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diff --git a/old/50131-8.txt b/old/50131-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 503e720..0000000 --- a/old/50131-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9600 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Marbeck Inn, by Harold Brighouse - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Marbeck Inn - A Novel - -Author: Harold Brighouse - -Release Date: October 4, 2015 [EBook #50131] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MARBECK INN *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -THE MARBECK INN - -A Novel - -By Harold Brighouse - -Little, Brown, And Company - -1920 - -Copyright, 1920 - - - -[Illustration: 0001] - - -[Illustration: 0009] - - - - - -THE MARBECK INN - - - - -CHAPTER I--THE STARTING-POINT - -|IT falls to some to be born, as they say, with a silver spoon in their -mouths, and the witty have made play with the thought that the wise -child chooses rich parents. - -Sam Branstone lacked the completeness of that wisdom. He was born in -one of those disconsolate streets of Manchester down which the stranger, -passing by tram along a main road, hardly more delectable than its -offshoots, looks and shudders; but was born with this difference from -the many--that he was son to Anne Branstone, a notable woman, and wisdom -may be conceded him for the discrimination of his choice. - -If, however, it was Anne who gave him birth and started him in life, it -was Mr. Councillor Travers who set him on his way from the mean street -of his birth and started his career, and the circumstance which led -to the intervention of Mr. Travers was due, not to Anne, but to the -occupation of Tom Branstone. - -Sam's father, Tom, was a porter at Victoria Station, Manchester, and -there was just time between morning and afternoon school for young Sam -to snatch a meal himself and to carry his father's dinner to him in a -basin tied up in a bandanna handkerchief. In those days Victoria was -an open station and a favourite dinner-hour lounge with boys from the -neighbouring Grammar School. The attractions were partly the trains, -partly the large automatic machines which delivered a packet of sweet -biscuits in return for a penny. First one lunched frugally on the -biscuits and pocketed the balance of one's lunch allowance to buy knives -and other essentials, then one savoured the romance of a large station -from which trains went to Blackpool and to the Yorkshire moors. Often -one saw sailors on the through trains from Liverpool to Newcastle. One -found secluded ends of platforms and ran races with luggage trucks. -One was rather a nuisance, especially when one wrestled hardily at the -platform's giddy edge and a train came in. - -Sam, as a porter's son, was on the other side of the fence. He did not -lark at Victoria Station, and took his opinions of those who did from -his father, adding, perhaps, a touch of jealousy against these chartered -libertines who wore the silver owl upon their caps of dual blue. - -That day he had delivered Tom's dinner to him in the porters' room and -was retracing his steps down the platform when he saw two of the Grammar -School boys emerge in a confused whirl of battle and sag, interlocked, -towards the line, hopelessly unconscious in their struggle of an -incoming train. They reached the edge, deaf to all warning cries, and -long before help could reach them, fell over it in one entangled mass. -One boy, aroused to a sense of their common danger, was on his feet -nimbly enough and across the line to safety: the other, Lance Travers, -stayed where he fell, with a leg broken against the rail. Wits left the -first lad; he could only howl as the engine swept inexorably on, and -adult help, though active, could not avail in time. Sam had no precise -recollection of what followed, and certainly acted on impulse. He dived -to the line and dragged the injured boy across, escaping death for both -by the skin of his teeth. - -After that, all was confusion: an ambulance; inquiries; names taken and -so on; and Sam only came to himself when he discovered that he was being -punished for arriving late at school. It struck him as unfair, but he -did not realize that he was a hero till the evening paper told him -so. He, Samuel Branstone, had his name in the paper! Glory could go -no further, because those were the dark ages of journalism, before the -photograph illustrated all, and to read one's name in print was then the -apogee. We have moved since those dull days, when "heart interest" was -still to be in vented. - -What profound satisfaction Anne Branstone found in that sober paragraph -her son was not to know. She did not think it good for him to know, but -she went about her house with softened eyes, and Sam heard her singing -more than once; so per haps he may have guessed that she was pleased -with him. - -It was more than she allowed Mr. Oscar Travers to guess, he was Lance's -father, an estate agent with a good suburban practice, and Anne met him -at the door in a way which would have marred Sam's future had Travers -not known that Lancashire women are apt to be undemonstrative. She found -a portly gentleman on the doorstep and thought he wore a patronizing -air. They resent patronage in Lancashire. - -As a matter of fact, Travers had come to see what he could do for the -lad who had saved his boy's life. That may be patronage, but he was -thinking of it as the barest decency. - -"Good evening," he said; "my name is Travers." - -"This is a nice upset," she said, without inviting him to come in. -"How's your son?" - -"He's doing very well, thank you." - -"Oh? Well, it's more than he deserves." - -He did not argue that. "I wonder," he said, "if you would allow me to -come in, or would you prefer me to return when your husband is at home?" - -"He's at home now. It's his early night. He's having his tea." - -"Shall I return when he has finished?" asked Travers with a nice -tactfulness. He knew the curious delicacy against being seen eating -by one of a superior class, as if that natural function were a deed -of shame. But Anne was for short cuts and she never considered Tom's -feelings overmuch. - -"If you've owt to say," she said, "you'd better come in and get it -over." - -"I have something to say," said Travers, entering. "Ah," he added, as he -caught sight of Sam, "this is----?" - -"It's him," Anne interrupted. She might have been identifying a -criminal. - -"May I shake your hand?" he asked, and shook it heartily, ignoring -Anne's muttered protest that the hand had not been washed for hours. "I -think you're a very plucky lad." He could have, said more than that, -and felt that as an expression of his gratitude it was hopelessly -inadequate, but Anne's eyes forbade effusiveness, and he wanted to -propitiate Anne. He had something to propose which he had thought they -would agree to rapturously, but was not so sure about the rapture now. -For some reason, he had imagined that Sam would be one of a large family -and was disappointed to find no evidence of other children about -the room A large family would have made his proposal more certain of -acceptance. - -"Any brothers and sisters, Sam?" he asked; but Sam was tongue-tied, -while Anne was silently but unmistakably asking Travers what business -of his that was. However, Tom knew his place. Travers belonged with the -tipping public, whose questions one answered. - -"He has an elder sister, sir. Our Madge. She works out." She was, in -fact, a general servant. - -Travers felt his confidence ebb fast, both at this information and at -Anne's austere disapprobation of Tom's communicativeness. He felt it was -suggested to him that his visit was irrelevant, that Anne, this small -woman, not uncomely, with her hands on her hips, and her black hair -tightly combed into a ridiculous knob at the back, was, in fact, a rock, -and that the impulses and desires of the two hulking men, Travers and -Tom Branstone, would break in ineffectual foam against her adamantine -resolution. - -She glared formidably, hating a "fuss," judging Travers, who had invaded -her home for the purpose of making a fuss. - -"Indeed," said Travers, marking time and hardly attempting to conceal -his dismay. The longer he spent in Anne's presence, the more uneasy he -became. She seemed to divine his purpose, and to be telling him silently -what she thought of him for having such a purpose. He had, indeed, -banked on a large family; porters, he had felt certain, were prolific, -and you may subtract one child from a family of ten without much -heart-burning, whereas an only son is a serious matter. But time brought -no graciousness to Anne's attitude. She even ignored the sacred rites of -hospitality; though tea was on the table, she had not asked him to have -a cup. So he gave up temporizing and decided to broach his purpose at -once, before Anne reduced him to complete incoherence. - -"Of course," he said, "you know me already as Lance's father. I don't -know whether you happen to have heard of me beyond that?" Anne admitted -nothing, and as it was to her he spoke, it did not matter that Tom, who -had naturally spent a gossipy afternoon, was trying to signify that -he realized the importance of Travers. "I'm an estate agent, if you -understand what that means." - -Anne nodded grimly. "Rent-collector said big," she defined. - -"Well," said Travers, intending to suggest an amended definition and -then thinking better of it. "Well, yes. I'm in the Council, too, you -know. Well, now, Mrs. Branstone, I happen to be a widower and Lance is -my only son. He means a great deal to me, and when I think how near I -came to losing him this afternoon, how certainly I had lost him hut for -the splendid presence of mind of this young hero here, I feel I owe a -debt which I can never hope to pay." - -"Mr. Travers," said Anne, "least said is soonest mended, and debts that -you can never hope to pay are best forgotten. It's a kindly thought of -yours to come and look us up to-night, but I'm not in the Council, and -I'm no great hand at listening to long speeches. By your leave, we'll -take the rest as said." - -"By all means, Mrs. Branstone, so far as expressing my thanks goes. But -I have a suggestion to make. Lance, as I said, is my only son. He's a -lonely boy, and he'd be the better for a companion of his own age about -the house. I was wondering if you would allow Sam to come and live with -us? I should send him with Lance to the Grammar School, and I think I -can promise that his future will be secured." - -Sam's heart gave a great leap. He, Sam Bran-stone, a Grammar School boy, -one of the elect, the Olympians whose play he had envied from afar! He -looked at Anne with glittering eyes, faint with hope. - -"Sam," she said, "Mr. Travers wants you to leave us. He's offering to -adopt you as his son. Tell him the answer." - -Anne never doubted that she was mistress of her house, and perhaps -she did not doubt it now, but, for Sam, a child with the dreadful -sensibility of a child, this moment when she demanded calmly, -implacably, in the interests of discipline, that he should himself -pronounce sentence on his soaring hopes was of a pitiable bitterness -which brought him near the breaking-point. At one moment, to be raised -to the heavens of ecstasy, and at the next to be cast down to the -blackest hell of despondency; to be promised all, and to be expected -to refuse! He was not more callous than any other child, and Anne knew -perfectly well that a Land of Heart's Desire had been opened to him. It -was not fair, and she knew that it was not fair, to ask him to speak the -word of refusal; but she thought that it was good for him, and once she -had, by her tone, if not by her actual words, indicated the reply which -she required, she knew that he would suppress his leaping hopes and -answer, in effect, that home, be it ever so humble, was home, and -parents, whatever their status, were parents. He had a wild impulse -to defy her, to tell her that he would come to see her on Saturday -afternoons, that to wear the cap with the silver owl was the dearest -ambition of his life, but he knew that it was hopeless. Even at such -a moment as this, and with such an ally as Mr. Travers, he dared not -challenge Anne. Her ascendancy was what it had always been, absolute. -He shuffled unhappily and tried to meet Mr. Travers' eye bravely, -but succeeded only in looking up as far as the second button of his -waistcoat. - -"No," said Sam Branstone, hero, and fled, a heartbroken, tear-washed -child, to hide his face and choke his sobs upon his pillow. And he was -named for valour in the evening paper! - -"No," repeated Anne, when he had gone, and added, anticipating argument, -"I'm a woman of few words." - -Travers knew he was fighting a losing engagement, but he had a shot in -the locker yet, and a hardy determination not to be worsted by the likes -of Anne Branstone. His pride was up, a pride which, over and above his -benevolence and his sense of the fitness of things, would not allow him -to regard the saving of his son's life lightly. Travers counted, the -saviour of the son of Travers counted. He had offered to lift Sam -Branstone in one way, and if they would not let him do it in that way, -he would do it in another. Sam Branstone, willy nilly, was going to be -lifted. - -"I suppose," he said, covering the retreat from his first position, -"that it is of no use pointing out to you the advantages which -my proposal offers to your son?" She shook her head. "Come, Mrs. -Branstone," he went on, conscious that it was no use and platitudinous -at that, "we all have to make sacrifices for our children." - -"I make them," said Anne curtly. It was true. - -"Yet you will not make this?" - -She was thoughtful for a moment, and Travers began to hope that he was -making an impression. "I'm sure that it's Genesis twenty-two," she said, -"but I disremember the verse." - -"Genesis," he repeated, mystified. - -"Abraham and Isaac," she explained her allusion. "Some sacrifices aren't -looked for from us, and the Lord sent an angel to say so in those days, -but I've to be my own angel in these." - -"But Abraham," he said, "was going to sacrifice his son to the Lord." - -"And I won't," she said, conveying her opinion of Travers, who had tried -to "come God Almighty over her," as she expressed it later to Tom. But -Travers was not to be rebuffed. He had come to play Providence to Sam -(and so far granted that her allusion was apposite), but his providence -could compromise. He wasn't an absolute Jehovah. - -"If Sam may not be Lance's home companion," he said, "at least let -them be school companions. Let me pay his fees at the Grammar School, -and----" He was going to add "for appropriate clothes," but something -in Anne's attitude told him that he had gone far enough, and he stopped -short with the completion of his sentence in mid air. - -Anne believed in education. She wasn't convinced that a Grammar School -education was superior, as education, to a Parish School, but its -associations were. It gave a chance of "getting on" which transcended -anything the Parish School could offer. It was a start in life which set -one automatically above the lower rungs of the ladder. - -"Yes," she said, but said it with a difficulty which Travers noted and, -indeed, applauded. He was Lancastrian himself, and honoured her for her -independence. He knew the mother-pride, the fierce individualism which -she had subdued before she had consented to take a favour even for her -son who earned it, and wasted no more words. "I'm glad," he said. "Good -night," and, shaking hands, was gone. - -"Finish your tea, Tom," she said to her husband who had suspended -operations during the interview. "I want to clear away." She stood a -moment pensively. "I'm a weak