Unconsciously the man's trade had +imparted certain elements of largeness to his mind. He spoke of +himself and his prospects with a certain plain dignity and confidence. +He knew his value to the world; east or west, he was a needed man, one +for whom the gate of labour stood wide open. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll find work, never fear," he said. "I'm not like these boys," he +added, with a glance at the two stolid country youths and the London +clerk, who still strummed his one tune upon the zither. "They think +they'll find life easier in America, and that's all they go for. I +would think shame upon myself to emigrate upon such a hope as that. I +don't hold with folk as run down England. It's my belief that them as +runs down their own country won't be of much good in any other country. +I tell you I'm sorry enough to leave England, and I wouldn't do it, +except that I have a trouble." +</P> + +<P> +Presently it came out what his trouble was. His wife was dead, and his +only son had taken to evil ways. The man could have borne the +loneliness of loss, but when the boy robbed and insulted him, proving +finally intractable, he made up his mind to start life afresh in a new +land where his disgrace could not follow him. +</P> + +<P> +"There's years of work in me yet," he said. "But I can't work properly +without a peaceful mind. And there's another thing, I've got to pay +back what Charlie took from other folk. I couldn't lift my head up if +I didn't. That's right, isn't it, sir?" +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Vyse," said Arthur, "I wish all of us could show as clean a bill +of health as you." +</P> + +<P> +The train was running into Southampton. Beside the landing-stage lay +the great ship, which was to receive within a few minutes so many +histories and destinies. The steerage was already packed with +emigrants, many of them Italians, distinguishable by their gay-coloured +clothing. Arthur found, to his delight, that Vyse was billeted with +him in a four-berth cabin; the two other tenants were an old +horse-dealer from the Western States, and a clergyman's son, going out +upon a remittance. The cabin was deep down in the bowels of the ship, +dark and airless. He hastened from it to the deck, and found himself +in the midst of many farewell groups. Among them was the clergyman's +son, who stood superciliously smoking a cigar, with his face averted +from his father, who pressed upon him final kindnesses and counsels. +"All right, father. It's time for you to go, you know," he said +sullenly. "May God bless you, my boy!" said the old man. "Oh, I +daresay," said the boy indifferently; and it was so they parted. Some +one began to sing "Home, Sweet Home," a singularly inappropriate song +in such an hour. A woman shrieking for her husband and her two +children was put ashore; it seemed the baby in her arms was afflicted +with sarcoma, and was expelled the ship. The brown water showed a +sudden strake of white; a soft pulse throbbed somewhere beneath the +decks; the screw had made the first of those countless revolutions that +would not cease for three thousand miles; and the great vessel glided +out upon the long path toward the setting sun. +</P> + +<P> +There are few schools in the world where character can be studied at +closer quarters, and certain lessons of life learned more rapidly, than +on ship-board. The mere contiguity of a great variety of human +creatures is itself a lesson in the real values of life. It was, for +instance, an admirable incentive to self-reliance for Arthur to find +himself for the first time in a position where he was despised. This +incentive was administered daily by groups of gentlemen in ulsters and +ladies in elaborate travelling-costumes, who gathered at the rail of +the deck above like spectators in a gallery, and gazed down with +evident commiseration, and sometimes with sarcastic comment, on the +second class passengers. Occasionally these groups would leave their +lofty gallery and make excursions through the inferior quarters, with +the dainty airs of personally-conducted parties investigating slums, +commenting openly as they went upon the manners of the lower deck in a +spirit of condescending and cheerful vulgarity. The London clerk, with +his eternal zither, was much remarked, and appeared proud of the +attention he attracted. On the other hand, men like Vyse received +these visits in stolid silence, not wholly free from resentment and +contempt. "That's what money does," he said bitterly one day, when a +group of these excursionists had retired; and Arthur, reflecting on the +circumstance, came to see that the old workman was right in his +diagnosis, and that it was a diagnosis shameful to human nature. For +it was clear that these people owed their eminence neither to manners +nor accomplishments; in solid worth and dignity of character Vyse would +have been judged their superior in any equitable court; and, taken man +for man, it was merely the better coat and not the better breeding that +distinguished the upper from the lower deck. +</P> + +<P> +When it came to kindness, which is the flower of all gentility, the +virtues of the lower deck were even more strikingly apparent. On the +fourth day out stormy weather was encountered; black, foamless seas +rolled in perpetual assault from the north-west; there was an hour when +the great ship made but five miles; word went round that the lifeboats +were cleared and victualled; and the constant noise of hammers audible +in the pauses of the tempest was significant of some damage in the iron +walls that lay between them and death. It was then that, amid fear and +dreadful discomfort, the virtues of the lower deck displayed +themselves. Vyse nursed a sick child with the tenderness of a woman; +the cattle-dealer spent the day in telling stories, very far from +decorous, it must be admitted, to a group of half-frightened lads, who +forgot their fears in their laughter; even the London clerk shone +conspicuous with his zither and his eternal "Safe in the arms of +Jesus." In the dark and narrow alley-ways, pounded by the threshing +seas, whose fearful detonations seemed to fill the air with thunder, +the clerk found his mission, and trembling voices sang with pathetic +desire of conviction the words that express a faith which lifts the +soul beyond the terrors of destruction. +</P> + +<P> +"That is what money does," Vyse had said, and the reflection was +inevitable that it did very little after all to benefit character, and +not a little to emasculate or degrade it. The people with whom Arthur +travelled had no monopoly of virtue, as he was bound to admit; the +London clerk in his ordinary mood was a creature at once slight and +vain, the horse-dealer was coarse; and so he might have gone through +the whole list of his acquaintances, remarking plentiful defect in +each. But the qualities were more obvious than the defects. There was +a general spirit of helpfulness and kindness; many had grievous +accusations, only too authentic, to make against the land from which +they fled, but these accusations were rarely made in a spirit of +bitterness or envy; all had the cardinal grace of courage, and were +willing to believe that at the end of a long road of failure and defeat +victory awaited them. It was this unquenchable buoyancy of hope in the +crowd of fugitives from an unequal battle which struck Arthur as +entirely wonderful and, indeed, heroic. There was not one of them +unacquainted with failure in some extreme form; not one who had not +heard the bugles of retreat on some disastrous field; yet each, after a +brief inspection of the ruined architecture of his life, was ready to +begin building anew, each believed himself competent for the task, and +each had that rarest form of courage which forgets the past. For one +reared as he had been, it was a revelation to be made aware of such +virtues lying at the base of very ordinary characters, and a revelation +for which he thanked God with devout gratitude. It amounted almost to +a discovery of human nature. He had known hitherto little more than a +human coterie; he had lived in artificial conditions; and he knew the +kind of lives that such conditions bred. Now, for the first time, he +touched the primeval; he had joined the company of those whose sole +defence and worth lay in their authentic manhood, and he dimly saw that +what had seemed a fall in life had been an ascent, for the truly +ignoble lay, not below him, but above him. Thus insensibly he drew +courage from the fortitude of his companions, and caught from them that +spirit of adventure which "street-born" men never know—the spirit +which has flung forth the Anglo-Saxon race into every quarter of the +globe, and has made them the world's great empire-builders. +</P> + +<P> +On the seventh day out the Atlantic storm-belt, with its miserable +monotony of vexed and gloomy seas, was left behind. For a wonder there +was no fog upon the Banks; the seas were of an indescribable hue of +limpid turquoise, the ship seemed to glide across a far-glimmering +floor, and the wind had a tonic sweetness and renewing potency. The +blood sang in the veins, the eye took a deeper colour, and among all +the fugitives of the lower deck there was not one who did not move with +a brisker step. Laughter ran along the deck; a child beating a tin cup +with a spoon was the object of general admiration; languid faces +smiled, and among the women a fresh ribbon on the hair or a glance of +innocent coquettishness in the eye marked the advent of a new zest in +life. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur stood against a bulk-head, watching with delighted eyes the +bright elusive colours of the sea, varying from the clearest +bottle-green where the ship's bulk clove the waters to the deepest +purple where a cloud drove its shadow like a chariot across the liquid +plain. Vyse stood beside him, his rugged face reddened by the fresh +wind. +</P> + +<P> +"Looks cheerful, doesn't it?" he remarked. "The sea somehow makes a +man think better of himself." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Arthur. "I feel that too. Life seems larger." +</P> + +<P> +"That reminds me of something I wish to say to you," said Vyse. "You +and me's been good friends upon the voyage, and if you won't be +offended, I'd like to ask you a question." +</P> + +<P> +"You won't offend me. What is it?" +</P> + +<P> +"I've wondered what you might be going to do when you reached New York." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, to tell you the truth, Vyse, I don't know. I have to begin a +new life, but I don't in the least know how." +</P> + +<P> +"I guessed something of the sort. Well, what I wanted to say was this. +Men as is Englishmen and has travelled together like you and me should +stick together, shouldn't they? Now, I'm only a plain man, and you're +a gentleman, but maybe I might help you a bit. I'd like to give you my +address. A pal of mine gave it me. And if ever you don't know where +to go, come to me, and you'll be kindly welcome." +</P> + +<P> +"I believe I shall," said Arthur simply. "And I thank you from my +heart." +</P> + +<P> +The kindness of Vyse touched him more deeply than he could say. It was +another evidence of that fine courtesy which exists in all simple +natures, and he took it as a fresh assurance of that worth of human +nature itself which he had discovered on the voyage. +</P> + +<P> +Two days later Fire Island was passed, the long flat shore of Long +Island lay like a yellow line drawn across the water, and in the +afternoon the screw ceased from its long labour, and the ship lay at +rest off Sandy Hook. The harbour with its green bluffs, studded with +lawns and white verandahed houses, opened up; the tremendous +battlements of New York bulked against the distant skyline; and in the +foreground, like a colossal watcher of the gate, strode the Statue of +Liberty. +</P> + +<P> +"Look," said Vyse, nudging Arthur's arm and pointing to the bows, where +a multitude of emigrants stood at gaze. +</P> + +<P> +And in truth it was a scene not easily forgotten. Yellow-haired +Scandinavians, with something of the old Viking stature and clear +resoluteness of eye, watched the unfolding scene; Hungarians in +embroidered jackets gathered in a separate group; Danes, Germans, and +Russians were there, all silent with an emotion which might have been +apprehension or anticipation; but in the foreground, the unconscious +centre of all eyes, knelt a group of Italian men and women. They were +crossing themselves devoutly, their ecstatic eyes raised to the +gigantic figure of Liberty with her lamp. +</P> + +<P> +"What are they doing?" said Arthur, and he found himself whispering as +though he waited in some dim cathedral for the elevation of the Host. +</P> + +<P> +"They call that there Statue of Liberty the American Madonna, so they +tell me," said Vyse. +</P> + +<P> +The reply thrilled him as the whisper of the oracle might have thrilled +the worshippers long since beneath the oaks of Dodona. The American +Madonna, the calm-faced Mother standing at the gates of empire with +impartial welcome, her uplifted torch lighting her new-found children +to the path of novel destinies—there was a sacramental virtue in the +thought, and it shone through his mind like a heavenly omen. +</P> + +<P> +"Ave Madonna!" cried the kneeling group, each with eyes fixed upon that +lofty brow of bronze, as if they expected instantly the face to quicken +with a human tenderness, the head to stoop in condescending grace. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps it did. In that clear and sunny air the face appeared to +smile, and from the outstretched hand there came to each humble +suppliant the veritable grace of hope. +</P> + +<P> +And then the moment passed; the ship moved on; from a Titanic +structure, pierced with many windows, a babel of voices clashed upon +the still air, and in another half hour the ship, her long voyage done, +swung slowly to her berth. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap12"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +MR. WILBUR MEREDITH LEGION +</H4> + +<P> +Were a man never so lonely, there is something in a first introduction +to a strange city which communicates a spirit of elation. The mere +strangeness of what he sees, the novel aspect of things, the touch of +the original and unexpected in the buildings, the conformation of the +streets, the faces of the hurrying throngs—this new note of life, +everywhere audible, is itself so surprising and absorbing that the mind +is insensibly withdrawn from the contemplation of private griefs and +memories. A more exact examination may reveal the depressing fact that +a new world is new alone in name; that men carry their conventions with +them wheresoever they travel, and may reproduce upon the loneliest rock +of the Pacific or in the heart of the Sahara the complete social +counterpart of those narrower forms of civilisation which they might be +supposed to have renounced for ever. But even so, it still remains +true that the thing which seems new is really new to us, for we live by +our sensations as much as by our knowledge. He who cannot yield +himself to this illusion of the senses will certainly deny himself the +finer pleasures of existence; he will march across the world with the +stiff air of the pedant, who sacrifices poetry to precision, declining +more and more into a bloomless frugality of life, until at last not +alone the outer world but the inner places of his own heart will become +arid as a desert. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur was much too young to reject the illusion of the senses, and too +essentially a poet to desire to do so. He had his own private griefs, +and they were by no means a negligible burden. In the noisy darkness +of the long nights at sea, when the clanging of the piston kept him +wakeful, he had again and again reviewed these griefs with a +self-torturing persistence. Would he ever see his mother again?—and +sometimes out of the heart of the black night a voice told him he would +not. Would that exquisite but slender bond that held him to Elizabeth +withstand the strain of a dateless separation? Would he find the +things he sought, have strength to build the life he had had the vision +to design, justify himself before the world? These and many cognate +thoughts oppressed him; they wrote their abrupt interrogations on the +curtain of the night, until he hid his face from them, and could have +wept for weakness. But in spite of these oppressions, his spirit had +gained both in hope and fortitude upon the voyage. He had begun to +find himself blunderingly, as all men must at first, yet with some +sincerity and real truth of vision. Two things he had discovered in +himself which appeared to him a sufficient base for life, at once a +programme and a creed—the one was the fixed determination to be +content only with the best kind of life, the other was a faith in the +Guiding Hand. From this creed he drew both his inspiration and his +courage, and the more he dwelt upon it the more his heart leaped to +meet the future, and the less did he regret the dissolution of the past. +</P> + +<P> +And so that first vision of the New World thrilled him with a vague but +joyous wonder. New York impressed him as the most superb of all +examples of man's will to live. Here, upon a narrow strip of rock, the +most ill-fitted spot in all the world for a city metropolitan, man had +compelled nature to his purpose; he had disregarded her intention and +had triumphed over it; he had bridged the very seas with ropes of +steel, carried his means of locomotion into the upper air, and, unable +wholly to escape the limitation of the jealous earth, had invaded the +sky with his monstrous fortresses of steel and masonry. The very +absence of grace, suavity, dignity in all he saw was itself impressive. +Brutal as it was, yet was it not also the assertion of a strength which +made for its object with a kind of elemental directness, not only +scorning obstacles, but defying in its course the most august +conventions of the centuries? The will to live—that was the legend +flaunted by invisible banners on each sky-daring tower; the city hummed +and sang with its crude music; it was written on every face he met in +lines of grim endeavour. And it was a needed lesson for such as he. +It struck him like a buffet from a strong hand, roused him like a +challenge. To the perpetual oncoming hosts of invaders from an older +world, New York spoke its iron gospel, "Man is unconquerable, if he +have the will to conquer." And the oncoming host received that stern +gospel with acclamation as indeed good news—not the highest gospel, +nor the sweetest, but assuredly a needed gospel. +</P> + +<P> +Certainly his situation called for both fortitude and hopefulness, for +it was highly precarious. He had left London in such haste that he had +had no time to make any plans for the future; he had simply acted on an +imperative instinct of the soul to assert its rights, to seize upon +immediate freedom. A voice within him had whispered, "Now or never," +and in a sudden access of resolution he had broken his bonds. He did +not regret its precipitation, but he had begun to perceive its +consequences. +</P> + +<P> +The only persons to whom he had confided his intention were Hilary +Vickars and Mrs. Bundy. Immediately after the midnight interview with +his mother he had gone to Vickars, who listened to his story in grave +silence. How every detail of that hour passed with Hilary Vickars +stood out in his memory! He could see the face of Vickars, pale and +eager, as it bent toward him; he remembered how he noted that the lock +of hair that fell across his forehead was newly streaked with gray, and +how the veins in the long thin hands showed every intricate +reticulation. He recollected how he watched a little patch of sunlight +as it crept across the floor, saying to himself with a kind of childish +irrelevance, "When it touches the wainscot, I must go." And what +length of years or gulfs of immense vicissitude could obliterate the +face of Elizabeth, as he saw it through that difficult hour—so pale, +so sweet, so intense, her lips parted in surprise, her eyes signalling +to him messages of faith and constancy? +</P> + +<P> +"You are doing right," said Vickars, and he had laid the long, +blue-veined hand upon his head in benediction; and then Elizabeth had +taken Arthur's hand in hers, and kissed it softly, and held it for a +moment to her bosom—and both acts had been done so solemnly that they +seemed like sacred rites in a religious ceremony. +</P> + +<P> +When he rose to go—it was in the exact moment when the patch of +sunlight touched the wainscot—Vickars had offered him some practical +advice. +</P> + +<P> +"I wish I could help you," he said. "Let me see, it's New York you're +going to, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes—New York." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, there's a man there I know slightly—I met him once over a +negotiation for book rights in the States. He had an odd +name—probably that's why I remember him—Wilbur Meredith Legion, and +he seemed to be a decent fellow. It won't do you any harm to have an +introduction to him." +</P> + +<P> +From a pigeon-hole in his desk Vickars produced a card: "Mr. Wilbur +Meredith Legion, Vermont Building, Broadway, New York. Literary and +Press Agent." +</P> + +<P> +"You'll find him interesting, at all events," said Vickars, "and he may +be able to put you in the way of using your pen." +</P> + +<P> +From Lonsdale Road Arthur had gone to Mrs. Bundy's. That redoubtable +woman at once rose to the occasion, and indulged herself in a flight of +prophecy which would have done credit to the wildest programmes of Mr. +Bundy. +</P> + +<P> +"You'll make your fortune before you're thirty," she exclaimed. "Think +of Carnegie." +</P> + +<P> +And thereupon she poured forth a stream of exhilarating and incorrect +information, which sounded strangely like excerpts from Bundy's +prospectuses, so that it seemed as though a conjurer flung a dozen +golden balls of sudden wealth into the air, and kept them flashing and +gyrating for some seconds with amazing ingenuity. +</P> + +<P> +"Stop!—stop!" said Arthur, laughing. +</P> + +<P> +"Not a bit of it," she replied. "I only wish you could meet Bundy. +He'd be the man to help you." +</P> + +<P> +"Where is Mr. Bundy just now?" +</P> + +<P> +"The last I heard he was in Texas. He was negotiating the purchase of +forty thousand acres of land which he says is the finest in the world. +Let me see—why, to be sure, he said he'd be in New York before +Christmas. He always stops at the Astor House. No doubt you'll find +him there." +</P> + +<P> +"I will certainly look for him," said Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"Do. If there's any man can make your fortune, it's Bundy." And then, +with unremarked inconsistency, she added, "I wish I could give you +something, my dear, but it's low water with us just now. Stop, though; +here's something that may be useful." After rummaging in a cupboard +she produced a small flat bottle, which contained something which bore +a strong resemblance to furniture polish. "It's rum and butter, my +dear, and let me tell you it's a splendid remedy for sore throat. +Those ships are cold, draughty places, and maybe you'll be glad of it. +Bundy always takes it with him on a journey. Well, my dear, let an old +woman kiss you, and wish you well," whereupon the motherly creature +flung her arms round his neck and kissed him heartily. The two Bundy +boys, coming in at that moment from the back garden, where they had +spent an exhilarating hour in lassoing a collie dog, stared round-eyed +at this proceeding, the younger of the two remarking with an air of +solemn impudence, "I'll tell father"—whereupon Mrs. Bundy had chased +them out of the kitchen with many threats, and it was thus, in a gust +of laughter, he had taken leave of his old friend. She had stood at +her door till the last moment when he disappeared down the road, waving +her hand energetically, and in spite of all that was ridiculous in the +scene, Arthur felt a real and deep sadness when she faded from his view. +</P> + +<P> +An introduction to a dubious person called Legion, the frail +possibility of a rendezvous with Bundy, and a few pounds in his +pocket—it must be admitted this was not an exorbitant equipment for +the conquest of a new world; but to this exiguous capital there must be +added something not readily assessed—the high and hopeful spirit of +liberated youth. He had escaped the strangling grip of circumstance; +he was free, and the blood moved in his veins with a novel speed and +nimbleness; he was at last upon the world's open road. +</P> + +<P> +His first act was to secure a room at the old Astor House, and make +inquiries for Mr. Bundy. He addressed these inquiries to a clerk who +was so busily absorbed in the task of picking his teeth with a wooden +toothpick that he appeared to resent interruption. When Arthur had +twice repeated his question, this youth answered curtly that he didn't +know, and turned his back upon him. +</P> + +<P> +"Pardon me, but I have a particular reason for asking. If you are too +busy to examine the register, please let me." +</P> + +<P> +The clerk pushed a formidable volume toward him, and went on picking +his teeth. There was no Bundy in the long list of recent entries, but +there was a wonderful array of places, with strange, exotic names, such +as Saratoga, Macon, Fond du Lac, Pueblo, and a hundred others that were +musical with old-world memories. Upon that sordid page they shone like +gems; they exhaled a perfume of secular romance; Memphis and +Carthagena, Syracuse, Ithaca, and Rome, Valparaiso and Paris, jostled +each other in the wildest incongruity, as if each bore witness to some +ancient mode of life which had helped to form the strange amalgam which +called itself American. He was so delighted with this glittering +tournament of words that at length the clerk, remarking his interest, +condescended to inquire, "Found it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Bundy? No; he doesn't appear to be here." +</P> + +<P> +"What like was he?" +</P> + +<P> +"An Englishman. A small man, very quick and active; interested in +mines, I think." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, why didn't you say he was interested in mines, any way? Then I +should have known. He was here six months ago, stayed a week, private +lunch every day in Parlour A, floating a syndicate for Texas land. I +know him. Wanted me to take shares. Said he'd be back in a month. +Hasn't come. Guess he's bust." +</P> + +<P> +"He's expected at Christmas, isn't he?" +</P> + +<P> +"Can't say. If you make out to know Mr. Bundy, like you say, you'd +know that it's his pecooliarity not to answer to anybody's +expectations. He's a live man, is Bundy. Yes, sir, for a Britisher +he's the liveliest man I know." +</P> + +<P> +With this unsolicited testimonial to the liveliness of Mr. Bundy he had +to be content. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll let you know when he comes," said the clerk more graciously. +"I'll see you don't miss him." +</P> + +<P> +"You don't know his address, do you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, let me see. Yes, he left an address. Here it is—Bundy, Curtis +House, Oklahoma City; but, you know, he won't be there. You can write +and try; the Oklahoma people will trace him for you." +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you, I will do so," said Arthur, and withdrew to his bedroom, +where he spent an interested half-hour in studying the uses of a large +coil of rope which was conspicuously displayed near the window, +together with minute directions as to what to do in case of fire. He +fell asleep that night with the directions in case of fire, and the +exotic names he had read, and the remembered rhythm of the steamer +piston all singing together in his mind, in an infinite succession of +strophes, at the end of which clashed like a cymbal the words Bundy and +Oklahoma. +</P> + +<P> +The next morning he sought the office of Mr. Wilbur Meredith Legion. +He was whirled rapidly in an elevator to the eleventh floor of a +populous and narrow building. When, after some explanations made to an +indifferent office-boy, whose jaws appeared to be afflicted with a +curious rotary motion, due, as he afterwards discovered, to the +mastication of chewing-gum, he was ushered into the presence of the +agent. Mr. Legion proved to be a stout, elderly man, clean-shaved, +with a high, benevolent forehead, and a most remarkable squint. He had +quite a patriarchal air, a manner that might be termed diaconal, and a +suave and insinuating voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! you come from my friend, my dear friend, Vickars. A most +remarkable man!" But when Arthur mentioned Vickars' latest book, he +observed that Mr. Wilbur Legion did not appear to have heard of it. +</P> + +<P> +"We handle such an immense quantity of stuff," he said apologetically. +"The world's greatest authors come to us. They are beginning to find +out what we can do for them commercially. Have you ever heard of +Sampson E. Dodge?" +</P> + +<P> +Arthur confessed his ignorance. +</P> + +<P> +"One of our brightest young men, sir. A man destined to take rank with +our greatest writers. You must have seen his story, <I>The Perambulator +with a Thousand Wheels</I>. It has sold a hundred thousand. Two years +ago he was a clerk in a dry goods store, and to-day he is among the +most popular of our American authors. You've not heard of him? Well, +you are to be excused, sir. We have not yet operated in Great Britain. +Great Britain appears to have a prejudice against our great writers. +Wilbur M. Legion means to wake Great Britain up, sir. This state of +wilful ignorance cannot exist much longer. Great Britain cannot +afford, I say, to be ignorant of the work of Mr. Sampson E. Dodge." +</P> + +<P> +"I see that I, as well as Great Britain, have a good deal to learn," +said Arthur, with quiet irony. +</P> + +<P> +"You have, indeed. Not to know Mr. Sampson E. Dodge is to argue +yourself unknown, as some one on your side of the water once +said—Browning, wasn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not Browning, I think." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, it's true just the same. I suppose you don't know our new poets +either, do you? Mrs. Mary Bonner Slocum, for example. I am happy to +say that I operate all her poetry for her. She writes a poem a day, +sometimes three or four, and I place them for her in the magazines and +journals of the country. Her <I>Ode to Washington</I> has been generally +admired. Her little talks with women on the management of the home and +the baby are even more popular than her poems. When I first knew her, +she was earning nothing, sir; it is a proud reflection that to-day, +through my efforts, her income is at least ten thousand dollars a year." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Legion was evidently prepared to indulge himself at length in +personal reminiscences. In the course of ten minutes he had given +sufficient biographies of his leading patrons, including not only the +details of their earnings, but many particulars of their private +lives—such as the fact that Mr. Sampson E. Dodge was not always +strictly sober, and Mrs. Mary Bonner Slocum had been twice divorced. +And with that amiable American frankness which stands in such marked +contrast to the reticence of the British man of business, Mr. Legion +proceeded to declare the amount of his own earnings, the number of his +children, his fatherly hopes for Ulysses E. Legion, "a smart boy, sir," +who was doing well at the high school, together with some account of +how he first met Mrs. Legion, and his intentions to take his entire +family to Europe, at an early date. He concluded by asking Arthur to +lunch with him, and pressed on his notice a box of cigars (the cost of +which he named), and a thick handbook, adorned with many portraits, +which explained and justified the world-wide operations of Mr. Wilbur +M. Legion. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Legion took him to a kind of club which had its quarters in the top +storey of a lofty building, from which a marvellous view of New York +was obtained. During the process of lunch, which was excellent, Mr. +Legion drew Arthur's attention to a large number of persons, all of +whom were described as among the "smartest" men in New York. Mr. +Legion appeared to know all about them, and Arthur found himself +listening to a vast amount of recondite information concerning their +upbringing, their early struggles, their matrimonial adventures or +misadventures, and above all, the amount of dollars which each was +supposed to possess. +</P> + +<P> +"That is the celebrated Stamford Parker, sir,"—indicating a spare, +clean-shaved man. "Sure now, you must have heard of him? What? Not +heard of him? The greatest magazine proprietor in America, sir. +Raised in Vermont, worked on a farm, telegraph operator at Bangor, +Maine, bust twice, made good at last, income half a million, his wife a +lovely woman. Ah! he sees me; I think he is coming over to speak to +me." +</P> + +<P> +The great man strolled across the room, smoking his cigar, and Arthur +was effusively introduced to him as a bright young Englishman, fresh +from Oxford, and acquainted with all the leading English authors of the +day. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, not quite all," said Arthur, with a smile. +</P> + +<P> +The great man received his demur without surprise. When he had +returned to his table, Legion said, with a shake of his patriarchal +head, "Now, you shouldn't have said that, you know." +</P> + +<P> +"Said what?" +</P> + +<P> +"That you didn't know all your leading authors." +</P> + +<P> +"But I don't know them." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, you needn't have said so. Didn't you see how Parker froze at +once? But you don't understand our American way, so you must be +excused." +</P> + +<P> +"And what is the American way?" +</P> + +<P> +"Always go a little beyond the truth, but on no account below +it—people expect it of you. Leave them to make their discount." +</P> + +<P> +This principle, so unblushingly announced, served Mr. Legion for a +text, on which he discanted for some minutes, at the end of which +discourse Arthur began to acquire some insight into the meaning of the +word "bunkum," and was in a position to apply the method of discount to +Mr. Legion's own artless superlatives concerning his business methods +and success in life. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Legion was genial, affable, cordial, in a way which no Englishman +could have attained toward an entire stranger, and Arthur was disposed +to set a high value on these qualities. Nevertheless, he could not but +remark that the agent appeared anxious to evade any practical +obligations imposed on him by Vickars's letter of introduction. He +drew a picture, almost comic in its gross inaccuracy, as Arthur +afterwards discovered, of the extreme ease with which fortunes were +made in America, and especially by the pen. Magazine writers lived in +sumptuous hotels, and successful novelists built for themselves +elaborate palaces. It was the age of young men. A man who had not +made a reputation at thirty was a "Has-been." The old method of slowly +acquired and slowly widening reputation was obsolete. This was the day +of literary booms. +</P> + +<P> +"And after the boom the boomerang!" interjected Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"Very good—very good indeed. I always thought you Britishers had no +sense of humour. It's a general belief in the States. But that's +quite a smart saying. Sampson E. Dodge might have said it." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur ought to have blushed at this high praise, but instead, he +stolidly explained his epigram, and observed further that no literary +man who respected himself would connive in a boom. "Hilary Vickars, +for example." +</P> + +<P> +"And that's just where Vickars makes his mistake," said Legion. "And +what's the result? He isn't known." +</P> + +<P> +"But he has done excellent work." +</P> + +<P> +"You make me tired," answered Legion. "What's the good of doing +excellent work if no one reads it? The public doesn't know good work +from bad. Some one's got to tell them. An author must be written up. +And let me tell you another thing—the best writing in the world won't +attract so much attention as half a dozen spicy paragraphs about the +writer. Do you know how <I>The Perambulator of a Thousand Wheels</I> became +so popular?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not having seen the book, it can't be supposed I do." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I'll tell you. I killed the author three times before his book +came out." +</P> + +<P> +"You did what?" asked Arthur, with a shout of laughter. +</P> + +<P> +"Killed him, sir. Once he perished on the Matterhorn in a snow-storm. +The next time he was killed in a railway accident in Canada. The last +time he was lost in a wreck in the South Sea Islands. By this time +every one was talking of him. I received no fewer than four hundred +press cuttings the last time headed, 'A Famous Author Lost at Sea.' +The name of Sampson E. Dodge became as famous as the President's. Of +course, when his book came out every one rushed for it." +</P> + +<P> +"And was he really in Switzerland, Canada, or the South Seas?" +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly not. As safe as you are. Writing his book at a farmhouse +in Vermont." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you often practise this method, Mr. Legion?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, it must be applied judiciously, of course. Dodge writes +adventure novels, so I give him adventures. But for quieter authors, +you must invent something else. It used to be appendicitis, but that's +nearly played out. Total loss of memory through overwork used to take, +but I found that the authors objected to it. Double pneumonia in a +lonely shack among the mountains, where he had gone to obtain local +colour for his new novel, answers as well as anything else. And that +reminds me—didn't you say Vickars had been ill?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, he nearly died. Typhoid fever from bad drains." +</P> + +<P> +"And didn't anybody write it up?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not that I ever heard of." +</P> + +<P> +"My! what a blunder! And with a new book coming out, too. I wish I +could have had the handling of that 'story.'" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think Vickars would have liked that." +</P> + +<P> +"No, I suppose not. You Britishers seem to be afraid of publicity. It +almost amounts to a disease." +</P> + +<P> +"We are getting over it by degrees. I assure you there are British +authors who are quite reconciled to the immodesty of newspaper puffs. +But not men like Vickars. He is one of those who stand in proud +silence, and is content to wait for his recognition." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I guess he'll have to wait till there's skating in Hades. The +standing apart business is all very well if you've got the dollars and +don't care; but if you haven't, it means starvation." He rose from the +table, and said, "Shall we go?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, there's one thing I want to ask you first," said Arthur, "and as +you haven't mentioned it, it seems I must. I want to know if you can +put me in the way of earning my living in New York?" +</P> + +<P> +"But, my dear sir, I thought you were just travelling through for +pleasure." +</P> + +<P> +"I was afraid that you were under that misconception, and I apologise +for not undeceiving you sooner. The plain truth is, I have a very +little money in my pocket, no particular experience of life, and my +bread to earn." +</P> + +<P> +"Dear me!—dear me! That sounds serious." +</P> + +<P> +"It may easily become so." +</P> + +<P> +The older man looked gravely sympathetic. Suddenly, however, he +brightened up, as though he had discovered the solution of the whole +problem. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, young man, don't be alarmed," he cried. "Remember that you've +come to the land of the free and the home of the brave. There are no +feudal distinctions to keep you down here, as in your own unhappy +country. This great and glorious Republic allows free play to +individual exertions. Sir, America bids you rise, and all you have to +do is to go out—and Rise!" +</P> + +<P> +"It would be a good deal more to the purpose if you could tell me how +and in what way to begin this process of rising." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! that's another matter. I must think that over. Come to me again +in a day or two. And remember my advice to you is, Go out and Rise!" +</P> + +<P> +He went out, too much amused with Legion's valediction to criticise the +man very strictly. It was not until he lay a-bed that night, thinking +over the curious adventures of the day, that a strong conviction seized +him that Mr. Wilbur Meredith Legion was a windbag. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap13"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +ADVENTURES OF AN INCOMPETENT +</H4> + +<P> +When a youth is thoroughly adrift in a strange city, with no better +equipment than a large stock of unapplied aptitudes, he is likely to +make many interesting discoveries concerning the real nature of life, +the chief of which is that there is no way of living that has not a +good deal more in it than meets the eye. By what adroit use of +opportunity is the least foothold secured in this crowded world, by +what intrigues and stratagems, comparable only with the art which +governs battlefields, and less than that art only in the range of its +effects! By what quickness of resource, adaptability to circumstance, +infinite, weariless plotting and manoeuvering, were only so small a +thing achieved as to sell a card of buttons with success! Around this +exiled youth jostled the rude, vigorous world of New York, a multitude +of men and women each battling toward a certain goal, and not one of +whom was not better equipped to win the race than himself. Certain +phrases used by this jostling crowd struck upon his ear continuously, +such as "to make good," "to deliver the goods." They implied that +nothing was valued in New York save the sort of brute force that +trampled its way into attention. +</P> + +<P> +"He has made good, sir," was Legion's verdict on that eminent writer, +Mr. Sampson E. Dodge, and the phrase was uttered with an accent of +reverence which was undoubtedly sincere. +</P> + +<P> +With Legion ideals and intentions counted for nothing; culture and +scholarship were worthless commodities; the one thing he could +appreciate was concrete success—"to make good." +</P> + +<P> +The same spirit met Arthur everywhere. He found the newspapers pouring +adulation at the feet of men against whom every kind of crime might be +alleged; but they had "made good," and therefore were unassailable. He +remarked a cheerful disregard of morals, which was less disrespect than +light-hearted ignorance; and the most curious thing of all was that the +very men who talked as though honesty, faith, and trust did not exist +were themselves men of amiable virtues. He found himself quickly and +quietly appraised; a keen eye ran over him, reading his deficiencies, +and his doom was pronounced with a smile. An insulting word would have +been less difficult to bear than that disconcerting smile; but these +arbiters of his destiny never failed in courtesy, nor in the sort of +kindness which finds its outlet in easy generosity. They would invite +him to lunch, introduce him to clubs, allow him to believe that he had +made real progress in their friendship and esteem; but when it came to +the enunciation of some plan by which he might earn his bread, they +became strangely silent. They "gave him a good time," to use another +cheerful American phrase—to do so appeared to be part of a definite +system of international courtesy; but they were at no pains to conceal +their sense that he was a virtual incompetent. +</P> + +<P> +Again and again, in the still hours of the morning, he recounted the +rebuffs and misadventures of the previous day with wonder and +misgiving. The irony of his position was laughable, if it had not been +so serious. He had been told by the eloquent Legion to go out and +rise; and certainly it appeared, by the light of conspicuous examples, +that he was in a land where multitudes of men had risen from the +lowliest to the loftiest positions with a singular celerity. Yet no +one believed him capable of rising, nor indeed did he himself venture +to assert it with any vigour of conviction. And in such moments there +came to him the recollection of his father. For the first time he +realised with some approach to adequacy the vital elements in his +father's character. He told himself that had his father been flung +suddenly into the streaming tides of New York, he would not have lived +through twenty-four hours without getting his feet securely planted on +the rung of some ladder that led to eminence. And then, with a sudden +heat of resolution, he would tell himself that he was his father's son, +and he would rise and go forth once more to hammer on the barred gates +of chance. +</P> + +<P> +"To-day I will not fail," he would cry. +</P> + +<P> +And when the day closed, recording nothing but defeat, he would still +cry, "To-morrow I must succeed," and endeavour to believe it. +</P> + +<P> +The real trouble was that he was assaulting the stern citadel of life +with weapons not only imperfect, but nearly useless. He had been +taught many things, but not the one thing needful; and he now perceived +with humiliation that the humblest human creature who could work a +typewriter, keep accounts, hew a stone, or shape a beam, was more +efficient than he to wrest a living from the world. This discovery was +the first real lesson he had ever learned from life. And it said much +for his character, that he accepted it without resentment, without the +bitterness and sulkiness of injured pride. +</P> + +<P> +A fortnight after his first interview with Legion, he returned to the +office of the literary agent, resolved to act upon his discovery. +</P> + +<P> +The great man received him with friendliness, for it was one of his +principles never to offend any one who might prove a valuable client at +some future date. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! so you've come back," he began. "You've been studying our +remarkable city, eh? And you've met some of our most remarkable men, +no doubt?" +</P> + +<P> +"I've certainly met some remarkable men." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir. New York has more remarkable men to the acre than any other +city in the world. Genius has made its abode in Manhattan. 'Westward +the course of Empire'—you know the rest. Paris and London must go +down—they are old. New York will rule the world. Don't you think so?" +</P> + +<P> +"I am afraid I have not thought upon the subject at all." +</P> + +<P> +"No? Well, no doubt you've been absorbing the atmosphere of our +wonderful city. That's a very wise step, for a novelist. Sampson E. +Dodge always insisted on atmosphere. Have you written anything yet, +any little thing that I can place for you?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have written nothing, and I think I ought to tell you that I am not +a novelist." +</P> + +<P> +"Not a novelist! But, my dear sir, why then did your friend Vickars +send you to me?" +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose he did it out of consideration for me, Mr. Legion. Will you +allow me to say that it is time we understood one another. I am not a +novelist, not even a writer in your sense of the term. I am a young +man with an excellent education, a good university degree, and a wide +assortment of unmarketable knowledge. I believe that exhausts the +statement of my assets, unless I add good health and a strong desire to +live as honestly as I can. Upon the debit side of the account I must +ask you to enter a total ignorance of business, which has been so +carefully cultivated that it approaches the dignity of a fine art. I +may further add that toward what is generally understood by business I +entertain an invincible repugnance." +</P> + +<P> +"Dear me!" interrupted Legion, "that is a most extraordinary statement." +</P> + +<P> +"It has, at least, the merit of truth." +</P> + +<P> +"And are there many young men like yourself in the Old Country, sir?" +</P> + +<P> +"They are an innumerable army, which is constantly recruited by the +credulous pride of parents who prefer accomplishments to efficiency. +They call the process making their sons gentlemen." +</P> + +<P> +"And what becomes of them?" +</P> + +<P> +"Those who have money spend a vacuous existence in the pursuit of +strenuous idleness; those who have no money and some remains of +self-respect occasionally emigrate, as I have done. And that brings me +to my point, Mr. Legion. I have been long enough in your remarkable +city to understand that there is a welcome for the man who can do +things, and for no one else. I don't flatter myself that I can do +anything of much account, but I am willing to work, and I believe I am +willing to learn. To be very plain, I need employment, and I ask you +to give it me." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I like your honesty," said Legion. "But I think better of you +than you do of yourself. A man of your splendid education must be able +to write. Now, I'll tell you what—you go away and write me a +descriptive sketch of your friend Vickars, and if it's the right kind +of stuff I'll use it in the papers." +</P> + +<P> +This seemed a feasible project at least. He went away and wrote the +essay upon Vickars, and because he wrote in a spirit of genuine love +and admiration, he wrote well. +</P> + +<P> +On the following Sunday Legion invited him to his house in New Jersey, +where he had the opportunity of making the acquaintance of the Legion +family. His most immediate impression was of a Legion shorn of his +beams, so to speak: no longer the arbiter of fame for struggling +authors, but a singularly humble individual, whose authority in his own +household was dubious and disputed. The real ruler of the household +appeared to be that exceedingly smart boy, Ulysses E. Legion, whose +self-confidence would have done credit to an aged diplomat whose voice +had for half a century swayed the councils of kings and statesmen. He +talked incessantly, making no scruple to express his views on a great +variety of subjects, in such a way as to indicate that his father was +mistaken in most of his opinions. At the dinner-table this young +gentleman advised his father how to carve the joint, and directed him +with unblushing precision toward the special tit-bits which he himself +preferred. To see the great literary agent humbly obeying these +directions, or listening with extreme docility to the opinions of this +young patriarch of twelve, was a striking revelation of the amiability +of the American parent. Of the qualities revealed in the child perhaps +the less said the better. Yet it was to this young gentleman that +Arthur owed a considerable advance in the esteem of Mr. Legion. It is +one of the unpleasing characteristics of the American house to dispense +with doors between the various living-rooms, and thus many things may +be overheard that are not meant for general circulation. The parlour +in Mr. Legion's house being divided from the dining-room by nothing +more substantial than a flimsy curtain, Arthur could not avoid hearing +a conversation which took place between the father and son after dinner. +</P> + +<P> +"Say pop," said the boy, "is he a Britisher?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, yes, he comes from London." +</P> + +<P> +"We always licked the Britishers, didn't we?" +</P> + +<P> +To which the father replied with the popular mendacity which is taught +in all American histories, "Of course, Americans have never been +defeated." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I thought he was American. He looks like an American, any way." +</P> + +<P> +This unsolicited testimonial to his personal appearance evidently +impressed Mr. Legion, for when he returned to the dining-room there was +a marked increase of geniality in his manner. +</P> + +<P> +"And now let me hear what you've written about your friend," he said. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur produced his manuscript, and began to read. It was an admirable +paper, an uncoloured and just statement of his friend's aim and method, +which a discerning critic would have readily recognised as excellent +writing. It seemed, however, to produce a totally different impression +on Mr. Legion. Looking up, Arthur saw the geniality fading from his +face, and something like consternation displacing it. The moment he +finished the reading, Legion spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear sir," he began, "it won't do—it won't do at all. It might +suit your dull old English papers, but for the bright, smart, +up-to-date American periodical, it won't do at all." +</P> + +<P> +"What's wrong with it?" said Arthur, with a blush. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, the trouble is, it's all wrong. Our readers don't want to know +about the man's books, they want to know something about <I>him</I>. +Couldn't you tell us how he looks, and what coloured ties he wears, and +what he eats and drinks and how much he earns, and something about that +interesting daughter of his? That's what our readers like, +sir—bright, personal, spicy, snappy details. And look here, you +haven't said a word about his having had a fever through bad drains. +You might have worked that up, any way—how he lived among the poor on +purpose to study their lives, and got the fever doing it, and that sort +of stunt. You ought to have made him romantic and picturesque, and +worked his lovely daughter in, and then people would have begun to ask +about his books." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sorry, but that's not the English way of writing." +</P> + +<P> +"English—nothing! You're in America now, and you must write the +American way. I did hope for something better. You can write—I won't +deny that—and you look smart enough to write any way you darn please. +My boy Ulysses saw that at once. He said to me, 'Pop, he looks like an +American.' And so you do, for my boy Ulysses is rarely mistaken, and +yet you haven't got the first idea how to write the American way. What +are those old colleges of yours for, any way, if they can't teach you +to write livelier stuff that that?" +</P> + +<P> +It was impossible to be angry with the man, for it was clear that his +consternation was genuine and unaffected. And it was equally clear to +Arthur that he meant well by him. To have argued literary ethics with +Mr. Legion would have been the vainest of pursuits. This became +evident a moment later, when the literary agent, following the +suggestion opened up by the inability of the British colleges to impart +the art of smart writing, gave some reminiscences of his own career in +that spirit of innocent boastfulness which is common among men who have +miraculously achieved positions for which nature never intended them. +</P> + +<P> +"What I can't understand," he remarked, "is why it is you young fellows +who have all the chances don't know how to use them properly. Now, +look at me. I never had what may be rightly called a chance at all. +I've worked for my bread since I was ten years old. I've been all +sorts of things, clerk in a store, drummer on the roads, rail-roading, +land-speculating, newspaper reporting, more things than I could count +on my ten fingers. I never had time to ask what I wanted to do; I had +to do what came to me, and do it the way those that paid me wanted it +done. There was never anything superior about me, and I knew it. And +that's why I've got on. That's why all the writers come to me to-day. +They know very well I can't write worth a red cent, not compared with +them, that is. But I've lived among the people all my life, and I know +what they want. And if you'll take a word of advice from me, you'll +just set yourself to find out what people like, and give it 'em hot and +strong, and then you'll succeed fast enough." +</P> + +<P> +"It is excellent advice—if one could take it." +</P> + +<P> +"And what's to prevent you?" he cried. "You've got good looks, you've +got education, you've got ability. I'll tell you what I'll do. You +come to my office for a couple of weeks, and be ready to do what I tell +you. I'll pay you what I think just, and if you don't like it, you're +under no obligation to remain." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll come with pleasure," Arthur replied; "and whether I please you or +not, I shall always be grateful to you for your kindness." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! that's nothing. I was a young cub myself once, and I shouldn't +have been here now if some one hadn't licked me into shape." +</P> + +<P> +It was not exactly a pleasant way of putting things, but Arthur had +sense enough to perceive that it was uttered in a spirit of rough +kindness. He believed himself quite incapable of moulding his mind to +Mr. Legion's pattern, and it was with a sense of ingratitude that he +found himself secretly despising that pattern. But a fortnight of New +York had taught him this much, that beggars cannot be choosers, and, +moreover, Mr. Legion's door was the only door that stood open to him. +He could at least try to do what was asked of him, and in the secret of +his heart pride whispered that he might even succeed in elevating Mr. +Legion's sense of literary merit, and impart to it a dignity which it +conspicuously lacked. +</P> + +<P> +He went to the office on the following morning. To his surprise he +found himself introduced to a typewriting lady not at all as an +unfortunate person who had failed to master the American method of +writing, but as "one of our brightest and smartest young men, who is +destined to become one of the star writers of our time"; from which it +appeared that Mr. Legion had already forgotten his demerits, or had +yielded to that spirit of innocent effusiveness which was +characteristic of his usual modes of speech. The typewriting lady had +heard such phrases too often to attach much importance to them, and +received them with a wearied smile. She readjusted the combs in her +hair, nodded to him coldly, and went on with her work unmoved by the +presence of this bright particular star of Mr. Legion's firmament. +Later on, when Mr. Legion had left the office, this inaccessible lady +thawed a little, and informed him with a pretty grimace that she +guessed that a good many stars rose and set every month in Broadway. +</P> + +<P> +"You must take no notice of Mr. Legion's superlatives," he replied. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't." +</P> + +<P> +"I am here only as a learner, a kind of apprentice." +</P> + +<P> +"Then I guess you'll get some surprises." +</P> + +<P> +Surprises he certainly did get in plenty in the course of that eventful +fortnight. He found, for example, that Mr. Sampson E. Dodge, in common +with most of Mr. Legion's authors, always wrote the preliminary press +announcements of his novels himself, in which he declared his profound +conviction that the present novel was the best he had ever written, +ever could write, ever would write, being dramatic in a high degree, +racy of the soil, full of vigorous situations, and worthy of the +highest traditions of American fictional art. As if this were not +enough, Mr. Dodge's humble statements of his own powers were further +embroidered with resonant superlatives by the skilled hand of Legion +himself, who lavished on him praise that would have sounded excessive +had it been applied to Walter Scott or Victor Hugo. The whole thing +was so humorous in its gross exaggeration that one day, in a spirit of +mockery, Arthur drew up a description of the works of Dodge in which he +outdid his model, ending with the statement that the day would come +when America would be remembered in history chiefly as the birthplace +of the famous author of <I>The Perambulator of a Thousand Wheels</I>. This +burlesque, left carelessly upon his desk, fell into the hands of +Legion, who, to his intense surprise, congratulated him upon it. +</P> + +<P> +"That's what we want," he cried joyously. "I always said you could +write, but I really didn't think you'd get hold of the American method +so soon." +</P> + +<P> +"But it's pure nonsense—in fact, a burlesque," said Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"A what?" +</P> + +<P> +"A burlesque, a skit, a satire, if you will." +</P> + +<P> +"You may call it what you like, but it's what I want, and what the +public wants, and I'm going to print it." +</P> + +<P> +"I hope you'll do nothing of the kind. You must see it is nonsense, +and no one will believe it." +</P> + +<P> +"The American public will believe anything," Legion retorted with grave +conviction. "They like being fooled. It is what the papers exist for. +And there's no sort of fooling pleases them so much as patriotic +fooling. That reference of yours now to America being remembered as +the birthplace of Dodge—why, it's a stroke of genius, sir. It may not +be strictly true, of course; but it is impressive, and it makes folk +feel proud of their native authors, and it sells the books, and that's +what we want, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +Remonstrance was so clearly useless that Arthur said no more, and in +due time read with blushes his unlucky paragraph in the advertising +columns of a New York paper, and found that it had been disseminated by +the hand of Legion through a hundred inferior papers, where it was duly +quoted as the valuable opinion of a celebrated English critic. +</P> + +<P> +This was but one instance among many of the remarkable methods of Mr. +Wilbur M. Legion. He pursued mendacity with an ardour which few +persons have manifested in the quest of truth. He dwelt in an +atmosphere of exaggeration so dense that the real values of things were +totally obscured. Words were to him the golden balls of a juggler; he +tossed them hither and thither with a sole eye to rapid effect and +novel combination. Upon the question of Dodge he was fantastically +sincere; he was really in love with the man and his writings; but the +language which he used of Dodge was substantially the same language +with which he decorated all his authors. It was his boast that he +would make the worst book sell by daring methods of advertisement. He +once expressed to Arthur with entire gravity the opinion that the true +cause for the decay of religion was that the Bible had not been +sufficiently advertised; it has been left to preachers instead of being +handed over to the press agents. Let him have the handling of it for a +month, and he would show them! For it must be noted that Mr. Legion +was in his way a respecter of religion, a zealous opponent of +heterodoxies, a man of excellent Sunday proprieties, who had won the +gratitude of the sect to which he belonged by presenting an organ to +his church. If he had been told that his chief achievement in life was +to debase the literary currency, he would have been genuinely +astonished, for so singular a thing is the mind of man that he actually +believed that he had advanced its interests. +</P> + +<P> +Things came to a crisis at last, and, as it happened, over the very +article which Arthur had written on Vickars. This article had remained +in Legion's hands, and what was Arthur's astonishment when he found it +duly head-lined in a sensational journal, and accompanied by a portrait +which was certainly not that of Vickars. Here and there he could +distinguish some remnants of his own handiwork, but the whole was +overlaid by the most extraordinary flamboyant ornament, and abounded in +passages which he recognised as pure Legionese. The things which he +had said about Vickars in unsuspicious confidence were all remembered, +but were twisted with such amazing ingenuity into novel forms that he +blushed to recognise them. Vickars was described as living in a +garret, existing upon the most exiguous of earnings, finding his +comrades among all kinds of social outcasts, a hero, a saint, and a +socialist, assisted in his sacrifice by a lovely daughter, whose +personal charms were touched in with the bold hand of a police-court +journalist. Arthur's heart flamed as he read the article. He could +imagine what Vickars would think of it; what he would think of the +pathetic fiction that he had nearly died of a fever caught in nursing a +diseased outcast (this was the Legionese improvement on the +drain-story), and with what feelings he would regard the exploitation +of Elizabeth. It seemed to him that the world must ring with the +infamous business; that Vickars would become the laughing-stock of +London; and that since the article could be attributed to no one but +himself, he would henceforth stand pilloried as a false friend, a liar, +and a fool. +</P> + +<P> +The moment Legion appeared in the office, he flung the article upon his +desk, and cried in a voice shaken with anger, "Did you write that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, what's the matter?" he replied, slowly adjusting his spectacles. +"Oh! I see—the Vickars article. I meant to tell you about that. +What you wrote was too good to waste, so I worked over it a bit, and +I've got quite a satisfactory price for it. I wouldn't wonder if it +created quite a demand for Vickars' books, and we ought to communicate +with him at once about his new book." +</P> + +<P> +He was going on, in the innocence of his heart, to explain how a +Vickars boom might be worked, when Arthur interrupted him with a +furious gesture. +</P> + +<P> +"What I wrote was truth, and what you have written is lies. Why, even +the portrait you have used isn't Vickars!" +</P> + +<P> +"And who cares about that? No one knows any better. It's a good +enough portrait, any way." +</P> + +<P> +"I can't argue about it, Mr. Legion. You have done me incalculable +harm. You have ruined me with Vickars. As for his ever allowing you +to handle his books, let me tell you he wouldn't touch a dirty dog like +you with a ten-foot pole." +</P> + +<P> +"What's that?" cried Legion, his face pale with astonishment and +indignation. "What was that you said?" +</P> + +<P> +"I say you are a scoundrel, Mr. Legion—a mercenary, lying scoundrel!" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! come now, you're excited. I can make allowances—you don't know +what you're saying." +</P> + +<P> +"I know quite well what I'm saying, and I will repeat it, if you like: +you're a scoundrel!" +</P> + +<P> +Even Legion's good temper was not proof against this violence. +</P> + +<P> +"Very good," he said. "I won't tell you what you are. But I'll tell +you what's going to happen to you. You are going to starve in the +streets of New York, my young friend. You're too darned superior for +this country of commonsense business methods. You're the sort that +comes to sleeping on the benches in Union Square, and fighting for a +place in the bread-line." +</P> + +<P> +"Very possibly," said Arthur. "I'm sure I don't know what sort I am, +but I am sure of this, that I am not the sort you want in this office, +and I beg to say good-morning." +</P> + +<P> +He put on his hat and coat, and rushed for the door. Perhaps it was +because Legion saw how white and drawn his face was, and how wild his +eyes, that his heart relented towards him. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here," he said, "hadn't you better think it over? I didn't mean +what I said about starving in the streets. I hadn't ought to have said +that. Besides, you know, there's some money owing to you. Don't go +without that." +</P> + +<P> +But the mention of money, instead of staying his flight, lent it new +impulse. He was besmirched enough already without taking the wages of +his defilement. He rushed out of the room, and the banging door cut +short Mr. Legion's eirenicon. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap14"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XIV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +HE FINDS A FRIEND +</H4> + +<P> +Arthur's first act on regaining his hotel was to terminate his +residence therein. He ought to have done this long ago, for these +thronged corridors, resounding night and day with the chink of +innumerable dollars, was no place for one so poor as he. He had stayed +there rather from natural heedlessness and inexperience than from +choice; partly also in the hope that the invaluable Bundy would arrive; +but now his fears were thoroughly aroused. Legion's phrase about the +benches in Union Park and the breadline stuck in his mind. He had +heard of such tragedies; he remembered a story which Vickars had told +him of one of the most brilliant poets of the day who, in the course of +his early struggles, had been reduced to holding horses at public-house +doors for ha'pence in the Strand. It had also been the habit of his +father, when he wished to inculcate habits of economy and perseverance +on his childish mind, to do so by various realistic versions of the +prodigal son, illustrated from the histories of certain men he had +known who had not possessed the sense "to know which side their bread +was buttered." It seemed that he was well upon the way to become such +a prodigal. He was bound for the bread-line. Well, if this were the +appointed night when he was to take farewell of respectability, the +obsequies should be fitly celebrated. If to-morrow he must starve, +to-night, at least, he would eat; he had lost so much that no further +loss could make him poor; and from the extreme of fear his mind ran to +the extreme of recklessness. From the clerk with the tooth-pick he +learned the address of a small hotel near the docks, to which he +ordered his trunks to be forwarded; having done which, and distributed +various tips with a gentlemanly profusion, he stepped out into the +gathering night of New York. +</P> + +<P> +The city hummed and sang like some monstrous wheel, driven by an unseen +dynamo. It presented to the eye a riot of life and light; its lofty +buildings flared like torches, its shops glowed like jewels, its +streets were lanes of fire; and into the upper air, still coloured with +the hues of sunset, there rose an immense reverberation, composed of +human cries and shouts, wheels pounding on granite roads, wheels +groaning on roads of steel, all resolved into a thunderous bass note, +the raucous music of the human multitude. There are moods in which +such a spectacle is exhilarating, moods in which it is dreadful; but +there is another and a rarer mood, when it appears majestic. As Arthur +surveyed the scene, it was this aspect of majesty that appealed to him. +It overwhelmed his mind with an impression more commonly attributed to +astronomy—viz., the entire insignificance of the individual in +relation to physical magnitudes. His own particular troubles suddenly +assumed dwarfed proportions; his little life appeared a mere bubble +floating for an instant on the crest of disappearing waves; the city +itself a streaming star-river, flowing out of dark eternities, peopled +for an instant by a tribe of eager ants. To what avail the strife, the +passion, the disorder of these tiny lives? Yet a little while, a few +days it might be, a few years at most, and he would be lost to sight as +though he had never been. But the wheel would spin on, with a million +new Ixions bound upon its flaming spokes; the magnificent and monstrous +city would go on, piling pyramid on pyramid above the bones of its +exhausted slaves, and with not one light the less because he did not +see it, not one softened moment in its raucous song because his ear was +filled with the clods of the valley. +</P> + +<P> +In that moment he understood why men commit suicide, why it may appear +the soberest act of reason and of justice to fling away a life which +has lost its value in losing its egoism. But over that abyss his +thought hovered but an instant, and the horror of that instant produced +a swift reaction. The dangerous moment passed, and left him with a new +appetite for life. He felt the swift uprisal of faculties of enjoyment +in himself such as the convalescent feels when the blood flows nimbly +after sickness; and on a sudden he found himself convulsed with +laughter. The absurdity of his position moved him like a caricature. +He had blundered badly, but of what consequence was it in the vast sum +of things? All things continued as they were, the stars still were +steadfast in their courses, and from that upper silence fell a voice +that made him, and all human perturbations, a vain thing that endured +but for a moment. The spirit of derision was upon him, and, still +laughing, he plunged into the moving crowd. +</P> + +<P> +Presently he found himself in Sixth Avenue, and his eye recognised the +sign of a small Italian restaurant of which he had heard an excellent +report. The front of the house was mean and narrow; the door opened on +a sanded vestibule, which, in turn, led to a long and crowded room. At +its upper end was a daïs, on which an excellent orchestra was seated. +As he entered the room, a man with a sweet and powerful tenor voice +sang an Italian comic song, the chorus of which was taken up by the +diners, who beat time with glasses and knives upon the tables. An +extraordinary vivacity characterised this curiously mixed assembly; +they appeared to have no cares in life, or, if they had, they were +intent upon forgetting them. All types were present, from the city +clergyman a little ill at ease in his environment to women of exotic +beauty, whose sidelong glances left little doubt of their profession. +Yet there was no element of disorder, no impression of vulgarity; there +was freedom but no licence, the mingling of human creatures in a +catholic amity; each content for the time to forget distinctions that +elsewhere might be deemed important, each happy in a transient release +from the servitudes of the long day, and perhaps from the memories of +misfortune. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur was fortunate in finding a single seat vacant at a narrow table +next the wall. Here he took his place, and had already proceeded +halfway with his meal before he noticed a man who sat on the other side +of the table. He was a cheerful little fellow, with a good face, +humorous eyes, and mobile mouth, who was evidently itching for +conversation. Some trifling courtesy of the table brought them +acquainted, and in a few moments they were deep in talk. It seemed +that he was an Englishman, a wandering artist, a man with a wide and +cheerful acquaintance with vicissitude, who gave his name as Horner. +He had been born and bred in London, in an atmosphere of lower +middle-class insularity and ignorance, from which he had escaped into a +wider world by the means of art-classes and night-schools. He had thus +reached the lower slopes of Parnassus, only to discover that there his +progress ended; he had neither the education nor the means to carry him +farther; and so he had slowly declined from the production of original +work into a kind of Ishmael hanging on the borders of the art-world, an +expert restorer of old paintings, and at times an amateur dealer. It +is a curious fact that the Englishman, who at home is the most reticent +of all human animals, often becomes the most communicative when he +meets men of his own nation abroad. There the freemasonry of race +tells, loneliness acts as a solvent of reserve, and the possession of +common memories invites immediate intimacy. To hear the familiar +Cockney dialect again, with its clipped vowels and reckless +distribution of the aspirate, to remark phrases heard nowhere save upon +the London streets, is to be transported instantly, as on a magic +carpet, to the atmosphere of home, to see again the glitter of the +Strand, the midnight throngs in Piccadilly Circus, the dear and dingy +purlieus of Soho. The very words have an esoteric significance; they +cannot be heard or uttered save with a thrilling heart; and among +banished Englishmen they are the symbols of an irrecoverable joy, and +constitute an instant bond of brotherhood. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur listened with delight to Horner's narrative of his adventures. +It appeared that he knew most of the millionaires who collected +pictures, and nearly all the dealers from whom they bought them. In +describing these people he had the rare art of the vitalising touch. +The millionaires moved before the eye in all their eager ignorance, the +dealers in all their duplicity and craft. Manufactories of old masters +existed for the sole purpose of meeting the demand of American +millionaires. It was a known fact that sixteen thousand Corots had +passed the New York Customs House in the last few years, whereas every +one knew that Corot could not have painted more than two thousand +pictures in a long life of the most unremitting toil. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, I could paint better Corots myself than most of those that hang +in American galleries," he remarked. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps you've done so," laughed Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"I won't say I hav'n't," he replied with cheerful impudence. "But I've +done with that sort of thing now. And I'll say one thing for myself, I +never yet sold a picture that I knew was a fake. But, O Lor', these +people are such children! They think they know everything, and on art +they are as ignorant as dirt. They carry round little books of +nothingness by Professor This and Professor That, and go into raptures +over all sorts of rubbish because they're told to. And they won't be +told better, that's the trouble. But I mean to tell them some day. +Only, you see, I can't write the way it ought to be written. I +suppose, now, you're not by any chance a writer, are you?" +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose I'm a sort of writer. At all events, the last thing I did +was to write something of which I am heartily ashamed." +</P> + +<P> +"And did they sack you?" +</P> + +<P> +"They did. Or, to be more precise, I sacked myself." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, why shouldn't you and I join forces? Of course I wouldn't think +of saying this to any one but an Englishman. I can give you lots of +stuff, and you can write it up, you know. We might make a book, don't +you think?" +</P> + +<P> +"But I know nothing about art except in an amateur way." +</P> + +<P> +"And what's that matter, I'd like to know? I'll be bound you know lots +more than the folk that do the writing here. And as for the +collections—oh my, you should see them! Constables done in Soho, and +Raphaels painted in Paris; curtains hung over them, if you please, as +if they were too precious to see the light; and when you mildly remark, +'But that picture's in Munich or Dresden or Buckingham Palace,' they +reply indignantly, 'Oh no! that's the copy—this the original. I have +a certificate of genuineness.' And then they produce a written +pedigree, with the names of Prince This or Prince That, through whose +hands their precious canvas has passed, when any one with half an eye +can see that the paint is 'ardly dry upon it." +</P> + +<P> +"Is it as bad as that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Much worse, if I told you all." +</P> + +<P> +And thereupon followed story after story, full of rapid etchings of the +dupes and the dealers; with amazing biographies of adroit Jews born in +garrets who now owned palaces and sported titles; and strange old men +in London who hid behind shuttered windows genuine and priceless +pictures, and credulous millionaires in New York, who bought what might +by courtesy be called pictures by the yard, labelling them with august +names, and taking care that the papers duly reported the immense sums +they paid for them. It was all highly amusing, a backstairs view of +life, so to speak, which somehow bore the stamp of the authentic. The +time sped; the music and the company had become less restrained; and +the hovering waiter reminded them by his black looks that they had sat +too long. +</P> + +<P> +"Where are you staying?" said Homer, as they rose to go. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur mentioned the hotel to which he had sent his trunks. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh my!" said Horner, "but, you know, that won't do. It isn't a safe +district, that. What took you there?" +</P> + +<P> +"Poverty, to be frank," said Arthur. "I find it necessary to choose +the cheapest lodging I can find." +</P> + +<P> +"But it won't do," said the little man gravely. He meditated for a +moment, as if not quite sure of how to express what he wished to say. +"Englishmen should stand together, shouldn't they?" he remarked at +last. "Now look here, suppose you come to my rooms. You'll be very +welcome. I can give you a shake-down of some sort, and to-morrow we'll +talk over that book. I really shall be very much gratified if you'll +come." +</P> + +<P> +The offer was made with such unaffected kindness that Arthur's heart +warmed toward the little man. He had already received a hard lesson in +life that day, and it had left his heart sore and bitter. Here was +another kind of lesson. A man whom the world had not used generously +or perhaps justly, a total stranger, who had seen enough of the seamy +side of life to make him reasonably suspicious or even cynical, was +ready to share what he had with him on the mere ground of common +nationality. "Englishmen should stand together," he had said, and was +instantly prepared to act upon that simple ethic, although for all he +knew the man to whom he offered hospitality might be a rascal or a +thief. Such a lesson at such a moment was calculated to restore faith +in human nature, faith in that radical goodness of the human heart +which is the base of all decent living. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Horner," he said, "I accept your offer thankfully. You don't know +how much you've done for me by making it. I shall never forget it." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! that's all right," said the little man, with a deprecating +gesture. "I've only done what I'd like some one to do for me." And he +did not seem to be aware that the words uttered so carelessly, as if +they expressed nothing more than the most ordinary commonplace, really +contained the sum of all religion. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur went home with his new friend, and found that his rooms +consisted of a littered studio in one of the older houses of New York. +</P> + +<P> +"When I'm doing pretty well, I always stay in a hotel," said Horner, +"but at a pinch one can sleep here." +</P> + +<P> +"Why apologise?" said Arthur. "Why, man, you have something here that +the best hotel in New York can't give you. You've an open fireplace. +It's like coming home again to see that." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Horner, with a whimsical air of wisdom, "the decay of +marriage and the family in America dates from the hot-air register and +the steam-heating business. People who never sit round an open fire +never get a chance of knowing one another. I never had much of a home +myself. I had to start out working pretty early; but there's one thing +I never forget, and that's the open fire round which we kids sat on +winter nights while mother told us stories. I used to see things in +that fire—castles, and sunsets, and burning ships, like most kids do. +But I wanted to paint 'em, and if it hadn't been for those times in the +firelight I'd never have been an artist. But O Lor', look at these +Americans!—the women standing over hot-air registers with their +clothes blown out like balloons when they want to get warm, and the men +getting as close as they can to a fizzling coil of steam-pipes. I +don't call that being civilised, do you? It's a beastly way of living, +I call it." +</P> + +<P> +While he was thus delivering his views on the iniquity of steam +heating, the little man had lit a fire of wood, which instantly blazed +up, and filled the room with ruddy light. Having done this, he +attacked with great vigour what appeared to be a wardrobe, tugging at +it with might and main, until the whole front suddenly collapsed, +revealing a concealed bed. From behind a curtain in a corner of the +room he wheeled a small chair-bedstead, and at the same time produced a +plate of fruit and a tin of tobacco. +</P> + +<P> +"Now we can be comfortable," he remarked. "It's not exactly in the +Waldorf Astoria style, but I guess it'll do. And now let us talk." +</P> + +<P> +If Horner had talked well over dinner in the restaurant, he talked +super-excellently well now in this friendly firelight. Arthur had +little to do but listen, which he did for the most part with rising +admiration. He remarked an unaffected innocence of spirit in the man +which was entirely unsubdued by his hard experience of life; he talked +like a good-natured, enthusiastic boy who had by some occult means +possessed himself of the experience of a world-worn man; he entertained +ideals of an almost pathetic impractibility; he had even written +poetry, and at that moment, it appeared, designed a prose work on art +which should be a magnificent compendium of the wisdom of the ages. Of +these great designs he spoke at one moment with the ardent vanity of +the amateur; the next, the man of the world popped up, to pour upon +them humorous depreciation. The same spirit of contradiction coloured +all his judgments. England he should have detested, for it had cast +him out; but let a word of justest criticism be uttered of its customs +or its manners, and he was in arms at once. America had befriended +him, and yet he was more than candid in his apprehension of her faults, +and had no word of praise for her institutions. In his judgments of +men it was the same. He had seen enough of the baser side of life to +fill him with the venom of Diogenes, and yet he spoke with kindliness +even of those who had defrauded him. His mind moved in giddy flight +among these crags of contradiction; he did not aim at consistency, nor +did he value it; yet out of the turmoil of his thoughts there shone +unmistakably a generous nature, a kindly disposition, a temperament of +light-hearted courage, which made a jest of disadvantage and calamity. +Courage was perhaps his most essential quality, and particularly that +rare courage which is not depressed by past error; so that listening to +him, Arthur thought that many a preacher he had heard had a much less +vital message to declare than this irresponsible but philosophic +Bohemian. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur slept soundly that night, and awoke in a glow of spirits he had +not known for many days. Horner's talk had given a tonic to his mind +which he badly needed, and he awoke with many clear and definite +resolutions to repay his debt in the best way he could. But here +Destiny took a hand in the game, for no sooner was breakfast over than +a telegram was handed in to his host which changed the whole situation. +</P> + +<P> +"My!" he said, "here's a go! I'm wanted at once in Baltimore, and I +suppose I'd best go. And just now too, when you and I were going to +work together." +</P> + +<P> +"Must you really go?" +</P> + +<P> +"I fear I must. It's important. But look here, you know that need +make no difference to you. You can stop here just as long as you like. +It'll save you a hotel, anyhow." +</P> + +<P> +"But——" began Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"No buts," said the little man, with dignity. "I shall be offended if +you think of saying No. I know the room isn't all that I could wish to +offer to a friend, but if you'll put up with it, it's yours as long as +you like. And see here, I'll leave you my papers to run over while I'm +gone. It'll be a fine thing for me to have you here, and I count it +luck; so we'll take that as settled." +</P> + +<P> +And so, waving aside all remonstrance, the little artist packed his +valise, and half an hour later, with a final grip of the hand, +disappeared down the narrow staircase, leaving Arthur monarch of all he +surveyed. +</P> + +<P> +And then began that period in the experience of our hero which, like +the more obscure passages of history, may be passed over in silence, +although they contain more of tragedy than many famous battlefields. +Emptied of the vivacious presence of Horner, the room seemed singularly +desolate, and life at once took a grayer aspect. Perhaps it was helped +by the character of the day. The exquisite sky, which had shone +brilliant as a jewel for so many weeks, was now filled with heavy +clouds; a bitter wind blew, snow had begun to fall, and the city +crouched like some frightened animal, waiting for the stroke of the +impending blizzard. Arthur's first act was to light the fire, and go +over the mass of papers which Horner had confided to him. In the +innocence of his spirit Horner had informed him that it was no +difficulty for him to write—the really difficult thing was to stop +writing; and the fruits of this facility now lay before Arthur in an +enormous pile of manuscript. It consisted of pencil jottings on a vast +variety of themes, notes on pictures (often pungently sagacious), +anecdotes of humorous frauds perpetrated on the credulous, the +beginnings of an autobiography as frank as Benvenuto Cellini's, +interspersed with fragments of poems, short stories, crude +philosophies, and even the draft of a novel. +</P> + +<P> +"What on earth does he expect me to do with all this?" groaned Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +One thing he could see very plainly—viz., that here was a prodigious +mine of excellent material for any one who knew how to use it. The +storm beat without, the long day passed, and he was still at his task. +He struggled through the snow to a cheap restaurant, came back, +rekindled the fire, and sat down to reflect for the hundredth time on +the strangeness of his position. Here he was, in the room of a man +whom he scarcely knew, and, as it appeared, the custodian of his most +private memoranda. As he read on and on, there gradually grew before +his mind's eye an authentic portrait of the man. He saw him at once +shrewd and guileless, sagacious and impractical, full of innocent +vanities and idealisms, unworldly as a child, and also, like a child, +attaining moments of naïve wisdom, of unintentional philosophic +insight; and he suddenly perceived what might be done with this mass of +memoranda. There was no doubt what Horner wished to have done; he +designed a book of some sort. Why not edit it? And, as if in answer +to this question, there came next noon a hurried line from Horner, +saying he would be detained in Baltimore for at least a month, and +begging him to do anything he liked with his papers, with the fullest +discretionary power. Here was an unsought task imposed upon him by +what seemed the whim of circumstance. He could take Horner's partly +written novel, fill in the gaps from his own abundant autobiographic +material, and perhaps succeed in producing a human document that would +at least arrest attention by its realistic truth. As for himself, he +smiled grimly as he counted the few remaining dollars in his purse. +Christmas and the elusive Bundy were six weeks away; he was destined to +a hard siege, with the bread-line as a not negligible possibility. +Providence had put a roof over his head; here was a task recommended to +him by his gratitude, and if it would bring him no financial gain, yet +it afforded him an inestimable distraction from the uncertainties of +his own situation. It seemed he was predestined to become a writer +after all. +</P> + +<P> +Then began a form of life which in after years appeared to him +fantastic as a dream. He measured out his money with the strictest +parsimony, existed on the cheapest forms of food, and amid the riot of +New York lived the life of an anchorite in his cell. The days passed +unregarded; he went nowhere, saw no one; and at length there came a +night when his task was done. Does the reader recollect a novel called +<I>The Amateur Artist</I>, by Cyril Horner, which a short time ago became +the sensation of the season? That was the book which Arthur finished +late one night at Horner's room, and expressed next morning with almost +his last penny to the office of Mr. Wilbur M. Legion. +</P> + +<P> +He felt weak and ill, and for the first time a thrill of fear shot +through his heart. Toward evening he dined exiguously on a dish of +milk and porridge, and remembered hazily a dispute with the waiter on +the question of a tip. He went out into the streets. A slender curve +of moon rode in a sky of ice, the air was bitter cold, a sharp wind +eddied round the corners of the streets, and took him by the throat. +He walked on and on, with the illusion of the city slipping past him +like a river full of glittering reflections, himself treading upon air. +Once he found himself shambling; it horrified him, for it was so that +tramps and outcasts walked. A little later he found himself gazing on +the bread-line; he stood an instant in fascinated pity, and fled. +</P> + +<P> +About midnight he found himself once more before the doors of the old +Astor House, and felt that he could walk no farther. He gathered +courage to enter, and blessed the undesigned humanitarianism of +America, which makes an hotel lobby an open rendezvous. Here, at +least, was light and warmth. A night clerk was at the desk—not he of +the toothpick and the supercilious back. He made a shift to ask him if +Bundy had arrived. +</P> + +<P> +"When do you expect him?" asked the clerk. +</P> + +<P> +"Hourly." +</P> + +<P> +"Where does he come from?" +</P> + +<P> +"The West—Oklahoma, I believe." +</P> + +<P> +"Then he'll get in at seven on the Pennsylvania, most likely." +</P> + +<P> +"Can I wait for him?" +</P> + +<P> +The clerk eyed him narrowly. +</P> + +<P> +"You used to stay here, didn't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"I was here for a fortnight." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know but you can," he remarked ungraciously. "But say, you +ought to take a room, you know." +</P> + +<P> +"I'd rather not till I know if Mr. Bundy comes." +</P> + +<P> +"Down on your luck?" +</P> + +<P> +"Down on my luck," said Arthur gravely. +</P> + +<P> +The clerk laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"Parlour A. might suit you. Don't let me see you, that's all." +</P> + +<P> +In Parlour A. he took refuge, and was soon asleep, his head bowed upon +the table. He woke from time to time with a strong shudder. "Not +that, O God—not that!" he moaned, for it was of the bread-line he had +dreamed. +</P> + +<P> +He was still asleep when a sudden hand was laid upon his shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +He awoke, and looked into the face of Bundy. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap15"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE MILLIONAIRE +</H4> + +<P> +He could hardly believe his good fortune. The mist of sleep and +weakness was upon his eyes, hysteric laughter shook him. He rose, +trembling. He saw the good-natured night-clerk in the doorway, heard +him say, "I guess he's been up against it good and hard," and the next +moment found himself sinking through an abyss of coloured lights into +an unfathomable darkness. The descent lasted but for an instant; when +he opened his eyes again it was to protest that there was nothing +whatever the matter with him. +</P> + +<P> +"Been out on the bat," said the clerk laconically. +</P> + +<P> +"Been starving," said another voice. +</P> + +<P> +And then the owner of that second voice grew clear to him—a kindly +face of inimitable shrewdness, the gray hair neatly parted in the +middle, the gray moustache closely trimmed, and a pair of big, dreamy +eyes fixed on him in anxious consideration. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor lad!—poor lad!" said Bundy. "It seems I'm just in time. I got +your letter—only a week ago. I got one from home, too—trust Mrs. +Bundy for telling a man what his duty is. So I hustled, and came off +at once. Now tell me, you aren't ill, are you?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think so," said Arthur weakly. +</P> + +<P> +"Case of the last dollar, eh? Well, we'll soon mend that. When you've +put yourself outside a sirloin steak ... here, Mr. Squire, send Charlie +up at once ... I'll breakfast here—it's my old room.... Now, hurry!" +He bustled round in a furious heat of action, flung his fur-coat from +him, talking all the while. "Omelette, steak, and special +coffee—that'll do for a beginning, Charlie; ... and see here, Mr. +Squire"—this to the clerk—"my friend is a distinguished Englishman, +and don't you forget it." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," said the clerk. "I knew he was a friend of yours, or I +wouldn't have done what I did for him." +</P> + +<P> +"That's all right, Mr. Squire. But you'd better forget what you said +about going out on the bat—he's not that kind. Now, are we ready?" +</P> + +<P> +And with the suddenness of a transformation scene in a pantomime, +Arthur found himself seated at a laden table, the meats steaming on the +dish, the coffee bubbling in the percolator, the very air fragrant with +provocation to his appetite. No wonder men stole for food, he thought; +his very nostrils quivered with the lust of meat. The blood sang +within his veins as the first drop of liquid warmth thrilled his +palate, and his flesh seemed sweeter to him, his whole house of man +renewed. Until that hour he had not known how hardly he had used his +body, how great the violence he had offered it. Now he entered into +the repossession of his own flesh; this was the moment of his +reconciliation, and this the sacramental food of a physical atonement. +</P> + +<P> +"And now," said Bundy, when the meal was finished, "tell me all about +yourself." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur told his story from the beginning, Bundy meanwhile smoking and +watching him with a curious flicker of suppressed humour in his eye. +It was a little disconcerting to be so watched; it set Arthur wondering +what Bundy really thought of him, and at last he broke out with the +remark, "I'm afraid you think me something of a fool, Mr. Bundy?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I won't pretend to say that I would have done all that you've +done," Bundy answered. "I don't quite get your view-point, especially +in what you say about your father. But there's one thing in which I +see you have been wise—you've left England, and that was the wisest +thing you ever did." +</P> + +<P> +"I've sometimes thought it the most foolish." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! because you've had a hard time. But that's nothing. I've been +stony-broke myself a dozen times, and I've lived to think that these +were the moments when I enjoyed my life the most. The great point is, +you've shown yourself capable of an adventure. That's the spirit I +like to see, and I like you the better for it. Now, my boy, I'd +recommend you to get a good sleep. I've a pile of business to attend +to. Later on we'll talk over your affairs, and I'll have something +definite to say to you." +</P> + +<P> +Great is the power of wealth, greater still, perhaps, the power of +reputed wealth and the willingness to distribute it. At the waving of +Bundy's magic wand Arthur had become at once a person of consideration; +he was the tenant of an admirable suite of rooms, waited on by +obsequious bell-boys, remarked by admiring chamber-maids, even sought +by adroit reporters. He was a friend of Bundy's—that was the sole +explanation of the miracle—for it appeared that Bundy's star was once +more in the ascendant. When, late in the afternoon, Arthur left his +room and went down into the hotel lobby, it seemed to him that it +hummed with the name of Bundy. A constant stream of messenger-boys +sought Parlour A.; a succession of automobiles discharged at the hotel +door fur-coated men with anxious eyes, all bound for the same goal; the +evening papers were full of the portraits and exploits of Bundy. +Opening the door of Parlour A., he had a passing glimpse of a Bundy he +had never seen before—a wild-eyed, gesticulating Bundy, orating behind +a barricade of books and papers to a crowded room, rushing at intervals +to the telephone and shouting orders, a man glowing with ardour, on +springs with energy, intoxicated with success. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll see you presently," he cried, and went on pouring out what +appeared to be a Niagara of figures. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur withdrew silently, went up to his room, and ordered all the +papers, from which he proceeded to inform himself on the doings of his +friend. The story, divested of a vast accretion of shop-soiled +adjectives, reduced itself to this—that Bundy had suddenly enrolled +himself among the multi-millionaires, at least potentially. +</P> + +<P> +"The story of Mr. Bundy," began the chronicle, "is one of those +romances of sudden wealth which are only possible in this country of +unlimited and still undiscovered resources. Born in humble +circumstances in the city of London, England, Mr. Bundy has raised +himself by his own exertions to a place among the great captains of +wealth, whose remarkable careers constitute the epic of human progress, +and shed glory on the institutions of this free and enlightened +country." Here, it appeared, the journalist's well of rhetoric ran +dry, and he condescended to laconic statement. It was not to be +supposed that a plain statement of fact could support all the amiable +exaggerations with which the reporter had adorned Mr. Bundy's personal +history; but the facts themselves were sufficiently amazing. From them +Arthur gathered that Bundy had discovered fresh deposits of gold in the +rivers of the Yukon, of undoubted value, and was about to float a +dredging company which promised enormous dividends. "As early as +1898," continued the report, "fine-grained platinum was recognised in +the black sand obtained along the Tuslin River, Yukon Territory, but +until recently no active preparations have been made to recover it. +This river drains the Tuslin Lake; its gravel-bed carries gold in +paying quantities even by hand-working, throughout its entire length of +120 miles. Mr. Bundy claims that this gravel-bed contains immense +quantities of gold, which may be recovered by the simple process of +dredging. For thousands of years the erosion of the hills has +precipitated gold into the river; the gold has sunk by its specific +gravity into the river-bed, and there it remains in incalculable +quantities. A good dredger costs about five thousand dollars. It +scoops up the river-bed in so thorough a fashion that not a grain of +gold is lost. Mr. Bundy has proved by actual experiment that from ten +ounces of black sand, taken at random, sixty cents worth of platinum is +obtainable, and gold in much larger quantities. Mr. Bundy holds a +concession for more than eighty miles of this river. This means that +with the most adequate machinery it will take fifty years to dredge the +Tuslin. When we reckon the relatively light cost of dredging, it +appears probable that Mr. Bundy's proposition means not less than <I>one +thousand per cent.</I> profit to the fortunate investor." +</P> + +<P> +So this accounted for the wild scene in Parlour A., the rush of +automobiles to the door of the hotel, the sudden fame of Bundy. The +indefatigable adventurer, who was supposed to be in Texas or Oklahoma, +had all the time been scooping gold in handfuls from the lap of the +frozen north; Oklahoma had no doubt been used as a blind to cover his +tracks; the reports in the papers had been ingeniously engineered; and +then, at the precise moment, Bundy had descended on New York in a +benignant advent. Arthur's thoughts went back to the shabby house in +Lion Row, and he wondered if Mrs. Bundy had heard the news. He saw her +preparing for a new apotheosis; fitting on the golden wings, so to +speak, which were to waft her to the porticos of palaces; and, +remembering her stories of similar hegiras, he wondered how much of +truth lay behind this astounding story. Bundy no doubt believed it—it +was impossible to doubt his good faith; but Bundy had been deceived +before, he might be deceived again. A voice told Arthur that there was +something unsubstantial in this glittering edifice; somewhere there was +a rotten bolt, which, if plucked out, would result in total ruin. And +the same voice told him that his own path did not lie in this +direction; that whatever its allurement, it was not for him. +</P> + +<P> +Bundy did not have the promised talk with him that evening, nor all the +next day. The man was devoured by his own energy; he ate little, slept +not at all, rushed frantically about New York in automobiles, was +always the centre of a crowd, himself excited, vociferous, burning with +zeal like an apostle. It was not until the third evening that he +rushed into Arthur's room, and sank exhausted on the couch. +</P> + +<P> +"I've treated you shamefully," he cried, "but it couldn't be helped. +Lad, I've done it. I've pulled it off. Don't speak a word to me about +it yet. I believe I've gone the limit. One more question to answer +and I'd have a fit." +</P> + +<P> +It was obvious even to an unpractised eye that he spoke the truth. The +blood was congested in his cheeks, his breath came unevenly, his hands +trembled, an insane frenzy blazed in his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Order dinner," he went on hoarsely. "An hour's time—that will do. I +didn't know I was so tired. I believe I'll just go to sleep where I +am. They won't look for me here." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur turned the lights down, covered him with a travelling-rug, and +left him. He might have been a felon hiding from justice rather than a +triumphant millionaire, and Arthur could not but reflect upon the +strangeness of the spectacle. It was the first time he had looked upon +the lust for gold. His father had acquired wealth, but not in this +way. It had been won by deliberate siege, by steady, patient pressure +which called for high qualities of restraint; if it was a gross +passion, it had elicited certain elements of character that in +themselves were worthy. But this mode of winning wealth had no +dignity. It was a lust. It had the grossness and ferocity of a lust. +It took the brain and body of a man and shattered them with its +tremendous throb. And it was a lust also that had contagion in it. It +was impossible to deny that its subtle virus had already touched his +own heart. During those three days he had been as a man deafened by +the noise of guns; he had stood in the very heart of the explosion, and +had recognised something strong and savage in the scene. It thrilled +him, fascinated him, made all ordinary modes of life trite and tame, +and left him asking, Was not this life indeed? +</P> + +<P> +And he knew it was not. He had only to think of that prostrate, +half-demented man, sunk in the sleep of exhaustion on the couch, only +to recollect the brave and lonely woman waiting for him in Lion Row, to +know that this was not life. Better, better far, the humblest bread +earned in quietness and eaten in peace, than this madness of mere +possession. "A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of things +which he possesseth"—ah no! <I>things</I> are a poor substitute for life, +and to forfeit life in the pursuit of things is man's crowning folly. +</P> + +<P> +An hour later there emerged a Bundy clothed and in his right mind, +fresh-shaved, fresh-bathed, smiling, easy, tolerant. Dinner was served +in Bundy's rooms, and when the meal was over he began to talk freely of +his adventures and affairs. +</P> + +<P> +"You'll never know how good civilised food is till you've gone upon a +diet of salt-horse and biscuit for four months," he remarked. Little +by little he unfolded the story of his travels, a story full of fierce +hazards, Homeric toils, adroit strategies, defeats, despairs, +surprising victories, ending in the supreme moment when he held his +dearly-won concession in his hand, and knew himself master of +incalculable spoil. It was the story of Ulysses, master of men, +diplomat and fighter, swift, strong, and infinitely cunning, retold not +without pride, but with the laconic brevity of the man who counts past +hazards things of no importance. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I've pulled it off," he cried. "I've paid blood and sweat to do +it. And now, do you know, about the only thing I've left to wish for +is to go to sleep for a month, and wake up in my old bed at home, and +smell the eggs and bacon cooking for my breakfast, and hear the old dog +barking in the garden at the kids." +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs. Bundy will be glad to hear the news." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I guess she will. I didn't ought to have been away so long. +It's been hard on her. Tell me, now, how was she looking? Older, I'm +afraid, eh?" +</P> + +<P> +And then he fell into a train of tender reminiscence. He talked of how +brave and patient his wife had been, and of the long separation, and of +the boys of whom he had seen so little. +</P> + +<P> +"Sometimes it seems as if it wasn't worth it. It's only a short time +folk have to live together any way, and I've been away from home most +of my life. I don't know but what I'd have been a sight happier if I'd +have lived like other folk, and gone to church Sundays with the kids, +and earned my bit of money in the city, and just had a home. That's +the thing I've never had—a home." +</P> + +<P> +It was a singular confession for a man to make who had just attained +the summit of success. He spoke with an extraordinary simplicity and +tenderness, as if unconscious of an auditor, obedient only to some tide +of memory that rose and swelled within his bosom. +</P> + +<P> +"It's queer, the way we're made," he went on. "Here am I telling you +what I've got by leaving England, and yet, if you're like me, you'll +never have a happy day till you get back again. There's a house me and +Mrs. Bundy lived in when we were first married: it was out Epping way, +and it had a bed of mignonette under the window, and a hay-field just +beyond the garden-wall; and I can smell that mignonette now, and the +hay, and up there in the Yukon I'd wake in the mornings with that smell +in the air, though there wasn't a flower in sight for God knows how +many miles. I don't believe I could bear to see that house again. Yet +if I could just go back, and be young again, I guess I'd give all the +gold in the Yukon to do it—and then repent my bargain, and go off to +get some more. Well, that's the way we're made. We don't know what we +want, and with all our trying we get the wrong thing after all, most +like." +</P> + +<P> +He ended abruptly. +</P> + +<P> +"I oughtn't to be talking like this. I guess it's mere foolishness. +Well, let us come to business. There's something I want to say to you. +It's about your father. Now, did Mrs. Bundy ever tell you that your +father once helped me when I was in difficulties?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, she told me that." +</P> + +<P> +"She did, eh? Well, I've never forgotten it. Of course I've paid the +money back long ago, but you can't pay a debt like that with money. +I've always wanted to do more than that, and now the chance has come to +me. I can't do anything for your father, but there's something I would +like to do for you." +</P> + +<P> +"You've already done a great deal, for which I am deeply grateful," +said Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, that's a bagatelle! I mean something permanent. Now, how would +it suit you if I made you secretary to my Dredging Company? You could +draw five thousand dollars a year for a beginning, and I'd assign you +shares in the company besides." +</P> + +<P> +It was a splendid offer which might well dazzle a youth who a week ago +had been acquainted with starvation. Had it come on that night when he +shuddered at the bread-line, he would have snatched it as a starving +dog flies upon a bone. But he had had time to recapture his +self-control. He had been fed with good meat, he had slept, and once +more the physical machine ran sweetly. And he had also had a +terrifying glimpse of what the lust of gold meant, he had just heard +Bundy's own expression of innocent regret, he had before him the man +himself. Did he envy him? Something half-heroic in those Homeric +labours he could recognise, but what about their object? And it came +to him with the vividness of a revelation that there were elements in +his own nature that responded all too eagerly to the bribe held out to +him; that if he yielded now he would go the way of multitudes whose +only god is wealth; that if he resisted now he might preserve those +higher ideals of life so intimately dear and sacred to him, and only +thus could they be retained. No, it must not be. The die was cast in +silence, and the golden phantom vanished. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Bundy," he said in a low and trembling voice, "you have made me a +munificent offer. You have spoken to me your own intimate thoughts. +Will you now let me speak mine with equal frankness?" +</P> + +<P> +"Surely." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't think me ungrateful, but I must refuse your offer." +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" +</P> + +<P> +"For reasons, some of which you have supplied, some of which lie in my +own character. To be quite frank, I am not strong enough to resist the +fascination of wealth. Some men know how to set a boundary to their +desires, to stop there, and say, 'I will go no farther.' I do not +believe I am one of these. If I once took the road of wealth, I should +push on to the utmost limit. I might not become avaricious, but the +fascination of the game would absorb me, and God only knows whether I +might not become cruel and hard in course of time. Well, I dare not +risk it, and that is the truth, the humiliating truth, if you like. +The life I have always planned for myself is a life of quiet toil, +simple, content—books, a garden, a home: I cannot let it go. My only +anchorage in life lies there; without it I know not whither I might +drift." +</P> + +<P> +He ended. He had not noticed Bundy's face as he spoke; he had been too +absorbed in his own confession. He saw that face now—pale, eager, and +with tears upon the cheek. To his immense surprise, Bundy sprang up +and flung his arms about his neck. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear fellow," he cried, "I understand. Ah, you little know how +you've torn the veil from my own heart! I once had all those thoughts. +I would have entered the Church; I don't know why I didn't. I took +another road—the wrong road, I suppose, and here I am.... Well, well! +it can't be altered now. +</P> + +<P> +"You're the best and kindest man I ever knew," cried Arthur. "And I +know some one else who would say so too—Mrs. Bundy." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! that's because she loves me too much to see my faults. But I can +see them. Well, well!" He turned his head away, his good honest face +bowed in his hands. Then he recovered himself briskly, turned round, +and said, "Well, that's done with. Now we'll start out afresh upon a +new tack. I've <I>got</I> to help you, don't you understand? And I'm going +to. Let me think a moment." +</P> + +<P> +Presently he said, "Now I think I've got it. Sit down and light a +fresh cigar. That's right. Now I believe I know the kind of life you +want. Shall I take it for granted you don't mean to return to England?" +</P> + +<P> +"No; there is no place for me there, at present." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, there's one point settled, and let me say I agree with you. Now +for another point. You want an outdoor life?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I prefer it." +</P> + +<P> +"Very good. Now, let me paint you a picture. A country of wooded +hills and snow mountains, a lake, a log-house, and let us say a hundred +acres of cleared land with seventy-five apple trees to the acre. Do +you know what that means? I'll tell you. An apple tree in bearing +means from five to ten dollars. An orchard of only fifty acres +therefore means—here, hand me that paper-pad." +</P> + +<P> +And straightway he fell to work, with all the recovered ardour of the +speculator, adding and re-adding interminable lines of figures, until +he announced the surprising result that the man who owned fifty acres +of land in this most desirable of valleys might count upon a yearly +income of $18,750, and in due time twice or thrice that sum. +</P> + +<P> +"It's better than a gold-mine," he cried inconsistently. "And it's +safe—it's absolutely safe!" +</P> + +<P> +"But how am I to buy it?" +</P> + +<P> +"You're not going to buy it. Don't you understand? It's already +yours. Here, wait a moment." +</P> + +<P> +There was another series of swift calculations, and then Bundy +communicated this result: that the money Archibold Masterman had lent +him years before had been really worth to him thrice its value, for it +had set him on his feet; that morally therefore he owed £2,000 to +Archibold Masterman; that the price of this excellent fruit ranch, by a +strange coincidence, was exactly £2,000; and that finally it was his +fixed determination to make the ranch over to Arthur, as an act of +gratitude. +</P> + +<P> +"There's the life you want," he cried enthusiastically. +</P> + +<P> +"But, Mr. Bundy——" +</P> + +<P> +"Now don't object, for I won't hear of it. I'm only too glad you made +me think of this. Why, if I were younger and hadn't got the Dredging +Company on my hands, I'd go there myself, like a shot. There's no +credit to me in giving it you. I'm rich; and besides, it's yours +morally. God bless you, my boy! and if ever things go wrong with me, +keep a room for poor old Bundy on the ranch. And now let us go to bed." +</P> + +<P> +And, as if to prevent all further discussion, he swiftly switched the +lights off, and incontinently vanished. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap16"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XVI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +KOOTENAY +</H4> + +<P> +The train was climbing slowly to the summit of the Crow's Nest Pass. +To the northward rose an extraordinary mountain, deeply tinted at its +base with greens and purples, and capped with a dazzling crown of snow +and ice. Around the glowing base, like children gathered at the knees +of a monstrous mother, rose seven inferior monoliths, pillars of rock +which in the morning light flamed like torches. All around were +mountains, some flat-topped and hooded, some broken spires as of a vast +cathedral ruined; beneath them wild gullies yawned, intricate defiles, +deep canyons to whose sides the pines clung in an agony of effort; and +so far below that it appeared but a thread of silver ran a silent +river. Into these defiles the train moved timorously; now hanging for +an instant on a wall of precipice, now suspended on a groaning +trestle-bridge over depths of air, but ever moving on, like a living +creature animate with the unconquerable energy of man. How good this +mountain air, chill and clear and bright; how welcome this irregularity +of form, passing through every grade from the exquisite to the +magnificent, after the long, barren monotony of the plains! It was the +transition from prose to poetry, from barbarian prose to lyric music. +It was with a sinking heart that Arthur had remarked the long unfolding +of the plains. They oppressed the mind, they lay like a weight upon +the eyes, they breathed a savage and a hostile spirit. The scattered +towns had an air of dereliction; the very houses seemed frozen to the +soil, and around them was a silence, like the silence of death. But +here once more Nature became a living thing, a hospitable and kindly +mother. And to Arthur, who had never seen a mountain, this sudden +revelation of grandeur and magnificence came with a shock of exquisite +pain. His eyes filled with happy tears, his nerves tingled with +delight, he drank long draughts of crystal air, he could have sobbed +and shouted. For the first time he knew the bliss of being alive. +</P> + +<P> +On that long westward journey he had had time to reflect on many +things. New York had already sunk into the past like a disordered +dream. Legion and Horner were alike unsubstantial figures, shapes that +had moved for an instant on a tinted cloud and had disappeared. But +Bundy travelled with him; the spirit of the man still warmed his heart +like a cordial. He saw his honest features wet with tears as he +recalled his home; heard his reverberating eloquence in Parlour A.; was +subdued and reverent before the generosity and ardour of the man. He +had parted with him two days after that memorable midnight +conversation. He was now upon his way to England—and Mrs. Bundy. If +Arthur could have chosen, he would have wished to be the sole architect +of his own fortunes. That had been his proud dream, and he had been +slow to relinquish it. His pride had struggled to the last against +Bundy's generosity, until remonstrance seemed ungracious and insulting. +He saw now that that pride was the least worthy thing about him. The +refusal to accept generosity was scarcely less base than the refusal to +confer it. God had not designed man to stand alone; He had surrounded +him with a network of obligations and relationships; total independence +was impossible in a world where all living creatures existed by a +dependence on each other. He had been in peril of becoming an Ishmael +by renunciation of the social bond; Bundy had re-created that social +bond for him. +</P> + +<P> +And, strangely enough, Bundy's generosity owed itself to a similar +generosity in his father—the father whom he had deserted. There was +plentiful food for irony in that thought. He had condemned his +father's mode of life, applied to him unsparing judgments, fled from +him; and here, six thousand miles away, he was travelling toward an +opportunity that would not have existed but for a quality of goodness +in Archibold Masterman. He had refused partnership with his father in +London; here, in a strange and distant land, he was still the partner +of his father's deeds. The thought sensibly softened his heart toward +his father. He had long ago ceased to think of him with anger; enmity +he had never felt; now there came to him a gush of tender recollection, +and with it the power of truer comprehension. He saw that no man is +either wholly good or wholly bad; that character cannot be limned in +plain black and white; that a thousand delicate gradations separate yet +unite the two extremes; and that the final verdict on any man lies +beyond the human mind. Man must be taken as he is; he is at all times +a contradiction, an enigma, a creature that exceeds his category. To +see this is to become human; to miss this vision is to remain a +Pharisee, whose cardinal defect is inhumanity. And it was this wider +and more charitable temper that came to birth in him as he reflected on +the new course his life had taken. +</P> + +<P> +From his pocket he took a bundle of letters, and re-read them slowly. +The latest in date was from Elizabeth, and it closed with a phrase that +had clamoured in his memory through all that week of journeying—"Well +I know my true knight will not fail me." No emotional utterance could +have moved his so deeply. It was the affirmation of a vow which he +knew would endure as long as time, and after. It braced his spirit to +repeat it; he accepted with a swelling heart its brave implication, and +wore it like a badge of honour. +</P> + +<P> +The longest letter was from Vickars. It was the last letter he had +received before he left New York, and he had read it so often that he +almost knew it by heart. "I have shot my arrow in the air," he wrote, +"and God alone knows where it may fall. My book is out, and there are +some signs that it may succeed. You know what I mean by that. The +only success I crave is to influence other minds in right directions. +Men have called me a dreamer, perhaps you yourself have thought so too; +but I know, and I think you know, that I have dreamed true. We are +moving toward a revolution. It is impossible that the present system +can endure much longer. My message is for the day after the revolution +is accomplished. Then will begin the reconstruction of life again from +the base upward, a simpler and an ampler life. It is for that day I +write, and my bones will thrill to it even in the grave. As for me, I +am like Balaam; I shall see it, but not now; I shall behold it, but not +nigh. Even so, I am content." There followed a fuller expression of +his social ideals, and the whole closed with this paragraph—"Your +mother came to see us last week. It was a great but very happy +surprise. Can you guess what we talked of? Of you, Arthur. For we +three know you as no others do, and we love you, and believe in you. +She kissed Elizabeth at parting, and said, 'Some day——' and then +stopped; but we knew what she meant. Well, you must work on toward +that some day. Poor lady! Deal tenderly with her. I think she has +sore wounds in her heart, and remember it was harder for her to part +from you than for you to go. By so much her quiet sacrifice is greater +than yours. She is the tarrier by the stuff, a harder lot, I think, +than his that goes down into the battle." +</P> + +<P> +Tears filled his eyes as he read the words. There came to him a sudden +vision of the London he had left—the vast tribes of toiling men, the +blind pain and suffering of so many millions, the silent agonies that +hid beneath those gray skies and congregated roofs. And then, looking +from the windows, the eye dwelt again upon this magnificent heritage +that bore the flag of England, and he marvelled why men fought for bare +life in cities when an empty empire called for them. Surely some day +the wizard's spell would break, and London would pour its wasted tribes +into this land of fertility and beauty. To reconstruct life from the +base upward, that could never be done there; it might be done here. +Here the simpler, ampler life was possible. Ah! if he could not fight +by Vickars' side in London, he was still fighting for him here, and was +it not better to create the new than to rebuild the old? +</P> + +<P> +The mountain peaks were gradually receding. The train crawled slowly +round the walls of precipice, hung suspended for a giddy instant, and +then, with a tumult of squealing brakes and hissing steam, plunged into +the abyss, doubling on itself a score of times, till it reached the +valley and the roaring river. It was past noon when the train stopped +beside a placid lake. Immense forests rose on every side; an +immemorial silence lay on all things, broken only by the gentle ripple +of the waters. A steamer lay beside the landing-stage; an hour later +he was afloat. +</P> + +<P> +There were not many passengers, and what there were seemed +uncommunicative. They were for the most part long-limbed, sturdy men, +ranchers, traders, lumber-jacks, their faces bronzed with outdoor life. +They eyed him narrowly and critically. He knew quite well what their +criticism implied. He was a greenhorn, and no doubt looked like one. +As long as the light lasted he took no notice of them; he was too +absorbed in the unfolding beauty of the lake, and in curiosity as to +what it would reveal for him. Somewhere on the lake lay his small +estate, and he found himself studying with eager interest the wooded +shores, in the hope of discovering something that gave a hint of human +habitation. There was very little to reward his gaze. Twice he saw a +blue curl of smoke rising from the forest; once a rude hut, whose one +window glittered like a gem in the setting sun; beyond this nothing met +the eye but a shore of snow, the black bare poles of charred trees +rising above the living pines, and the solitary sky. The scene was +sombre; the silence so profound that the churning stern-wheel sounded +like the passage of an army. Night fell swiftly. It was seven o'clock +when a lighted hillside met the eye, and he was told that it was Nelson. +</P> + +<P> +He slept that night at a small hotel near the shore, and rising early +next morning was quite unprepared for the beauty of the scene that +awaited him. The distant hills of snow were touched with rosy fire, +the lake was like a turquoise, and the town surprised him by its sober +aspect of prosperity. He scarce knew what he had expected in this +remote outpost of the Empire, but certainly not what he saw—broad +streets, buildings of hewn stone, substantial shops and warehouses, all +gathered round a curve of lake so exquisite that few places could +surpass it in its natural loveliness. The hotel was kept by an +Englishman, who made haste to cultivate his acquaintance. He was a +lightly built, bearded fellow, with a shrewd eye and a perpetual smile, +one of the numerous family of Smith. +</P> + +<P> +"So you're going up the lake?" he inquired. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I want a ranch called Bundy's." +</P> + +<P> +"Bundy. Let me see. I don't know of any Bundy here." +</P> + +<P> +"He isn't here. It's his ranch I want to find." +</P> + +<P> +"Did he tell you where it was?" +</P> + +<P> +"Poplar Point." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! now I know. If you'll come with me, I think I can show you +whereabouts it is." He took him to the landing-stage, and pointed out +a deep fold in the hills. "You make for that," he said. "Unless I +disremember, Bundy's ranch is there or thereabout. But people are +always going and coming here. These 'ere ranches are always changing +hands. Young fellows like you come out, and get tired of the work at +the end of the summer, and sell out. They're the plague of Nelson. +Quitters, we call 'em. I hope you ain't a quitter." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think I am. I've come here to live." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, sir, you've come to a good place. But let me give you a word of +warning. It's only hard work that pays here, and you'll have to work +hard and wait long if you want to do anything in fruit. This is no +place for quitters." +</P> + +<P> +He went on to give him many brief histories of the obnoxious tribe of +quitters. They were all looking out for a soft job—that was what was +the matter with them. Mamma's darlings—that's what they were. Did he +know what it was to handle an axe. No, he thought not. Land had to be +cleared—did he know what that meant? +</P> + +<P> +"But mine is cleared," Arthur interrupted. "At least, fifty acres are." +</P> + +<P> +At this he looked puzzled. +</P> + +<P> +"I never heard of fifty acres of cleared land anywheres near Poplar +Point," he observed. +</P> + +<P> +There happened to come along the landing-stage at that moment a +somewhat extraordinary-looking old man. He wore blue jeans, a red wool +sweater, and a battered felt hat. His hair and beard were unkempt, and +both were gray. A beggar could not have been worse dressed, and yet +there was about him something of the dignity that marks the open-air +man. +</P> + +<P> +"That's Jim Flanagan," remarked Smith; "he ought to know. Here, Jim, I +want to speak to you." +</P> + +<P> +The old man came towards them in silence. +</P> + +<P> +"Jim, do you know a ranch at Poplar Point called Bundy's? You know +most of the places up and down the lake, don't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I know it. It lies back a quarter of a mile or so, on a bench." +</P> + +<P> +"Cleared, is it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not much. It was once, but most of it's growed up again." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, this gentleman's going there. Maybe you could give him +pointers." +</P> + +<P> +"Going to live there?" asked Flanagan. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I'm going to live there," said Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I don't know but what you can. There's a pretty good log-house. +I'm living not far away myself." +</P> + +<P> +"Can't you row me over?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, I can't do that. It wouldn't be no good if I did. You can't live +there without a good bit of preparation. There ain't no shops at +Poplar Point, and there ain't no hotel," he remarked with a grin. +</P> + +<P> +"Now I'll tell you what I would do, if I was you," said the landlord. +"You just let Jim give you some pointers. He'll treat you right, will +Jim." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll be glad to do anything I can," said the old man. "I've got an +hour to spare, any way." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur took Flanagan up to the hotel with him, and was soon interested +in his strange preceptor. It seemed he was an old hunter and +prospector, a man of infinite adventures, with a dislike of +civilisation, which was perhaps his most marked characteristic. There +was no remote solitude of the surrounding woods with which he was not +acquainted. +</P> + +<P> +"As for this ranch of yours, I guess you've been expecting too much," +he remarked. "It's good enough land, that I believe. And I won't say +but what it has been planted all right once. But it's been let grow +up. I kind of remember a man called Bundy bought it—took it for a +debt, 'twas said. But he's never been here, not a£ I remember. And +I've been here and hereabout a matter of a dozen years." +</P> + +<P> +So it appeared that Bundy had let the light of his imagination gild +Kootenay Lake with a delusive splendour, as it did all those +"propositions" which engaged his ardent rhetoric. But Arthur was in no +mood to judge his benefactor critically. The land was there—that was +something; and it would go hard with him if he could not make it all +that Bundy had imagined it. He might have known that Bundy had never +seen it for himself. The story of his having taken it for a debt had +the accent of truth. The mouth of the gift-horse must not be too +closely examined, but at least he was a veritable beast. And in spite +of the passing shadow of disappointment, Arthur's spirits rose at the +menace of unexpected difficulty. +</P> + +<P> +"Well," said Flanagan. "I must be getting along. When will you be +coming out?" +</P> + +<P> +"Immediately. Some time this afternoon." +</P> + +<P> +"In that case you'll have to get a move on. You've a lot to do." +</P> + +<P> +Flanagan thereupon sat down again and gave him a series of elaborate +instructions. He must first of all buy a boat; he'd need one, any way. +There was a boat he knew of that might be had second-hand for twenty +dollars. Then he'd want to buy an axe or two, a grub-hoe, a sack of +flour, sugar, rice, tea, coffee, tinned milk, and may be a side of +bacon and a case of eggs. That would do for a beginning. +</P> + +<P> +The boat was duly bargained for upon the wharf. It was an interesting +ruin: the paint had long since disappeared, it had no rudder, and it +leaked like a sieve. Its owner, remarking Arthur's innocence, wished +to raise the price, but Jim kept him to the twenty dollars. +</P> + +<P> +"That or nothing," he said sternly. "And put a couple of baling-tins +in. They'll be needed." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur looked upon this ancient tub with frank dislike and with some +dismay. The beauty of the rose-tinted morn was over; the sky was gray, +and a rising north-west wind was making more than ripples on the lake. +</P> + +<P> +"How far is Poplar Point?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Five miles," Jim answered. "But I guess you'll do it. You look +strong." +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't myself I'm thinking of; it's the boat. Do you think she can +do it?" +</P> + +<P> +"I've seen worse," said Jim. "Not many of them, though. But she'll do +it, never fear. That there old boat have been on the lake ever since I +knowed it." +</P> + +<P> +Which, under the circumstances, was scarcely a recommendation. +</P> + +<P> +By one o'clock, somehow or other, Arthur had got through his +preparations. His story had got about; he found himself stared at in +the streets as a greenhorn; but every one had shown him civility, and +some a rough kindness. At the bank a great surprise awaited him. He +found that Bundy had telegraphed a considerable sum of money to his +credit, more than enough to give him a fair and even generous start. +Willing hands helped him to pack his goods. They were all there—the +axes, the grub-hoe (with whose uses he was totally unacquainted), the +sack of flour, and the various provisions. His valise was shoved under +the stern seat, and with it half a dozen pamphlets on fruit-growing +which he collected in the town. Flanagan had gone two hours earlier, +with the promise that he would look out for him at Poplar Point. +</P> + +<P> +"Keep your eye on the gap in the hills," was his final instruction, +"then push up the creek to the left; and if it's dark, I'll burn a +flare." +</P> + +<P> +He had no sooner left the landing than he began to feel the force of +the wind. It blew with a steady and increasing violence, dead ahead; +pull as he would, he made little progress, and, to add to his +discomfiture, he had to be continually baling. The moment he stopped +to bale, the boat swung round or was driven backward. His hands were +soon blistered, his muscles ached, yet toil as he would the far-off gap +in the hills seemed no nearer. The water ran black and foam-flecked in +short, choppy waves; the sky had darkened rapidly, and presently a +cutting hail fell. In ordinary circumstances he would have turned +back, but he had a lively recollection of Smith's stinging phrases, and +had no mind to be written down a mamma's darling or derided as a +quitter. This was, in its way, his first test, and to succumb would be +to lose nerve for future difficulties. He was now in the very centre +of the lake, and a thrill of apprehension seized him as he saw how +small an object this crazy boat appeared in that loneliness of angry +water. Black water, black forests, and on the upper hills pale rays of +watery sunset—that was what he saw, and himself scarcely more +noticeable than a bird, buffeted by the impending storm. But he toiled +on, and at last got a little shelter from the shore. More than three +hours had passed since he left Nelson; and in this deep fissure of the +hills the night had already camped. The darkness deepened rapidly. It +was five o'clock when he rounded the point of the creek. Here the +water was smoother, and he could pull more leisurely; but it was now +quite dark. All his hopes were fixed on Flanagan. For another hour he +searched the shores eagerly for any sign of light. Nothing met his eye +but the tiny twinkling of a lamp here and there in the window of some +unseen house. At last, just when he had made up his mind to spend the +night upon the lake and wait for dawn, a sudden shaft of red flame +soared up not a hundred yards away. A voice hailed him, and never did +a human voice sound sweeter. Ten minutes later Flanagan's hand grasped +his, and he stepped ashore. +</P> + +<P> +"The old boat's done it, then," said Flanagan. "I rather guessed she +would. Now you come right along with me." +</P> + +<P> +"So it was only a guess, was it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, most things in this world are a sort of guess," said the old +man. "The only thing sure is that men don't die till their hour's +come." He turned away gruffly, and at once began to shoulder Arthur's +goods. +</P> + +<P> +"But you can't carry all that," cried Arthur, as the old man hoisted +the sack of flour upon his shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"Needs must when the devil drives," he said grimly. "There ain't no +hotel hereabouts, didn't I tell you? You've got to get all your goods +into the shack to-night. That wind's bringing up snow, and the sooner +we get this job done the better." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur grasped his valise, and such impedimenta as Flanagan would let +him carry, and followed the old man. +</P> + +<P> +The snow was deep and soft, in spite of the cold wind. The darkness +was like a solid wall on either side of the thin ray that fell from +Jim's lantern. Through the wood there ran a perpetual ghostly murmur, +a sound of sighing, groaning, struggling, as the branches beat to and +fro and rubbed against each other. Suddenly a long and terrible cry +rose above the noises of the forest, a cry of infinite pain, despair, +melancholy, and Arthur started back, shouting, "What's that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, that's only a coyote," said Jim—"just an old dog coyote. Bless +you! he won't hurt you." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur said no more, but he was glad that no one could see the colour +of his face. He struggled breathlessly in the steps of his guide. The +hill was steep, the foothold uncertain; more than once he waded to his +knees in a hidden bog-hole. And yet, in spite both of his discomfort +and his fear, he was conscious of a gradual heightening of his spirits. +There was something wild and savage in these black walls of forest that +encompassed him, in the mystery and solitude of this primeval place, +something that exhilarated while it awed him. He was conscious of the +falling from him of the trappings of a discarded civilisation. He had +come to a place where the artificialities of life had no significance; +where the natural man stood front to front with the stubborn earth, +with no weapons to subdue her but his own thews and muscles, his own +right of domination, and his unconquerable will. +</P> + +<P> +The ground was easier now, and they moved more swiftly on a level +narrow trail. At last the darkness thinned a little; they had reached +a small clearing, and a light shone brightly. +</P> + +<P> +"Here we are," said Jim. "And not sorry to get here either." +</P> + +<P> +He pushed open the door of a log-hut. It was perhaps fourteen feet +square; a stove burned red-hot in the centre of the hut; on one side +was a long bunk built of red cedar. +</P> + +<P> +"I done my best to clean it up," said Jim. "Maybe there's a rat or two +around, and perhaps a porcupine, but they won't hurt you. It's dry, +that's one thing. And now I'll say good-night." +</P> + +<P> +He tramped off into the wood. Arthur stood a long time listening, but +Jim's footsteps were soon lost amid the groaning of the trees. The +long, melancholy cry of the coyote again thrilled the air. Arthur shut +the door. +</P> + +<P> +And it was so that he came into his heritage. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap17"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XVII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE NEW LIFE +</H4> + +<P> +He contrived to make himself some coffee, and after a while +extinguished the lamp and crawled into the bunk. The red-hot stove +filled the hut with a dim light, and he fell asleep. +</P> + +<P> +An hour later he woke in a sweat of terror. The fire in the stove had +died down, the hut was bitterly cold, and he was in total darkness. +The darkness was like nothing he had known before; it closed round him +with a pressure that was almost tangible, and it seemed alive. There +was a horrible sense of something hostile in it; he could have thought +it moved stealthily, with a faint rustling of unseen robes, that it +breathed and palpitated, that it was a presence inimical to life. A +rat ran across his bed, and on the roof there was a long grating sound. +Outside, in the wide night, he could recognise the melancholy cry of +the coyote; but there were other cries and sounds which he could not +recognise. Close to the door of the hut there was audible what seemed +like deep, stertorous breathing, deepening into a human groan. From +the depth of the wood came a fearful wail, as of a woman in distress. +He sprang from the bunk, rushed to the door, and opened it. There was +a soft flutter of wings, and the groaning ceased; but the wailing in +the woods went on, upon a scale of rising agony. There was nowhere any +sign of life. The moon had risen, and the snow-laden trees rose pure +and mystic in the silver light. They were like a cohort of silent +watchers round his lonely hut, and he welcomed them as comrades. +Slowly his fears subsided. It was not until the next day he learned +from Flanagan that the soft groaning at the door proceeded from nothing +more alarming than a mountain owl, and that the wailing in the forest +was merely a mountain lion in search of prey. +</P> + +<P> +This unforgetable night was his first and last occasion of terror. It +is only when the causes of phenomena are hidden from us that the +phenomena themselves are terrible. When we know that the tapping in +the wainscot is caused by an innocent insect, the movements in the +forest to be the work of wind or frost, the breathing in the dark to be +a sleeping owl, the mind at once regains the equipoise of reason. +Perhaps if we knew what really lay behind the mystery of death, we +should fear it as little as we do the commonplace phenomena of birth +and life. +</P> + +<P> +The morning came at last in floods of living light, and as Arthur once +more stood at the cabin door, he thought that he had never looked upon +a scene so exquisite. Pale rays of colourless and pure fire spread +like a fan along the eastern sky; they deepened into momentary purple, +throbbed as with a pulse, and suddenly were quickened with a flood of +scarlet. The distant peaks of snow one by one caught the elemental +splendour, the higher summits topped with flame, the lower stained with +rose; and across the dim and quiet lake, from an open gateway of the +hills a shaft of light shot, slender as a spear and vibrating with the +joy of speed. A gust of air shook the forest, and the ice-clad boughs +tinkled like a chime of bells. There was no other sound except the +little song of water, running underneath its roof of ice. All around +rose the still and solemn woods. The miniature plains of snow gathered +at their feet glittered like a floor of diamonds. And from sky and +lake and forest came an air inimitably virginal, the cold and taintless +air of unviolated Nature, infinitely pure and strong and vital. +</P> + +<P> +He stood for some moments quite silent, in that intense clarity of +dawn, scarcely conscious of himself, his whole being drawn out in a +kind of effortless and sacred awe. He had an inward sense of +lustration and release: the soul rose clean as from a bath of fire; the +will, so often misdirected, was modulated to the perfect harmony of +this external world. Such moods lie beyond reason, and are therefore +beyond the explication of the reason. The pivots upon which life moves +consist of a few rare and exquisite moments; for one man a sunrise, for +another a strain of music heard at midnight, for yet another the +sudden, arrowy fragrance of violets in a wood, and behold! life is +changed, something has been withdrawn from it and something added—a +new element, wholly authentic, yet wholly indefinable. It was such a +moment with this solitary exile. The dawn came to him as an omen and a +challenge. It was the porch of a new life, and he entered it with +willing feet. +</P> + +<P> +He returned to the cabin, and breakfasted in haste after a fashion +which would have provoked pity and derision in the bosom of the British +house-wife. His coffee was boiled in a discarded meat-tin; bread he +had none; and his effort to fry eggs was probably among the least +successful of all recorded operations known to culinary science. In +the midst of his crude performance Jim Flanagan arrived, surveying him +from the doorway with a smile of irony. +</P> + +<P> +When the meal was over, Jim began to talk in his slow, caustic way. +Like many men who have passed their lives in the open air and solitude, +Jim had acquired a certain rude philosophy, the fruit of much silent +thinking, experience, and observation. He had worked in lumber-camps, +mines, and on the railroads, but only by necessity; no sooner had he +acquired a little money than he had always gone off into solitude +again. Carrying all his scant possessions with him, he would disappear +into the forests and mountains, and would be lost to sight for many +months. What was he doing? Hunting, prospecting for gold and copper, +and loafing. He would return from these expeditions not a penny piece +the richer, a little raggeder, and with deeper lines upon his face, +having often suffered great privations, yet at the first opportunity he +would resume them. For all settled ways of life he had a positive +aversion, and not all the gold of Golconda could have bribed him to +reside in cities. This was the more remarkable because he had spent +his childhood and early youth in Liverpool, from which dim and dreary +city he had been thrust out by chance and poverty into the Canadian +wilderness. Till he landed in Canada he had never seen a forest or a +mountain, had scarcely looked upon a flower, and had breathed only the +tainted air of slums; but on his first view of the wooded heights of +Montreal, something woke in his heart, a dumb love of Nature, a passion +for freedom, an appetite for solitude. Friends he had none, and if he +ever had relations, he had long ago forgotten them. Thus left wholly +to himself, he had fashioned his own way of life with neither memory +nor obligation to restrain him; had considered his debt to civilization +cancelled; had become a wanderer upon the face of the earth, a taciturn +but contented nomad, whose feet had traversed the breadth of a mighty +continent, and penetrated a hundred savage solitudes where none but he +had trodden. Thus, in his own way, he had solved the problem of +existence; he had achieved freedom, and had enrolled himself among the +humble Argonauts of Empire. +</P> + +<P> +The greatness of this half-discovered empire was his chief thought, and +upon this theme he was always ready to speak. +</P> + +<P> +"England don't know what she's got in Canada," was a frequent sentiment +of his, often expressed with biting scorn. "She sends her worst out +here," he would continue—"dumps her rubbish on us." He made this +remark now, to which Arthur replied with a laugh, "I hope you don't +consider me rubbish, Jim." +</P> + +<P> +"No, you're young, and I guess you're strong. But there's lots of hard +work ahead of you, and I've seen many a chap like you fly the tracks." +</P> + +<P> +"I wish you'd tell me what I've got to do." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I ain't no fruit-rancher myself," said Jim. "But maybe I can +teach you. Suppose you and me take a look round." +</P> + +<P> +They went out together into the keen air. Around the cabin for a space +of several acres the snow lay deep, its pure surface broken only by +black tree-stumps. Farther back was a tangle of young wood, and beyond +this the primeval forest. At a distance of fifty yards from the cabin +the snow was discoloured, and Arthur recognised the bog-hole into which +he had stumbled on the previous night. +</P> + +<P> +"There seems a lot of bog, and I don't see any apple-trees," he +remarked. +</P> + +<P> +"That there bog's the best land you've got," Jim answered, "but it's +got to be drained. The apple-trees are in the bush somewheres; didn't +I tell you they've got growed up? You've got to start slashing that +bush. It's a job that must be done. And I don't see how you're to do +it all alone." +</P> + +<P> +"Neither do I," said Arthur. "But if you'd help me, Jim, I think I +could soon learn." +</P> + +<P> +"I ain't no fruit-rancher," he began again. +</P> + +<P> +"Unless I'm mistaken, you're just what you choose to be," said Arthur. +"Name your own wage, Jim, and be my teacher." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I'll consider it," said the old man. +</P> + +<P> +A couple of days passed, during which Arthur saw nothing of Jim. On +the afternoon of the third day Arthur saw his boat moving toward the +landing. +</P> + +<P> +"I've been getting some things we'll want," said Jim. "You'll find 'em +put down to your account. I may as well tell you I've been drunk. +Maybe you won't want me now," he added with a grin. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll take my chance on that, Jim." +</P> + +<P> +"It's a thing what has to be," said the old man with a solemn roll of +his gray head. "I ain't no drunkard, understand. I'd think shame of +being that. But an occasional booze hurts no one, and is a necessity +of life. It kind of limbers up one's wits." +</P> + +<P> +"We'll let it go at that," laughed Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +And thus the articles of this strange partnership were settled. +</P> + +<P> +From that day began a life of furious and unremitting toil. Days and +weeks passed unremarked in those Homeric labours; Arthur worked in +blinding sweat, with aching muscles; rose early in the biting cold, +plied the axe from morn to eve, and no sooner ate his rough evening +meal than he was fast asleep. A hundred times it seemed as if no human +organism could sustain the immense fatigue which he endured. As the +snow melted, his task became the heavier. There were tree-stumps to be +blasted, and the fumes of the blast left him with a splitting headache. +There was the bog to be drained, and he worked for hours to his knees +in water. There were trees to fell, to cut up into lengths for +building, and the rest to be burned. Yet amid it all he was conscious +of a growing sanity of mind and body. His hands, at first torn and +wounded by his toil, hardened to their task; his shoulders broadened, +his muscles grew supple, and on his cheek was the glow of health. A +curt word of praise from Jim seemed the superlative of approbation; to +hear him say, "Well, I guess you ain't no quitter," warmed him like a +draught of wine. And the mental transformation was not less definite +than the physical. The immediacy of his work, the constant need of +patience, caution, and alertness, the mere brute vigour of his life, +drove from his mind a hundred haunting ghosts. He had no time to +debate on thin-spun theories of the universe and life, and even social +problems sunk into insignificance. To see that a tree fell rightly, to +disengage a fertile soil from the neglect of ages, to drain the +bog—these were his problems, and he found them sufficiently absorbing. +He had got back to the primeval; work and sleep and work again, all +slowly issuing in a visible success—was not this the oldest and the +one divine task of man, pursued through countless centuries, and +furnishing the one solid base on which all human domination rested? +</P> + +<P> +It might have been supposed that such a hard insistency of toil would +have dulled the finer faculties. In so far as these faculties depended +for their nourishment on books, no doubt they suffered; but they found +a new and more vital food in the scenes which surrounded him. The +inexhaustible surprise of sunrise and of sunset, the music of the +forest, perpetual as the music of the sea, the blue expanse of lake, +the wide array of snow-clad mountains—these and a hundred lesser +things, such as the magic wrought by shafts of light in the deep +shadows of the wood, trees glittering in a sheath of ice, moonlight +upon snow, fascinated and absorbed him. He had never guessed how +wonderful the world was. The laborious exercises of the human mind in +quest of beauty seemed a tedious absurdity compared with this opulence +of loveliness that met him everywhere. And he saw too that there is a +kind of wisdom deeper than any that is found in books, which flows in +upon the spirit which is in accord with Nature. Flanagan, with all his +crudity and ignorance, had something of this wisdom. He moved at ease +in his environment, envied no man, coveted no man's goods, brought to +each returning day a strength precisely equal to his task; and Arthur +asked himself if either religion or philosophy could produce a form of +life more admirable or more efficient. In these daily toils Jim was +his sole companion. They worked and ate together, and in the long +evenings sat in the warm cabin talking endlessly. To his surprise, he +found that the old man was an indefatigable reader, but of not more +than half a dozen books. The Bible he knew with thoroughness, and upon +it had built up theories of life which would have surprised the +theologians. +</P> + +<P> +"Them Jews were like us," he would declare. "They stole a country and +drove the other people out. Like us with the Injuns, I guess. A dead +Injun is the only kind of Injun I've got any use for. Them Philistines +was a kind of Injun, by all I make out." +</P> + +<P> +One story which he loved to discuss was the desire of Israel to have a +king. "What did they want a king for?" he would cry. "They'd got on +well enough without one, and they never had no luck after they'd got +one. They should have stuck to Samuel." And then he would go on to +recount all he knew about the wickedness of kings. "They'd never been +no good. They just sucked the people's blood, that's what they did. +Why, they wer'n't even soldiers, not nowadays—just dressed-up dolls. +Some day the world would get rid of them, and the sooner the better, so +said he. A pretty thing indeed that decent folk should pay taxes to +support such a rotten lot as they were." +</P> + +<P> +The one poet whom he knew was Burns. He carried with him in the pocket +of his ragged coat an old leather-bound copy of Burns, with a brass +clasp, closely printed in blinding type upon a page nearly destitute of +margins. It was a tiny book, in size about three inches by two, +published within a few years of the poet's death. It bore signs of +hard usage: the cover was stained and polished by the touch of hands +that long since were dust; doubtless it had been carried in the pockets +of a race of humble men, read in swift glimpses behind the plough, as +like as not, within sight of the very hills the poet loved, or pored +over by eager eyes round peat fires in solitary clachans. It was safe +to say that a book so humble had never known the touch of hands polite; +its pages had been turned by clumsy fingers hardened with excessive +toil, and the faces that had stooped above it were plain and homely +faces, roughened with wind and weather. To this forgotten race of men +it had doubtless brought gaiety and hope, the brief vision of things +lovely and eternal, and above all the message of that inward liberty +which man never loses save by his own cowardice or folly. From the +soiled pages Jim Flanagan drew the same inspiration. They breathed +into him the pride of freedom, fed his fierce joy of independence, +helped him, as they had helped ten thousand others, to walk upright in +a world where an innumerable host of men bend their backs to the unjust +yoke and learn to cringe and crouch. As Jim recited the +well-remembered verses in this lonely hut at night, his voice trembled, +his eyes glowed, and all aspects of meanness and commonness fell from +him, leaving something that was intrinsically fine and great. That a +man so crudely ignorant as Flanagan should have anything to teach a +youth like Arthur appears absurd; yet so it was. What that teaching +was it would be difficult to state in words, but its effect was clear. +By its quiet assertion of undeniable qualities where they might be +least expected, a general sense of the worth of mankind was produced, +an essential worth, which was wholly independent of outward +circumstance. +</P> + +<P> +As time went on, Arthur discovered also that his life was not nearly so +isolated as he had supposed. Scattered along the shores of the lake +were other men, like himself, engaged on a daring experiment of life. +One or two were sullen, unapproachable, apparently afraid lest their +dignity should be compromised by chance acquaintanceships, the kind of +men who carry into a new world all that is socially most narrow and +petty in the old. But these were the exceptions; among the rest there +was a real and kindly sense of community. Many of them were persons +interesting in themselves and in their histories. There were ex-army +officers, public-school and university men, even a musician—all, for +some cause or other, fugitives from the vain strifes of civilised life. +They never complained, they never thought of going back, they were all +full of hope about the future. They talked with buoyant faith of the +day when Kootenay Lake would be as well known as Geneva or Lucerne, and +when its shores, now clothed with darkling forests, would become one of +the gardens of the world. They pointed out how each year marked the +growing invasion of the orchard on the forest. And, whatever the hard +tasks of their life, they were clearly in love with it, desired no +better, and would not have exchanged it for anything that cities could +have offered them. +</P> + +<P> +He found among these settlers a disposition toward mutual service, +notable in itself, and unique in his experience. A man thought nothing +of giving a day's service to a neighbour, of loaning him a team, or +helping him to build his house. Being all engaged on the same tasks, +each relied upon the other, expecting and assuming that the help given +to-day would be loyally returned when his own occasion came. +</P> + +<P> +And, besides this, there was much mutual visiting, concerts, suppers, +dances—a free and simple hospitality, without elaboration or pretence. +The concerts might not have satisfied a Queen's Hall audience, and the +dances were but feebly illumined with the grace of woman; but all was +homely, honest, and sincere. And then the walk back along the narrow +trail, with the moon riding overhead, or beneath a roof of stars, each +keenly bright, and the fresh lake-breeze moving through the forest in +low-breathed symphonies—ah! this was life indeed! Often and often, as +he walked that trail at night, he opened his lungs to drink in the +crystal air that seemed a draught of life itself, and he thought with +commiseration of the herded life on city pavements, and thanked God for +his deliverance. +</P> + +<P> +The spring came with melting snow and soft winds, and he began to +realise some progress in his work. When the new growth was cleared +away, he discovered a few hundred apple-trees of five years' growth. +</P> + +<P> +"You're luckier than I thought," said Jim. "They're Spitzenbergs. +You'll get something from them this year, I guess." +</P> + +<P> +Then June came with a rush of heat and light. A long procession of +days followed, the sky exquisitely bright, the hills clad in living +green, the lake sparkling like a floor of amethyst. And then the +winter once more, with its wonder of snow, and skies full of unearthly +splendour. +</P> + +<P> +So two years passed, and at their close he saw the triumph of his +labour. The forest was pushed back by many acres; where the dense +undergrowth had thrived, there spread the level fields, with long rows +of budding trees; and the bog was a fertile garden. He had built +himself another house, more commodious than the first rude cabin. Upon +its walls hung the ranchman's usual pictures, coloured prints from +magazines; there was also a goodly shelf of books, and the photographs +of those he loved. Here he sat and meditated in the long summer +evenings. From Vickars he had received many letters, keen, witty, sad; +it seemed he was famous, after a London fashion, but his constant +complaint was that no one really listened to his message. Elizabeth +had written him even more frequently, and each letter had strengthened +the implicit bond between them. Love-letters they could not be called, +for love was rarely mentioned in them; but they were letters that only +love could write—they exhaled the very perfume of her heart. From his +father and his sister he had heard not a word. Latterly even his +mother's letters had become irregular, and he sometimes thought he +could discern in them an effort at concealment, as if she purposely +avoided something which her whole nature urged her to say. +</P> + +<P> +He sat thus, thinking over all the past, upon a summer's evening, when +he heard Jim's tread upon the wood-path. Jim had been into Nelson upon +some errand in the afternoon, and had hurried back, contrary to his +custom, for there was some heavy work to be done upon the morrow. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Jim, any news?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not as I know of. But I've got you a paper. It's the English <I>Daily +Mail</I>. You're always glad to see that." +</P> + +<P> +"All right, Jim. Thank you. I'll look at it to-morrow." +</P> + +<P> +Jim moved off to his own shack, and Arthur went into the house. It was +quite late, it seemed hardly worth while to light the lamp, and he was +about to get into bed in the dark, when the white outline of the paper +lying on the table attracted his eye. +</P> + +<P> +"I may as well look at that," he thought; "I'm not sleepy." +</P> + +<P> +He lit the lamp, and unfolded the paper. His eye wandered casually +over the crowded columns, finding little that was interesting. Then, +with a sudden chill of apprehension, his eye caught the name of +Masterman. +</P> + +<P> +"The Affairs of the Amalgamated Brick Co.," the paragraph was headed. +"It has been long suspected that the affairs of this company were not +as prosperous as could be wished, but no serious complications were +expected until the close of last week. There were various unpleasant +rumours on the Stock Exchange late on Friday afternoon, and the stock +dropped rapidly. On Monday morning it became known that serious frauds +were charged against the company. The nature of these charges is not +yet ascertained, but we understand that warrants have been issued for +the arrest of Archibold Masterman, the chairman of the company, and +Elisha Scales, its secretary. If the allegations made against the +company are at all such as rumour represents them, very sensational +developments may be anticipated." +</P> + +<P> +The blood rushed back into his heart as he read. His very being was +suspended. +</P> + +<P> +"My God!" he cried. "I must go home at once!" +</P> + +<P> +And in that cry all the old loyalties awoke, and, chief of all, the +son's loyalty to his father. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap18"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +PART THREE +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +FATHER AND SON +</H2> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XVIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE AMALGAMATED BRICK CO. +</H4> + +<P> +The offices of the Amalgamated Brick Co. were situated within a +stone's-throw of the Mansion House. London throbbed and roared around +them; on every side spread an intricate confusion of narrow and ancient +streets, inhabited by a host of nomadic men, who camped in them for a +few hours each day, filled them with clamour, and fled at nightfall. +The invasion began with the earliest light; then might be seen the +scouts of the advancing army, mere boys, whose fresh faces had not yet +acquired the London pallor or lost the mischievous vivacity of boyhood; +youths immaculately dressed in well-brushed common clothes; +narrow-shouldered men in shabby overcoats; oldish men, who walked with +eyes fixed upon the pavement, as if bowed with some unforgetable +humiliation, and, here and there, women, some mere girls, treading +briskly, others shawled and shapeless figures with battered bonnets, +charwomen, office scrubbers, and the like, all passing in an endless +stream, and swallowed up at last in these dim byways of the city. +Later on came another class of men, wearing better clothes, but whose +eyes were anxious; then well-fleshed and confident persons, who walked +upright with an air of authority; last of all, the magnates, fur-coated +and wearing diamond pins and studs, smoking cigars or cigarettes, +arriving in cabs or carriages, who were received in these crowded +offices with the silence which awaits the passage of kings. With their +advent began the real business of the day. At their glance every pulse +beat faster, every brain grew more alert, and the great wheel of +business revolved with electric speed, humming, throbbing, tumultuous, +till the very walls shook with its reverberations, and the whole city +became clamorous as a cave into which a fierce sea thunders. By noon +the tide was at its height; at four o'clock the ebb began; with the +earliest stars the invading host began the process of dispersal till, +by the time midnight had arrived, Tadmor in the wilderness was not more +silent or more solitary than this deserted city. +</P> + +<P> +For centuries this daily invasion had gone on, and who shall say what +uncounted multitudes had fallen on the field of battle! For centuries +more it would go on, and always with the same history. Here was +achieved a perpetual immolation of mankind, a hopeless and unatoning +sacrifice. To this battlefield youth brought its energy, manhood its +virtue and its strength, womanhood its humble patience. To what +delusive trumpet-music had they marched, beneath what visionary +banners, with what far-off thrilling glimpses of golden heights which +they would never scale! To these thronged recruits in the regiments of +Mammon, experience brought no caution, age no wisdom. For the story +was always the same, the issue unvarying: first the baseless hope of +youth, then the long unfruitful patience of laborious manhood, lastly +the miserable despair of age. Happy those who fell early in the +struggle; they had the consolation of a might-have-been whose absurdity +was not detected, and they were spared the worst. Most miserable those +who lived on, until hope failed, each year became a new disability, and +at last they found themselves superseded, thrust out by a new +generation, discarded, and left alone with the spectres of want, +sickness, and the workhouse. A few survived, of course, and their +histories, passed from lip to lip, became the stimulus for fresh hosts +of foredoomed toilers. By luck, by fraud, by adroit use of +opportunity, by unscrupulous ability, by cruel and ruthless stratagem, +these few rose, climbed upon a holocaust of victims into power, and +became the battle lords of this inglorious field. None saw in them a +warning, multitudes offered them adulation; and they thus became new +lures for ignorant ambition. And so the endless martyrdom went on; +ever fresh hosts clamouring to sacrifice flesh and brain upon these +ignoble altars, with a fervour of fanaticism never equalled in the most +sacred causes of freedom or religion. Ah! not upon the snows of +Russia, the plain of Waterloo, or the heights of Gettysburg are found +the most dreadful battlefields of earth! The bloodiest of all +battlefields are in the heart of cities. +</P> + +<P> +Archibold Masterman was one of those who had risen, especially since +the successful launching of the Amalgamated Brick Co. He had become a +personage sought for at civic dinners, known at clubs, and surrounded +by a clamour of more or less sincere flattery. From the windows of his +office he could see the gray roof of the Mansion House, and he never +looked that way without elation. Why should he not reign there? What +was there to prevent him moving at the height of civic glory? The +kingdoms of the world—his world—were spread before him, and the glory +of them, and he was eager to inherit them. Lord Mayor of London, +Member of Parliament for the city, knighthood, baronetcy—so ran his +dream, and he knew that it was not a foolish dream. Men less able than +himself had won these prizes. And he meant to have them in good time. +The truly great period of his life was just beginning. He had got the +world beneath his feet at last, and he meant to keep it there. +</P> + +<P> +Extreme prosperity had had a softening influence upon the man; a harsh +critic might have called it a disintegrating influence. The mental +force was not abated, the alertness of his eye was not dimmed; but he +went with a looser rein. He rose later, sat longer at the table, and +had learned to rely upon subordinates. His suspicion, that sixth sense +of the man of business, was relaxed. The strong opiate of +self-sufficiency had begun to work in his veins. He was the conscious +conqueror, walking with uplifted head, and no longer closely watchful +of the way he trod. +</P> + +<P> +With him Elisha Scales had risen too. The clerk, with his mean face +and crafty eyes, had proved himself indispensable. Masterman's dislike +for him remained, but use and contiguity had worn down much of his +original prejudice. He could not but admit his ability. Beyond that, +however, he did not care to go. He knew him to be adroit, patient, +obsequious, daring; but the inner springs of his character remained +inscrutable. +</P> + +<P> +It was Scales who had really engineered the Brick Trust. The purchase +of the Leatham brick-yard had been but the first of a great number of +similar transactions. No sooner was the Amalgamated floated than it +achieved a miraculous success. There was a fortnight of frantic buying +by the public; gold poured into the treasury; the financial papers, +duly subsidised by copious advertisement, pushed the boom; and at the +end of three months the name of Masterman was enrolled among the great +magnates of modern commerce. His portrait appeared in the journals. +The story of his early struggles was adorned with legendary marvel. +Due stress was laid upon his piety: was he not the deacon of a church, +a man of strict morals, a man who might be safely trusted, a man of +solid character? And of all the baits that drew the public, perhaps +this was the most successful. The small investor rallied to him. +Humble folk in remote religious communities learned his name, discussed +his doings, and struggled for the chance to lay their savings at his +feet. If any word of warning reached them, it was disregarded. Six +per cent. is so much more attractive than four, that, when it is +guaranteed by the piety and genius of a Masterman, the voice of +prudence speaks in vain. +</P> + +<P> +A few months of secret campaigning, a month of deafening publicity, and +behold the result—Scales flourishing in a house of new and expensive +furniture, the possessor of a carriage; Masterman enthroned in spacious +offices, from whose windows he beholds all the vanities of +earth—sheriffship, mayoralty, knighthood, and the like—moving +steadily towards him in a golden pageant. +</P> + +<P> +Has the reader ever seen a balloon of paper, with a tiny light burning +in its centre, soar into the evening air? It is a pretty spectacle. +One wonders how so frail a thing can hold so perilous a force as flame. +We watch with astonishment its little lamp borne aloft, carried hither +and thither like a starry feather on the delicate tides of air, yet +always moving higher. Watch it long enough, and you will see something +else. Sooner or later there comes a flash of fire, a dim red spark, +visible for an instant, and where is the balloon? Its very fragments +are undiscoverable, and it is seen no more. +</P> + +<P> +Masterman's balloon soared bravely in those first six months. Then +something happened which no sagacity could predict—a wind of war arose +suddenly, and the lamp showed dangerous flickerings. +</P> + +<P> +When war happens to a nation it at once becomes the supreme interest. +And this was no common war. From insignificant beginnings, at which +the nation smiled in proud contempt, it grew into a devastating +struggle. Troops were poured to the front, until the martial resources +of the nation were exhausted. There was a cry for volunteers; and city +offices and warehouses were depleted by whole battalions of heroic +youth. All business was arrested, and sank into narrow channels. The +daily crash of bankruptcy filled the air. And, since the last thing +men do at such a time is to extend their premises and build houses, it +came to pass that there was no demand for bricks. The Brick Trust +ruled the market; but, when there is no market, this appears a hollow +boast. And yet there were dividends that must be paid, for they were +guaranteed; there was an appearance of prosperity which must be +maintained at all costs. There came at last a day when a chill +apprehension began to spread through the offices of the Trust. It was +at first but a tiny cold wave, but it crept higher, for a whole sea lay +behind it. Masterman, sitting in his office, heard the lapping of the +rising tide, and saw it carrying away the broken gauds of the pageant +of which he had dreamed. +</P> + +<P> +"The war will end in a month!" he cried. But it did not end. "It will +end in three months," he prophesied; "and then will come a marvellous +prosperity." But the prophecy proved false. On lonely veldt and +behind unassailable kopjes a daring and sullen foe held on. "It looks +as if it will go on for ever!" he exclaimed at last, in the bitterness +of his heart. And the day when he said that brought with it something +the strong man had never known before—a sudden loosening of the bonds +of all his vigour. For weeks he had slept little; he had grown gaunt +and nervous; and now there came this thrill of weakness, this collapse +of force. In the gray winter dawn he rose and dressed as usual, but +his strong hands trembled, and his head swam. A newsboy, racing past +his house, shouted, "Another British defeat!" That was the last +stroke. He sank helpless to the ground. When he woke he was in bed. +</P> + +<P> +"I must go to the city!" he cried. +</P> + +<P> +"You cannot!" said the voice of Dr. Leet. "If you don't obey my orders +now, you will never go to the city again." +</P> + +<P> +"A million of money is at stake!" he groaned. +</P> + +<P> +"So is your life," said the doctor. +</P> + +<P> +He lay quiet a long time after that. It was a new and terrible +thought, and he found it hard to adjust his mind to it. "His life"—he +had always assumed that that at least was his own unforfeitable +possession. He had never known the moment when eager nerve and artery +and brain-cell had not leapt to obey his will. And now it seemed his +whole house of life was in revolt. His will, that iron captain-general +of all these servile forces, was deposed. Well, he simply would not +die. If he must obey the doctor, he must. And, after all, to a man +tired in brain and body this restfulness of soft pillows, this utter +quietness and shaded light, was sweet. Anything was better than that +horrible thrill of weakness, that loosening of each intimate joint and +muscle—anything! +</P> + +<P> +He turned his face from the light, and fell asleep. +</P> + +<P> +Toward evening he was told that Scales insisted on seeing him. He +would have seen him; but the doctor was present, and interposed his +fiat. The most that the doctor would allow was that Scales should send +him a written message. +</P> + +<P> +The message came: "What are we to do?" +</P> + +<P> +It was accompanied by no explanation, but the words were ominous. He +made an effort to grasp their meaning, but it escaped him. +</P> + +<P> +"Do what you will," he wrote. +</P> + +<P> +Then the blind wave of stupor overwhelmed him again. Why should he +trouble? It was all right—everything was all right. It was a hard +thing that a man who had worked all his life couldn't get one day's +rest. He wasn't going to worry. Let Scales do the worrying; that was +what he was paid for. Everything was all right—it must be all right +... and Scales was no fool. So he fell asleep again, and the black +night settled on the city, and he heard no more the voices wailing in +the darkness, "Another British defeat!" +</P> + +<P> +If his eyes could have followed the clerk, he would have seen a face +paler than his own, with puckered, blinking eyes, and jaw set in grim +determination. As Scales drew nearer to his own house, it was as +though he smoothed out his face by some magic of dissimulation. +Perhaps it was the mere spectacle of the house that turned the scale of +destiny for him that night. How could he give up that house? It was +the outward symbol of his social apotheosis. He had bought it but a +year ago. And since then how much had he spent on it! What delighted +chafferings he had had with decorators and upholsterers! There was the +dining-room, all panelled in oak, with beautiful red walls, and a +Turkey carpet; and the little library, with its bookcases—all +mahogany; and the drawing-room, with its white stucco decorations, and +its white wooden partitions, which every one admired; and the +billiard-room, with its French windows opening on the little lawn; why, +even the servants' bedrooms were done in white and gold! There was +never a completer house—every one had said so. He had never grown +tired of explaining its unique conveniences to his less fortunate +friends; and on Thursday afternoons, when Mrs. Scales "received," she +had usually closed the function by taking her more intimate +acquaintances all over her house, never even omitting the kitchens. +And he was to give this up? He was to sink back again into a +"semi-detached," with iron railings and a strip of garden, and rooms +with cheap wall-papers? And he was to sell his horse, which he had +bought from an alderman, and get rid of that adorable victoria, in +which he aired his greatness on Saturday afternoons before envious +suburban eyes—and perhaps come back again to the indignity of cheap +trams and 'buses? Well, not if he knew it! He knew a trick worth two +of that. Masterman had told him to do as he liked; and an evil spirit +whispered at his ear as he went up the steps of the house, and told him +quite distinctly what it was that he must do. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Scales met him in the hall, plump, smiling, robed in yellow satin; +and somehow that yellow satin angered him like an insult. He regarded +it with distinct aversion. He felt a rising wave of disgust against +his wife, merely because she looked so cheerful and proud, while he +endured secret tortures—she could wear yellow satin, while his mind +wore crape. That was like women—they had nothing to do but eat and +drink and dress, while their men-folk were on the rack. Talk about the +fine discernment of women! Why, they hadn't any! You might live with +a woman for years, and she would never guess what you, endured and +suffered. So he let his ill temper against his wife smoulder; for it +is a habit common with persons of the Scales variety to treat a wife as +a kind of lightning-rod, which conveniently receives the discharge of +their superfluous wrath. +</P> + +<P> +This wrath accumulated violence in the course of an uncomfortable +dinner. The poor woman had but one theme of perennial interest—her +house and her servants. +</P> + +<P> +"I've thought of a new improvement," she began joyously. "What do you +think of it? I'm going to have a little conservatory opening from the +library window. The builders' men were here this afternoon, and they +say it can be done quite easily, and won't cost more than about two +hundred pounds." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! that's like you!" he retorted, with a vicious snarl. "Always +planning and plotting to spend my money, aren't you? Do you think I'm +made of money? Do you think I've nothing to do but pay for your whims? +I'd have you know I'm master in this house! And I'll have no builders' +men coming here when I'm out!" +</P> + +<P> +"But Elisha, I thought you'd be pleased——" +</P> + +<P> +"Then you'd no business to think? I won't have you doing things +without consulting me! No, I don't want any more dinner! I've other +things to think of besides conservatories!" +</P> + +<P> +And he flung off from the table in a rage, leaving behind him tears and +consternation. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the matter with father?" asked young Benjamin. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sure I don't know," she replied. +</P> + +<P> +"He's getting mighty ill tempered." +</P> + +<P> +But at that the instinctive woman's loyalty flew to his defence. +</P> + +<P> +"I expect he's worried. Your father has so much to think of. +Sometimes I think we were happier before we had all this money." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't," grinned the son. "That's all nonsense, mother. Money is +about the only thing I know that's worth having in this world." +</P> + +<P> +With which admirable sentiment he took himself off to the +billiard-room, where he remained till bed-time, smoking innumerable +cigarettes, and playing a sullen game of pool. He also helped himself +somewhat plentifully to whiskey, for what was the use of money if you +couldn't get all the drink you wanted with it? The creed that money +was the one thing in the world best worth having had not found a +conspicuous justification in Benjamin Scales. He was not an amiable +youth, as we have already seen; under no circumstances could he have +achieved manly virtues; but, whereas poverty might have kept him in a +straight course by the mere pressure of deprivation, money had set wide +for him the gateway of easy vices and destructive pleasures. +</P> + +<P> +The dark night sped on; and, in the little library with the mahogany +bookshelves, Scales devised his scheme. It was by no means novel; it +had often been achieved before, and sometimes with success; it was +simply the last throw of the commercial gambler. Dividends must be +paid; and, when the entire credit of a great concern depends upon their +instant payment, why not pay them out of capital? It was a risk, of +course—the kind of risk which a hundred petty thieves run every day +when they back horses with money stolen from their master's till, in +the firm belief that they can pay it back before suspicion is aroused. +Scales was not constitutionally a brave man; he would have fled from +physical peril promptly and without the least sense of shame; but one +form of courage he had, the courage of the rat that fights desperately +when it is at bay. He saw with terrifying vividness what stood at the +end of the road he proposed to travel—a judge in a red gown, with a +face of inimitable sternness, warders in blue coats with brass buttons, +and the doors of a prison. Nevertheless, he resolved to take the risk. +Masterman had taken the same risk years before in that matter of the +bogus cheque. And he was proud of the transaction; he had boasted of +it many times; it had been the beginning of all his greatness. +Providence had removed Masterman from the area of the present crisis; +and perhaps it was as well, for since his rise into notoriety he had +shown himself more and more eager to obey the safe traditions of +society. But, in the mind of the clerk, that early and successful +piece of trickery was not forgotten, and he used it now for his own +justification. Masterman, at all events, would have no right to +grumble at the repetition of his own trick, but upon a far wider scale +and for a greater prize. +</P> + +<P> +And, besides, the risk was more apparent than real. This long run of +ill luck to the British army in South Africa was something that went +beyond the natural chances of the game. It must end; and, when it +ended, it would be suddenly. A single sweeping victory, and the tide +of prosperity would roll back. Hadn't some pious person said that it +was always darkest before the dawn? If that were true, the dawn was +close at hand—it was more than probable, it was inevitable. And what +a fool he would be if, after holding on to the Amalgamated through all +these weeks of darkness, he let it sink just when the first gleam of +gold was in the sky! +</P> + +<P> +So Scales argued with himself through that long night in the solitary +library. In such arguments it is inclination that supplies the final +bias. When a man argues with himself upon a question of right and +wrong, it is never right that wins. +</P> + +<P> +And during that same long night Masterman slept peacefully, ignorant of +the Tragic Angel that stooped above his pillow. If the Angel could +have spoken, he would have told the story thus. "Years ago a man did +wrong, and was not punished for it. He was elated by his immunity, and +boasted of it. He succeeded in life, as men count success. He climbed +to a place of honour, from which he saw a new world opening at his +feet. Then he would have been glad to forget that early deed of wrong. +He did forget it, as far as he could. But there is a general memory in +the world which forgets nothing. It goes about with a searchlight, +raking over the gutters of the past, and making discoveries. This +sleepless memory found the thing which he was now anxious to forget; +gave it to another, who turned it round and round like a precious +talisman; and, last of all, this other used the talisman both for the +ruin of himself and of the man who had shown him how to use it. And +this other man did not know that the talisman had lost its magic. +Still less did he suspect that it was a fatal and malignant gift. Who +are we to suppose that we can divorce the present from the past? Words +live, deeds live—they live eternally. We cannot lose them at will. +They are seeds which are carried far away upon the wind, but they +always find some soil in which they spring up. They are dead, we say. +Thou fool, nothing is dead which man has ever said, thought, or done. +It only waits its hour, and it always springs up at last." +</P> + +<P> +A month later the financial journals remarked with ardent approbation +that in spite of the wide depression of trade, produced by this +calamitous war, the Brick Trust had paid its full dividends. Such a +circumstance reflected great credit upon the management of the Trust, +especially on its president, Mr. Masterman, whose financial genius had +thus received an extraordinary vindication. If the investor had ever +had the least doubt of the stability of this great commercial venture, +his doubts should be set at rest for ever by this remarkable +achievement. They regretted to add that Mr. Masterman had been +seriously ill, as the result of his indefatigable labours on behalf of +the Trust. He was now, however, quite himself again, and those who had +recently seen him reported him in the best of health. +</P> + +<P> +This announcement created a new boom in the stock of the Trust. At the +same time news came of what appeared to be the first wave of final +triumph in South Africa. Bells were rung, rockets soared, and shouting +multitudes filled every street. Masterman, from his rooms at Brighton, +saw the passing of the shouting crowd, and the tumult went to his head +like wine. +</P> + +<P> +"We are past the worst!" he cried. "I feel years younger. To-morrow I +will wire for Scales, and get into harness again." +</P> + +<P> +And, as he spoke, the face kindled with its old fire of vigour, his +eyes flashed, and his form had its old erectness. +</P> + +<P> +He also believed himself to have won another battle, and the pageant of +his ambitions once more moved steadfastly before him. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap19"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XIX +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE FEAR +</H4> + +<P> +Another month had passed, and Masterman was back in his office. +Outwardly he appeared little changed by his illness. The superb frame +had suffered a shock, but there was no sign of vital injury. The eye +was as keen as ever, the face as firm in outline, the expression of the +lips as masterful. +</P> + +<P> +Nevertheless, there were changes of a more subtle character which were +obvious to a critical observer. He had hours of languor when he would +sit with folded hands, dreamily gazing out of the window, entirely +careless of business. His temper had grown fitful and capricious. +There was no longer the old steady dominance; there was swift +assertion, gusty, violent energy, soon spent, and followed by periods +of sullen inaction. His clerks approached him with trepidation, and +often fled from him in dismay. They never knew what to expect. +Sometimes they were received with brutal and unjust reproaches for +faults they had not committed, or for faults so slight that a generous +mind would have disregarded them. At other times they were welcomed +with familiarity, treated as equals, and perhaps invited to listen to +long boastful talks which had neither purpose nor coherence. And then, +for a few days, as though some obstruction in the brain were suddenly +dissolved, another man would appear, firm, sagacious, capable of swift +decision, a human driving force of incomparable energy—the Masterman +whose marvellous efficiency was the legend of the city. +</P> + +<P> +One feature of his conduct in these days was very marked—he avoided +Scales. He had to meet him every day, but such intercourse as existed +was approached uneasily, hurried through, and dismissed with visible +relief. The truth was, that at the back of his mind lay a great fear +which he dared not even formulate to himself. There was a question +always on his lips which he ached to ask, yet he dared not ask it: +"What was it Scales had done to save the credit of the Trust?" It +appears incredible that he should not have satisfied his curiosity. A +single hour of scrutiny would have put him in possession of the truth. +But it was precisely because he already guessed too accurately what +that truth was, that he refused to hear it uttered. It is easy enough +to walk with boldness in the dark, ghost-haunted room, if you +undoubtedly believe there is no ghost. But if you do—if you have +heard the rattling chain and stealthy sigh, and have felt your blood +stiffen at the moving shadow—then what? The easiest plan is the +child's old game of make-believe. You will invent some fantastic +reason why you should look no closer. And that is what Masterman was +doing. He played at make-believe, haunted by the single terror that +the ghost was real. +</P> + +<P> +He would sometimes skirt the edge of the thought that was consuming +him, begin a sentence boldly, and then let it trail off into a kind of +hurried whisper, or turn it to another end. +</P> + +<P> +"All going well?" he would begin interrogatively, as Scales entered his +private room. "Ah! there are some things I wanted to talk over with +you, Scales—important things, you know." +</P> + +<P> +For a moment his eyes would search the crafty face of the clerk, and +then he would add, "But it doesn't matter, just now. I'm busy +to-day—very busy. Another time will do." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm at your service whenever you like," Scales would say, with a kind +of half-defiant obsequiousness. +</P> + +<P> +"No, no; not now. I'm too busy to-day. Another time." And then he +would rustle the papers on his desk, with a great pretence of business, +and drop his gaze, and go on muttering aimlessly, "Another time, +Scales, when I'm a little stronger, you know." +</P> + +<P> +When Scales left the room he would sit quiet for a long time, and gaze +out of the window, his eyes always falling at last on the gray roof of +the Mansion House. +</P> + +<P> +He never looked in that direction without receiving a new impulse to +his ambition. From the silent doors of that great house he saw himself +issuing forth triumphant, the conqueror of circumstance, seated in a +golden carriage drawn by noble horses, with the applauding crowd +thronging at his wheels. He adorned his triumph with new features day +by day, wearied his invention to create them, and dwelt upon them with +a childish ardour of delight. There were even moments when they ceased +to be imaginary; they had the glow and substance of reality, and he +could hear the beating of the horses' hoofs upon the asphalt, the crash +of music, and the raucous shouting of the crowd. +</P> + +<P> +Then a cold, gray cloud obscured the vision, a gust of cold air set him +shivering, and he was alone once more with his silent fear. +</P> + +<P> +In his own home his conduct was marked by the same contradictions. He +would arrive from the city at nightfall, enter the house in a fierce +bustle of energy, talking eagerly, laughing loudly; and then, as like +as not, in the midst of dinner, would relapse into a heavy silence. +The chief subject of his talk on these occasions, was the things he +meant to do with his increasing wealth. He had engaged a firm of +architects to plan a country house for him, although the site was not +yet found nor the estate bought. He would spend hours over the details +of this house. It would be such a house as was never built before. It +should have a marble swimming-pool, electric ovens, and a vast +palm-garden. For its decoration he would import marble fireplaces from +Italian palaces, tapestries from France, oak carving from Holland. Of +course it would have a picture-gallery—every gentleman had that. He +would employ an expert to collect the pictures. And of course there +would be a great library, and vast stables, and a private golf-course, +and sheets of ornamental water, and extensive gardens. +</P> + +<P> +"Have you done anything more about the new house?" Helen would ask, as +she fluttered up to him with a perfunctory kiss. +</P> + +<P> +"Not to-day. It's been a busy day in the city. But we'll have a look +at the plans presently." +</P> + +<P> +And then the plans would be unrolled, and the details once more +discussed, and new features added. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm tired of this old house," Helen would cry, with pretty petulance. +"I don't see the good of being rich if you've got to live here." +</P> + +<P> +"And you won't live here much longer. Wait till the war is over, and +then you shall take your place with the greatest ladies of the land." +</P> + +<P> +And then Helen would blush with pleasure, her light mind inflated with +pride, her imagination picturing a bright butterfly flight through all +kinds of glittering scenes. Mrs. Masterman, silent as ever, took no +part in these conversations. They were to her a source of pain; but to +Helen they were the breath of life. In the future she pictured to +herself her mother had no part. But she saw herself with singular +distinctness moving on a high plane of circumstance and pleasure, and +she made it her aim to foster her father's vanity as a means of +gratifying her own. +</P> + +<P> +"Father's easy enough to manage," she often told herself. And yet +there were many occasions when her boast was rudely falsified. Did she +never notice the sudden shadow that fell across her father's face? Did +she never ask why it was he would angrily sweep the plans of his new +house aside, crying that, maybe, he would never want them after all, +and would stalk off in gloomy silence to his own room, where he sat +alone until long after the midnight hour had struck? No; she never +guessed the cause of these explosions. But her mother did, and +trembled. +</P> + +<P> +And amid all these aberrations, perhaps the most curious was that his +mind appeared to have received a new bias toward religion. +</P> + +<P> +There was a certain Sunday evening when Mrs. Masterman surprised him, +reading in his office. The house was very still, and he was reading +aloud in a grave and solemn voice. +</P> + +<P> +He looked up as she entered, and, instead of frowning on her intrusion, +motioned her to silence, and went on reading. +</P> + +<P> +"Listen to this," he said. "I thought I knew the Bible, but here's +something I've never met before. The man that wrote this was a wise +fellow. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"<I>'What hath pride profited us? Or what good hath riches with our +vaunting brought us? All those things are passed away like a shadow, +and as a host that hasted by; and as a ship that passeth over the waves +of the water, which, when it is gone by, the trace thereof cannot be +found, neither the pathway of the keel in the waves; or, as when a bird +hath flown through the air, there is no token of her way to be found, +but the light air being beaten with the stroke of her wings, and parted +with the violent noise and motion of them, or passed through, and +therein afterwards no sign where she went is to be found; or like as, +when an arrow is shot at a mark, it parteth the air, which immediately +cometh together again, so that a man cannot know where it went through: +even so we in like manner, as soon as we were born, began to draw to +our end.'</I> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"There's a lot of truth in that," he remarked. "As soon as we are born +we begin to draw near to our end. That's mighty true. It kind of +makes a man feel small, though, as if nothing mattered. It makes a man +feel as though God laughed at him. And it makes me feel, too, as if it +would be rather a good thing to be done with it all. If I could be a +boy again I wouldn't say. I believe I should think it worth while +being kicked and beaten again, just to feel as I did then. But, by the +time a man is going on for sixty, he's about tired of it all. Doesn't +seem worth while doing anything then, except to get into bed and go to +sleep." +</P> + +<P> +He paused a moment, as if to swallow some choking bitterness, and then +went on again in the same low tone: +</P> + +<P> +"There's few men that ever had a harder time than I did when I was a +boy. You never knew my father? No, and a good job too. There's no +question he was a brute. But somehow, when I heard that he was dead, +it came to me what it all meant. He'd never had a fair chance, never +had his real share in life, never had enough of anything, except, +maybe, drink, and of that he'd had too much. Well, that day when I +pictured him lying there all white and quiet, I kind of understood what +the drinking meant too. He was in a rage against life, wanted to +forget the way he'd been treated, and that's why he drank. I reckon +that's why most men drink, just to forget. And I said to myself, +'Well, I don't want to forget. I'll remember everything the world did +to him, and I'll pay it back, blow for blow, and bruise for bruise. +I'll get my fingers into the world's throat before I've done, and I'll +get what I want.' And I've done it too. And now the queer thing is, +it doesn't somehow seem worth while. Things you've wanted all your +life don't seem what you thought 'em when once you've got them. Seems +as if you'd paid too dear for them, and been cheated after all. Your +good time is when you want 'em, and can't get them, and, when you've +got them, you wonder what made you want 'em. That's what I meant when +I said it seemed as though God laughed at us. I believe I'd laugh +myself if I could see it far enough off. All the fuss and bother, and +rampaging up and down, and then a quiet old fellow puts his hand on +your shoulder, and says, 'What hath pride profited us?' and goes on to +tell you all you've done don't amount to a row of pins, and you know +it's true, too. That's the thing that hurts—it's true, and you know +it, and feel like the worst kind of fool." +</P> + +<P> +He spoke musingly, in a voice of extraordinary softness and sad +deliberation. His wife listened wonderingly. The passage he had read, +whose sombre wisdom contradicted every purpose of his own conduct, the +impression it produced of the vanity of life, and his own entire +gravity, tenderness, and sincerity, as he read the solemn words, +wrought in her complete amazement. In all her long knowledge of her +husband she had never known him in this mood. A woman whose habitual +thoughts moved on a more earthly level would have found the mood +ominous; she would have shuddered in every fibre of her affection, and +have imagined the slow beating of the wings of death upon the quiet +air. But, for her, all that was ominous in the scene was eclipsed by +an overmastering sense of spiritual gratitude. Through long years she +had prayed for such an hour, and prayed against hope. Had it come at +last, this hour of wisdom, this impartation of a higher light, this +sudden softening and sweetening of a nature whose harsh earthiness had +been to her a cause of unspeakable distress? +</P> + +<P> +"O Archie," she cried, "how glad I am to have you speak like that! Let +the world go, Archie dear, before it lets you go. Let us go from this +hateful life, you and I. If we could only be poor again, and live in +some quiet place, we could be happy yet. You've never got any +happiness yet out of all your money that I can see, and you never will. +Can't we start again, dear, and won't you forgive Arthur, and have him +back?" +</P> + +<P> +She was on her knees beside him, her head bowed, or she would have seen +the swift hardening of his face. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't be a fool!" he said harshly. +</P> + +<P> +"Is it folly?" she cried. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, the silliest of folly. A man can't turn back if he would, and I +don't really want to. He must go on to the end of things." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! the end—what will that be, Archie?" +</P> + +<P> +"God knows. But there's one thing I know, and that is, that a man +doesn't fight all his life to get something, just to throw it away upon +a whim. I'd think shame of myself if I didn't fight my battle out to +the last stroke. You and me have never agreed, and we don't agree now." +</P> + +<P> +"If you'd only forgive Arthur," she persisted. +</P> + +<P> +"I never forgive fools. I reckon God doesn't do that either. He +forgives sinners, but not fools. Arthur's a fool!" +</P> + +<P> +He closed the Book with a bang, and rose. His face was dark and +troubled. His wife left the room without another word. From the +church across the road there came the soft music of the evening hymn. +He listened, with dilated eyes, keeping time to the familiar rhythm +with extended finger. He breathed a long sigh as it ceased. "It's a +queer thing to think about, that in fifty years' time not one of those +folk will be alive," he reflected. "All gone like—how did the words +run?—like a ship on the water that leaves no trace. I wonder where +Scales will be? Nowhere near where I am, I hope. Scales is a beast!" +</P> + +<P> +And then once more The Fear returned. He saw it like a dark-winged +phantom, pale-faced, threatening, gliding up the road, standing at his +gate. +</P> + +<P> +It stood there a long time, and he wondered if the people coming out of +church could see it too. The wings trailed the ground, and it wore a +black hood. The face beneath the hood he could not see, but he could +hear the words softly uttered, "What hath pride profited us? Or what +good hath riches with our vaunting brought us?" And the evening hymn, +which had ceased, seemed to begin again, attenuated like a whisper from +some organ in the air, a frail, slow, unearthly melody: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;<BR> +Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away;<BR> +Change and decay in all around I see...