woman," she decided. - -Tom Branstone ate his tea, reserving judgment. - - - - -CHAPTER II--WHERE THE SHOE PINCHED - -|WHEN Anne Branstone set her hand to the plough she ploughed deep, and -it was not her fault if the harvest was not immense. But she did not -misdirect her energy; she made certain that the seed was good seed -before she harnessed her plough. To drop metaphor, she let young Sam -prove that he was worth troubling over before she took trouble--trouble, -that is, as Anne understood the word. Of course, she sent him "decent" -to the Grammar School, and if that meant that she and Madge went without -new spring hats that year, well, last year's hats must do. It was no -great matter, and the greater pride swallowed up the less. Mr. Travers -paid the fees, so that her son could associate with his, and Anne saw to -it thoroughly that, in externals, Sam should be worthy to associate with -Lance. - -That was the beginning, and Sam, so far, was untried metal. Then, at -the end of his first term, he came out top of his form at the July -examinations, and, after that, Anne began to take things seriously. - -It was not pure ability which brought Sam to that proud eminence so much -as the fact that he had been put in a form whose standard was really too -low for him, and he had not worked over hard at lessons, being naturally -preoccupied, in a first term, with finding his feet. Nor had that -been too difficult. The Manchester Grammar School was a democratic -institution. Schoolboys, anyhow, are not all snobs, and, in this -instance, the presence amongst the paying boys of a leaven of Foundation -Scholars, often from homes as poor as Sam's, made acclimatization easy -for him. - -But his feat impressed Anne, though all she said, when the lists came -out with the name of "Branstone, S." at the head of II. Alpha, was, "Of -course!" as if any other place were impossible for a son of hers; and -it decided her that Sam would "pay for" taking trouble. She proceeded to -take trouble. - -Tom Branstone's first real inkling of what was passing in Anne's mind -came to that good, easy man when he mentioned that his holidays were due -in a fortnight. - -"You'll take a holiday at home this year, my lad," she informed him. - -"But why's that, Anne?" he asked. "Blackpool's in the same place as it -was, and I get privilege passes on the line." - -"Sam's not in the same place, though," she said. "He's at the Grammar -School. It's a place where other boys wear decent clothes, and I'll see -that Sam shan't fall behind them." - -Tom took a holiday at home, varied with trips on the foot-plates of -friendly engine-drivers, and fortified his soul with the consolations of -tobacco. They were consolations which were not to be vouchsafed to him -much longer. Tobacco cost money, and Anne had need of it. - -In spite of Travers' generosity--or of as much of it as she could bring -herself to accept--it was not an easy thing for Anne to keep her son at -the Grammar School. It was desperately difficult, but Anne was Anne. The -boy had his foot on the educational ladder, and she meant him to go to -the top, rung by rung and scholarship by scholarship. When Sam took -his honours degree at Oxford, Anne would relax; till then, she was -a crusader. She sacrificed all to that ambition. Sam should have his -chance, at no matter what cost to her, to Tom and to Madge. The boy must -be as well dressed as his fellows, and he must play their games. Games -are an essential part of English education, and Anne, with her constant -eye to the main chance, recognized the importance of the playing-fields -in cementing friendships with boys who might be useful to Sam in after -life. But games are expensive, and Tom gave, up smoking when Sam was -put into his class eleven. Anne gave up nothing. She had nothing more to -give. - -Honestly, Sam was grateful. Anne did not boast to him of the sacrifices -which they all made, but with the candour which distinguishes -working-class homes where anything but bare necessity is exceptional, he -was aware of every move, of all their deprivation, and did his best to -square accounts. But it was not a brilliant best, and after that first -term, Anne never repeated the satisfaction of seeing her son carry away -a form prize on Speech Day at the Free Trade Hall. He was a worker, a -safe plodding "swot," taking by sheer application a respectable place in -the lists, but never heading them again, and especially he was weak at -mathematics. - -That troubled Anne distressingly. Mathematics appeared to her the -corner-stone of education, though in truth they mattered little to -Sam, who had followed Lance to the Classical side of the school, where -mathematics were an unconsidered trifle. But Anne recked nothing of -that. She had found the heel of her Achilles, and set herself to make -that vulnerable place secure. You are to picture Anne, with her forty -years of a working woman's life behind her, wrestling with algebra and -trigonometry, blazing a trail for Sam to follow. It was heroic and, by -some mental freak, successful. She taught herself, then tutored him, -and it was not Sam who scraped through to an average place in the -mathematics examinations, but Anne in Sam. Day after day, in the -intervals of cook ing, cleaning, washing, she studied the text-books -which so puzzled him, and at night explained their knotty points to him -with a wonderful clarity. She had no education in particular, nothing -but a general capacity and a monstrous will--a will that surmounted the -obstacle of acquiring knowledge at an age when few can learn, and the -greater obstacle of patient teaching to a boy who had a blind spot for -mathematics. She illumined his darkness, but perhaps she hampered his -classics and made her hopes of Oxford visionary. - -Slowly and painfully, as the terms went by, with Branstone, S. rising -steadily in the school, but keeping regularly to his mediocre place in -class, Anne acknowledged to herself that her goose was not a swan. It -made her the more eager to cultivate what she called the social side; -and through that she met with a defeat. - -From the beginning, Sam's rise in the world had borne heavily on Madge, -his sister, who was of an age for gaiety and of a mind untouched by -ambition, personal or vicarious. When Sam went to the Grammar School, -Madge was in service and very content. Anne had her out of that at once; -she wasn't going to run the risk of Madge being the servant in the house -of one of Sands school companions. It was unusual, but Madge preferred -service, where she was lucky in her employers, to the weaving-shed, -where she had free evenings, but strenuous days with no gossiping -callers at the back door to break their monotony. And it became a -considerable question in Madge's mind whether she would now be able -to outface Anne in the matter of George Chappie. Anne required a -presentable brother-in-law for Sam. - -Like Madge, George was unambitious, except that he wanted her, which -was ambition of a kind. Madge was small, like her mother, but derived -in most else from her father. She had freckles and carroty hair, and -the makings of a querulous shrew, but George saw otherwise, and desired -Madge to have and to hold, for better for worse, and didn't perceive -that the odds were heavily against its being better. He was a wisp of -a man himself, and thought he was enterprising because he was a -window-cleaner; window-cleaning was a new trade then. But Anne did not -concur with that opinion, and Madge was in no very sanguine frame of -mind when George came in one night with an "It's now or never" look -unmistakably in his eye. The trouble was that Anne was not the sort of -mother one defied with impunity. - -He came in shyly enough--a determined George was a contradiction in -terms--but plucked up courage at once when he found that she was -alone but for Sam. Sam's presence was inevitable, but need not be -acknowledged. In a house, not, indeed, of one room, but of one fire and -one gas-jet, Sam had grown apt at insulating himself when he sat with -his books at the table. The business of the house went on, so did Sam's -studies, and neither interfered with the other. Sam, absorbed in his -construe of Cicero's _De Senectute_ for the morrow, was absolutely -unconscious of Madge and George. - -It was not Sam who troubled George, but Madge had truth with her when -she told her suitor that he looked worried. George jerked his thumb -vaguely streetwards. "It's her again," he explained. "I can't think -why God made landladies. I ask you, Madge, is another blanket in this -weather a thing to fly into a temper about?" - -"It's cold," said Madge. "Won't she give you another?" - -"I don't know yet whether she'll give me one or not. But she's had my -last word. Another blanket or I'll flit." - -"You've threatened that so often." - -He admitted it. "I know. It takes an earthquake to shift some folks, and -I reckon I'm one of them. I stay where I'm set." And his tone implied -that conservatism was an admirable virtue. - -Madge did not think so. "That's what my mother says of you," she -observed, a trifle tartly. - -"It's no lie, either," he placidly agreed. "Seems to me," he went on, -with a look, ardent but appealing, at Madge, "that there's only one -thing will flit me from Mrs. Whitehead's. You couldn't give a guess at -it, could you?" - -"Yes, I could," said Madge brazenly. After all, she was Anne's daughter, -and direct. Then, despite herself, she fenced coyly: "You're leaving the -town, I reckon, Mr. Chappie." - -He stood aghast at the revolutionary thought. "Nay," he said earnestly. -"I'm set here and I'll not leave willing. There's something to keep me -where I am." - -"Your job's not worth so much," she said, misunderstanding wilfully. - -"It's steady, though," he defended it, "and a growing trade. My master's -getting a lot of window-cleaning contracts all over the town. But -it's not my job that keeps me here. It's------" He dropped his cap and -fumbled for it nervously, somehow finding a sort of courage in the act, -so that when he rose he faced her with a spirit which was, for him, -quite debonair. "Now, you'll not stop me, will you? I've come on purpose -to get this off my chest and I've worked myself up to a point. I'm a bit -slow at most things and I'm easily put off, so I'll ask you to give my -humble request a patient hearing." - -Madge looked at him acutely, and decided that his resolution was strong -enough to survive something that she very much wanted to say. "I'd -rather this didn't come straight on top of a row with your landlady," -she said. - -"Aye," he agreed, "I can see your meaning, but it's that that roused me -to point. Love's like a pan of soup with me. It's got to seethe a while -before it boils. But I'm boiling now, and I'm here to tell you so. I've -loved you since I saw you, Madge. After Sunday School one day it was, -with a wind on that blew the bonny curls across your eyes. I always -fancied gold and you're gold twice over." Madge was deeply moved at this -idealization of her hair. She had been made more peevishly conscious of -its redness than ever by the unsparing comments of the weaving-shed, but -she did not see wherein she was gold twice over until he explained it. -"I didn't notice that the first day. I only saw your hair. I hadn't the -nerve to come close enough to see the colour of your eyes. But when I -did, and found them all gold-brown as well, that finished me. I was deep -in love to the top of my head. Drowned in it, you might say." - -"You're talking a lot of nonsense, George," said Madge, with a fond -appreciation that belied her words. - -"I'm telling you I love you," he said, "and I'm asking if there's -anything that you could see your way to tell me in return. I know I'm -not smart, Madge, but I'd work my fingers off to make you happy. Can't -you say you love me, lass? Not," he added, "if it isn't true, of course. -I wouldn't ask you to tell a lie even to oblige me." - -"It might not be a lie," said Madge softly, "but----" She paused so that -he was left to guess the rest. - -"But," he suggested, "you don't care to go so far as to say it?" - -He watched her timidly, with courage oozing out of him. She had all but -given him to hope, but now it appeared she had no more to say. "Well, I -can understand," he said, half turning towards the door. "I'm not much -of a chap, and you might easily have put me down much harder than you -did. It's soft letting now, by reason of your tactful ways. I'll... I'll -go and see if Mrs. Whitehead has given me yon other blanket." - -He was at the door before she stopped him. "George!" she said, "come -back. You're getting this all wrong. You know about my brother." George -nearly smiled. "It'ud not be your mother's fault if I didn't," he said. - -"No," she said; "I suppose everybody knows about his going to the -Grammar School. They don't all know what it means." Madge was trying to -be loyal to the family ideal, she was trying not to be bitter, but it -wasn't easy. It was one thing to go without new hats and the accustomed -ways of service, but another to go without George. - -"I'd like you to understand that this family puts itself about a bit for -Sam's sake. We think he'll go a long way up in the world, and the rest -of us aren't doing anything to keep him down. None of us, no matter how -it hurts. Are you seeing what I mean?" - -He saw. "I'm not class enough for you," he said. - -It was a part, but not the whole, of her meaning, and Madge wanted -no misapprehensions. "You're class enough for me," she said, "but I'm -telling you where the doubt comes in. It's a habit we've got in this -family. We think of Sam." That made the matter plain; she loved him, and -while he granted there was a certain impediment through Anne's habit of -subordinating everything to Sam's interests, he saw no just cause why he -should not marry Madge. "I wouldn't knowingly do anything to upset your -mother," he said, "but I've told you I'm boiling with my love for you. -I'm easily put off my purpose as a rule. I mean to say, supposing I ask -Mrs. Whitehead for a kipper for my tea, and she tells me eggs are cheap -and she's got an egg instead, I don't make a song about it--so long as -the egg's not extra stale. But I'll own I didn't think of Sam in this. I -thought it was for you and me to settle by ourselves." - -"Sam's in it," said Madge dully. "He's in everything in this house." - -Then Anne came in and the disturbance of her entrance, together with the -fact that he had finished his passage of "_De Senectute_" made Sam aware -that something was toward. He kept his eyes discreetly on his book, -but fluttered the pages of his dictionary no more. He found youth more -arresting than old age. - -Anne's quick comprehension took the situation in at once. She had been -shopping, and as she put her parcels on the dresser she gave Madge the -benefit of a wordless reproof. She could say a good deal without opening -her mouth, and said it. But Madge was not going to be parted from her -George without a fight. Sam apart, George was eligible, and Madge saw -this as an unique occasion--the occasion for leaving Sam out. At least, -she meant to try. - -George was turned craven at sight of Anne and sidled to the door. "I'll -be getting on home, I think," he said. - -"You wait your hurry," said Madge hardily. "Mother, George has been -asking me to wed him." - -It was the gage of battle, for Anne knew the fact already. The statement -of it was a challenge. She met it coolly. "Has he?" she said. "Well, I -hope you told him gently." - -And at that George found his second wind of courage, and intervened like -a man. "She's told me nothing with her tongue. Nothing for certain. But -a blind man on a galloping horse could read the thoughts of her. Mrs. -Branstone, I love that girl as