<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Just then a door clanged, Helen's light, laughing voice was heard in +the hall, and the whole phantom sunk out of sight. He took hold of +gross reality again, and saw his path, hard and lucid like a line of +burnished gold, leading on to a bright shining ridge, on which arose +the long colonnades of a great house, round which a multitude of people +buzzed, and held out golden wreaths to him. +</P> + +<P> +In the reaction of emotion which ensued there came to him a new +virility of purpose. To come so near those golden heights and miss +them was a thing impossible. Once let him scale them, stand visibly +triumphant—and then? Well, it would be time enough then to meditate +upon the deep sad words of this old philosophic thinker which had so +strangely moved him. +</P> + +<P> +Nevertheless, this softened mood did not wholly leave him all this +Sabbath evening. The memory of his father had evoked also the memory +of his son. For the first time a faint suspicion crossed his mind +that, after all, Arthur might have chosen a form of life which promised +greater happiness than his own. Through all the many months of absence +he had rarely mentioned Arthur's name; if he had done so, it had been +with a frowning brow. Now, to the surprise of both mother and +daughter, he asked for Arthur's letters, took them with him into the +office, and there read them quietly. +</P> + +<P> +"If he only had not gone away!" he said. +</P> + +<P> +And with that thought his sense of injury returned. It was a hard +thing for a father to condone the implied condemnation of that flight. +And the only rehabilitation of his pride lay in some visible success +which even Arthur must respect. There was a lot of good that might be +done with money. It was expected nowadays of rich men that they should +be public benefactors. Here was an untried field which he might +conquer; and what a fine irony it would be if Arthur should return to +England some day to find the name of the father he had despised +mentioned with general respect as a public benefactor! It was strange +that he had not thought of that before. It would afford him a new +interest in life, and be an exquisite revenge. +</P> + +<P> +He rose next morning full of this new plan. He had already done more +than his fair share in subscribing to various charities, but from this +hour he began to develop what appeared a reckless generosity. In +reality it was the entire reverse of reckless; it was governed by the +most deliberate strategy. He had no idea of not letting his left hand +know what his right hand gave. He gave only in such a way as to +attract immediate attention. His greatest act was a subscription of +£10,000 to a patriotic fund for the equipment of army hospitals at the +seat of war. His generosity was much applauded; the example of his +public-spiritedness was quoted far and wide; it was even mentioned in a +sermon preached in St. Paul's Cathedral, and in the "religious press" +there were many pleasing homilies on the wise use of money. From these +new forms of homage his pride drew fresh strength. He moved with a +firmer step, was conscious of increased physical vigour, and became +again the Masterman of the old days, eagle-eyed, daring, despotic. +</P> + +<P> +"You're giving away a lot of money," said one of his friends at the +club to him one day. "I suppose it's part of your policy," he added +ironically. +</P> + +<P> +"A man ought to give in times like this," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose so," said his friend. "There never was a time when money +could buy so much. Probably because most of us have so little of it." +</P> + +<P> +He did not appreciate the gibe. But in the bottom of his heart he knew +what men called his generosity was, after all, just what his candid +friend had called it—policy. And it was good policy too. It gave +fresh prestige to the Trust. It was a good investment. To be remarked +for public spirit and generosity led to all sorts of things in England. +England might make pretence to many virtuous and fine ideals, but +there, as in every other country, money could buy anything. It must +not be done openly, of course. But it was done all the same, only a +little less flagrantly than in those franker days when men sold their +votes, and it was said that members of Parliament looked beneath their +dinner-plates for Bank of England notes before they decided what their +views were on questions of disputed legislation. +</P> + +<P> +And at length he had his reward. There came one day to his office a +large official envelope, containing cautious inquiries, whether, under +certain circumstances, which were deftly indicated, he would be +prepared to accept a knighthood. There was, of course, a grave +reference to his public services, especially in his large gifts to +patriotic causes, which had no doubt stimulated the generosity of the +public, and had attracted the attention and gratitude of the Government. +</P> + +<P> +He sat still for a long time with his eyes fixed upon the letter. So +it had come at last, the long-expected, the unavoidable, the supreme +prize of his existence! No: not the supreme; this was but the +beginning. He meant to have more, much more than this. +</P> + +<P> +He resolved that he would say not a word about it, except by way of +proud hint to his family. He would surprise them with it; and he +pictured himself announcing the news. The final letter which conferred +the dignity would come by the morning mail most probably; he would +distinguish it at once by the large official envelope; but he would be +in no haste to open it. He would do what children do with sweetmeats, +keep the best to the last. And then, just when Helen kissed him as he +left the house, and said "Good-bye, father!" he would turn round with a +grave smile, and say, "Sir Archibold Masterman, if you please." And +she would say, "What new joke is this, father?" And he would answer +with a calm voice, as though he spoke of a matter of the least possible +importance, "It's not a joke ... read that!" And his wife would stand +behind Helen, trembling a little; and, far away in Canada, Arthur would +get the news, and would be sorry he had not valued such a father.... +It was a delightful vision, and he thrilled to it with the ardour of a +boy. +</P> + +<P> +He replied at once, expressing his appreciation and his gratitude. +Then he fell to wondering how long it took to get the matter settled. +There were no doubt forms and preliminaries, and all that sort of +thing, but surely a week would be long enough. A week passed, a +month—still no answer came. He tortured himself with fears of what +might have happened. Had he expressed himself foolishly in his reply, +shown himself too eager perhaps, or had his letter miscarried? +</P> + +<P> +He would go to Brighton. This strain of waiting was intolerable. No, +he would go to Paris. The man who was to collect the oak and marbles +for his projected country house lived there, and it would divert his +thoughts to meet him. +</P> + +<P> +He went by the afternoon express from Charing Cross. As he entered his +compartment, he noticed a neatly dressed inconspicuous man who appeared +to be observing him closely. The man looked at him strangely, passed +by him and entered the same train. He saw him again upon the boat. +When he reached the Gare du Nord the same man passed by him again, just +as he was ordering a carriage, and disappeared into the crowd. +</P> + +<P> +"Some pressman, I suppose. Well, he'll know me again," he said to +himself, and thought no more about it. +</P> + +<P> +The next day he met the dealer he had come to see. He proved to be a +most interesting fellow, shrewd, adroit, and a master in the art of +persuasion. One thing led to another, and a couple of days passed in +the inspection of the stock. Each night he came back quite tired out +to the hotel. Each morning he began his quest for art treasures with +renewed ardour. He had no other occupation. He had left no address at +the office, and no mail reached him. It was a new and delightful +method of taking a holiday, and he wondered he had not thought of it +before. +</P> + +<P> +As he left the dealer's one day for lunch, he saw the same neatly +dressed inconspicuous man crossing the street just ahead of him. The +man turned back, stopped at a shop-window, and, as he passed, looked +him squarely in the face. When he reached his hotel that night the +same man was sitting quietly reading in the foyer. This time the man +did not look at him. +</P> + +<P> +On the fourth day he had completed his business with the dealer. The +longed-for letter must have come by this time. He resolved to return +to London by the nine o'clock train next morning. +</P> + +<P> +In the evening, as he was packing his valise, there was a knock at the +bedroom door. He opened it, and found the man standing outside. +</P> + +<P> +"You are Mr. Masterman, I believe?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, my name is Masterman." +</P> + +<P> +"I want a word with you, if you please." +</P> + +<P> +"You must be quick then. I'm busy—I leave to-morrow morning for +London." +</P> + +<P> +"I also leave to-morrow morning. We might travel together." +</P> + +<P> +"What do you mean, sir? I don't know you, and I don't in the least +desire your company." +</P> + +<P> +"Very few people do," said the man, with a quiet smile. There was +something in that smile indefinitely stealthy, hostile, menacing; it +sent an icy thrill through the heart and curdled the marrow in the +bones. "Mr. Masterman," the man went on, in a low, firm voice, "I'm +sorry to cause you personal inconvenience. You will understand that I +have a duty to perform. You must go with me, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, what ... what ... do you mean you arrest me?" +</P> + +<P> +"That is my duty, sir. There are grave charges against you, which I +for one shall be glad if you can disprove, for I've heard of lots of +good you've done. Mr. Scales was arrested two days ago. I take it +you'll come quietly." +</P> + +<P> +"Scales arrested? For what, pray?" +</P> + +<P> +"The charge is fraud. I am not at liberty to say more." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! And so——" But speech failed him. He appeared to be losing his +grip upon reality as he had done on that Sunday evening when he saw The +Fear.... There was a sound of organ music, rolling in soft surges, +faint, solemn, sad—"Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day." +</P> + +<P> +And a figure with dark wings that trailed the dust, and hooded head, +very silent. The hood slowly lifted, and he saw the face at last—a +face with a quiet smile, authoritative, inscrutable, indefinitely +hostile. He had seen it at Charing Cross; it had followed him through +the streets of Paris; he saw it now, a kind of white patch on the +darkness, the hard whiteness of flame which nothing could quench. +</P> + +<P> +Then the phantasm faded out, as it had done before. The horrible truth +went crashing through his brain. He knew now why his letter had not +been answered.... So they had heard things ... and never, never now +would he be Sir Archibold Masterman. They had heard things ... and, +while he waited for honour, they were plotting his dishonour. God! how +they must have laughed! It was the supreme irony. +</P> + +<P> +A wave of bitter laughter began to rise in his own heart; but something +warned him, if he laughed just then, he would go mad. +</P> + +<P> +He clutched at his leaping nerves as a man might clutch the reins of a +runaway horse. All at once he attained complete sad composure. He was +walking on a bleak high tableland among the stars, from which he looked +down, and saw the world and all that was therein as a very little +thing. Honour, dishonour, wealth, poverty—all were alike trifles, the +blowing up and down of a little dust.... "<I>As a ship that passeth over +the waves of the water, which, when it is gone by, the trace thereof +cannot be found.</I>" +</P> + +<P> +He was quite calm now. He turned toward the man, who still stood with +his inscrutable quiet smile, unavoidable as destiny, watching him +narrowly. +</P> + +<P> +"I will go with you," he said. "I give you my word, I will go quietly." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap20"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XX +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE RETURN +</H4> + +<P> +Through the soft summer seas the great ship moved into the mouth of the +English Channel. The early dawn had revealed the faint mist-folded +promontories of the Cornish coast well to westward. Red-sailed +fishing-boats hung like a flight of birds upon the lucid floors of +ocean; coasting steamers snorted past with an air of insular +importance; here and there a white-sailed brig glimmered in the early +sunlight; and, coming after the long loneliness of open seas, these +signs of life impressed the mind like the stir and tumult of a city. +Plymouth would be reached by noon. +</P> + +<P> +Letters, telegrams, and papers had already come aboard with the +pilot—the first friendly overtures of a land slowly rising out of the +thinning morning bank. Men and women, with laughing eyes and gladdened +faces, stood in little groups reading their correspondence, exchanging +jests, commenting upon scraps of news which they had gathered from the +papers. It seemed the tide of war had turned at last. It was to a +madly joyous land the great ship made its slow approach. Suddenly upon +the deck the band clashed with the animating music of the National +Anthem. The English stood uncovered as the first familiar bar vibrated +on the quiet air; the Americans watched them with a half-sympathetic +amusement; even the steerage passengers, foreigners for the most part, +without part or lot in British victories, smiled cheerfully. So joyous +was the hour that private grief appeared a contradiction, an +impertinence. +</P> + +<P> +There was neither telegram nor letter for Arthur, and he had been +unable to secure a paper. To him England extended no welcome. +</P> + +<P> +During the long trans-continental journey, and the longer ocean voyage, +he had beaten out all the conditions of his situation with an iteration +that had finally exhausted the possibilities of vehement emotion. It +is happily not within the power of the human organism to feel and +suffer intensely except for short periods; agony begets lethargy. It +is one of the mercies of pain that it thus dies of its own excess, that +in its intensity it becomes coma. Arthur had reached the point of +moral coma. The red-hot iron had ploughed through his soul, but it had +also seared it into brief insensibility. +</P> + +<P> +In his first extremity of consternation it had seemed a thing +impossible to survive the horror that possessed him. The image of his +father rose before him, sad-browed, accusing, spent with mortal +struggle, pale with immortal defeat—it travelled with him like a face +painted in the air. It evoked in him an anguish of commiseration, and +even of remorse. He remembered every slighting thought that he had +cherished, as men recollect wrongs done to the dead, magnifying errors +into cruelties, faults into crimes. With a sudden burning of the blood +he had realised how singular and strong is that bond of flesh which +unites the parent to the child, how sacred and how incapable of all +annulment. At the root of his own life lay a force stronger than +justice, stronger than religion, a thing bare, irrational, +primeval—the awful sanctity of kinship. And he knew in that moment +that, for good or ill, his place was beside his father. There he must +needs stand, even though it were at the gallows' foot. Whatever burden +crushed those strong shoulders he must share, even though the load were +shameful. From that obligation there was no discharge. +</P> + +<P> +From New York he had cabled both to his father and to Bundy, but no +reply had come from either. He had had to wait two days for the +sailing of a ship, the first of which was a day of infinite misery, +aimless wandering, languid revisitation of familiar scenes. On the +second day he met Horner. He found the little artist re-established in +his studio, and from him received a boisterous welcome. +</P> + +<P> +"Have you seen my book?" he cried. +</P> + +<P> +"What book?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I like that. Didn't you write it for me? And don't you +recollect we were to share profits? Look at those"—and he pushed +toward him an immense bundle of press-cuttings. +</P> + +<P> +From these it appeared that the book had achieved notoriety, if not +fame. +</P> + +<P> +"You didn't let me know where you went, and you've never written me, or +I would have posted these things to you. Ripping, aren't they?" +</P> + +<P> +"They appear excellent." +</P> + +<P> +"And there's something else that's still better. Read that!" +</P> + +<P> +It was a letter bearing the well-known office address of Mr. Wilbur M. +Legion, and enclosing a substantial cheque. +</P> + +<P> +"It only came yesterday. I guess we'll cash it. Half of it is yours, +you know, and if you're going to England it may come in handy." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur looked up at that, fixing his eyes on Horner's cheerful face +with a long, searching gaze. +</P> + +<P> +Did Horner know the miserable truth about his father? But of course he +did. It was being shouted round the world. And this reference to the +money being handy on a voyage to England was no doubt the little +artist's indirect, and indeed delicate, way of communicating his +knowledge. +</P> + +<P> +"O Horner!" he cried. "I am very miserable!" And he bowed his head +upon his hands, and wept the first tears he had shed since the blow had +fallen on him. +</P> + +<P> +There was a kindly arm round his shoulders in a moment. "Why, look +'ere, what's the matter?" And before he knew it he was telling Horner +everything. +</P> + +<P> +"Well," said Horner, when he finished. "I guess things aren't as bad +as you think. They never are, you know." +</P> + +<P> +"They couldn't be much worse." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh yes, they could," he went on philosophically. "The jury hasn't +convicted yet, and perhaps they won't. But that's neither here nor +there. The thing you've got to do is to buck up. And look 'ere, about +this cheque—you take it all. I don't want it. I'm in funds. And, +besides, there's more to come." +</P> + +<P> +"No, I can't do that." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, you can, and you will. Call the half of it a loan, if you like, +but you've got to take it. You know my motto, 'Englishmen ought to +help each other,' and you've just got to let me help you." +</P> + +<P> +Once before in his extremity Horner had saved him from starvation; now +he saved him from despair. The little artist was not a person of +exacting virtues, he made no pretence to religion, and would have +appeared a strange sheep indeed in the folds of the elect; but he +possessed a simple faith in kindness not always found among persons of +immaculate behaviour, and, what is more, he practised his belief. He +filled the studio with the echoes of his cheerful laughter, waited on +Arthur with a watchful tenderness that was almost womanly, refused +encouragement to grief, and finally insisted on a good dinner at +Delmonico's, in the pious hope which is common to all Englishmen that +the ugliest troubles of the brain are erased by due attention to the +stomach. It was Horner who insisted that this should be no +second-class voyage on a slow boat; it was he who engaged a berth on a +famous liner, drove with Arthur to the dock, and waved a cheerful hand +to him as the great ship swung off upon the gray water. When the true +apocalyptic books, which record the unknown kindnesses of man, are +opened, it is not impossible that the name of this little hare-brained +artist may stand higher than the name of kings and conquerors—perhaps +also than the names of certain saints, who in their earthly days were +less remarkable for warm sympathies than for icy propriety, and a +strict attention to the main chance. +</P> + +<P> +And now the voyage was done; the white shaft of the Eddystone lay +astern, and the exquisite green bosom of Mount Edgecumbe swelled from +the sun-flecked water. The passengers streamed down into the tender, +and a few minutes later he stood in the long Custom House sheds of +Plymouth. +</P> + +<P> +Here at last he got a daily paper, and the first thing that met his eye +was a long account of the Masterman trial. +</P> + +<P> +At the same moment a telegraph-boy went shouting through the crowd, +"Masterman! Any one of the name of Masterman?" +</P> + +<P> +He took the telegram in silence, conscious of many eyes suddenly turned +toward him. It was from Bundy, and read, "Will meet you at +Paddington." He was eager to take immediate refuge in the railway +carriage. He was conscious that even the telegraph-boy was looking at +him curiously. Suddenly he saw moving toward him through the crowd +another figure that he thought he recognized—O joy! it was Vickars! +</P> + +<P> +"Vickars!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I learned from Bundy by what boat you'd come. I've a compartment +reserved for you. Let us get into it at once." +</P> + +<P> +"O Vickars! that we should meet like this!" +</P> + +<P> +"Come, come, my fellow—no hysterics. You were always brave. Be brave +now." +</P> + +<P> +He put his arm through Arthur's, and moved through the crowd with erect +head. They were scarcely seated in the carriage when the train began +to move. +</P> + +<P> +"And now," said Vickars, "we can talk. In the first place, let me ask +you how much do you know of this unhappy business?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing but what the papers tell me. I see the trial is to-day." +</P> + +<P> +"This is the third day. By the time we reach London the verdict may be +expected." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur turned eagerly, with a flushed face, to the pile of papers he +had purchased. +</P> + +<P> +"I wouldn't trouble over those just now, if I were you," said Vickars. +"Suppose you just let me tell you all about it. That is what I came +for, you know." +</P> + +<P> +He spoke with such entire calmness that it might have been supposed +that what he had to say was of no importance. And this note of calm +communicated itself to Arthur, as he meant it should. He knew that the +great thing just now was to invigorate the boy's strength, and this +must be done by the suppression of active sympathy. +</P> + +<P> +"Very well," said Arthur, "I am ready." +</P> + +<P> +And then Vickars told his story, to the soft thudding accompaniment of +the rushing wheels. +</P> + +<P> +The substance of the story was this. The strong point made by the +defence was that Masterman had not been aware of the frauds committed +by Scales. There was no doubt whatever that Scales would be convicted; +but, since the trial began, a great deal of public sympathy had gone +out to Masterman. It was proved that he had been too ill to have any +knowledge of what Scales was doing. This might be called criminal +negligence; it would depend largely on what view the judge took. It +was proved that he had not absconded, as was at first supposed; his +flight to Paris was an accident. From the hour of his arrest, those +who were most inclined to judge him harshly could not but admit a +certain magnanimity in his behaviour. He had sacrificed his entire +private fortune to his creditors, and as for the Brick Trust, it was +very likely indeed that it would weather the gale. The near close of +the war was creating a boom in all business. And then, amid the +general joyousness, there was perhaps a tendency to lenient judgment; +even jurymen were not wholly insensitive to such a tendency. +</P> + +<P> +"Then you don't think father will be convicted?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think so. But of course he will be ruined. You know what I +have thought of your father's business methods, and my opinion is +unchanged. But I have learned more charitable judgments than I used to +have. I see now that men may be criminals without the least suspicion +that they are acting criminally. When a man has done wrong for a long +course of years, he gets to believe that his wrong is right—the light +that is in him becomes darkness. He simply steers his life by an +untrue compass, and no one is more amazed than himself when shipwreck +happens. That is your father's case, I honestly believe. He is the +victim of the force that he has helped to create." +</P> + +<P> +"But you say he has not been dishonest in this affair?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, not explicitly—perhaps not implicitly. That is something which +no one will ever know. The fault lies deeper. It lies in greed. A +man wants more than he has a just right to have, is not content with +honest returns for honest work, becomes unscrupulous, comes to believe +that business is warfare, in which the spoils are for the victor, and +by the time he reaches this point his sense of right and wrong is +fatally confused. He does not really know what is his and what is +another's. And the worst of it is that the world in which he moves is +no wiser. He finds himself applauded for acts which in a juster system +of society would cover him with shame. Ah, Arthur! 'beware of +covetousness'—no deeper word than that was ever uttered." +</P> + +<P> +He spoke with a certain sad quietness, very different from his old +clamant vehemence. Arthur could not but notice it, and he found +himself looking with a kind of wonder on the face of his friend. The +face seemed to have taken on a new aspect. It was paler and thinner, +with an increased loftiness of brow; there were new lines round the +mouth, deeper shadows underneath the eyes, and the lock of hair that +fell across the forehead was almost white; but the most striking thing +was that a certain subtle fire that once lit the face had disappeared. +The keen prophetic look was still there, but it was veiled, dulled, no +longer edged with expectancy; a prophet's face, but no more the face of +a prophet who saw the morning. And in the slow, quiet voice there was +an accent of wearied hope, almost of despair. +</P> + +<P> +Vickars caught the look of wonder on Arthur's face, and said, "Ah! I +see you are surprised that I should speak so tolerantly. I used to say +that I could make the world a paradise if I were sole despot of the +world for a single year, didn't I? +</P> + +<P> +"And now?" +</P> + +<P> +"Now I see that I spoke foolishly. The world is not so easily +transformed." +</P> + +<P> +"Is it you that are transformed?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I used to hate men for being evil; and the only weapon I had to +attack them with was hatred. I have come to see that hatred is the +wrong weapon. You must love men, if you are to change them. You must +love even the vile, and those most bitterly opposed to you. You cannot +even understand them unless you love them. I hated your father once, +because I did not understand the kind of temptations he endured. Now I +have come to understand these temptations, and I find it in my heart to +pity him." +</P> + +<P> +"O Vickars!" cried Arthur. "You are teaching me a hard lesson. I also +have hated.... I have never made allowances. I have indulged +contempt, I have behaved like the worst kind of prig. But do you know, +since this happened ... well, how can I put it? ... I have seen my +father in a new light. And now it seems to me a wonderful thing that +he is as good as he is." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, that is precisely true, and not only of your father, but of all +men. The truly divine thing about man is that he is always better than +you might expect him to be. It is not the depravity of human nature +that is its outstanding feature—it is the goodness. And you find the +goodness in the very heart of the depravity, like the pearl in the +oyster. But I'm preaching—it's an old habit of mine: forgive me." +</P> + +<P> +"It's a sermon I much needed," said Arthur humbly. +</P> + +<P> +"We all need it, and those who think themselves the best need it most." +And then, with a touch of the old whimsical humour, he added, "Whenever +you hear a man preaching very earnestly against a vice, you may be sure +he has it. I am a case in point." +</P> + +<P> +After that there was little said for a long time. Arthur sat gazing +from the window at the flying scroll of country, the dear desirable +green land, with its ancient parks, clear shallow streams, trim +cottages, level lawns, and wealth of flowers—all so different from +that majestic, half-barbaric vastness which he had left. The tears +filled his eyes, as they have filled the eyes of many a returning +exile. Why did men ever leave it, this land which in every detail was +a finished picture, created by the art of centuries? Where else could +they expect to find such "haunts of ancient peace," dreamy nooks, gray +towers and spires, leisurely, modest happiness, infinite, calm +security? And, as he looked, there came to him again the old thought +that the only life worth living was one remote from cities. Had his +father lived here, earning modest competence, how different the story! +It was the city that had snared him, killed the best in him, infected +him with its fierce, unnatural greed. O damnable, dreadful London! how +many hast thou slain, thou Harlot of the Nations, with thy skirts full +of blood! And yet men went on building new and even worse Londons, +undeterred by past warnings—New York, with its roaring tides of greed +and clang of gold; Chicago, with its naked barbarism, the pure seas +evermore polluted, the fair landscapes blackened, the skies stained +with pestilence. O! it was horrible! If he could but save his father +from this—it might not yet be too late. And there sprang up in his +mind that pathetic fallacy, so often asserted by religion, but so +seldom true, that all suffering purifies; that from wounded pride and +overthrown ambition there must needs come the nobler heart: whereas +every one knows that suffering more often has its issue in bitter +stoicism, and injured pride clamours for revenge, and there is no more +deadly force than defeated ambition, which draws a new strength from +rage. +</P> + +<P> +It was a hard problem for a youth of twenty-three to grapple: no wonder +that he failed. +</P> + +<P> +But that desirable green land spoke its message all the same. "<I>Man +walketh in a vain show and disquieteth himself in vain</I>"—so ran the +message. Even Vickars had found that message true. He had beaten +himself weary against the strong bastions of the world, and in vain. +Had he also learned the difficult lesson that the most one man can do +is to live his own life the best way he can, satisfied that nothing +really perishes in the vast sum of things, content if he can add his +insignificant unit of effort to a growing righteousness? Perhaps he +had. Perhaps also that was the only real lesson life had to teach us. +</P> + +<P> +He was aroused from his reverie by the hand of Vickars on his shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear fellow," he said, "there's something else I have to say to +you, something I find it very difficult to say." +</P> + +<P> +"About my father?" +</P> + +<P> +"No; I have told you all there is to tell. Believe me, I have kept +nothing back." +</P> + +<P> +"What then?" +</P> + +<P> +"Have you thought of what this calamity has meant for others beside +your father? Have you thought what effect it might have upon your +mother?" +</P> + +<P> +"She is not ill?" +</P> + +<P> +"No," said Vickars solemnly, "she is not ill. She is ill no longer. +She is at rest." +</P> + +<P> +"O Vickars!—not dead?" +</P> + +<P> +"Let us use a better word—at rest. She is where she has wished to be +these many weary years." +</P> + +<P> +"And I did not know it. O mother!—mother!" +</P> + +<P> +Vickars turned his face away from that sacred grief. After a few +moments he said, "Can you bear that I should tell you about it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Tell me." +</P> + +<P> +"I think she was never the same after you left, Arthur. I told you she +came to see us, didn't I? After that first visit she came often. She +honoured us with her confidence. Little by little we learned her +story—the story of a saintly heart at war with circumstance. I +believe the one supreme force that enabled her to live was the purpose +to redeem you from the kind of life that threatened you. She summed +herself up in that purpose. When it was once achieved, her hold on +life gradually relaxed. She had no wish to live longer, composed +herself for the grave, and spoke cheerfully of her departure. Let this +be your great comfort, my dear boy—she was absolutely sure of you, of +your ability, I mean, to live the high life she had always coveted for +you. Her joy in dying was that you were safe." +</P> + +<P> +"When ... when did it happen?" +</P> + +<P> +"On the day your father was arrested. She never knew that, God be +thanked. She went quite quietly, without pain. She simply slept, and +woke—somewhere else." +</P> + +<P> +"O my poor father!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. It is right you should think of him. All his life fell at one +blow. There is a sweetness in your grief—you had been the one +happiness of her closing years; but think of the bitterness that was in +his." +</P> + +<P> +"Why was I not told?" he cried fiercely. +</P> + +<P> +"You had enough to bear. We knew you would come home, and we waited." +</P> + +<P> +"But you terrify me. How much more are you keeping back? Is Elizabeth +safe? Is there any other cup that I must drink?" +</P> + +<P> +"Hush! hush! I give you my word I have told you everything. Don't +make it hard for me, Arthur. It sounds a poor thing to say that I have +acted for the best, but it is the only thing left to say." +</P> + +<P> +"Forgive me. I know you have." +</P> + +<P> +So that inner voice which had told him that he would see his mother's +face no more had spoken truly. How vividly he recalled that night of +moonlight, that earnest pleading voice, that solemn farewell! But, as +the anguish of the shock subsided, he found nothing left but softened +thought, and the beginnings of a sad pathetic gratitude. She had never +known the worst, for which he, too, could say, "God be thanked!" One +significant phrase of Vickars vibrated through his mind like a chord of +music—"she composed herself for the grave." He could see the tired +hands meekly folded, the threads of life dropping one by one from the +weary fingers, a holy softness on her face, the first wave of the +Eternal peace rippling round the heart. That was not death—no, mere +rest. And there came to him, too, like a sudden revelation, a thought +which he was never to forget, the divine essential sacrifice in the +lives of all good women. To live not only for others but in others, to +toil and be forgotten, to be content that something fashioned from her +own mind and flesh by prayer and tears and humble renunciation would +live when she was gone, a flower drawing strength and loveliness from +her own buried life—that was woman's lot, a thing divine as the Cross +itself, and like the Cross, the expression of the eternal sacrifice of +self. +</P> + +<P> +"God help me to be worthy of such a sacrifice," he prayed. "But there +never yet lived a man who was worthy of what a mother does for him. +God help me to remember, and to see in all women something holy, for +her dear sake." +</P> + +<P> +The train was rapidly nearing Paddington. The blue sky was tinged with +smoky grayness, the green fields were discoloured, and long rows of +mean, shabby houses took the place of white cottages under hanging +woods. +</P> + +<P> +"And now, pull yourself together," Vickars said. "God help you in the +next few hours." +</P> + +<P> +"I think He will," said Arthur simply. +</P> + +<P> +"I forgot to tell you, Bundy expects you to stay with him. He has a +kind of palace somewhere in Kensington, I believe." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think I can do that." +</P> + +<P> +"No, I don't think I would. You should be with your father to-night." +</P> + +<P> +"If..." and the rest he dared not utter. +</P> + +<P> +"You mustn't think of that. I feel morally sure that he will be +acquitted. And then he will want you badly. You understand?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I understand." +</P> + +<P> +The train glided into Paddington. Bundy saw him at once as he stepped +from the train. His honest face was flushed, his eyes bright with +excitement. +</P> + +<P> +"I have a carriage ready!" he cried. "Be quick!" +</P> + +<P> +"Where are we going?" +</P> + +<P> +"To the Old Bailey. The jury are now considering their verdict. If we +drive fast, we shall be just in time." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap21"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE VERDICT +</H4> + +<P> +The carriage rolled out of Paddington into the familiar London streets. +The gaiety of summer clothed the city. High white clouds sailed in a +sea of blue, houses were gay with window flowers, women in bright +clothing, themselves like flowers, gave colour to the streets. In +Oxford Street flags were flying, the signals of a recent victory in +Africa. There was an indescribable sense of resurrection in the air, +as if not alone the earth, but the hearts of men and women had won +release from some deep grave of fear. Arthur watched the scene with +dull, unseeing eyes; and to his morbid sensitiveness it seemed as +though London laughed in mockery of his grief. +</P> + +<P> +Vickars sat beside him in silence; Bundy watched the two anxiously, his +eyes full of tears. He wished to say something comforting; and from +time to time made some casual remark, but uttered it hesitatingly, with +an apologetic smile. It was precisely like the action of a good +friendly dog, who lays his warm head on his master's unresponsive hand, +and watches him with wistful eyes, delicately fearful of intrusion on a +grief he cannot comprehend. It was evident, however, that Bundy had +something which he really wished to say, and at last it came. +</P> + +<P> +"You'll be wondering, after what I said to you in New York, why I +haven't helped your father?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. I've never thought about it, except to know you would be as good +as your word." +</P> + +<P> +"And so I would have been. But——" +</P> + +<P> +"You needn't explain. There is too much love between us for that." +</P> + +<P> +"But I must. And I would rather do it at once and get it over. Your +father refused all help. You, know his pride, and he's prouder now +than ever he was. One might almost suppose it pleased him to stand +alone, to fight with his back to the wall, to defy the world to do its +worst on him. And I believe that is what he really does feel." +</P> + +<P> +"I think I can understand." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you'll understand why I could not help him, why no one could. I +offered him anything he liked to ask, and this is what he said: 'No, +Bundy; I've brewed the cup, and I'll drink it. I don't want any sugar +in it. No one shall ever say that Archibold Masterman was a coward.' +That was what he said to me, and he said it like a fallen emperor. It +was foolish, but there was something great in it too. I felt that it +was great." +</P> + +<P> +"I think so too." +</P> + +<P> +"It was great." The phrase was a portrait—vital, indubitable, +convincing. During all these miserable days and nights Arthur had +laboured to fashion some portrait of his father. He had seen him bent, +shame-stricken, prematurely aged; had imagined him leaning on his young +strength for succour, acknowledging his errors, voluble in explanation, +perhaps fierce in accusation of those who had failed him or betrayed +him; had, in fact, seen him in every attitude but the real one; and +now, as though a curtain lifted, he saw his father painted at a touch, +with an instinctive penetration, an absolute veracity. He was a +fighter, and would fight to the last. His pride fed upon defeat. +Calamity had given him nerves of steel. He would drink the cup that he +had brewed, and drink it with a smile. "No sugar"—that phrase said +everything. Pity, sympathy, help, consolation—he was above them, +beyond them, indifferent to them; a man who bared his breast to the +flight of arrows, thrust his hand in the flame without a shudder, +challenged the thunderbolt, upheld while the flame consumed him by a +scorn more potent than his anguish. Yes, it was great—a Promethean +greatness, which defies the heart-eating vulture. He might have known +so much, if he had thought about it. In a sense, he had always known +it, for he had always, even as a boy, felt the element of greatness in +his father. But now, for the first time, he really measured it, and +his heart quailed before it, foreseeing elements in this imminent +meeting with his father which he had not so much as guessed. +</P> + +<P> +They had driven fast. The carriage passed rapidly by the old Church of +St. Sepulchre, and under the walls of Newgate, stopping at last at the +mean, insignificant doors of the Old Bailey. +</P> + +<P> +The pavements were thronged. From the court a great crowd was pouring +out. And already, from the neighbouring newspaper offices, men and +boys were racing breathlessly, shouting "Verdict!" Above the clamour +of the street the shrill cry rose, "<I>Verdict! Verdict!</I>" +</P> + +<P> +Bundy leapt from the carriage, and plunged into the throng. He came +back a moment later, waving an evening paper. +</P> + +<P> +"What is it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Scales five years; Masterman acquitted!" +</P> + +<P> +"Thank God!" +</P> + +<P> +And then the tension broke. Arthur found himself sobbing, with the arm +of Vickars round his neck. +</P> + +<P> +"Take me to my father at once," he said. "I wish to go home with him." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well," said Bundy. "Wait here till I find him." +</P> + +<P> +The crowd rapidly thinned, till, in a few moments, where a roaring +torrent of life had run, but an insignificant ripple flowed and eddied. +The tragic bubble, so long watched by thousands of eager eyes, had +burst; it was a thing of the past, to be speedily forgotten. The +carriage moved unimpeded now to the doors of the court. A few +stragglers still hung around, in the hope of seeing once more the +protagonists in the finished drama. +</P> + +<P> +A long black van with a grated door at the back drew up against the +curb. Two policemen came out of the court-house, looked warily up and +down the street, and disappeared again. The man who drove the van +nodded to them, and went on reading his evening paper. +</P> + +<P> +The policemen reappeared, with a man walking between them. The man's +head was bowed, his coat-collar turned up, his hat drawn down over his +eyes. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur had a brief glimpse of a face yellow as wax, a pair of shifty, +bloodshot eyes, and he shuddered. It was Scales. The door of the van +closed, and, through the barred window, that yellow, awful face looked +out, in a last glimpse at liberty. A long, terrible look, gathering up +and flashing to the memory things that would be seen no more, +unforgetable things that would become the torture of sleep and dreams, +little things, such as sunlight flashing on a pool of water, sparrows +in the gutter, a broken flower lying in the road, a girl's languorous +face turned toward her lover, a beggar gazing into the window of a +cook-shop—and then the lids fell upon the bloodshot eyes, and the van +rolled away. +</P> + +<P> +"And that might have been my father," thought Arthur. And with the +thought came a pang of pity for the man in the black van. Not a good +man, not even a lovable man; without grace, without charm, inherently +mean-natured—yet, were he a thousandfold worse than he was, to be +pitied as a creature going to the torture. And, after all, who should +judge even a Scales with justice, who declare how far he was a victim +of the evil system which had inflamed his avarice—the victim, too, +perhaps of some potency of evil in his own blood, some ghostly hand +stretched out of the illimitable past, from whose predestined clutch he +could not escape? Ah, God! who should judge? +</P> + +<P> +And now at last he saw him—his father. Archibold Masterman stood in +the doorway of the court-house. He came down the steps with a firm +tread, looking up and down the street with a calm, defiant glance, his +lips compressed in scornful challenge. Yet scorn could not conceal the +ravage wrought in him by his misfortunes. The face had lost its +colour, it was drawn and haggard, and the hair was nearly white. He +was talking with Bundy, and he smiled as he talked. He drew near the +waiting carriage, opened the door, and stepped in. +</P> + +<P> +"Father!" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, Arthur!"—no other word. +</P> + +<P> +There was a hard grip of the hand, a sudden heat that flushed the +haggard face, and then iron-cold composure. +</P> + +<P> +"Won't you come to my house, Masterman? If only for to-night," pleaded +Bundy. +</P> + +<P> +"No; I want to go home.... To such a home as I've got," he added +bitterly. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, God bless you, my friend!" said Bundy softly. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not asking anything of God that I know of, and you needn't ask +anything for me. I reckon I can look after myself. Tell the driver, +Eagle House, Highbourne Gardens." +</P> + +<P> +And the carriage moved off. +</P> + +<P> +They reached the house, and entered it in silence. Masterman went at +once to his room—the room in which his wife had died—and remained +there. What memories, what remorses met him there, who can say? +Arthur, passing that closed door at midnight, could hear his father +walking up and down like a caged lion. He stood listening to that +slow, continuous footfall; but he dared not knock upon the door. He +went downstairs again, knowing sleep impossible, and sat in the +deserted dining-room, still pursued by that inevitable footfall. A +dreadful thought possessed his mind—his father might be contemplating +suicide. When, for an instant, the footfall ceased the sweat of fear +stood upon his forehead and his flesh crept. When it commenced again +he drew a long breath of relief. So the brief summer night passed, +sleepless for both father and son, and at last, through the unshuttered +window, the first ray of dawn stole in. +</P> + +<P> +The house appeared both deserted and dismantled. The pictures and much +of the furniture had disappeared. Instead of the array of smiling +servants, a single sour old woman occupied the kitchen. From her, +Arthur learned that the pictures and the more valuable furniture had +been sold at some auction rooms in the city; and that Helen had left +the house upon the day of her mother's funeral, and had not returned. +Did she know where she had gone? To some friend—so she said. But no +one knew. +</P> + +<P> +The father and son met at breakfast next morning. It was a miserable +meal, ill-cooked and coarsely served—very different from the generous +luxury of other days. The cloth was stained and torn, the china +broken, the food wretched. Masterman appeared to notice none of these +things. He drank the straw-coloured tea and ate the burned toast with +complete indifference. He seemed indifferent even to the presence of +his son. +</P> + +<P> +When the meal was over, he said, with a mocking abruptness, "So you've +come home to pity me, I suppose? Well, you and me have got to have an +explanation. As well now as later." +</P> + +<P> +"I came home to help you, father—if I could." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! did you?" he sneered. "Well, let me tell you I want no man's pity +and no man's help. You think I'm done for, don't you? So does +everybody. But I'm not. The world has cheated me, but I'm going to +get even with the world. I'm going to get my revenge. I've years of +work in me—years of work—and I've a dozen schemes for success." +</P> + +<P> +And then he began to talk in a loud, scornful, hectoring voice. +Failure? Only fools talked of failure, and they failed themselves +because they were fools. He was going to start again. He would start +that very day. No sensible man would think the worse of him for what +had happened. There were scores of men in the city who had come much +nearer a prison than he had; and what were they now? They were rich, +honoured, respected. They had succeeded, and no one reminded them of +past misfortunes. The very men who had tried to ruin them were now +licking their boots. Well, he'd have the world licking his boots, too, +before he died. Only he'd kick their lying faces in when the time +came, that's what he'd do. He'd teach them. He'd let them know what +kind of man Archibold Masterman was. +</P> + +<P> +There was much more of the same kind, a loud outrageous monologue, to +which Arthur listened with a sinking heart. It was obviously useless +to interrupt or interfere. It was the fierce outcry of a man in +torment, the immedicable torment of an injured pride. And, as Arthur +looked upon that coldly furious face, he began to suspect, what was +indeed the truth, that his father's mind hung upon the verge of madness. +</P> + +<P> +And this impression was confirmed when, without warning, the gust of +rage ceased, and was replaced by a pathetic weak humility. +</P> + +<P> +"I somehow don't feel well this morning. I didn't sleep last night. +Perhaps I'd better wait a day or two and get my strength built up. O +Arthur! I've had lots to try me. I've had a hard life, with very +little in it but toil and trouble. And I'm a man that's had sorrows. +Your mother's dead. They buried her while I was in gaol. They +wouldn't give me bail at first. Did I tell you that? When they let me +out on bail, she'd gone. They'd buried her in Highbourne Cemetery. +They showed me her grave. And Helen wasn't pleased with me. I did +everything I could to please the girl. And yet, when my trouble came, +she flew at me like a cat. And she's gone away too—I don't know +where. I reckon she thinks me a poor kind of father. Well—well—I'm +a man that's had sorrows. And I suppose you'll be going away too? Eh?" +</P> + +<P> +"Father, father, you know I won't go away. I love you, and you used to +love me. Don't you love me still?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I don't know, Arthur. I don't know that I love any one. It +doesn't seem much good loving people, does it? They always go away. +Well—well——" +</P> + +<P> +And then he relapsed into a gloomy silence, from which nothing could +arouse him. So he sat for hours, gazing out of window, until he fell +asleep in his chair. +</P> + +<P> +This scene was but a sample of many similar scenes. Sometimes he would +rouse himself, dress, and go down into the city, full of all kinds of +schemes to rehabilitate his fortunes. From these excursions he would +return late at night, weary, but full of impossible hopes. He would +try the Stock Exchange. That was where fortunes were made. Hard work +didn't pay; it was the gambler who got both the luck and the money. He +had had a tip from some one who knew; such and such a stock was bound +to rise. And then, with pen and paper, he would work out his illusory +profits, his hands trembling, his face glowing, and reach the most +surprising and incredible conclusions. +</P> + +<P> +"If I only had the money!" he would cry. "I would buy upon a margin. +Bruce and Whitson would be proud to do business for me, for old times' +sake. Masterman isn't forgotten in the city, I can tell you. Not by a +long chalk. All I want is a chance, just a little money to begin with." +</P> + +<P> +"I have a hundred pounds, father," Arthur replied to one of these +appeals. "You can have that." +</P> + +<P> +"A hundred pounds! Yes, that would be enough." And then, with a +sudden flare of the old pride, he exclaimed, "No, no. That wouldn't do +at all. I'm not sunk so low as to be a pensioner upon my children. +I'll get what I want out of the world yet, and I'll get it by myself. +I'm not very well yet, but wait till I get my nerve back, and I'll show +you. Don't you be afraid about me. I'm playing a waiting game, and +I'm going to win—you mind that!" +</P> + +<P> +So a month passed, marked by tragic incalculable alternations of temper +in his father. No one came near the house. Bundy had called twice, +but Masterman had refused to see him. The church people appeared to +have forgotten his existence. When the Sundays came, Masterman drew +down the blinds, and sat alone in his office. If Arthur left the house +it was but for the briefest absence. He would go round to Lonsdale +Road, exchange a few words with Vickars, taste a raptured moment with +Elizabeth, and return in haste and often in fear. For he could not +calculate his father's moods, he did not know what he might be tempted +to do, and he dared not leave him solitary. +</P> + +<P> +And yet, all the time, Masterman's mind was slowly recovering its +poise. His anger still burned, but it was now with smouldering rather +than with active flame. His boastfulness declined. There were +moments, not only of humility, but of extreme gentleness, like the +gentleness of a sick child. They were but moments, often followed by +gusts of bitter speech. In the bitter moments Arthur was to him the +prodigal son who had deserted him; in the tender moments the only human +creature on whose love he might repose. It was Arthur's lot to listen +in silence to a hundred hurting comments on his conduct, uttered with +sardonic scorn, and all the talent for invective which a disordered +brain and wounded heart could contrive. And then, just when he was +goaded almost beyond endurance, the mood would change, the black squall +of rage would pass, and an inimitable softness, like the softness of a +rain-washed sky, succeed it. +</P> + +<P> +"I begin to think I'm a fool," he said once, after one of these +explosions. "Well, you must forgive me. I'm a new kind of Job, and, +like Job, I speak foolishly. I never could make out why they called +Job patient. The thing I admire in Job is that he wasn't patient. He +let himself rip. He cursed himself tired. Well, that's like me. I've +got to do it, or burst." +</P> + +<P> +"But Job trusted God through it all, father. Can't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Did he? Well, if he did at first, he didn't in the middle, any way. +And I'm in the middle of the mess. And, besides, I don't see what +God's got to do with it. As I understand it, a man's got to go through +with things to the end, and the only satisfaction he'll get out of it +is that he hasn't squealed." +</P> + +<P> +It was a poor enough philosophy no doubt, but there was no denying the +tonic virtue in it. And perhaps it was the only kind of medicine for +this mind diseased, as Arthur came to see. For a nature of such +stubborn fibre the commonplaces of religion had no efficacy. And with +that stubbornness there was allied a certain indomitable honesty, which +perceived their essential falsity. Let it stand to Masterman's credit +that he was unwilling to blame God for his own misdoings, or to ask for +a release to which he knew he had no right. He would bear his own +burden, simply because, in the long run, that was what all men had to +do, religion notwithstanding. And, whereas the attempt to shift his +burden upon God would have fed his weakness, the very effort to bear it +alone increased his strength. +</P> + +<P> +One evening, when the gentler mood was on him, he drew from Arthur his +story of his own doings since the day he left London. Up to this time +he had not manifested the least interest; it was a subject he had +purposely avoided. When Arthur described the life upon the ranch, he +had many questions to ask. +</P> + +<P> +"Then you worked with your hands, did you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course, father. No day labourer ever worked harder." +</P> + +<P> +"And you liked it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I liked it. It was hard enough at first; but I soon got used to +that, and I liked it." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I wouldn't have believed it if you hadn't told me. It seems +sort of queer when you come to think about it." +</P> + +<P> +"What's queer about it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, this. I never meant that you should do anything of that kind, +schemed to avoid it—sent you to Oxford, made a gentleman of you, as +the saying is; and why did I do it? Because I'd had a hard life, and +didn't want you to have it. And here you go and do just what I did at +your age—work like a common labourer. Seems a kind of destiny in it, +as if it had to be." +</P> + +<P> +"Then destiny has been kind, father, for I have never been so truly +happy as at Kootenay. I would a thousand times rather work with my +hands, and eat the fruit of my labour, than get the softest job a city +could offer me." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you get thinking that living in a city is a soft job, for it +isn't. But I know what you mean. There's a kind of satisfaction in +working out of doors with your hands; that's what you mean, isn't it? +Well, I used to feel that way—once. I can mind how I used to whistle +at my work, and had a jest for my mates, and got more real pleasure out +of a pot of ale and a plate of bread-and-cheese than I've ever had +since, in fine living.... I don't know but what that was the happiest +time of my life, after all; though of course I didn't think so then. I +can mind the little house I lived in, and the patch of garden. I'd be +working in that garden by five o'clock on a summer morning, and again +late at night, after work. Seems to me, as I look back, that in those +days I hadn't got a real care. It's a queer thing to think about. +Makes you feel as if life had fooled you after all. But I reckon +that's about what life is for most of us—kind of game of blind hookey. +Well, I've lost the game, that's evident; and it seems as if you'd won +it." +</P> + +<P> +It was a curious confession from such a man. Arthur recollected that +Bundy had said much the same thing. He also had spoken of a little +house with mignonette under the window, with its unforgetable memories +of content and peace, and had summed up his life in one little bit of +dearly bought wisdom—"We don't know what we want, and, with all our +trying, get the wrong thing after all." Had his father also made that +sad discovery, and made it too late? +</P> + +<P> +All that evening Masterman was very quiet and subdued. He talked at +intervals, and in snatches, of various things in his own past life, +speaking of them with ironic sad composure, as of things which lay a +long way off, in which he had ceased to be interested. And yet there +appeared to be some method in this vague reminiscent talk, some point +toward which his thoughts were working, something that he found it +difficult to say. +</P> + +<P> +At last he reached his point. "When you and me parted—" He stopped, +as though swallowing something bitter, and began again. "When you went +away, do you remember you said something to me? You said I was +dishonest. You didn't ought to have said that." +</P> + +<P> +"O father! don't speak of that!" +</P> + +<P> +"I reckon it's got to be spoke of. I want to know what you think of me +now." +</P> + +<P> +"Father, you have no need to defend yourself to me." +</P> + +<P> +"Haven't I? Well, I suppose that's kindly meant, and I ought to be +grateful. Only I'm not; and I'll tell you why. Do you know why I'm +sitting in this empty house, feeding on the pig's swill that old lady +in the kitchen calls food? Perhaps you think I like it? Well, I +don't. Do you know why there's no furniture in the rooms? Do you know +why I'm a beggar? Do you know why the men I knew in the city turn +their faces away when I pass, why the men I used to lunch with won't +speak to me and are too busy to see me when I call? Well, I'll tell +you. It's just because I've been too honest. I had no call to give my +fortune to the creditors of the Amalgamated. They hadn't a pretence of +right to it. It was mine, every penny of it. But I did it, just +because I was honest, and proud of my honesty. There's not half a +dozen men in the city would have done that. Those jeering scoundrels +who pass me in the street as if I was dirt, and laugh and whisper to +one another, 'That's poor old Masterman, poor old bankrupt Masterman; +and lucky he ain't in gaol'—there's not one of them as would have done +it. But bankrupt Masterman did it, and he knew he had no call to do +it. He was too proud to let any man call him a thief. If he hadn't +done it, he'd be riding in his carriage now, and folk would ha' said, +'Mighty smart man, that Masterman,' and they'd have thought the better +of me. Well, that's what I want you to remember. No, I don't want you +to answer me. I'm not concerned to know what you think about it. I +know I'm down, but I've got my pride still, and I don't care what +people think about me. I've been robbed of almost everything, and I +needn't have been but for this—that I'm honest!" +</P> + +<P> +He spoke with extraordinary heat, striding up and down the room, his +face dark and harsh. He was again the Masterman of the old days, full +of fierce passion, proud, strong, not to be contradicted. But amid all +the harshness of that strong face there shone something new, something +never seen there before, like light flashed fitfully through dark +clouds—an element of dignity that was almost nobleness. Arthur gazed +upon that spectacle in a sort of silent wonder. And once more the +sense of elemental bigness in his father came to him with vivid force. +Here was a nature that overtopped his own at all points. It was great +even in its faultiness, and who could estimate its crude astounding +virtues? +</P> + +<P> +There was no return of this mood. The next day Masterman spent several +hours out of doors, coming home late at night, weary and silent. +</P> + +<P> +On the morning following, Arthur heard him moving up and down a +little-visited garret of the house. +</P> + +<P> +He was there a long time. Presently he called, "Arthur!" +</P> + +<P> +Arthur obeyed eagerly, his ever-active fear that his father might be +tempted to some dreadful act giving wings to his feet. +</P> + +<P> +He found his father kneeling beside a common deal box, the contents of +which were flung upon the floor. These contents appeared to consist of +old discarded clothing, among which were discernible a blue cloth cap, +a rough jacket, and a pair of stained corduroy trousers. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you know what these are, Arthur?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. What are they, father?" +</P> + +<P> +"They're the clothes I used to wear when I was a workman. I've always +kept them by me—sort of souvenir, you know. Well, I'm going to wear +them again." +</P> + +<P> +"But, father, I don't understand," +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you?" he said grimly. "Well, I'll tell you. I'm going to work +again. Going back to what I was forty years ago. It's as good as a +story, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"But you're not going to be a common workman. You surely don't mean +that, father." +</P> + +<P> +"That's just what I do mean. You can work with your hands, and so can +I. I reckon it's our destiny. Grimes has given me a job—you remember +Grimes, don't you? He's a bit of a builder at Tottenham nowadays, and +calls himself a contractor. Well, he's given me a job, sort of +foreman, at two quid a week, and good pay, too. It's a sight more than +I'd have done for an old bankrupt fellow, close on sixty. I'm going to +work for Grimes. I begin to-morrow, and you'll have to put up with the +fact the best way you can that your father's no longer Archibold +Masterman, Esq., as might have been Sir Archibold, but just a common +workman." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap22"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +MRS. BUNDY PHILOSOPHISES +</H4> + +<P> +"I can't see what your father wanted to do it for. He had no call to +do it. It's a most extraordinary piece of perversity." +</P> + +<P> +The speaker was Bundy, and the scene was his new house in Kensington. +After his many wanderings and adventures, Bundy appeared to have found +permanent anchorage at last. His final apotheosis had begun, and a +prophetic eye perceived that it was likely to include all the elements +of eminent British respectability. He had begun to collect pictures +again, was planning a library, drove daily in the park, was already +known as a generous patron of many well-intentioned charities, and had +even lectured in a parish-room on the wonders of the Yukon. There was +ground to believe that in course of time he might even become a +churchwarden, and it was only a total fluidity of opinion on local +politics which denied him a seat upon the Borough Council. +</P> + +<P> +Even the boys had suffered a transformation into something rare and +strange. They no longer lassoed dogs upon the plains of Texas in the +back-garden, and their interest in Indians had declined. They wore +white collars which were fresh every morning, practised a difficult +propriety, and walked gravely to church on Sundays, top-hatted and +circumspectly clothed. There could be no manner of doubt that the +short-lived glory of irresponsible poverty was fast fading into the +light of common day, and that shades of respectability were closing +round these growing minds. +</P> + +<P> +And as for Mrs. Bundy—dear, slovenly, warm-hearted Mrs. Bundy—the +historian relates with sadness that even she was tamed. Her force of +speech remained, her sincerity, her lovableness; to the end of her days +she would remain the sort of woman who addresses angry +umbrella-emphasised allocutions to drivers who flog their horses, who +gives hospitality to stray dogs, and opens her impulsive heart to the +sorry fabrications of every histrionic beggar. But she had returned to +unoccupied woman's first love, which is dress. Exiled from her +kitchen, she had plunged recklessly into the study of fashion-papers. +To hear her disputing with dressmakers, upholsterers, and +house-decorators, to follow her in her many animated controversies with +servants and a long succession of nefarious butlers, gave assurance +that the wonted fires still burned ardently in her veins. But she was +tamed. Wealth had riveted upon her golden fetters. She submitted to +them, not without reluctance. Perhaps, if the entire truth was told, +she was much happier as the mistress of the kitchen in the old house in +Lion Row than as the mistress of a mansion in Kensington. +</P> + +<P> +It was in the library of this house at Kensington that Arthur sat +discussing the situation with his old friends. It was a spacious room, +furnished after a plan which a celebrated firm had described as +mediæval. The mediævalness of the room appeared to consist mainly in +an imitation stucco ceiling, and in modern oak-panelling which declared +its newness by uncanny loud explosions, as the wood cracked under the +influence of heat. Before the open hearth Bundy stood oracular, with +his hands behind him spread out to the warmth; and Mrs. Bundy sat at +the table, mending socks—an example of the survival of primeval +instincts. +</P> + +<P> +"No, I don't see it at all," said Bundy. "Your father's wasting +himself. There are plenty of men who would have helped him to recover +his position. I would have given him anything he liked to ask, and +been glad of the chance." +</P> + +<P> +"I know you would," said Arthur. "And he knows it too." +</P> + +<P> +"Then, why won't he let me?" +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose because, as you say, he's too proud. But there's something +else too, something deeper, I think." +</P> + +<P> +"And what's that, pray?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I don't know how to describe it, but it's more than mere pride +and perversity. I think it's a kind of return to type. He began life +as a workman, and he's gone back to it. It's his way of showing the +world he doesn't care what it does to him." +</P> + +<P> +"And what's that but pride?" +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps so," said Arthur wearily. "I've long ago given up judging my +father. I only know that I never thought so well of him as I do now." +</P> + +<P> +"Well done!" cried Mrs. Bundy. "That's what I think too." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I can't see it," said Bundy. "Tell me again how he's living." +</P> + +<P> +"He's taken a small house at Tottenham, almost a cottage. Grimes gives +him two pounds a week. He works from six in the morning till six at +night. Next week I'm going to live with him." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, that's the worst part of it!" cried Bundy. "Your life is to be +sacrificed too. With your splendid education you ought to be making a +figure in the world. At all events you ought to be back upon your +ranch, if that's the kind of life you mean to live. You must know +that." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I know it. But I can't go back as long as father lives. I have +to make amends to him for past unkindness. And, remember, he has no +one left but me." +</P> + +<P> +"What about Helen?" said Mrs. Bundy. +</P> + +<P> +"That's one of the things I came over to tell you about. I have a +letter from her. You had better read it." +</P> + +<P> +The letter was dated from Paris, and read as follows: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +"DEAR ARTHUR: +</P> + +<P> +"I hear that you are back in London, so you know all about the <I>mess</I> +father has made of his affairs. You were lucky to be out of it, for it +was a dreadful disgrace. I thought I should have <I>died</I> of shame. +Just, too, when he was going to be knighted, for that's come out since, +you know. He must have known all about it—I mean the disgrace—long +before it came. And yet he never told me one word, but let me think +things were all right, and was always talking to me about the house he +meant to build, and the place in society I was to have. I can see now +that it was all lies, and I will never forgive him. I suppose you will +say I ought to sympathise with him, and all that kind of <I>rot</I>: you +always did pretend to be so mighty good. Well, I don't, and I won't +forgive him. And I dare say you'll say I ought to have stayed with +him, and all that kind of thing. A pretty idea! As if I could have +put my head out of doors, with everybody talking about us, and father's +name in all the papers. I did go out once, and the Collinson girls, +<I>proud, conceited things</I>, cut me dead, though I went to school with +them. I wasn't going to stand that, so, after mother's funeral, I went +away to one of my <I>true</I> friends in Paris. I didn't tell her what had +happened, you may be sure. And she doesn't read the English papers, +<I>thank God</I>. Her name is Adèle Siedmyer. She went to school with me, +and her father is rich. She gave me a good time, I can tell you, and +not a word said. The Siedmyers live in a beautiful house, much better +than that <I>old</I> Eagle House, which I always detested. Well, now, I've +something to tell you, which is quite <I>important</I>. There was a nice +old gentleman who used to come to dinner at the Siedmyers', and I soon +saw that he was very fond of me. They told me he was seventy, but he +doesn't look more than <I>fifty</I>, for these Frenchmen know how to dress +and keep young, which Englishmen never do. He told me all about his +life—he'd been twice married, but his wives had treated him +<I>abominably</I>—and I felt very sorry for him. I forgot to say he's +something in the Stock Exchange—the Bourse, they call it here—and the +Siedmyers thought no end of him. Well, I dare say you'll guess the +rest. He asked me to marry him. I thought he put it so <I>cleverly</I>; he +said it was the <I>entente cordiale</I>. I laughed at first, and then I +cried a good deal; for it seemed hard that I should have to marry an +old man, even if he is only fifty and a <I>good figure</I>. But what was a +poor girl to do? Adèle and the Siedmyers persuaded me, and really it +did seem to me quite <I>providential</I>, just in the midst of this +disgrace; and it's not as though he didn't love me, for he's perfectly +<I>infatuated</I> over me. I know you'll sneer, you always were good at +that. But I don't care. There's one thing I <I>always</I> made my mind up +to—it was that I wouldn't be poor. And, as I said, it did really seem +quite <I>providential</I>, just when I couldn't hope to marry well in +England, because of father's <I>wickedness</I>, that M. Simon—that's his +name—should fall in love with me. I was dreadfully afraid at first +that he'd ask awkward questions about father, but he never did, though +he must have known <I>something</I>. Of course I didn't tell him—not +likely. So the upshot of it is that we were married last week. So now +you know. I thought I ought to tell you, and you can tell father, if +you like. You needn't expect me <I>ever</I> to come to London +again—horrid, hateful city! If you like to come over to Paris some +time, of course I'll see you; but I won't see father! I draw the line +at that. And I am sure he won't expect it after all the <I>cruel</I> wrong +he's done me. I should think he would be too <I>ashamed</I>. If you can +find any of my little knick-nacks in my drawers I wish you would pack +them up and send them over. But I dare say they're gone—very likely +the servants took them; and it doesn't <I>really</I> matter, for I've +everything I need. Thank God, I shall not be poor now, in spite of +father's <I>wickedness</I>. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +"Your sister,<BR> + "HELEN.<BR> +</P> + +<P> +"P.S.—We are living at the Hotel Continental, <I>for the present</I>. If +you were only sensible I would say come over, and meet Adèle Siedmyer. +She will have lots of money when her father dies. But I suppose you +prefer <I>digging</I> like a labourer in that <I>nasty</I> Canada. There's no +accounting for tastes, is there?" +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Arthur, who, of course, was familiar with the letter, turned his face +away while Mrs. Bundy read it, for he was heartily ashamed of it. Its +complete selfishness and shallowness, its spite, its rancour, its hard +worldliness, above all, its nauseous pietism, had filled him with +disgust. He was surprised therefore when Mrs. Bundy put it down, with +the exclamation, "Poor child!" +</P> + +<P> +"Why do you say that?" he cried. "A letter like that puts its writer +beyond pity." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, Arthur! I see you've not yet got out of the bad habit of judging +people harshly. My laddie, don't let your heart grow hard against your +sister, even though she is to blame. I'm not saying that that isn't a +bad letter, and it comes from a hard, cruel heart. But I mind Helen as +a little girl, as sweet and bright a child as you might meet in a day's +march. It wasn't her fault that she was shallow; that's the way she +was made. Yes, she was shallow, and only meant to sail in shallow +waters, and when the deep waters overtook her, she was frightened to +death. That's the letter of a poor, terrified girl who doesn't know +what she's saying." +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't think of it like that." +</P> + +<P> +"No; it wasn't to be supposed you could. It isn't a boy that +understands the heart of a poor, terrified girl." +</P> + +<P> +"But it's the meanness of it—no word about my father but cruel +accusation." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, it's mean; fear makes weak people mean." +</P> + +<P> +"That's right," interjected Bundy. "I've seen a man, when thoroughly +frightened, pour out all the black things in his heart, without the +least idea of what a cad he looked to other people." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! and that's not all," went on Mrs. Bundy. "You think she's beyond +pity. Why, she never had a better right to pity than now. She's sold +her youth to that old Frenchman—I never did believe in Frenchmen—and +she's got to pay for her folly, and it'll be a hard, long price before +she's through with it, be sure of that. December and May—I never did +know any good come of that kind of marriage yet. No, no. Your +father's to be pitied, but he's got his pride; and you are to be +pitied, but you've got your youth and freedom; but, if you ask me who +is to be pitied most, it's that poor motherless girl. She may have a +hard heart, but it can bleed; yes, and life will make it bleed before +long, I doubt." +</P> + +<P> +And so from Mrs. Bundy Arthur once more learned that lesson in life +which he had found so difficult to master, the lesson always difficult +to youth, and perhaps the most difficult of all to those whose ideals +are highest—the lesson of charity, of tolerance, of lenient judgment +toward the faulty. Mrs. Bundy had once before shown him the better +road, when she had made him acquainted with virtues in his father which +he had ignored; he had learned something of what charity meant from +Vyse upon the <I>Saurian</I>, and Horner in New York, each with his catholic +axiom that Englishmen ought to stand by one another; he had remarked +Vickars's altered attitude to life, his sense of life's complexity, and +his allowance for faults in men, for which their own will was but +partially responsible: four times the Angel of Charity had stood beside +him, and each time he had turned his face away. He had not allowed +Mrs. Bundy's plea; he had accepted Horner's kindness, but without any +accurate conception of the rarity and real beauty of his character; he +had heard Vickars's confession, and in his utmost heart had thought him +an apostate prophet. And now the same test met him again in the case +of his sister. He saw her hardness and shallowness with more than +sufficient accuracy; what he had not seen was her weakness, her terror +under sudden disaster, and the tragic folly to which she had been +driven by her terror. It was left to Mrs. Bundy to show him that. +Suddenly he saw it; and he saw much besides. He saw that there is a +vision of the mind and a vision of the heart; that the one is judging +vision, the other sympathetic vision; that the one sees the surface +only, the other the depth; and that therefore the vision of the heart +is the only true vision. Of the four persons who had instructed him, +three were quite simple persons, without the least claim to +intellectual superiority; the other a man of genius, who had become +humble by contact with human sorrows. And there was a fifth—there was +Bundy himself, an adventurer whom he had secretly despised and +ridiculed, but from whose hand had come salvation in his own hour of +direst need. And the bond between these persons was quite simple; they +had warm, human hearts, and in the difficult hours of life they were +governed by warm impulses. Ah! that had been his error; he had looked +at life with the mind, rarely with the heart. He had set himself up to +judge others, and now he was judged. He had not pitied his sister; it +was left for a stranger to do that; and in that moment he saw, as +clearly as though expressed in tongues of heavenly flame, the divine +grace resting on the head of Mrs. Bundy, and himself standing in the +dark shadows cast by his own proud egoism. +</P> + +<P> +"O Mrs. Bundy!" he cried, "I have been wrong—quite wrong; you have +made me see it!" +</P> + +<P> +And, having no mother, he was not ashamed to turn to this motherly +heart for comfort. He knelt before her, and laid his head upon her +lap, as he had often done in childish troubles; and her kind hands were +upon his head, and her kind voice soothed him. +</P> + +<P> +"There, there, laddie, that's all right. You've been badly hurt +yourself, and you've been very brave over it. It's not easy to keep +sweet-tempered when you're hurt—you know that, don't you, Bundy? +Many's the time and oft I've said hard things I didn't mean, because my +heart was bleeding. We all do it sometimes. But I think God turns His +head away and doesn't listen. Perhaps He couldn't go on loving us if +He did. And you know what the prayer says: 'Forgive us our trespasses +as we forgive them that trespass against us.' I never understood +anything about theologies, and that kind of thing; but I know <I>that's</I> +true. It's true because we can't go on living without it. So that's +over, my dear, and don't you think any more about it." +</P> + +<P> +And so she drew the bitterness out of his heart, and kissed him, and +finally laughed at him through her tears, calling herself a foolish old +woman to be supposing she could teach a big, clever fellow like him, +until they were both laughing into one another's eyes like a pair of +lovers. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, now, we'll write Helen, and wish her joy. And, Bundy, you're +going to Paris next week, aren't you? You will go to see her, of +course. And we must send the poor child a present. It's a mercy, +after all, she hasn't got into worse mischief than getting married to +an old Frenchman. And perhaps he may make her a good husband, there's +no telling—even though he is a Frenchman. And now I've a surprise for +you. What do you think it is?" +</P> + +<P> +"Something pleasant, no doubt." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, it ought to be. Vickars and Elizabeth are coming to lunch. And +you must stay, of course. And after lunch you can talk to Elizabeth, +and we old folk will go away and talk about you, and see what can be +done for you." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Bundy. "It's all very well for your father to work for +Grimes; but you have to get to work too. Ah! there's the bell. +That'll be Vickars, so we'll postpone that business." +</P> + +<P> +It was a delightful lunch. For the first time since his return to +England Arthur attained a real cheerfulness. In this atmosphere of +warm affection it was impossible to think too urgently of past griefs. +And it did seem as if the black shadow was at last rolling off, like a +rain-cloud with trailing skirts edged with pure light. +</P> + +<P> +Vickars, to his surprise, took quite a cheerful view of Helen's +marriage. +</P> + +<P> +"What Helen always needed was <I>duties</I>," he remarked. "Duties give +poise and ballast to life. I suppose, ever since she left school, she +has had no real duties to fulfil, and nothing makes people so selfish +as a total absence of some kind of daily duty. If marriage does +nothing else, it does impose duties on men and women. It takes them +out of themselves, makes them look outward instead of inward, which is +always a great thing." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you don't think she has made a mistake?" said Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"No one can know that. But there's a kind of instinct in people which +often guides them to what is right for them, though to an outsider +their actions may appear quite foolish and incomprehensible. They +unconsciously know what's good for them, just as animals know the kind +of food that suits them best. Not a very complimentary analogy, is +it?" he added, with his whimsical smile. +</P> + +<P> +"No; but I see what you mean, I think." +</P> + +<P> +"It doesn't need much seeing, for it meets us everywhere. Have you +ever watched a dog in a field? He knows exactly what grasses are good +for him, and he finds them. We don't know in the least the principle +of his discrimination. Well, it's like that with men and women. They +make their own choice, and it often seems to us a matter of folly or +caprice. But, in nine cases out of ten, if they are left to +themselves, they do somehow manage to choose what's best for them." +</P> + +<P> +"And you would apply the same principle to my father?" +</P> + +<P> +"Precisely. He is probably doing the only thing that was left for him +to do. He knows what is the best medicine for his wound, and no one +else knows anything at all about it." +</P> + +<P> +"Poor father! At this moment, while we are feasting, he is working in +bitterness of heart." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, you don't know that. Very likely he is forgetting his +bitterness of heart in his work, and if he were here he would remember +it." +</P> + +<P> +"And what about yourself?" cried Arthur. "If men really guide +themselves by instinct, and do it with efficiency, there's a poor +occupation for the man who sets out to reform them." +</P> + +<P> +"I know it, my boy. Didn't I tell you I've given up thinking that I am +competent to guide the world? Don't remind me of an old vanity of +which I am ashamed. I guide the world! Why, God Himself appears to do +that with difficulty." +</P> + +<P> +"Can one man do nothing then for another?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course he can. But he won't do it by shouting in the market-place. +The only thing he can really do is to live in such a way that other +people see that his way of living is better than their own. Let him +live—not just talk about living." +</P> + +<P> +"And what about reform, all that bright dream of a reconstruction of +society which——?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I know what you are going to say. And my answer is, that reform +comes by example, too. One man who shows others how to live by living +accomplishes more than all the books that were ever written." +</P> + +<P> +"You needn't think father means to stop writing, for he doesn't," said +Elizabeth, with a smile. +</P> + +<P> +"No, I shall write, because that's my <I>métier</I>—the grass that suits me +best. But there's this difference. I used to think, when I had +written a book, that I had done all that was required of me. Now I see +I must live my books. There's far too much writing in the world, and +far too much preaching; there's never been enough living." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sure you've discussed that point long enough," said Mrs. Bundy. +"Come and look at my new conservatory. Do you know I've turned +orchid-grower? I really prefer roses; but Bundy wants orchids, just +because they're expensive. It's a terrible thing to be rich, because +you've got to have what other people want, instead of what you want." +</P> + +<P> +They went into the conservatory, and presently, under the skilful +management of Mrs. Bundy, Arthur found himself alone with Elizabeth. +They sat there a long time, hand in hand, in sympathetic silence. For +these two had reached that most perfect union of spirit, which is quite +beyond the common mediations of language. Love for them had found its +rarest form, a complete repose. From the first they had rested on each +other, and, by a kind of spiritual clairvoyance, had read the deepest +secrets of each other's thought. They had no need to reiterate the +lover's hungry question, "Do you love me?" Such a question implies +dubiety, and they had no doubts. Elizabeth's hand, laid in his, said +everything; her lips, yielded willingly to his, would have been +profaned by speech. And in those long sacramental silences there was +something holy—an ardour of the spirit, for which language had no +symbols. +</P> + +<P> +They returned at last into the library, where they found Vickars and +Bundy engaged in conversation. +</P> + +<P> +"You have quite made your mind up to live with your father?" asked +Bundy. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I could not leave him alone." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well, then. No doubt you're right. Well, listen. I once asked +you to be secretary to the Dredging Company in New York, and you +refused. I want you now to act as my private secretary for a few hours +every day. In that way you will be earning something, and you can go +on living with your father as long as you think fit." +</P> + +<P> +"And I cheerfully accept," said Arthur. +</P> + +<P> +"Then we'll take that as settled. And if you can persuade your father +to come back to the life which I think he is better fitted for, why do. +He may count on me." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think he will ever do that. But I am sure he will be glad to +know you thought of it." +</P> + +<P> +"Poor fellow," said Bundy, his eyes full of tears. "The world has used +him hardly. It somehow doesn't seem fair that I should be here and he +there." And then, with a trembling voice, came the old sentiment. +"But it's great, all the same, the way he takes things. Your father's +a great man." +</P> + +<P> +"I think so too," said Arthur. "He's the greatest man I ever knew, and +you are the best." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap23"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE LAST HOME +</H4> + +<P> +The summer passed in heavy, brooding heat; the autumn brought long days +of diminished sunshine; and at last the winter came, with rain and fog. +London looked its worst, dull, drab, dishevelled, and nowhere was its +grim squalor more distressing than in Tottenham. +</P> + +<P> +A district of mean streets, formless and chaotic, sprawling aimlessly +in a sea of mud; houses gray and dingy, exuding dirt; other houses, new +and cheaply built, already overtaken by decay, huddled in shivering +wretchedness along roads deep in mire; churches with the paint peeling +from their doors; paltry ill-stocked shops visibly struggling for +existence; a few smoke-stained trees; a smoke-stained sky; and tribes +of men and women moving to and fro dejectedly, with backs hunched +against the driving rain, or faces showing pallid in the fog,—such is +Tottenham. It is a district without grace, without charm, with no +interruption in its uniformity of dullness. The disparities caused by +social rank, which elsewhere give some semblance of external variety, +are not found here. Poverty sees itself reduplicated at every turn; it +looks into its own face, and sees no other. A district no man chooses; +into which he may be thrust by dire misfortune, in which he may dwell +with resentment, with a heart swollen with regret, with a mind +embittered; but which excites in him no respect and no affection. +London, with its glories and adventures, shines afar; it shines +splendid and contemptuous. For here there are no adventures; memories, +but no prospects; life without ardour; struggle without hope; toil +without release. +</P> + +<P> +It was in this district that Masterman had chosen to live. Its tragic +dreariness presented a subtle correspondence with his own temper. +Having sought wealth for so many years with a fierce intensity of +passion, he now embraced poverty with an equal ardour. The world had +humiliated him, and, as if to show how little he cared for the world's +verdict, he added to his humiliation features which the world had not +intended. He hungered for renunciation, not as saints have hungered, +but with the bravado of a broken heart. He would show himself +unsubduable; that was his main thought. And in what more striking way +could he do this than by a complete indifference to the world's +opinion, a voluntary descent into indignity? To toil in harsh labours, +to eat poor food, to live in the meanest way, without complaint, +without visible resentment,—this was his challenge to the world, by +which he declared his complete contempt for the world's judgment and +opinion. +</P> + +<P> +This had been his sole motive for rejecting the proffered generosity of +Bundy. And there were others beside Bundy, the friends and +acquaintances of his prosperity, who would gladly have given him a +helping hand. But, since he could not wholly recover his old position, +he scorned a partial reclamation. To move before the eyes of these +former friends shorn of his power, narrowed, limited, perhaps pitied, +was a thing impossible. Better far to leave the arena for ever, and +leave it with a proud disdain. Exile was less painful than toleration. +The exile may at least keep his pride; but what pride is possible to +the broken supernumerary who "lags superfluous on the stage"? +</P> + +<P> +"No," he said, when Bundy pressed him to accept his help, "I can't do +it. I know you mean it kindly; but I can't." +</P> + +<P> +"But why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"You wouldn't understand if I told you." +</P> + +<P> +"I understand you're the most obstinate man I ever met," said Bundy, +with a touch of indignant heat. +</P> + +<P> +"Obstinate? Well, p'raps so. We'll let it go at that. Yes, I'm +obstinate." +</P> + +<P> +And his smile was so grim and tragic that Bundy said no more. +</P> + +<P> +It was one of the curious features of his situation that the house he +chose to live in at Tottenham was a triumph of architectural mendacity; +the same kind of house, in fact, as those with which he himself had +disfigured London, but some grades lower than his own flimsiest +performances. The doors were badly hung and would not close; the +wainscots, fashioned of green wood, were already shrunken; the window +frames rattled and let in the cold air; the chimneys smoked; the +ceiling plaster was already in process of disintegration; there was +nothing in the house that was not eloquent of fraud. Perhaps he had +been moved by the spirit of irony in the selection of such a house as +his final habitation. He might have lived elsewhere; but nowhere else +could he have gratified his perversity with such completeness. Grimes +employed him; well, let him live in one of Grimes's houses too; in +doing so he anticipated the world's laughter by laughing himself. +</P> + +<P> +"He's a holy terror, is Grimes," he would remark. "I thought I knew +how to build a thirty-pound house myself pretty well; but Grimes beats +me hands down. He can give me points every time." +</P> + +<P> +And then he would recapitulate with sardonic skill all the building +tricks of which Grimes had been guilty, specifying each with bitter +humour. +</P> + +<P> +"I did sometimes use sand in my mortar; but Grimes uses mud—mere road +mud at that. And I did put down drains of some sort; but Grimes beats +me there—he don't appear to have heard of drains. And his +party-walls, holy Moses! I believe if I spat at them they'd fall down." +</P> + +<P> +When Arthur came home in the evening, he would meet him at the door +with ironic warnings. +</P> + +<P> +"Here, mind you shut that door quietly. If you bang it, it's my belief +the whole gimcrack will be about your ears. And be careful you take +your boots off before you go upstairs. Those stairs weren't meant for +boots. And, whatever you do, don't you be leaning against the walls. +They kind o' shake every time a fly walks over them. I guess it +wouldn't need much of a Samson to pull <I>them</I> down. He wouldn't need +to touch 'em; I reckon a sneeze would do the trick." +</P> + +<P> +"Father, I can't bear to see you so bitter." +</P> + +<P> +"Bitter? Oh no, I'm not bitter. I'm amused, that's all." +</P> + +<P> +"I wish you wouldn't live here, father. There's no need. Let me find +another house. Between us, we've money enough." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Arthur, you see I kind of like living here. It's exciting. You +never know what's going to happen. And, besides, it's instructive. +I'm studying the methods of my friend Grimes, in case I should want to +start again presently as a contractor. I'm learning every day. +There's more than meets the eye in this contracting business; and, +since I've worked for Grimes, I begin to think I never knew a thing +about it." +</P> + +<P> +Remonstrance was so clearly useless that after a time Arthur ceased to +attempt it. He accepted his father's bitter humour, thankful for the +humour, if hurt by its bitterness. He even contrived to laugh at times +when his father grew increasingly sarcastic over the iniquities of +Grimes; but it was the kind of laughter that was more painful than +tears. +</P> + +<P> +More than once he tried to persuade his father to leave London +altogether. He pictured to him the life at Kootenay, the quiet, the +freedom, the exhilarating sense of triumph over crude nature, with all +the skill and eloquence at his command. At times his father would +listen with interest, asking many questions, but always at the end he +would say, "No, no; it's too late for that. I'm a have-been. I can't +begin again. And, besides, it would look like running away, and I +won't do that. A man has to take his medicine, and I'm going to take +mine." +</P> + +<P> +At times a strange religious vein showed itself in his conversation. +He never went to church now, and, indeed, entertained a strong rancour +against what he called "church-folk." Scales had been an officer in +the church, and was a rascal. The church-folk had all deserted him in +his downfall. Clark, indeed, had called upon him, but had nothing to +say. It was all a kind of play-acting, very pleasant if you'd nothing +better to do, and that was all. "Churches are meant for comfortable +people. All very well while you've money in your pocket, and a good +coat upon your back, but they aren't for the like of me," was one of +his sayings. "The Church don't know anything about real life," he +would remark, "and it doesn't want to. If it once saw things as they +are, it would be frightened out of its wits. So it draws the blind +down, and won't look. It's like folk sitting round a good fire on a +winter night, and when the rain's coming down and a gale's blowing. +The more the gale blows, the more comfortable you are. What's the good +of looking out of the window? Why, they might see some poor wretch +like me, and that would make them unhappy. Better not look. Stir the +fire up, and forget all about it." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't believe the church-folk think like that, father." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh yes, they do. I've done it myself, and I know." +</P> + +<P> +And then, amid these bitter criticisms and confessions, that curious +authentic religious vein would struggle into light. He would often sit +up late reading those portions of the Scripture most characterised by +melancholy wisdom. +</P> + +<P> +"Listen to this," he said on one of those occasions: "<I>'He that +buildeth his house with other men's money is like one that gathereth +himself stones for the tomb of his burial.... Weep for the dead, for +he hath lost the light; and weep for the fool, for he wanteth +understanding; make little weeping for the dead, for he is at rest; but +the life of the fool is worse than death.'</I> The man who wrote that +knew something about life now, if you like. Couldn't pay his mortgage, +as like as not; been a bankrupt, I guess. Just wanted to die, and be +done with it all—like me. Yet God let him have a hand in writing the +Bible—queer thing that, isn't it? And God must have known the kind of +fool he was. That's what I like about the Bible; it don't shirk +things—tells you the truth every time. It's a big thing is the +Bible—big as a rock; and the Church is just a little limpet sticking +on it. Don't see how big it is; probably can't see it." And then, +with a sudden pale illumination on the strong worn face, "Well, I guess +God's got to put up wi' me. He's big enough to understand the sort I +am. And I'm not for apologising to Him. I reckon He don't want me to." +</P> + +<P> +Gradually there seemed to settle on him a languor, which expressed +itself in a kind of patience which Arthur found infinitely pathetic. +He went to his work before daylight, came home weary, and often wet +through, ate his coarsely cooked meal in silence, but made no +complaint. He had ceased to take interest in the outer world. He +received the news of Helen's marriage without remark, and displayed no +curiosity. Once only he was roused to any interest in her. Bundy, in +one of his numerous journeys to Paris, insisted on taking Arthur with +him, and Arthur told his father that he would no doubt see Helen. +</P> + +<P> +"Paris, did you say? Ah! I was there once. It was there they took +me. So she's living in Paris, is she?" +</P> + +<P> +He left the room and went upstairs. Arthur could hear him moving to +and fro for a long time. When he came down, he held a little parcel in +his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose my creditors ought to have had this," he said. "Only they +didn't get it." +</P> + +<P> +"What is it, father?" +</P> + +<P> +He slowly undid the parcel, and put upon the table a small gold watch. +</P> + +<P> +"It didn't rightly belong to the creditors, either," he said in a low +voice. "It was hers." +</P> + +<P> +"Whose, father?" +</P> + +<P> +"Your mother's. The first thing I gave her after we'd begun to get on +a bit. I can mind how pleased she was. Lord! it seems like yesterday. +And then her face kind of clouded over, and she said, 'But can you +afford it?' That was just like your mother—always afraid I couldn't +afford things." +</P> + +<P> +He became silent, and stood with wide intent eyes, as if he saw that +far distant past limned upon the air. He had never spoken of his dead +wife before. The mention of her name invoked God knows what sweet and +painful memories. +</P> + +<P> +"Thought I couldn't afford it," he repeated softly. "Put it away in a +drawer, didn't like to wear it, thought it too good for her. Some +women are like that—not many, though. I guess Helen isn't like +that...." And then, with a sudden lifting of the head, as though he +emerged from a sea of dreams, "Well, I want you to give the watch to +Helen. I haven't given her a wedding-present. That's about all I have +to give. I hope she'll value it." +</P> + +<P> +In due course Arthur gave the watch to Helen. She glanced at it with +an air of insolent depreciation. "It isn't likely I'm going to wear an +old thing like that!" was her sole remark. She also put it in a +drawer, where it was forgotten. When she left the Hotel Continental, a +year later, it was lost. She never missed it. +</P> + +<P> +It was on his return from this journey to Paris that Arthur noticed for +the first time a distinct physical change in his father. The big frame +remained, but the flesh was shrunken. +</P> + +<P> +"Aren't you well, father?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh yes, I'm well—a bit thinner, that's all. I'd begun to run to fat, +you know, sitting about in offices. There's nothing like hard work to +take your flesh down." +</P> + +<P> +That night, as they sat beside the fire, he talked with an interest he +had never shown before about Arthur's prospects in life. He drew from +him a particular account of his work upon the ranch, the scenery, the +business possibilities in fruit-growing, and so forth. +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose now men get rich out there pretty quick, don't they?" +</P> + +<P> +"A few." +</P> + +<P> +"But there's gold and copper in those hills, isn't there?" +</P> + +<P> +"So they say. There are old men who have been looking for it all their +lives, though, and they haven't found it." +</P> + +<P> +"But you might find it, eh? You've education, and that counts for a +lot anywhere. And you've brains—you could organise things. I +wouldn't wonder if you were rich some day." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't want to be rich, father. The rich people appear to me the +unhappiest people in the world." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, that's true, too! It's the same everywhere. You see, if a man's +<I>born</I> rich, he grows up to it, and knows how to behave. But when he +<I>gets</I> rich, he generally makes a mess of things. Isn't used to it, +and it goes to his head like wine." A long pause—and then, "What's +the verse about choosing the better part? Well, I reckon you've chosen +the better part. I didn't think so once, but I've begun to see a lot +of new things of late, and that's one of them." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you forgive me for going away, father?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! I don't know about that. Isn't it enough if I say that I think +you did the wise thing? It's pretty hard for me to say that, and you +must be content with it." +</P> + +<P> +He talked on for an hour or so, in a quiet, musing voice, recalling the +histories of men he had known, most of them dead. He recalled their +struggles, their ambitions, their infrequent victories, their frequent +defeats, their occasional rise into social eminence, and the domestic +infelicities that poisoned their success. It was a sorry record, a +kind of epitome of modern covetousness, through which wailed the sombre +note of the Hebrew moralist, <I>Vanitas Vanitatum</I>! Arthur could not but +notice that he spoke no longer as a participant in the strife, but as a +mere spectator. He saw the frantic whirl of men in pursuit of gold as +something far off, unimportant, inherently mean and despicable. And he +himself spoke as a man completely disillusioned, a derider and a +mocker, whose dominant temper was ironic pity. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor Sandy Macphail—I knew him when he earned a pound a week." And +then would come a caustic sketch of Sandy, lying for his life in some +crisis of his fortunes, "eating dirt," as he put it, to creep into a +big man's favour, dragging with him into social light a wife who was +the laughing-stock of unfamiliar drawing-rooms, and his cubs of boys, +who took to drink or gambling—ending with the grim comment, "Spent his +last years wheeled about in a chair, did Sandy—paralysed, you know." +</P> + +<P> +Or it would be, "There's Steiner, South African millionaire, you know. +I met him once in my great days. Poor wreck of a man, nerves all gone, +took drugs, so they said. Committed suicide, did Steiner." +</P> + +<P> +It was a long, almost involuntary unfolding of the filaments of memory. +Man after man appeared in that phantasmagoric vision, foolish, +pitiable, misguided, and sank out of sight pierced by the shaft of some +ironic phrase. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I'm out of it all, and a good job, too," he concluded. "They'll +be saying the same things about me when I'm dead. My! it's twelve +o'clock! An old bankrupt fellow that works for Grimes ought to ha' +been a-bed long ago. These are no hours for the British working man." +</P> + +<P> +The next day was Sunday. To Arthur's surprise his father appeared +after breakfast clothed in the fashion of his former life. The worn +serge suit and low hat were laid aside; they were replaced by a black +frock coat, a white waistcoat, and a top hat. He looked once more the +city magnate—rather faded. And in some subtle way the better clothes +had affected the physical aspect of the man. He no longer stooped; he +stood erect, held himself well, had something of his former air of +command. +</P> + +<P> +"I've a fancy for a walk," he said. "Do you care to come?" +</P> + +<P> +It was one of those mild and exquisite days which are the stars in the +dreary firmament of winter. A soft wind blew out of the south-west, +soft clouds moved across a blue-gray sky, and the air was pure and +sparkling. Even Tottenham was touched with the spirit of a brief +vivacity. The normal cloud of dinginess was miraculously dissolved, +the sunlight glittered on the rain-pools, and a Sabbath calm lay upon +the streets. It was the kind of day which the country-man calls "a +weather-breeder"; which the less wise Londoner hails as the first +pledge of returning summer. +</P> + +<P> +They wandered forth, apparently without aim, but steadily moving +westward. They reached Hyde Park, where they sat for some time +watching the gaily dressed people who flowed past like a coloured +river. Here and there Masterman discerned a known face, and made brief +comments on it. From Hyde Park they turned toward the city. Through +the mitigated clamour of the Strand, and the almost total silence of +Cheapside, they passed, till they came to the network of lanes and +alleys round the Mansion House. They were strangely hushed. Where, +day by day, so many thousands passed, driven by eagerness and haste, in +an unnoticeable throng, a single footfall now roused clamant echoes. +</P> + +<P> +"It's a queer thing, but I've never been in the city on a Sunday +before," Masterman remarked. "I couldn't have believed it was so +silent. It's like going to sleep in a thunderstorm, and waking up in a +vault, with the coffin-lid nailed over you." +</P> + +<P> +He paused at last before the high narrow building where he had had his +offices. +</P> + +<P> +"Wonder whether the caretaker's here. Let us see." +</P> + +<P> +A little dark man answered the door. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, it's Mr. Masterman!" he cried in astonishment. "Come in, sir!" +</P> + +<P> +"So you remember me, Perkins?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course, sir. And there's no one sorrier than me for what has +happened." +</P> + +<P> +"Who's got my offices now?" +</P> + +<P> +"They're still to let, sir. P'raps you'd like to see them." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I should." +</P> + +<P> +They went up into the rooms. Masterman's name was still upon the glass +door of the outer office. The desk that he had used was in its place +beneath the window. But there was dust upon the furniture, dust upon +the windows, and a kind of ghostly loneliness in the deserted rooms. +</P> + +<P> +"I've a fancy for sitting at that desk again, Arthur." +</P> + +<P> +He sat quite silent, his hat tilted back, his fingers drumming on the +elbows of the chair. +</P> + +<P> +"Let us go, father. It's too lonely." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes—lonely," he said in a low voice. "The place that knew you knows +you no more for ever. It's a queer sensation. No more—for ever!" +</P> + +<P> +They left the room, went downstairs; and Arthur noticed with +astonishment that Masterman gave the obsequious Perkins a sovereign. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! you needn't look like that," said Masterman. "I can afford it. +And if I couldn't afford it I should do it. Perkins still has his +illusions concerning me, and it isn't worth while destroying them. He +very likely thinks I'm going to rent the offices again. Well, let him +think it." +</P> + +<P> +They left the city and turned northward. The evening had fallen when +they reached Highbourne Gardens. The church shone with lighted +windows, and on the misty air there floated out the sound of +hymn-music. Eagle House reared a dim bulk through the mist. A +white-painted board, just beside the gate, informed the public that the +house was to be sold. +</P> + +<P> +"Come away," said Arthur. "I can't bear it!" +</P> + +<P> +For at last he saw that in this aimless wandering there had been an +aim; his father was revisiting old scenes to take farewell of them. +</P> + +<P> +"Hush!" said Masterman. "Listen!" +</P> + +<P> +As they listened, the hymn-music became recognisable. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;<BR> +Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away;<BR> +Change and decay in all around I see...<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The hymn ceased. +</P> + +<P> +"Give me your arm, Arthur; I feel a little faint. That's right. Now +let us go back." +</P> + +<P> +The rain had begun to fall, and the wind was rising. It was nine +o'clock when they reached Tottenham, and both were wet through. +</P> + +<P> +The next day he went to his work as usual. The weather was miserable. +A raw north-east wind blew, bringing with it snow. The snow became +sleet, and the wind changed to the south-east, bearing on its wings +continuous rain. After the rain came black, impenetrable fog. +Tottenham was submerged beneath the clammy vapour. +</P> + +<P> +On the Thursday, when Arthur returned from Bundy's, he found his father +huddled over the fire, coughing violently. +</P> + +<P> +"Are you ill, father?" he asked in alarm. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! just a cold. Nothing to be troubled over." +</P> + +<P> +But the next morning he did not rise from his bed. Bronchitis had +declared itself. A local doctor, hastily called in, hinted at some +injury to the lungs, and spoke guardedly of a possible weakness of the +heart. From that hour Arthur never left his father's bedside. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Bundy no sooner heard the news than she flew to the rescue. The +astonished street beheld a carriage with prancing horses at the door, +from which emerged a lady in a long sealskin jacket, who entered the +humble house, and did not return. She had established herself as +Masterman's nurse, glad to exchange the idle trivialities of Kensington +for these hard duties of helpful service. Bundy sent his own +physician, a famous specialist, who took Arthur aside, and asked him +gravely what his father's habits of life had been. When Arthur told +him who his father was, and how he had lived since he came to +Tottenham, he became yet more grave. +</P> + +<P> +"I think I see," he said. "You won't mind my saying that a sudden +change of life at your father's age was a great mistake." +</P> + +<P> +"My father would have it so." +</P> + +<P> +"I understand." +</P> + +<P> +"Is there any danger?" +</P> + +<P> +"There is always danger where there is serious illness. I ought to +tell you, your father's condition is precarious. There is such a thing +as a man's loosening his grasp on life—doing it purposely, I mean. +Against that condition the best medical skill is useless." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you think he will die?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; his troubles are nearly over." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur returned to the sick-room with a sinking heart. It seemed an +inconceivable thing that that strong frame, the vehicle of so many +energies, should be in process of dissolution. It had fulfilled the +intention of its Maker for so many years, borne heat and cold, the +strain of struggle and fatigue, with such a perfect adaptation, with +such indefatigable vigour, its every atom mutely obedient to the +guiding will; and now it must be numbered with the spent forces of +creation. It must return to the womb of Nature from which it sprang, +and become part of the innumerable dust of perished generations. Such +was the law of waste that ruled the world—an awful thought to a son +beside a father's death-bed. And against the certain working of that +law, what had man to place but frail and feeble hopes; what, at best, +but the solemn asseveration of a faith daily contradicted by the +incontrovertible realities of physical dissolution, by the stark facts +of departure, disappearance? ... An awful thought, indeed, before which +the stoutest hearts have trembled. +</P> + +<P> +His father lay quite silent. He had not spoken for many hours. There +was no sound but the soft hissing of the steam in the bronchitis +kettle, and the dropping of a cinder on the hearth. +</P> + +<P> +Towards dawn he spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Well... well! ... Seems as if it was all a mistake.... A-striving +and a-struggling, and nothing come of it. Folk'll laugh.... Him as +had the city at his feet, working for poor old Grimes. It's a poor +end!—a poor end!" +</P> + +<P> +"Father, don't you know me?" +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't Helen, is it? No, she went away. Poor little girl!" +</P> + +<P> +The mind pursued its own sad communings. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I guess God's got to put up wi' me. He's big enough to +understand. He don't want apologies. I am what I am." +</P> + +<P> +The grayness of the dawn filled the room. +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly he raised himself slightly on his pillow. He grasped Arthur's +hand. There came into the tired eyes a new light, a long, intense +wonder-look. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mary!</I>" +</P> + +<P> +It was his wife's name. +</P> + +<P> +Then the strong face grew slowly empty of expression, the eyes closed. +</P> + +<P> +Archibold Masterman had laid himself down to rest among the generations +of the dead, and all his love and hatred had perished with him, neither +had he any more a portion in anything that is done under the sun. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap24"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXIV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE NEW WORLD +</H4> + +<P> +Against the main-line platform of Waterloo Station the special +boat-train was drawn up. It was half-past eight in the morning. +Almost momently suburban trains arrived, discharging their crowds of +workers, who passed in long files toward the portals of the station, +and were swallowed up, like so many tiny streams, in the great sea of +London. Some of them turned their eyes curiously, perhaps a little +yearningly, toward the boat-train; but for the most part these arriving +throngs passed on with sedate, indifferent faces. The boat-train +represented liberty—it was the symbol of things free and large; but +their thoughts did not go so far as that. For them, life offered no +release; there was no discharge in their warfare; to the end of their +days they would tread the city streets, push their humble fortunes as +they best could amid its clangour, and sink into rest at last beneath +its gray skies. +</P> + +<P> +Yet this morning the skies were not gray. The magic of June lay upon +the city. The toil-worn metropolis had dressed itself in shining +raiment, as if it would fain remind its departing sons that it also +could be fair; as if it meant that this last vision of its fairness +should be for them a rebuke and a torturing memory through all the +years of absence. +</P> + +<P> +A man and a woman crossed the platform, closely observing the labels on +the windows of the carriages. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! here it is! 'Masterman and party,'" said Bundy. +</P> + +<P> +"They should be here by this time, shouldn't they?" said Mrs. Bundy. +</P> + +<P> +"No, there's plenty of time—nearly half an hour." +</P> + +<P> +They stood beside the train, talking in eager tones. +</P> + +<P> +"You ordered flowers for their cabin, didn't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; and I've done something else. I've got a suite of rooms for +them. But they won't know that till they get aboard." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! I'm glad of that! I suppose it's the last thing we can do for +them." +</P> + +<P> +"Pray don't be melancholy," said Bundy, with an attempt at +cheerfulness. "They're going to be very happy. Let us see them off +with smiles." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! it's very well to talk. But these partings make me miserable. I +couldn't have loved Arthur more if he'd been my own son. But he won't +want me any more now. He'll have Elizabeth." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, aren't you glad of it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh yes, I'm glad. It was a beautiful wedding. And she is a sweet +girl. But there's nothing makes you feel so old as weddings, somehow. +They make you realise how much of life lies behind you." +</P> + +<P> +This intimate talk was interrupted by the increasing crowd that +thronged the platform. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, cheer up! Here they come!" said Bundy. +</P> + +<P> +And Mrs. Bundy, instantly superior to grievous meditations, ran to meet +the little group, with smiles and tenderness. She made no scruple of +kissing Arthur openly, embraced Elizabeth with fervour, wrung Vickars's +hand, to the last moment bought them books, papers, and magazines, and +whispered various occult directions for the attainment of health and +happiness into Arthur's ear, much as she had done years before when he +went to school for the first time. And then came the crowded +sensations of the moment when the shrill whistle sounded, the wheels +moved, and the train sped into the spacious sunshine. +</P> + +<P> +For Arthur, newly married, was leaving the city of so many tragic +memories for ever; Vickars also had decided to accompany Arthur and +Elizabeth to Kootenay. Each felt that with the death of Masterman the +last tie to England was snapped. +</P> + +<P> +As the train flashed on past trim suburban villas, into the greenness +of the open country, they talked in hushed tones of the life that lay +behind them. +</P> + +<P> +"One feels a little like a recreant at leaving it all," said Vickars. +"It is such a big thing, this London. And, when all's said and done, +there's far more heroism packed into those struggling, drudging London +lives than is found in a thousand battlefields." +</P> + +<P> +"You've done your part, father. You, at least, need have no +compunctions," said Elizabeth. +</P> + +<P> +"I've done a little—how little! You didn't think, when I was speaking +of heroism, that I meant myself, did you, my child?" +</P> + +<P> +"I only meant what I said, father. You have done your part." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! an easy part," he said meditatively. "I have sat apart, aloof and +sheltered, writing books. That is but an easy and little thing." +</P> + +<P> +He was silent for some moments, watching the green unfolding of the +country, the quiet farms and cottages, the ancient churches lifting +gray towers above their guardian elms, the bright water-courses, the +level roads and sun-washed fields. +</P> + +<P> +"It comes to me," he said presently, "that there's another kind of life +which I have never fully understood. A man comes to London, young, +strong, eager, and is speedily infected with a passion for success. He +is exposed daily to a hundred gross temptations. If he had some +original fineness of nature, it is soon blunted by the conditions of +his life. He fights for standing-room because that is the first law of +his existence. He then fights for conquest, and he conquers. At last +he receives a fatal wound. But his courage does not fail him. He +stands lonely and weak, fighting to the last. In the hour of his +adversity he is wholly unconquered. That is real heroism. The final +virtue of life is courage. He has this courage, and it is so great +that it eclipses the memory of his faults." +</P> + +<P> +"You are thinking of my father?" said Arthur, in a low voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I who sat apart, criticising the world, am the sham hero. He +who endured the crucifixion of the world is the real hero. Suffering +does not necessarily ennoble men; but to suffer bravely is always +noble. Ah, Arthur! when I think of that lonely grave which lies behind +us, I say, not 'what bitterness is hidden there!' but 'what fortitude!' +With all its faults, the life hidden in that grave may teach us all a +lesson." +</P> + +<P> +And that was the epitaph of Archibold Masterman. +</P> + +<P> +The train sped on. The ancient towers of Winchester rose and sank; and +were not they also the memorial of a Life not alone pure and gentle, +but of a divine courage? ... And in that Life, as in multitudes of +soiled and human lives, was not the final efficiency found in the +fortitude that endures? +</P> + +<P> +"That is the real heroism," said Vickars. "At least it is clear that +without this fortitude no kind of heroism is possible." +</P> + +<P> +Through the trees the gray hospice of St. Cross was visible for a +transient moment. The high chalk downs succeeded, the green marshland, +the broad estuary with its tossing boats and wide glimmering waters. +</P> + +<P> +An hour later a great ship loosed her moorings, and turned her bows +toward the wider waters and the New World. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="finis"> +THE END +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<HR> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap25"></A> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +W. J. DAWSON'S WORKS +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Masterman and Son<BR> + 12mo, cloth, $1.20 net +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +A Soldier of the Future<BR> + 12mo, cloth, $1.50.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +A Prophet in Babylon<BR> + A Story of Social Service. Cloth, $1.50.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Makers of Modern English<BR> + 8 vols., leather, boxed, per set, $6.00 net.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 4%"> + MAKERS OF ENGLISH POETRY. 8vo, cloth, gilt top, $1.50 net.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 4%"> + MAKERS OF ENGLISH PROSE. 8vo, cloth, gilt top, $1.50 net.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 4%"> + MAKERS OF ENGLISH FICTION. 3d edition, 12mo, cloth, gilt top, +$1.50 net.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 4%"> +"Mr. Dawson is an informing and delightful critic and his is the work +of a real critic and a master of style."—<I>N. Y. 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