if she'd put a spell on me. It's the -biggest feeling that's come into my life, and I'm full and bursting with -it, or I'd not have the face to expose my inside thoughts to you like -this. And if you'll only tell me I can take her, the Mayor in his -carriage won't be happier than me." - -"You know how steady George is, mother," Madge seconded him. - -"He needs to be," said Anne dryly. "He's a window-cleaner." - -"I'm steady by nature, Mrs. Branstone, as well as trade. I don't drink. -Somehow one glass of ale is enough to make me whimsical, so I take none -at all. I know I'm being bowdacious in my love, but I'm moved to plead -with you. We'd not be standing in Sam's way. We'd live that quiet and -snug you'd never know we're in the town at all." Anne looked at him with -a faint trace of appreciation drenched in her profound contempt. A -poor creature, but he had his thimbleful of spunk! "It would need to be -quiet," she said, "with two to keep on your wage. Are you contented with -it?" - -Disastrously, he was. "It's a regular job," he said, voicing his pride -at being above the ranks of casual workers. In Anne's view, a hopeless -case. - -"It's a regular rotten job," she retorted, but spoke more softly than -her wont. "I've Sam to consider, Madge. You might live quiet, but Sam's -brother-in-law has got to make a better show of it than to be seen all -over the place at the top of a ladder like a monkey on a stick. I'm not -being hard on you, George Chappie, and I've nothing against you bar that -you're not good enough. You better yourself and you'll do. Stay as you -are, and Madge'ull do the same." - -George opened his mouth to speak, but found that nothing came. It _was_ -a regular job, it satisfied his ambitions, and her objections were -inexplicable. He had shot his bolt and, having no more to say, he went, -relapsing to such invertebracy that when he found that Mrs. Whitehead -had not added the other blanket to his bed he had nothing to say to her -either, but spread a threadbare overcoat on the coverlet and shivered -unhappily to sleep. - - - - -CHAPTER III--THE HELL-PIKE CLUB - - -|TO a schoolboy of sixteen, love is an imbecile emotion, its victims -harmless lunatics, and it is not to be supposed that Sam's interest in -the affair of Madge and George was based on intimate understanding. His -conspiratorial action came rather as a lark: behind, perhaps, was the -recognition that adults did habitually make fools of themselves in -this way, that his loyalty in such a case was to Madge who was of his -generation, and that Anne in obstructing their marriage was outrunning -the constable in her demands for self-sacrifice on his behalf. - -Larking, defined as enjoyable interference with other people for -motives either benevolent or purely egotistic, was a weakness of Samuel -Branstone, and the boy was father to the man. He did not agree with Anne -that the marriage was inimical to his interests. True, George cleaned -windows and balanced hardily at the top of swaying ladders, a precarious -trade, but his own. Apparently it suited the Georgian temperament, and -that funambulist would not wear a placard on his back proclaiming that -he was brother-in law to Branstone of the Classical Fifth. - -Branstone, who was going to rise in the world, would necessarily have -poor relations, and it hardly mattered how poor. Indeed, the poorer they -were the more cheaply he could afterwards play providence to them, since -their standards would be low and their expectations small. - -So it wasn't a nice, impulsive lark, but coldblooded and calculated, -which is almost as objectionable in a lark as organization in Charity. -It is prudent good intentions that pave the way to Hell. - -He saw that there was a difference between this and the elopements -of that romantic literature with which he busied his relaxed hours: -sometimes the lady, but always the lover, was enterprising, while he -knew that George could never instigate anything. But that made things -more amusing for Sam, who could pull strings with absolute assurance -that his puppets would never take to dancing on their own account, or -to any tune but the one he piped; and it is not given to all of us to be -Omnipotence at the price of a ten-pound note. - -As always, Sam had luck. In the romantic elopements whose technique he -began to study with new interest, money was never a difficulty, but the -god in the machine of George Chappie's elopement must put money in his -purse, or there could be no elopement. - -Sam liked money, but he must have liked power more, for, coming -miraculously into money at this time, he devoted it to this end. He -came into money because journalism was swiftly on the up grade since the -days, four years ago, when it couldn't show its readers a photograph of -Sam Branstone, hero, in the evening paper, and had reached the civilized -stage of picture competitions. - -You bought a weekly paper which printed six crude wood-cuts supposed to -disguise the names of (say) famous battles, and it did not strain your -intellect to discover that the picture of a station with "Waterloo" -beneath its clock was intended to represent the battle of that name. -But pause: it was not all so easy as that. Inflamed by avarice and the -childish ease of identifying the battles in the first series, you bought -the next week's number, and the next, until the competition closed, and -you found that the designs were increasingly baffling. It was not quite -money for nothing. It called for some knowledge of history and a sort -of knack in cheap wit to interpret the pictures. A garden syringe, and -a stage Irishman brandishing something that might easily be a cudgel -but wasn't, represented, in fact, the not very renowned battle -of Seringapatam, and there were pictures which could bear two -interpretations. - -It was this last which led Sam to go into partnership with Lance -Travers. Both partners admitted that Sam's wits were the sharper, so -it was only fair that Lance should finance the partnership and buy the -papers. And Sam, sanguine of winning, but desiring secrecy, preferred -that the firm should be registered in Lance's name, so that if and when -Sam became a capitalist, he and not Anne should control his wealth. His -ideas of the uses of capital already went beyond the Post Office Savings -Bank. - -The weekly paper's object was to increase its circulation, so it allowed -and encouraged competitors to send in numerous attempts, and printed -ambiguous drawings to tempt to prodigality. It is to be feared that -Classics suffered an eclipse at this period of journalistic enterprise. -The partners had other and more serious objects in life. And they won! -They won the second prize. It wasn't a house or a motor-car or any of -the fantastic prizes with which still later journalism rewarded its -intelligent readers, but they divided twenty pounds and, for them, ten -pounds each was paradise enow. Lance bought a bicycle. Sam didn't. He -bought a wedding-ring, and he had a talk with Sarah Pullen, who was so -passionately Madge's bosom friend that she had gone into the mill with -her. - -Sarah received him coldly; she looked upon him as the cause of her -friend's martyrdom and thought the cause unworthy. - -Sam cleared the air at once. "I'm on Madge's side. I'm not going to see -her made unhappy for my sake," he said, and Sarah relented so far as to -absolve him of personal malignity. - -"Much you can do to help it, though," she said. "I _can_ do much," he -replied, "but," he flattered her, "perhaps you can do more. You see, -Sarah," he went on confidentially, "Madge trusts you and she doesn't -trust me. Now, between ourselves, she needs a friend's advice. Put -yourself in her place. Would you knuckle under to your mother?" - -"I'd see her further first," said Sarah. - -"I wonder," said Sam, "if you could see your way to communicating your -views to Madge without mentioning that I suggested it?" - -"You!" said Sarah. "You! It'ud take a dozen your size to suggest -anything to me. Get off home and play marbles, or I'll give you a slap -on th' earhole that you'll remember." - -They didn't play marbles in the Classical Fifth, but Sam was content to -put her allusion down to ignorance rather than deliberate insult. He -had gained his point: the atmosphere he desired created was about to he -created. - -He left that pot to simmer and turned his mind to George, whom he judged -less susceptible than Madge to the promptings of a friend. Besides, he -knew no friend of George, and confessed himself at fault. - -One day, shortly before the Whitsuntide holidays, he was staring -gloomily out of the window at the top of the stairs outside the Fifth -Form room, watching the boys of the Chetham's Hospital at play in that -yard of theirs which the Grammar School pretends to scorn but secretly -envies, when he heard behind him a conversation between Lance Travers -and Dubby Stewart which set his brain awhirl. Yet it was not a -distinguished conversation. - -"Who ever heard of anyone in Manchester staying at home in Whit week?" -asked Lance. - -Sam had heard, often. - -"It isn't done," said Dubby, who had earned that abiding name when he -was in the Lower Third, and once read "dubious" aloud with a short "u." - -"But I've to do it," said Lance. "My governor's too busy to get away. -Bit damnable, isn't it?" - -"Matter of fact," said Dubby, "we're not going, either." - -And it presently appeared that out of the form of twenty-four boys there -were as many as six who lived in Manchester and were not going away. "It -will be hell," prophesied one of the unfortunates. - -"It needn't," said Sam Branstone, turning from the window to the -mournful group. - -"You're used to it. We're not," said someone cruelly, and Lance smacked -his head. Allusions to anybody's poverty were bad form. - -"What's the prescription?" asked Dubby, and Sam was silent for a minute. -"Watch him. Something's dawning," chaffed Dubby. It wasn't dawning, it -had dawned; but at first it looked like a risk, and then much less like -one, and Sam smiled beautifully as he realized that he, at least, had -all to gain and nothing to lose. He drew the luckless five mysteriously -aloof. - -"The prescription," he said, "is to have a holiday in Manchester, in -a holiday house." He let that soak for a minute, and then, "Our own -house," he added. "There are six of us. We join together and we take -a house. A small house, and I daresay some of you won't like the -neighbours, but as the neighbours won't like us, that's as broad as it's -long. Swagger neighbours wouldn't stand us anyhow, and the smaller the -house the smaller the rent. Something like four-and-six a week is my -idea. That's nine-pence a week for each of us, and we've a house of our -own for that to do what we like in." - -"By Jove!" said someone admiringly. - -"What shall we call it?" said another, a trifle doubtfully. - -"Call it?" said Lance. "That's obvious. The Hell-fire Club." - -And, of course, if any doubt remained, that settled it. Who would regret -the seaside if he could be a member of the Hell-fire Club? Lance was -commissioned to negotiate with his father, the estate agent, but it was -Sam who really chose their house. It was a house which in Sam's opinion -excellently suited the requirements of a young married couple of the -window-cleaning class. Mr. Travers told Lance that he would stop the -value of any damage out of his pocket-money, and on those conditions let -them the house. But he need not have made that cautionary threat; Sam -saw that there was no damage. - -The Hell fire Club assembled for its initiatory debauch on the first day -of the holidays, and by eleven a.m. three inexpert cigarette-smokers had -had occasion to use the slopstone as a vomitorium. It left them feeling -chilly, and Dubby suggested that a house-warming without a fire was a -solecism, even on a hot day, so a lavish plutocrat brought in two sacks -of coal and a supply of chips. Firelighting is a sport out of which a -certain excitement can be derived, but only for a short time, and the -same evanescent quality attaches to the pleasure of sitting on bare -boards. - -"I'm too stiff to be happy," said Lance. "I vote we furnish this club." - -Carried, _nem. com_. "I'm afraid, though," said Sam, "that I shall not -be able to contribute much." - -"Wait till you're asked, my son," said Dubby. "By the time we five have -finished looting our homes, this place will be a little palace." - -Loot is a brave word, suggestive of the treasures of the purple -East, but it was, in most instances, a case of permitted loot, the -offscourings of lumber rooms. Sandy Reed, however, was the sort of boy -who is happiest with a hammer in his hand, and Dubby had an eye for -chintz. To repair the veteran furniture which they brought struck Sandy -as work for a man. Behind him was his infantile past of fret-work -and model yachts; before him the foremanship of the Hell-fire Club -repair-shop. He worked and was the cause of work in others. And it was -willing work, partly because it was for an idea, partly because that -first day had threatened boredom and here was something definite to do, -mostly because it was making a noise. - -The ill-assorted chairs, tables and sofas which they collected under -their roof had this in common at the end, that they were strong; and -having by their own efforts made them strong, the boys did not by -their rioting make them weak again. They respected their handiwork, and -Dubby's chintz procured a sort of uniformity. - -A club, of course, must eat and drink, and kitchen utensils, mostly odd -but all practicable, were gathered together that they might precede the -pleasures of eating with the pleasures of cooking. It was camp-life in -town, except that they went home to sleep, and so long as the activities -of "settling in" endured, they relished it abundantly. - -About a fortnight was what Sam had mentally set as the life of the -Hell-fire Club, and he had no intentions of paying the rent by himself -for more than a week or so. They had decided that Sunday was not a -club-day--there were difficulties at home--and Sam took George Chappie -for a walk. "I like this street," he said as they turned the corner. -"Madge always fancied this district." - -"Did she?" said George gloomily. - -"We'll go in here," and Sam produced the key and introduced George to -the Club premises. "What do you think of it?" - -The chintz took George's eye at once. "By gum!" he said. - -"Sit down," said Sam. "This is where you're going to live when you're -married to Madge. It isn't your furniture yet, but it's going to be. I'm -going to give it you for a wedding present. There isn't a bed in, as you -see, but there will be, and I ask you, George, is it or is it not better -than Mrs. Whitehead's?" - -"Aye," said George, "but you're going ahead a bit too fast for me." - -"Not at all," said Sam. "Yours is the pace that kills. The slow pace, -not the quick. Now, this place isn't at your disposal yet, but if you'll -put up the banns next Sunday and get married as soon as you can after -the three Sundays, you can walk in here and hang your hat up on that -hook. It's a brass hook, George. We don't approve of nails in this -house. I might mention that it will be all right about the banns. Mother -has dinner to cook on Sundays and doesn't go to morning service, and -to-day is father's Sunday off from the station and lie's on duty for the -next three Sundays. So," he concluded, "there you are." - -"You're promising a lot. Is this house yours?" - -"The rent is four-and-six," said Sam, "which isn't more than you can -afford to pay. And you bind yourself to nothing by putting up the banns. -If I fail to deliver you this house and all that's in it, you needn't -get married. But I've a word of advice for you, George. Let Madge hear -of it first from the parson's lips in church. She won't scream and she -won't faint. We don't, in our family, and it saves you the trouble of -asking her. Is it a bet?" - -George hesitated. "Come upstairs and see the other room," said Sam. -George saw, and marvelled. "I'll come round with you now to church," -said Sam. "We've just nice time to catch the clerk after service." - -"By gum!" said George Chappie. "I'll do it. They can't hang me. But," he -added as he cast a last look at the household gods which Sam Bran-stone -promised should be his, "they may hang you." - -Sam grinned blandly. - - - - -CHAPTER IV--THE COMPLEAT ANGLER - -|HE had succeeded with George beyond expectations, but that easy victory -did not deceive him into thinking that his battle was won. Madge, he had -said, would neither scream nor faint on hearing her banns announced and -he wished he was as confident about it as he had sounded. Much, in his -view too much, depended on the vigour of Sarah Pullen's advice. - -He was taking risks all round, but found he rather liked it. There was -the risk that the Hell-fire Club would not tire of its toy in time. An -encouraging increase in absenteeism amongst the members elated him, -but the steadfast faith of an enthusiastic pair depressed him sadly. He -hoped, however, to find a way out of that wood. - -And there was the risk that some acquaintance of Anne's would mention -the banns to her. He saw no way to counter that. It was a risk he had -to take. Fortunately, his father's best friend, Terry O'Rourke, was a -Catholic. - -As things stood, he saw Madge as the weakest link in his chain. She -collapsed before the will of Anne like an opera hat, and he was candidly -afraid of her making a scene in church, either from pleasure or from -anger, when the banns were read. Not that he shrank on principle from -scenes, only that word of it would undoubtedly be carried to Anne and -the fat be in the fire. - -Rummaging one day that week at a second-hand bookstall in Withy Grove, -without the slightest intention of buying, he was attracted by a -title and recklessly planked his tuppence down. Intrigue, he felt, was -punishing his finances, but this title gave him too good an opening -with Madge to be the subject of economy. The title was "The Clandestine -Marriage," and he knew that Sarah Pullen would be in that night to see -Madge. - -He was reading the play very earnestly when she called, though it rather -bored him and he thought its plot elementary compared with his own. -Sarah was no reader, but she noticed the cover because the word -"marriage" was an unfailing lure. - -"Whatever has the boy got hold of now?" She inquired, taking his bait -sweetly. - -He showed her. "Do you know what it means?" he asked. - -"I know what marriage means," she said. - -"By hearsay," he told the virgin pungently. "But I meant the middle -word." - -She eyed it closely. "You're always bragging your knowledge. I'm not at -the Grammar myself and Greek is Greek to me. Fat lot of good it'ud be in -a weaving-shed, and all." She had a practical mind. - -"This isn't Greek," he said, "it's English." - -"It's not the sort of English we talk in Manchester, choose how." - -"I'll tell you what it means." - -"Wait till you're asked, cheeky." - -He didn't wait. "It means surreptitious." - -"I'm a grand sight the wiser for that. It'll mean a thick ear for you -if you don't stop coming the schoolmaster over me. I'm here to talk to -Madge, not to you." - -He winked at Sarah with the eye which was hidden from Madge. "The Secret -Marriage, Sarah. That's what it means." - -Sarah was interested now. "Does it tell you how to work it?" - -"I might do that myself," he said. - -"Don't talk so foolish, Sam," said his sister. "Are you coming for a -walk, Sarah?" - -"When I'm ready," said Sarah. "Now then, young Sam, spit it out." - -"Oh," said Sam. "It isn't much. Only I happened to be out for a walk -with George Chappie the other day and we went into a house that's pretty -full of furniture." - -"George Chappie with a house of furniture!" cried Madge. - -"I suppose he's getting married," said Sam. "He courted you at one time, -didn't he, Madge? I rather liked his taste in furniture." - -"Taste!" cried Madge with spirit. "I'll taste him. I'll eat him raw for -this. After all he said to me no more than a month ago, to take up with -another wench! What's the hussy's name?" - -"Her name?" said Sam. "Let's see. Sunday to-morrow, isn't it? The banns -might be up. If I were you I'd go and find out." - -"As true as I'm alive I'll tear every hair from her head," said Madge. - -"I wouldn't," said Sam. "You have red hair, but better red than bald." - -"Her!" said Sarah. "Do you mean----?" - -"Look here, Sarah," Sam interrupted, and used a formula which he had -thought out rather carefully. "Do you imagine I'd be giving you a -message like this if he hadn't sent it?" - -"Message! What message?" - -Then Anne came in. - -"Yes, Sarah," she heard Sam saying with a pedagogic air. "The word -clandestine means secret." He resumed with zest the reading of his play -and, though theirs was a small house, managed to avoid being alone with -Madge up to church time on the morrow. He had business out that Saturday -night--to make sure of George, whom he found full of panting resolution -to catch the clerk and cancel the banns. The glamour of that furniture -had lasted this long with George, but the awful hazard of the Sunday -morning eclipsed the glow as it came nearer. George wilted at the -thought of Madge rising in her place with a firm, irrevocable "I forbid -the banns" upon her lips. - -There had begun, too, to be a quality too much like that of an Arabian -night about his visit to the Club. Sam was a wonderful boy and George -granted his high superiority; but even George, the humble, did not quite -see Sam as a miracle-worker. He even began to doubt the existence of the -enchanted Palace which Sam had shown him, and that it was within Sam's -competence to hand over that house to him appeared now ridiculous. Sam -came just in time. - -"Would you care," he said, "to have another look at your house?" - -George would, but he hadn't time then: he was going; to see the clerk, -and till he saw the clerk he was a man obsessed with an idea. "I -suppose," he said sceptically, "that it's still there?" - -"Of course," said Sam, "and has a few more things in since you saw it." - -"Well," said George, "it's a nice house, but I'm going to see yon clerk -to tell him not to put up banns." - -Sam smiled, relieved to know that he was not too late. "Don't do that," -he said. "Madge is pleased." - -"What!" said George. "Say that again." - -"Madge is pleased," repeated Sam brazenly. He was sure she was. He -trusted Sarah Pullen now. - -"Did she tell you so?" asked George. - -"Do you imagine I'd be giving you a message like this if she hadn't sent -it?" - -George took his cap off. "If that's so----" he said. - -"It's so," said Sam, not defining what was so. - -The banns went up, and Sam was able to devote his undivided attention to -Club affairs, as to which he had an idea arising out of the boredom he -suffered while reading "The Clandestine Marriage." That tuppence was a -fruitful investment. - -A wet day came and with it, what was now rare, a full attendance at the -Club. But, since their repairs and decorations were complete, there was -nothing to do except to sit on their reliable chairs and admire their -reliability. - -"For a Hell-fire Club," said Sandy, "we lack hellishness." - -"Lance named us," said Dubby. "He ought to make suggestions." - -"Of a new name?" asked Sandy. "Call it the Eviscerated Emasculates." - -"Call it a damned failure," said another, and was sat upon. They -welcomed the diversion, but the thought had reached home. - -"What's the matter," said Sam, when order was restored, "is that we -aren't serious enough." - -"Oh, hell!" said Lance. - -"I mean it, Lance. We're not a set of kids from the Lower School. If we -were, we might sit round and read Chums and the Boy's Own Paper." Two -men of the Classical Fifth and the Hell-fire Club looked guiltily at -him, but decided that he was not making personal allusions. "As it -is, we have higher interests. Now, there are six of us here and that's -enough, with doubling, to take parts in a Shakesperian play. I vote we -read a play. In fact, I brought some down." - -This suited Lance, who had aspirations towards the stage. "Bags I -Romeo," he said. - -Sandy was less fired to enthusiasm, but, "All right," he said, "if you -choose a play with lots of thick bits in it." - -"We certainly," said Sam, "shall not read an edition prepared for the -use of girls' schoofs." - -"_Merry Wives of Windsor_, then," said Dubby. "Lance can spout Romeo out -of his bedroom window to stop a cat-fight." - -Sam would have preferred a tragedy; he feared they would enjoy reading -The Merry Wives and so, on the whole, they did, but there were only five -promises to turn up next day and two of those were conditional upon its -being wet. Sam wasn't dissatisfied, and as a comedy was postulated chose -_Much Ado about Nothing_, because he thought that it was dull in patches -and also for a reason of his own. He wanted to make certain that he had -nothing to learn as an intriguer from a famous case of match-making. He -found he had. - -Although it rained, _Much Ado_ had only four readers at the opening and -only two at the close. Lance sent postcards that night to the members -announcing _Hamlet_ for the morrow. He wanted to read Hamlet's part, but -if you can't have _Hamlet_ without the Prince, neither can you read it -satisfactorily with one other participant. - -Lance and Sam struggled through an act, then Lance gave in. "I'm getting -tired of this Club," he said. "The members have no brain." - -"It isn't raining," said Sam. - -"No. Lancashire's batting, too. Let's go and see Albert Ward and Frank -Sugg at Old Tafford." - -Next day, the Club was uninhabited, except by the ghost of Sam's -broadest smile, its only tenant for a week. The freeze-out was -accomplished, and its engineer had confidence enough to spend three -pounds of his capital on a bed and bedding, "to await instructions -before delivering." Then he saw Lance Travers and pointed out to him -that there were better uses to be made of ninepence a week than to -waste it on a club which nobody used. - -"Nuisance, though, about the chairs and stuff," said Lance, implying his -agreement that the Club had failed. - -"I can't have them back here, because I'm turning our attic into an -aviary. That's why I've had no time to go to the Club," he explained -with a faint apology, and took Sam up to see his birds. - -"What shall we do about all that furniture at the Club? Pity the fifth -of November is so far off." - -"I'll try to think of something," said Sam, rather terrified at Lance's -incendiary suggestion. "In any case it must be discussed at a full -meeting. Let's call the members together." - -An urgent whip resulted in a full and slightly shame-faced attendance. -Nobody tried to dispute that the Club was a corpse: the only question -was what to do with its bones. "Well," said Sam, "if none of you has -a suggestion to make, I'll make one. Nobody's aching to take the stuff -back where it came from. Now," he went on candidly, "we _could_ sell it -to a dealer, but I'm against that because dealers are thieves and they'd -give us about thirty bob for the lot. But my sister's getting married -and I don't mind offering the Club five pounds for its property. That," -he indicated, "is a pound each for the five of you." - -"Cash on the nail?" asked Dubby, whose forebears came from Scotland. He -distrusted Sam in the character of capitalist. - -"Oh, yes," explained the candid Sam. "You see, when I met Lance -yesterday I said I'd think of a way out of the difficulty and I came -prepared." - -"I vote we take it," said Sandy. "I can buy a lot of tools with a -pound." - -"I don't see why we should pander to your vices," said Lance. "We're -still a Club and this is club money." - -"The Club is dead." - -"Not yet. Not till we've killed it gloriously on Sam's sister's fiver. -There's a hell of a bust in five pounds and we have to drink the bride's -health. Champagne's my drink." - -It wasn't, but it was rather too often his father's, and Lance was -emulous, and, frightened a little of his own suggestion, carried things -now with a rush. "We're the Hell-Fire Club," he said, "and champagne is -the dew of Hell. Any member shirking will be held under the tap for half -an hour." They braved it out, most of them conscience-stricken, and the -Hell-fire Club almost deserved its name in the hour of its extinction. -Things might have been serious had not Sam, by a well-timed push, caused -Lance to shatter a full magnum on the floor. - -As it was, five hangdog members reached home late, but presentable. But -they were most unhappy boys. The sixth boy was happy. He had consumed -a sober and interesting meal at other people's expense, encountering -several delectable sorts of food for the first time and experiencing -that human but reprehensible thrill which results from feeling that one -is a clever fellow. - -Distance of course lent enchantment to the Hell-fire Club. When school -reassembled and boys fresh from the seaside tried to excite the jealousy -of the stay-at-homes with tales of land and sea, they were loftily put -in their places and struck to dumb admiration by legends of the dashing -vice of the Hell-fire Club. It lived in story as it had never lived in -fact. - -Sam visited the premises, on the day after the Club died, to wipe up -the mess, thriftily to salve some untouched edibles for a coming -wedding-feast, and by receiving and installing the bed to dedicate the -house to better uses. Then he put the key in his pocket and took it to -George. He had kept his bargain and now it was for George to keep his. - -There remained the question of Anne, and as a preliminary to its -solution Sam had recommended Madge to look peaked. Madge, naturally -inclined to that condition, had no difficulty in accentuating its -appearance by recourse to the vinegar bottle until even Anne, intolerant -as she was of small weaknesses, had to own that Madge looked unhappy and -unwell. - -On the night before her wedding, Madge shut herself up in her bedroom -whence the sounds as of a very ecstasy of woe penetrated to the kitchen. -Yet her woe was not ecstatic and hardly woe at all. She wept because -she was going to be married next day, because when one is going to -be married next day one weeps. One brims with undefinable emotion and -overflows into tears. - -But Anne, listening from the kitchen, where she sat with Sam, was moved -to unaccustomed softness. "That girl is fretting sadly," she said. "It's -a mort of trouble to be taking over a wastrel like George Chappie." - -"Mother," said Sam speculatively, "I wonder whether you have ever -considered the influence of matter over mind?" - -"I'm considering the influence of something that does not matter," she -replied. "The influence of George Chappie." - -"Suppose," said Sam, "suppose that George Chappie lived in a decent -house of his own, with furniture that he took a pride in, instead of in -those awful lodgings of his. Don't you think that he would live up to -his surroundings? Don't you think that it would make a man of him?" - -"George Chappie is as far from having a decent house as he is from -wedding our Madge." - -"That's true," said Sam, "as far--and as near." - -"As near?" asked Anne suspiciously. "Sithee, Sam, have you been up to -something?" - -"Will you hear me out if I tell you a story?" he asked. - -"Am I going to like it?" she fenced cautiously. "I am hoping," he said -piously, "to have your forgiveness. It's a matter of happiness." - -He told her what he had done and how and why he had done it. "The -wedding's to-morrow," he ended, "and I hope you'll go." He told his -exploit without arrogance and without extenuation, and it is not to be -supposed that Anne was unaware that a nice moralist would have found -much in it to criticize, but Sam had come out on top and that, for Anne, -almost excused his methods. It almost excused his coming out on top of -her. - -"I'll go to the wedding," she said, "and I'll forgive them. They are -no more than a pair of naturals in the hands of a schemer." Sam grinned -appreciatively. "But I'll not let you down so easy," she went on, and -the grin faded. "You're clever, my lad, but you're a schoolboy, and the -place for showing your cleverness is at school. It's too long since you -brought me home a prize, and if you want my forgiveness for letting you -rap my knuckles like this, you'll bring me a prize this Midsummer. Is -that a bargain, Sam?" - -"I always try," he said, which was true. - -"Try harder," said Anne Branstone dryly. - - - - -CHAPTER V--LAST SCHOOL-DAYS - - -|SAM had not a dog's chance of winning the form prize of the Classical -Fifth, and knew it. He learnt with difficulty, retaining what he learnt; -but the process was slow and his form was overshadowed by the brilliance -of two boys who learnt easily and rapidly. - -It annoyed Sam to know that he had no chance against these two. Poetic -justice cried out that he, the railway porter's son, should defeat Bull, -whose father was a professor at the University, and Adams, son of a -merchant prince whose "Hong" was as familiar in the godowns of Shanghai -as his name in Princess Street and on 'Change; but it was hopeless. The -prize lay inevitably between these two who took to classics like -ducks to water and read Homer for (they said) pleasure, whilst their -form-mates struggled with Euripides in acknowledged agony. They were -both unpopular, both prigs, but unassailably pre-eminent; and they were -two. Had it been a case of Bull alone, or Adams alone, Sam might have -worked heroically on the off-chance, that his rival would be ill at -examination time, but it was too far-fetched to hope that both would -simultaneously ail. - -He had long passed beyond Anne's powers of tuition. It was not a -"sound commercial education" that one got on the Classical side, and -mathematics had ceased to figure in his course. He went to the Classical -side because Lance was there and stayed because of Anne's golden dream -of Oxford. The gold, she knew, was tarnished now, but if she no longer -saw in Sam the winner of an open scholarship at Balliol, she had not -abandoned hope that he might carry off one of the close scholarships -which the School commanded. Sam himself was sceptical about even that -qualified ambition. - -But he had to win a prize to satisfy Anne, and if he could not win the -prize of which she was thinking, he would try to win one of which she -did not think. It was certainly a prize, and a handsome prize, open not -only to a form but to the whole school--a prize for reading. - -He had a secondary spur, too, in the fact that Lance, that ardent -elocutionist, looked on this prize as his own, and the thought of -beating Lance on his chosen ground tickled Sam's fancy. Not that he -was cocksure. He knew his handicap too well for that, but he had always -known it, and from the first day of his school life studied to correct -his accent. He did not, even now, even at the price of being thought -pedantic, indulge in slang. Lance, perhaps because he came from a -motherless home, perhaps from a stupid bravado, larded his speech with -silly blasphemies and the current vulgarisms, and, in fact, he did it -with an air; but Sam had to guard his tongue. There is a difference, too -easily detected, between correct slang and incorrect English: one must -first speak correctly before one can dare successfully to be incorrect, -and Sam's handicap was that he came from a home where they used, in -Sarah Pullen's words, "the sort of English we speak in Manchester;" -the other sort was an alien tongue and held to be an affectation of the -insincere. - -There was a set piece--the opening speech in _Comus_--the inefficients -were weeded out, and the elect tested on "unseens." It was the "unseens" -that frightened Sam: he rehearsed _Comus_ till a misplaced aitch was -a physical impossibility, and he was sure of his rhythm and the -intelligence of his rendering; but he knew that aitches were elusive -when he was nervous. "Then don't be nervous," was counsel of perfection: -the ordeal of the "unseen" test intimidated him. - -But he practised, and did not spare himself. If sweat and blood -would win that prize, Sam would spend both. He read aloud by the -hour--classics of course suffering--with a pin in his hand with which he -resolutely drew blood at every aitch he dropped; and in his reading he -was fortunate. He read _The Spectator_ which he had borrowed by pure -chance from the school library, and the judges handed him a passage -from _The Spectator_ to read at the unseen test, and one of the great -speeches of Marlowe's _Tamburlaine_, whose thundering music had so much -attracted Sam that he knew the purple patch by heart. - -He won the prize; staggered across the platform of the Free Trade Hall -with a Gibbon in six sumptuous volumes, calf-bound, stamped with the -school arms; he rode "in triumph through Persepolis," and thought that -it was "sweet and full of pomp;" then, when it was over and the last -"Gaudeamus" of that Speech Day had been sung and the last cheers for the -holidays (always the heartiest) been given, he sought his mother in the -crowd. - -"Well?" said Sam, who had kept this glory as a surprise for her. - -"Aye," said Anne, "but it might be better. You've won a prize and you're -forgiven, but you know well enough that you've diddled me. I wanted a -prize to show that you'd the gift of learning, and you've won one to -show that you've the gift of the gab. I knew it already," she ended -dryly, "and you're nobbut tenth out of the twenty-four in your class. -Will they move you up?" - -She dissembled the genuine pride with which she had seen him cross that -platform and take his bulky prize, because she felt inly that the chief -talent Sam had proved was a talent for deception. This was a prize, but -she thought it too barely within the meaning of the act: it observed the -letter of his bargain and eluded the spirit. - -She did him less than justice. The average hoy came to school knowing -English; Sam had had to learn it, and here was proof, in a prize won -against the whole school and not merely against a form, that he had -learned his lesson well. - -Her disparagement depressed him. He had not reached, and with a -mother like Anne he could not at his age reach, the healthy younger -generation's contempt for the opinions of its elders. He felt weakened -in his belief in the social and economical value of a decent accent and -grew careless in preserving it. His Gibbon lay upon his shelf unread, an -empty glory, and, in the event, his prize was to lead to a calamity. It -was to lead, indirectly, to Tom Branstone's death. - -Sam found himself, after the holidays, moved up to the Transitus, the -last boy to be moved there from the Fifth. He was not sure that it -pleased him. Left in the Fifth he might have been a Triton among the -minnows: in the Transitus he was incurably a minnow. But he discovered -there an atmosphere to which he might have responded better than he did. -Discipline was slacker; one had reached the ante-room to the Sixth and -was assumed to be serious; one had the privilege of a form-room which -was open in the lunch-hour so that one had not to wait with smaller fry -in the corridors; and, above all, the form-master was a gentleman as -well as a scholar. - -He was not blind to these advantages, but he did not, somehow, "come -on" with his classics. The terrible facility of Bull and Adams was -a constant discouragement: mere perseverance was outvied by natural -ability and dragged its leaden weight behind. He knew himself incapable -of shining in this company, and gave up a losing fight the more -readily because the half-term brought a new diversion, and a chance to -coruscate. - -He was cast, as winner of the reading prize, for the Christmas play. -He, Sam Branstone, was to act Shylock at the Conversazione, whilst Lance -Travers was given Bassanio--salt on the still bleeding wound of his -defeat. Greek Tragedy interested Sam no more. He saw Irving's Shylock -from the gallery of the Theatre Royal, and, for comparative purposes, -Benson's. He haunted Cheetham Hill, observing Jewish "types." He came -to the first rehearsal, like any other novice, knowing every line of his -part--and had painfully to unlearn and relearn under the direction of -the brisk little mathematics master who took the play-in hand. - -Anne screened her pride in this distinction. Play-acting was, in any -case, questionable, too newly come to respectable estate to be accepted -unreservedly. But, in secret, she determined that she would be one of -Sam's audience and Tom another. - -Parents were invited to the Conversazione--that was what conversaziones -were for--but Anne and Tom had never accepted the invitation before. It -implied evening dress. - -She decided that she could "manage" with her Sunday dress and two yards -of lace; but Tom, too, must be there, and Tom must not shame Sam. She -thought she saw a way. - -"Nay, nay," said Tom, "I couldn't do it, lass. I'd never dare." - -"You should have thought of that before you became Sam's father," she -replied. "I'm going to see him and I'll none go alone. You're coming -with me. I reckon Mr. O'Rourke will be in to-night as usual." - -"Aye," said Tom, suspecting nothing. - -One basis of his friendship with O'Rourke was that their evenings off -happened to coincide, Tom's from Victoria Station and Terry's from -the old-fashioned commercial hotel in Mosley Street, where he was an -institution. Terry was a waiter, but Tom had not yet seen the connection -between his friend's profession and the Grammar School Conversazione. He -was never very bright. - -Terry had a hard head and a professional style, rather like a successful -doctor's bed-side manner, which wheedled more tips from commercial -travellers than they gave at any other hotel in their rounds, but he had -a sunken vein of poetic superstition and, when Anne interrupted them, he -was explaining to Tom that he tolerated the Royal Hotel because he -could see from its window the green of the grass outside the Infirmary. -Manchester was Manchester because it lacked grass. The "good folk" -couldn't dance on granite sets: only on grass did one find fairy-rings -and only where grass abounded were people blessed. - -"You'll not be wanting your dress-clothes next Wednesday night, I -reckon," said Anne, breaking in without apology. - -"Why, no, Mrs. Branstone," he said. "Wednesday's the night when I dress -like the public. I've gone into a strange hotel and been mistaken for an -ordinary customer on a Wednesday night." - -"Then you'll maybe not object to lending Tom your clothes next week. I -want him to be mistaken for a swell." - -"There's a shine on them," objected Terry, "that you can see your face -in." - -"Dress-clothes," pronounced Anne, "are dressy when they shine. If you'll -put studs and a clean shirt in with them, I'll be obliged, and I'll send -the shirt back washed." - -"But, Anne----" protested Tom. - -"You hold your hush," she said. "It's settled. Go on about the fairies, -Terry." - -Fairies seemed to Anne entirely suitable as a subject of conversation -for those children, men. - -Terry brought the clothes himself and personally assisted at Tom's -transformation from a railway porter into a "swell." His tie, at any -rate, was nicely tied, but "I feel the awkwardest fool alive," said Tom, -as well he might, with clothes which fitted where they touched; Anne, -had she confessed her inward sinking, must have admitted that she was in -no better case herself, but confession was far from her: she had to be -brazen for two. Yet even Anne's high courage failed her in the ladies' -dressing-room: she emerged so humbled by the splendours which she had -seen unveiled that, at a word from Tom, she would have turned tail and -fled. - -But Tom had found countenance. Mr. Travers, meeting him on the stair, -had taken charge of him, and now added Anne to his convoy. It was kindly -tact increased to the power of heroism: he talked hard and sheltered -his waifs from feeling the curious glances which, even in that mixed -company, were directed embarrassingly at them. He ignored a quiet, -well-known alderman, who obviously wanted to speak to him. He shepherded -them to their places in the Lecture Theatre, sat with them and -accomplished the incredible feat of putting Tom Branstone at his ease in -the midst of the tipping public. - -Travers acquired more merit that night than by all his payments of Sam's -school-fees: and Sam himself did nobly, not only on the stage whence -he acted at Anne and bowed to Anne, but afterwards when, still in -his costume, he paraded with her, drank coffee with her, and met -with Shylockian hatred any eye which seemed to hint that he had not -tremendous reason to be proud of his little mother. And what he did for -her, Lance and Mr. Travers did for Tom. - -Undoubtedly, a huge success: a night of nights, carved on the tablets of -memory in letters of gold: never, not by so much as a dubious hint, to -be associated with the illness of Tom Branstone. That was, of course, -caused by overwork at Christmas at the station. It had and could have -nothing to do with the fact that Tom, coming in ecstasy from the heated -school into the cold December night, presently threw off his overcoat -and danced exulting on the pavement: conduct so utterly unprecedented, -so wholly un-Tom-like, that he had footed it merrily for ten minutes -before Anne recovered enough command of him to put an end to the -discreditable performance. Besides, for five of the ten minutes, she -had danced hand in hand with him. She, too, exulted, but neither of them -ever referred to their pagan capering again. - -Poor Tom! He had not had so many nights of triumph in his life that this -should be his last, but he was soon to start upon a journey from which -even Anne's imperious will was powerless to call him back. She helping -him, he struggled hard against pneumonia and made a better fight with -death than he had ever made with life, but his course was run and the -school had not reopened after the holidays when Tom Branstone ceased to -fight. It seemed that, on the night of the Conversazione, he had had his -hour, and - - "men must endure - - Their going hence even as their coming hither: - - Ripeness is all." - -It did not come to Sam as the shattering of his world--only the death of -Anne could have done that--but certainly as a stunning blow. It was -the first time that he had come intimately close to death and he missed -death's beauty and its peace. He saw too well its ugliness and the -detail of a burial. It hurt, not because Tom Branstone had had but -little joy in life, but because he died too soon to see the glory of his -son. In after years, Sam Branstone would have liked to recall how Tom's -death softened him, how he melted to tears before that waxen face and -lovingly bought flowers to put inside the coffin. - -It wouldn't do. It didn't fit the facts. He knew that, honestly, he -had been angry with his father for dying, especially for dying in the -holidays. It spoiled the holidays and it robbed Sam of the day's holiday -he would have had for the funeral had Tom had the gumption to die in -termtime. He resented his father's death as he would have resented an -unjust thrashing from him--if Tom Branstone ever thrashed anybody. Tom -had died prematurely, while he was still useful to Sam. He had bilked -Sam, and Sam was angry. - -Not only had Tom died too soon to see the glory of his son, but his -son's glory was seriously jeopardized by the breadwinner's death. Sam -had, in his innermost soul, given up the idea of Oxford; he was not apt -enough at classics, but he was far from admitting it now. It was Tom's -death, and that alone, which deprived him of that crown. - -Anne felt it deeply. She had loved Tom with something like mother-love -as well as wife's. If she had been hard with him, it was for his good, -and he as well as she had known that her hardness was like the hardness -of a crab's shell, hiding a tender place inside. Now that he was dead -she could hide her grief as she had hidden her love, and went about her -business soberly. Soberly she drew her money from the Sick and Burial -Society and soberly she spent it on "black" for Sam, for George, Madge -and herself, doing those things which Tom would have expected to be done -to dignify his death, but adding nothing that would make his funeral a -neighbours' raree-show. - -She came back from the cemetery with dry eyes and soberly presided at -the inevitable meal (where she had to comfort a lachrymose O'Rourke) -and, on the morrow, soberly set out to visit Mr. Travers, and to tell -him that, of course, she could not now keep Sam at school. It was little -that Travers was allowed to guess from this stoic that this was the end -of her dream for Sam, that with Tom's death the underpinnings of her -world had flopped. And her pride stood where it stood five years ago: no -more now than then would she accept from Travers money to pay expenses. - -She shook her head defiantly. "The lad'ull have to work," she said. - -Travers knew adamant when he saw it. "Then, at least, let him come here -and work in my office." Anne almost glared. "I want a fair field and -no favour. He'll have to start as office-boy, with the wages of an -office-boy." - -"Oh, hardly that, Mrs. Branstone. Remember, he comes to me from the -Classical Transitus." - -"Yes," she said, "and much use that is to an estate agent. He can't add -up a row of figures." - -She had no delusions about the practical value of a public school -education. - -"I think, though, that we must let it count for something," he replied, -and Anne, compromising against the grain, consented to let it count -for fifteen shillings a week "until we see," added Mr. Travers, "how he -shapes." He intended to see very soon. - -Anne nodded grimly. "I'll see he shapes," she said, and Sam, silent -witness of this pregnant interview, was hardly surprised by Anne's first -words on reaching home. "Get out those old arithmetic text-books of -yours," she said, "and look up mensuration. I've not forgotten it, if -you have." - - - - -CHAPTER VI--THE NEST-EGG - - -|TOM Branstone had drawn a wage of a pound a week, and tips may have -averaged ten shillings but more probably did not; your sixpenny tipper -is a rare bird in Manchester. - -Yet Anne had saved steadily, and she had not allowed a life-long habit -to be interrupted by a little thing like the necessity of providing -Sam with Grammar School books and clothes. I do not say that it was -admirable in her, but merely that it was heroic. It was an incredible -feat, but it can be done: it is done every day by people for whom the -word "thrift" has meaning. Perhaps they are often unlovely in their -lives or perhaps they have the robust satisfaction of those who live for -an idea: opinion has always differed as to whether what they do is worth -doing, and modern opinion inclines strongly to the belief that it is -not. Life to these iconoclasts seems more important than the means of -life. - -To Anne it seemed abundantly worth while, and the proof was here now -when she found that the interest on her savings amounted to three and -four-pence weekly. They could live on Sam's earnings and Anne's "means" -without pinching. Her forethought made all the difference now between -too little and enough. - -It was, of course, only to Anne that this seemed enough: Sam took a -larger view, but found his vision cramped for some time to come by the -conditions he met with in Mr. Travers' office. Certainly that generous -soul did not mean to humiliate Sam; he did not mean Sam to begin as -office-boy; but, whatever his intentions, the clerks in his office -defeated them. Sam was a newcomer, the latest arrival, in a minority of -one against the old inhabitants; was there, moreover, obviously to do -as he was told. He was told to sweep the floor in the morning, to copy -letters and to lick stamps. He did these things rebelliously, bitter at -heart that such menial service should be required of an ex-member of the -Classical Transitus, certain that there was some mistake, that he had -only to catch Mr. Travers' eye when he was so shamefully occupied for -that gentleman to take instant and drastic measures with the clerks who -misemployed him. - -Mr. Travers' eye, even though caught at what Sam thought an opportune -moment, While Sam copied letters, unexpectedly failed to disapprove. He -seemed less preoccupied with Sam's affairs than Sam was. As a matter of -fact, he took a long distance view of Sam, and took it, unfortunately, -rather muggily. Travers had the defect of his quality. A generous man, -he was generous in the worst way to himself, and Sam soon learnt the -meaning of a euphemism, current in the office, "Mr. Travers is attending -a property auction." Property auctions are, it is true, usually held on -licensed premises, and whether Mr. Travers was or was not attending an -auction he was certainly on licensed premises more often than was good -for either his business or himself. - -And it was bad for Sam, not because it left him to find his own feet in -the office and to fight unbacked with his superiors (wherein, indeed, -it was good), but because he had figured Travers from afar as a princely -gentleman, without reproach, and the discovery of his failing took Sam -a long way on the road to cynicism. In youth one's faith dies hard, and, -being dead, turns rapidly corrupt. - -The business was an excellent one, rotting slowly from the top, and Sam -found the office a notable place in which to pick up knowledge of the -world; especially, since he lacked good direction, of the shadier -ways of the world. He felt that he had declined in status: his -school-friends, there his equals, had gone either to the Universities -or, with influence behind them, to the professions. If they went to -business, it was as their fathers' sons. They were not scratch men, and -Sam felt that he was starting at the scratch-line. - -Travers had really no intentions that Sam should feel himself misprized. -The boy had to learn the business, and the way to understanding lay -from the bottom upwards. But Sam contrasted himself bitterly with Lance, -first at school and then at Cambridge. In that, indeed, he found a -minimum of consolation. It wasn't rational, but to Anne and consequently -to Sam, university had meant Oxford, and he won a hardy solace from the -thought that Lance was, after all, "only" at Cambridge. - -Meantime, he grew in knowledge of his world, and education came to Sam, -not in the cloistered freedom of the Isis, but where, in Manchester, -he went collecting rents: in country courts where hard laws operated -hardly: and in the office, where men did not greet each other with a -friendly smile, but gave instead the "competition glare." It was not a -kindly school in which he spent the developing years, but one where it -was taught that self's the man, and magnanimity is a mistake. "Get on -or get out," and Sam got on with a sort of choleric zeal which gave no -quarter and expected none. - -But he did not get on fast enough to please himself. He had, he thought, -stepped down from the days of the Grammar School where he belonged with -the caste that rules or, at any rate, administers, the caste that sits -on velvet and overlooks the mob. Now he was in the cockpit, with the mob -that struggles to ascend, and, to Sam, a wage of thirty shillings a -week at the age of twenty was a derisory ascension. Anne thought it -satisfying, and it was her contentment with his rate of progress which -first made him begin to think of her as, after all, a limited person. -You didn't bribe Sam Branstone to be meekly satisfied with thirty -shillings a week. - -"The trouble is," he said to the only man in the office with whom he was -in the least confidential, "that you don't begin to get on till you've -got a bit of capital together. Money breeds money." - -His friend suggested betting as a means to affluence, and offered to -tell him of a dead certainty. - -Sam assumed his cunningest air of a superman of the world. "The best row -of houses where I go for the rents," he said, "belongs to Jack Elsworth, -the bookie. I don't see why I should help him to buy another house." - -"Bookies don't always win," said the optimist. - -"No," said Sam. "It's possible to make money out of betting and it's -possible to get a baby by a harlot, but that isn't what the harlot's -for, and it isn't what the bookie's for." - -At this time, harlots were the pegs on which Sam hung his wit. He had no -other use for them, but had discovered that a coarse turn of phrase was -an asset in his world and therefore wielded it. But the effect of this -little conversation was to crystallize his aim. He wanted that "bit of -capital" badly, and did not intend that, if opportunity presented, a -nice regard for scruple should hold him back from taking anything the -gods might send. He had no ultimate design, but fortune came to -the fortunate and money to the moneyed, so that the first move was, -obviously, to get money. He wanted a jumping-off place; then he would -soar. - -Opportunity walked into the office in the person of Joseph of Arimathea -Minnifie. That was his full baptismal name: analogous with the styles of -certain limited companies, such as John Smith ( of Newcastle) Limited, -to distinguish that Smith from other Smiths. Minnifie's mother had -explained to the parson that she was a New Testament woman. To her -intimates she had put it that she chose the name Joseph because she -liked it, but she also liked a man to be a man. It was deduced that she -supposed the third Joseph in the Bible would have acted differently from -the first in the affair of Potiphar's wife. - -Sam's accent had degenerated since the days of Shylock and the reading -prize. It had kept bad company, and might be known by the company it -kept to-day rather than by that which it used to keep at school; but he -could still, without too great an effort, assume a well-bred speech and -was often sent with a prospective buyer to show off any likely houses on -Mr. Travers' list. Because it was usual for him to go on such errands, -and not because anyone supposed that niceties of speech could or would -have any effect on Mr. Minnifie, he was sent with him in a cab to tour -the suburbs where Travers had property in charge. - -A coarse accent was not likely to offend Joseph Minnifie, who a -fortnight earlier had been a market porter at Shude Hill, but had now -come into money, well invested in the best Brewery securities, from his -uncle, a publican. Minnifie had sold out some of the shares because -he could now satisfy a long ambition and live in his own house. He -proposed, he told Mr. Travers, to retire to the country. - -"The country?" asked Travers, whose practice was suburban. - -"Well," said Minnifie, "summat quiet and homely. I'd like a change from -Rochdale Road. I thought," he went on rather shyly, "of Whalley Range. -It's a good neighbourhood." - -Travers refrained from pointing out that Whalley Range was not usually -regarded as the country, but was, in fact, of the inner ring of -suburbs, a penny tram fare from the centre of Manchester. "Oh, yes, Mr. -Minnifie," he said. "I think I can satisfy you in W'halley Range. I have -several available houses on my books in that district." - -"I'll pay three hundred pound for what I like," said Minnifie, quite -fiercely. "I've got it in my pocket now." He was fierce because he was -not yet quite sure that his legacy was not phantom gold, and he pulled -out a bundle of notes as much to assure himself that they were still -where he had put them as with the idea of proving his good faith to -Travers. - -Travers concealed a smile. After all, commission on three hundred pounds -is not to be sneezed at, but neither was this the sort of client for -whom Traver's disturbed his habits. "I have myself," he said, "a large -property auction to attend in the city, but Mr. Branstone will go with -you to inspect the houses." He smiled kindly on Sam, and added, lest -Minnifie should think his affair, so important to him, underrated by the -agent: "Mr. Branstone is my confidential man. When Mr. Branstone tells -you anything about the houses you are going to see, it is as if I spoke -myself." - -"I see," said Minnifie. "He's your foreman, and you needn't tell me -you'll back him up. I know foremen." - -"Well, his word is certainly as good as mine. I leave you in safe hands, -Mr. Minnifie." And Travers went out to attend his first auction of the -day, which usually happened at eleven o'clock in the morning. - -Sam and the client took a cab to Whalley Range, where Minnifie inspected -several houses which were to be had at about his price. But he was hard -to satisfy, and, what was worse, apparently unable to define his -reasons for dissatisfaction. As Sam praised this and that about a house, -Minnifie admitted that such things were praiseworthy, but he would, -please, see another house. Sam was a little piqued and tried his best -to be genial, suspecting that Minnifie resented being fobbed off with a -"foreman"; and Sam's best was very good, so that presently the ice was -thawed. - -Minnifle stood at the bow-window of a dining-room and looked up and down -the street. It was empty save for a tradesman's boy. From somewhere -round the corner came the diminished rattle of a milk-cart. Minnifle -shook his head sadly. - -"It's quiet," he said. "See that road. Nothing stirring. What is there -for the missus to look at when she sits in the window?" - -"It's morning," said Sam. "Things will be brisker in the afternoon." But -his tone lacked conviction, and he could not resist the temptation to -add: "There's a cat crossing the road now." - -"Come out," said Minnifle. "This'ull none do," and when they stood upon -the door-step he sniffed the air of Whalley Range with disapproval. -"I don't like it and it's no use pretending that I do. It's got a cold -smell to me. It isn't homely." - -"I know what you mean," said Sam, diagnosing the trouble. "Wait a bit." -He gave the cabman an address and was careful to leave the window open. -They came to other streets where the scent of yesterday's fried fish -still lingered in the air and the nose of Mr. Minnifle inhaled it -greedily. "This is better," he pronounced. - -They had come to Greenheys, which, when De Quincey's father built a -country house there in 1791, was "separated from the last outskirts of -Manchester by an entire mile." It is by no means separated now, and good -houses of the mid-Victorian period are to be had cheaply because good -tenants dislike bad neighbours. Travers had one of these survivals from -an urbane past on his books and Sam hugged himself for thinking of it -now: that house had proved itself the whitest of white elephants. - -Mr. Minnifie, exhilarated by the spicy smells of Greenheys, was no -longer a timid excursionist looking only where his guide bade him, but -a house hunter hot upon the trail, with eyes that spied on each side of -their route. - -"Ah!" he called suddenly. "Stop!" - -The cabman stopped. "But we're not there," said Sam, rather blankly. - -"I think we are," said Minnifie, and got out of the cab. - -Sam followed, in that leaden state of mind which often precedes -inspiration. What had attracted Minnifie was a semi-detached house at -a corner, which the trams passed. Opposite were shops, and there was a -lively stir in the street. Certainly, Mrs. Minnifie would have something -to see here when she looked out of the window. - -Sam knew that pair of houses, and what he knew made him fear that he -would not, this time, rid Mr. Travers of the white elephant on his -books. They were good houses enough, but the people who had furniture to -fill them were not the sort of people who welcomed shops opposite their -windows and trams past their gate, so that both had been long empty. -Now, however, they were for sale, under a will, and a quick sale was -wanted that the estate might be wound up. They would certainly go -cheaply on that account, and the more so since two attempted auctions -had proved abortive. There had been no offers. - -And here was Mr. Minnilie plainly delighted, and those houses not in -Travers' charge, but in that of a rival agency! Sam felt depressed, then -as dawn follows darkness, lie thought of what Travers had said, -that Sam's word was as good as his own. It was going to be, and Mr. -Minnifie's money as good in Sam's hands as in those of Calverts', the -legitimate agents for this pair of houses. He stepped out briskly now, -the ardent salesman. - -"One moment, Mr. Minnifie. I haven't the key of this house with me, but -it is at the shop opposite. I will get it." His quick eye had read so -much on Calverts' notice board, but by the time he returned, Minnifie -had also seen that rival name on the board and mentioned the fact. - -"I know," said Sam. "The board has not been altered, but this property -is in my hands now." - -Which was true. - -The house enchanted Minnifie, who had made up his mind in advance to be -enchanted. And, of course, rooms may be in need of decoration, but good -proportions tell, even on a Mr. Minnifie. This house was very different -from the jerry-built villas of Whalley Range. - -"What's price?" he asked. - -"Three hundred and fifteen pounds," said Sam. - -"I said three hundred and I'll none budge." - -"If you will come to the office at six, I shall be able to tell -you," said Sam, naming a queer hour, seeing that the office closed at -half-past five. - -"All right," said Minnifie. "It's a firm offer at three hundred, and I'm -a man of my word." - -Sam devoutly hoped so. He was taking a considerable gamble on it. They -parted, and Sam, as usual, went home for lunch, but, not as usual, -returned with his cheque-book in his pocket. His accumulated savings -were five pounds, but he possessed a cheque-book. He waited rather -carefully until the banks had closed, then he walked into Calverts' -offices and offered them two hundred and fifty pounds for the pair -of semi-detached houses in Greenheys. They accepted two hundred and -seventy-five; and Sam drew a cheque for that amount, and received the -title-deeds in exchange. Then he palpitated, but it was, in any case, -safely after banking hours. Calverts could not present his cheque that -day. - -He was busy at five-thirty, when the clerks left, and proposed to -work late for a while, "to clear things up," he said. At six Minnifie -arrived, true to his word, and Sam could have kissed him. He had spent -the longest half hour of his life. He took Minnifie by the private -door into Travers' office, so that he should not see the empty general -office, and put him in the client's chair, himself usurping Travers' -seat. - -"Well, Mr. Minnifie," he said, "suppose I told you that the price is -still three fifteen, what would you say?" - -"I'd say 'Good-day,'" and Minnifie showed that he meant it by rising to -his feet. Sam went on hurriedly. - -"Ah! Then it's as well that I've succeeded. It has been an infinitude of -trouble---" - -"I reckon," said Minnifie, "that you're here to take trouble. Leastways, -if it's easy money in your line, it's the only line that's made that -way." - -"Oh, we have our troubles, like everybody else. This document," he went -on, "conveys the house to you. The price is three hundred pounds." - -"It's a bargain," said Mr. Minnifie, producing his notes, "count'em." -Sam counted feverishly, then made out a receipt. Nothing short of murder -would have induced him to part with that money now. - -"If you will meet me to-morrow at twelve at that address--a lawyer's--we -will have the conveyance put in proper form." - -"I've seen a bit of lawyers lately over this brass of mine," said -Minnifie, "and I don't like'em. They eat money." - -"But in this case," said Sam magnanimously, "I pay the lawyer's fees." - -"Then I'll be there," said Minnifie. - -Sam was waiting next day for the doors of his bank to open, and breathed -colossal relief when his three hundred pounds were safely in to meet his -cheque. He had a net profit of some twenty pounds, after settling for -the conveyancing, and he had a house to sell. Not long afterwards, he -sold it for one hundred and seventy-five pounds. - -The fact that one of the pair had been thought desirable by somebody -caused somebody else to desire the other: and Sam could only hope that -the new neighbours would not compare notes. If they did, it did not -matter; he had only obeyed the axiom of commerce, "Buy cheap, sell -dear," and it was not his fault that in the one case he had had to sell -less dearly than in the other. - -His bank credit was two hundred pounds. - - - - -CHAPTER VII--THE FLEDGLING CAPITALIST - - -|IN Sam's opinion, nobody had suffered. Mr. Travers lost nothing, -because the corner house had conquered Minnifie at sight, and he would -not in any case have bought the white elephant which Travers had for -sale. Calverts had got as much as they expected to get for the houses, -or they would not have sold, while the beneficiary under the late -owner's will was a charity, and Sam hoped that charity was charitable -enough not to look a gift-horse in the mouth: if it wasn't, it ought to -be. As to the purchasers, who had certainly paid more for the property -than they need have done, that was what purchasers were for. Why did -smart business men exist if not to exploit purchasers? - -All this was highly comforting, but to confess the need for comfort was -to admit to disquiet, and he found that it was one thing to argue in -this strain with his conscience, and another to boast to Anne of his -achievement. Women don't understand business, and he had an uneasy -feeling that the ethics of the transaction would not satisfy Anne. He -decided that he had better not tell her, that he must resist his impulse -of surprising her with the gift of a seal-skin coat, and remained a -capitalist under the rose. There was no hurry, and perhaps his next -stroke, when it came, would be under conditions that would bear the -limelight of her scrutiny. - -But repression was not all. Justify himself as he would, chuckle over -his gains as he did, the matter searched him deeply and reacted sharply -in two ways, of which the first began as that old expedient of -sinners, conscience-money. There are defaulters who find absolution for -themselves by sending notes, under initials, to the Chancellor of the -Exchequer, and by having them acknowledged with impressiveness in the -personal columns of the _Times_. That was not Sam's way: he did not do -good deeds by stealth, and his conscience-money did not go out of the -family. He used it philanthropically, but it was philanthropy and ten -per cent, to begin with, and in the end it was very much more than ten -per cent. It was the Chappie Bill Posting and Window-Cleaning Company. - -He thought that he could, without exciting Anne's suspicions, tell her -that his savings had reached ten pounds, and proposed to spend that sum -for the benefit of George Chappie. - -Inspired, perhaps, by his household gods, George was facing life -bravely, and won a minor place in Anne's good graces when he and Madge -produced a firstborn son, who had the remarkable quality of looking -exactly like the infant Samuel, whose name he bore. But George had not, -in her opinion, deserved Sam's generosity to this extent. - -"You're over-good to them," she said. "You've made a man and woman of a -pair of wastrels, and I'd let them alone to make their own way now." - -"Do you think it will be much of a way?" asked Sam. "They're the sort -that need help." - -"Aye," she said, "they'll lean on you all right. They're good at -leaning." - -"Well," said Sam, drawing himself up. "Let them lean." - -"Sam," said Anne, "I'm not fond, but if I told you what I think of you -for this, you'd have the right to call me fond and foolish. I like you -very well, my son. You're the strong man helping and supporting the -weak." - -She finished suddenly and a thought shamefacedly. She had praised -him openly and considered it a weakness in her. Sam put a hand on -her shoulder. It was not demonstrative, but his gesture was full of -understanding, and Anne turned rapidly away, shaking him off almost with -rudeness, taking very earnestly to her business of clearing away their -tea-things. - -Sam watched appreciatively through the corner of his eye. He relished -praise from Anne, even when, as now, it was not strictly merited. The -strong in Sam's philosophy did not support the weak, but the weak the -strong. He was confirmed in his belief that women could not understand -business. This, however, he reminded himself, was not pure business, it -was conscience-money, which ought not to be unconscionably reproductive: -so he bought George a hand-cart, ladder, bucket and leathers, and -exacted from him not more than ten per cent, on his capital expenditure. -In Travers' business Sam found opportunities of pushing George. A client -took a house, and Sam would suggest with a nicely casual air that the -windows needed cleaning. He would, to save the client trouble, then -offer to send a man round, so that George's connection waxed, and he -prospered to the tune of two amazing pounds a week, till the restless -Sam began to widen his view of George's potentialities. - -His eye for the main chance had always a useful squint which could see -money round the corner as well as in the straight high road, and he -thought that George, with his outfit of ladders, could see his talent -for height in other ways than window cleaning. There was, for example, -bill-posting, a trade whose mysteries Sam deemed it not beyond George's -capabilities to learn. - -The thing grew by degrees, from the first builder's hoarding which -Sam rented venturously for advertising space, to a comfortable little -business that ran itself by its own momentum long after he tired of its -comparative insignificance. With George, the start was all: he could -always plod where Sam had led, and as Sam had time to set the ball -rolling, and money enough to spoon-feed the infant business with -capital, George kept the thing in being by careful, steady management. -He hadn't boasted when he told Anne he was steady. - -Of course, Sam was impatient and deplored his active partner's -inactivity. He grew tired of the gradual increase, but, all the same, -the business was unquestionably successful, and he relished hugely his -sense of being the power behind the throne, if only behind a small, -conservative, so lamentably unambitious throne. Sam also was among the -king makers. - -The other, greater sequel to his reaction led to more pyrotechnical -results, and eventually to Sam's launch on his career. Nothing happened -at first, and indeed for so long that he was feeling himself between -the devil of the estate office and the deep sea of George's persistent -carefulness. The Chappie Bill-Posting Company was good enough for -George, but not for Sam: there were too many com petitors with too great -resources, while the estate office routine bored him, and opportunities -for piratical enterprise did not recur. - -He felt, at twenty-four years of age, and at two pounds ten a week, that -he was growing old in service, he who was not meant to serve but to be -served. - -But then--desolating thought--was he meant to be served? Had he lost, or -was he, at any rate, not losing the accent of speech and mind of those -who are served? He knew that his accent had touched pitch and been -defiled: those bawdy stories of his were told in the tongue of his -hearers, and there had been clients lately who had spoken to him, -when inspecting property, as if he were a clerk, and not a pleasant, -gentlemanly youth of obvious superiority to his present, no doubt -temporary, job. He had a sudden fear that the job might not be temporary -after all, and there followed a time when he was wholly bent on -self-improvement, when he abjured the narrow way of professional -text-books and read that he might become well-read, that he might -bandy allusions with those old school-fellows of his who had gone to -Universities, that he might, if he could not hope to shine, at least be -not outshone. - -It wasn't _pour le bon motif_, and he did not even pretend to like -the greater part of what he read. He crammed against the grain, and a -growing row of the "World's Classics" figured on his shelf as trophies -of his perseverance. Industriously he rubbed away the rust which had -accumulated on his mind since it took its not very brilliant polish of -the Grammar School. He took down the dust-stained Gibbon he had won for -reading, and ploughed heroically through it. - -That reminded him of another chink in his armour. A man of the world -must have the knack of speaking to the world, and Sam became a member of -the Concentrics. As Anne once told him, he had the gift of the gab, but, -except for his present fluent recommendations of houses to prospective -tenants, it was a talent he had buried. Now, however, he proposed to -dig it up and did it in (he thought) the ambitious surroundings of the -Concentrics, who were indeed as mixed a company as he could have found -anywhere, and on that account the better for his purpose. - -The common centre which was supposed to hold the Concentrics together -was a love of literature, but they tended to drop literature for -politics on the slightest pretext. There were literary enthusiasts -amongst them, but it rarely happened that one man's enthusiasm coincided -with another's. It did less than coincide. A member would read a -laborious paper on some man of letters, and the subsequent discussion -would be conducted by men who began their intelligent speeches by -admitting that they had not read a word of, say, Henry James or Lafcadio -Hearn, but that their opinion was nevertheless so and so. Whereas, of -course, nobody ever confessed to ignorance of politics. Politics is like -law, only more so. One is presumed by the law to know the law, which is -highly presumptuous of the law, because not even the lawyers know the -law, and they must often go to judges, at their client's expense, to -find out what the law is: and the "more so," as applied to politics, is -that while laymen hesitate to argue a point of law, and go to an expert, -they never hesitate to argue a point of politics, and _are_ the expert. - -Political discussions amongst the Concentrics were real and passionate, -literary discussions unreal and frigid; and as "social reform" became -a favourite shibboleth about this time, literature took a back seat -in favour of subjects about which men could grow emotional and their -oratory rhetorical. It was all one to Sam, who was here to speak, and -did his reading at home. - -He spoke often, so that he soon improved, and he practised the literary -allusiveness which was the purpose of his reading to such effect that -he attracted the attention of the chairman, who was the Rev. Peter -Struggles. - -It is not, strictly, fair to say that a man is handicapped through life -by a name like Struggles, because the legal process by which one can -change an undesirable name is inexpensive, but Peter had never thought -of such a move, and wore his handicap without being aware of it. In any -case, he failed in life. He had a round face, red hair, side-whiskers: -took snuff and messed his coat: was perfectly futile in practical -affairs and absolutely "a dear." His scholarship was not profound, but -he loved letters genuinely, He had failed steadily for thirty years -to run a private school for boys in a suburb which was degenerating to -industrialism, and late in life had taken orders, quite sincerely, -not in the least with the idea of helping his school with a new -respectability. It was, anyhow, beyond help, and a man who offered -tradesmen's sons a sound commercial education was presently to buy him -out. - -Peter Struggles, well in his fifties, became curate to a vicar of forty, -in the large, rough-and-tumble parish of St. Mary's. One says that he -had failed in life, and, by Sam's standards, he had, and even by the -working standards of his church. A man at fifty-six should not be a -curate with an income of some hundred and twenty pounds a year. But if -a man is happy at fifty-six to be a curate with that income? If he find -satisfaction in it? Snuff was his indulgence, and the chairmanship of -the Concentrics, who were not sectarian, his dissipation. For the rest, -Peter had made harbour. To the pushing educationist who had bought -him out, for a song, and now profaned his old school buildings with -shorthand and the rudiments of bookkeeping, Peter was a failure and -a pathetic failure. He was not conscious of failure himself, nor of -anything but a serene contentment that he had found, if late, the -work that he was fit to do. Through sheer single-minded, inoffensive, -unobtrusive goodness he came to be a figure in that parish, and a power. -Undignified in bearing, and careless in dress, he had a dignity of mind -and soul. - -Sam Branstone despised a worldly failure, here was a man of more than -twice Sam's years, with less money than Sam had, and, by all his canons, -Sam should have despised Peter. But he didn't. It was partly, no doubt, -other people's opinions that influenced Sam--the universal esteem which -Peter Struggles won--but it was by much more the innate nobility of the -old curate. Sam began his speaking at the Concentrics to impress his -fellow members, he ended by caring only for the appreciation of the -quaint, slovenly figure who occupied the chair. - -He got the appreciation he craved. Peter was shrewd enough to discount -Sam's rhetorics, and the flashy tricks of apt quotation: he saw Sam as a -misguided, self-seeking thruster who read only for veneer and spoke -only to impress. But, at least, Sam tried, and Peter could admire -perseverance. The thing was to direct Sam's perseverance well, and Peter -asked him to supper. - -Our man of the world was prodigiously thrilled. The honour was -exceptional, for Peter could not afford to be a host often, and Sam -was aware not only of its rarity, but of Peter's unique standing in -the parish: and, more than that, of Peter's worth. To be singled out by -Peter Struggles, and asked to sup, was, socially, a triumph. It sounds -absurd, and perhaps it is absurd that one good man should shine so -brightly by contrast with the fifteen thousand others of an over-crowded -parish, but that was why Peter was a colossus amongst the pigmies, and -why Sam Branstone was egregiously excited by an invitation to sup at -Peter's little house. - -Peter did not invite Sam to preach at him. It was the boy's mind rather -than his soul that was the target of his aim, and Peter's select library -to which he trusted for influence. Certainly the little meal of -cold beef and cocoa was not calculated to impress, nor the old, worn -furniture, with the gaping rents in its horse-hair coverings, through -which the stuffing poured. He handled books with reverence, and spoke -of them, but Sam was hardly listening. He was under fire from another -battery. - -Ada Struggles met young men at church functions, and spoke with them at -Sunday School, but she had few opportunities of greater intimacy, and -was not the lady to waste so rare a chance as this. Peter droned on -amongst his books and presently was lost in reading one. Ada lost -herself in nothing except a burning desire, to monopolize Sam. Books did -not interest Ada: getting married did. - -The trouble was that in the days of his school's comparative prosperity, -Peter had done Ada rather well. Perhaps as a schoolmaster himself, he -got special consideration over terms, but at any rate he had sent her to -a good boarding school. She had received the education of a lady, and it -wasn't fair, it didn't chime with the fitness of things that she should -now be the daughter of an impractical curate. Her case, to some extent, -was parallel with Sam's: the past of both had augured well, and the -future depended on their wits. - -There, however, the parallel ceased, for Ada had few wits, but she had -moods, and the reverse side of the moping discontent, which was endemic -with her, was the meretricious brilliance she now paraded for Sam's -entanglement. Ada was "all out" after her prey, in her best clothes and -her best, that is, her most captivatingly genial manners. - -Sam thought that she illuminated that dingy book-surrounded room. They -were not gay books with gilded bindings, but solid, well-worn volumes -of ponderous aspect. The books repelled and Ada invited. Youth called to -youth: youth answered to the call. - -He was obsessed with his idea of accent, and the worldly value of -superiority in speech. Ada's first appeal to him, though she did not -know it, was that she spoke well; her second was that she was -her father's daughter; her third, as she knew perfectly, was the -helplessness which she used cunningly to flatter his masculine -importance. She told him without a word that he was a strong, powerful -man, and she a flower which he might pluck and wear. And she did the -anemone business quite effectively. - -There was not much of Ada, and what there was was not remarkable, but -she was fluffy and frilly and feminine in the feebler way. She had on -something that was not silk but suggested the rustle of silk. After -all, it was not Ada's fault that it was not silk, or that her intimate -underclothing was of flannelette; she could only use the opportunities -she had, and they were few. - -But she had the prettiness, the rather silly and never lasting -prettiness, which accompanies anæmia. - -It would not wear, and she knew that it would not wear. She was becoming -desperate. Sam was sent by heaven. - -He thought so, too. Old Struggles read "Marcus Aurelius," standing by -his book-shelf, utterly forgetful of his guest, and the guest thought -that Peter's preoccupation was also instructed by heaven. It left him -free for Ada. - -What he said to Ada and what Ada said to him were things of no -importance: their serious conversation was not conducted by their -tongues, but by their eyes. - -This is the sort of thing: - -Ada (her voice): Of course, I remember seeing you quite often in church, -Mr. Branstone. - -(Her eyes): And you found favour in my sight. - -Sam (his voice): Naturally, I always saw you whenever I went. - -(His eyes): It was for you I went to church. - -Ada (her voice): I'm glad that you were able to come in to-night. I am -often lonely in the evenings. Father is so wrapped up in his books. - -(Her eyes): Meeting you is the great moment of my life. I'm an unhappy -princess in an ogre's tower. Rescue me. Rescue me. - -Sam ( his voice): It was most kind of Mr. Struggles to ask me in for a -talk about books. - -(His eyes): Books be damned. I'm fascinated by the sensuous rustle of -your skirts, and I'm a hero sent to kiss the wistful look away from your -pleading eyes. - -And so on. By the end of the evening, had the unsaid speeches or half of -them been written down, Ada had evidence enough to have brought a -breach of promise action against a recalcitrant Sam. Only Sam was not -recalcitrant, but, on the contrary, ardent. It was, Ada congratulated -herself, uncommonly good going for a first meeting. - -Peter emerged from "Marcus Aurelius" with a gentle smile which lighted -up his undistinguished face. "Yes. Pagan but grand," he said, quite -unaware that half an hour had passed since he last spoke. "I'll lend you -this book, Branstone, and now".--he glanced at the clock--"I'm afraid -that I must turn you out. I'd no idea it was so late. How rapidly the -time passes when one is talking about one's books!" - - - - -CHAPTER VIII--ADA STRUGGLES - - -|THERE were moments during that night when Sam imagined that he was in -the stranglehold of a grand passion: times when he quite successfully -deceived himself that he burned for Ada. - -And certainly the experience, unique for him, of a sleepless night lent -colour to the belief that he was passionately in love, whereas he was, -in fact, merely attracted by a girl who had spared no pains to attract; -and what kept Sam awake was not passion but calculation. The affair, -indeed, was as broad as it was long: it had a slender basis of -mutual attraction, and a monstrous superstructure on each side of -self-interest. - -He did not "see through" Ada to the point of being prophetic about her, -but he did even from the beginning perceive that Anne was not likely -to be enthusiastic. But would Anne greet any daughter-in-law with open -arms? Was there born the daughter of Eve whom Anne would think the peer -of her Sam? He did not want to cross his mother, but a man must be a -man, and a mother's fondness and her jealousy of the intending wife were -things about which one had to be callous. The world, as Benedick said, -must be peopled. - -Anne would see eye to eye with him as to the practical advantages of -Ada. Ada was Peter's daughter. - -That parentage had, by way of discount, the defect of its quality. -Socially it was a great thing to be Peter's son-in-law, and not only -socially but ideally. Sam's admiration for the curate was genuine -enough, and he knew that Anne shared it. But there was the question of -money, and Peter had none. Sam kept his mother, and would have to keep -his wife. He saw in Ada an asset which he could ultimately exploit, but, -in the meantime, until there came into his mind the scheme which should -turn his association with Peter into money, he must reckon on a tight -period. Anne would see the tight period, but not the unborn, fruitful -plan on which he counted for their future. And he could not hurry that -plan to birth. His schemes came to him when he least expected them, -spontaneously. They were not to be forced by worry. - -Again, he reminded himself, there was no hurry. He had only just met -Ada, and was planning as if his engagement ring were on her finger. Not -that he had any serious doubts about that ring and Ada's willingness to -wear it, but she did not wear it yet, and there was time in hand, and to -spare, for consideration of these practical affairs. - -Meantime, he loved her, and love, according to the authors, was the most -wonderful thing in the world. He told himself very firmly that he loved -Ada, and that love was wonderful. Reiteration is so potent that before -morning he believed what he wished to believe. He recalled the soft -pressure of her hand when she said "Good night," the froufrou of her -skirt, her melting eye; and persuaded himself that Ada Struggles was a -pearl beyond price. - -He was perfectly sure that he loved her, and for proof there was his -sleeplessness. It occurred to him that as he could not sleep, and was -only thinking in circles, he might as well do something to hasten the -time when he could see Ada again. He could not return "Marcus Aurelius" -to Peter until he had read it, and if he returned it with unexpected -promptitude, he must be ready to face a stiff examination in it; -therefore he lit the gas and read "Marcus Aurelius" by way of serving -Ada, whom he loved. - -Hard service, too, for there was not much in Sam's philosophy which -agreed with the Emperor's, but two nights later he was ringing Peter's -bell with the book under his arm, an ordered précis of it in his mind, -and some selected passages from it on his tongue. They were not selected -because Sam liked them, but because he thought Peter liked them. - -Peter was out, but Ada was in, and, curiously enough for one who was not -an optimist either by nature or experience, dressed again in her Sunday -clothes. - -She opened the door to him. "Father is out, Mr. Branstone," she said. - -"I only called to return him this book." - -"I do not think he will be long," said Ada promptly, who knew very well -that Peter would certainly be late. "Will you not come in and wait for -him?" - -He came, crossing his Rubicon. The unchaperoned intimacy of that night -struck both of them as a daring short cut to a position to which they -were not entitled--a thing properly done only by the engaged and the -maturely and securely engaged. Luck fought for Ada. - -"I'm afraid I can't stay very long," he hedged desperately. - -Ada sat down and crossed her knees. A neat ankle was effectively on -exhibition. "That chair of father's," she said, "is fairly comfortable." -Also, it faced Ada's, and he drew up another, less inviting, chair, and -placed it flush with the fire. Except by a side-glance, he could not see -her ankle now, and evaded that aphrodisiac, while Peter's chair, -though empty, completed the semi-circle, and seemed to give a sort of -countenance to their interview. Sam drew much comfort from that chair, -and tried to guide their conversation into literary paths of which the -chair would have approved. He discoursed of "Marcus Aurelius," and he -was very dull, but felt virtuous. - -Ada did not believe that it was virtuous to be dull, and mentally cursed -that _tertium quid_, the ghost of Peter Struggles, whom Sam had so -firmly established in his chair; but she saw that the pace was not to be -quickened here, under Peter's roof. - -"I think your knowledge of books is wonderful, Mr. Branstone," she said, -when Sam had exhausted his ideas about "Marcus Aurelius." - -"I never find time to read, myself. Whenever I have the opportunity of -recreation, I go out for exercise." The statement lacked the merit of -truth She never took exercise, but was adept at sitting in front of a -fire doing exactly nothing. The point was that in this house of the good -Peter, Sam's enterprise was burked, and she wanted him where he could -race without a handicap. "Do you ever go to Heaton Park?" she asked -conversationally. "I shall probably be going there on Saturday." - -"With--with your father?" asked Sam. - -"Oh, no," she answered brightly. "Saturday is sermon day. That is why I -am in the way here, although," she added pathetically, "I fear he often -finds me in the way. I am not bookish like you and him." She gave that -explanation suddenly, and it satisfied him. - -"I am not really bookish, either," he said. "Of course you won't be -going alone to Heaton Park." - -She hoped not. "I expect so," she said. - -Sam took the plunge. "Could I have the honour of accompanying you, Miss -Struggles?" - -"Oh, but you are so busy. I must not waste your time." - -"It couldn't be wasted with you," said Sam, and glanced guiltily at -Peter's chair, as if he had exceeded the limits of propriety, but he had -never seen Peter with anything but a benevolent smile, on his face, and -was unable to see him imaginatively now in any other mood. He took fresh -courage. "May I call for you?" - -"That," said Ada, "would never do. It would disturb father at his -sermon. I shall go by tram at about three o'clock." She rose. There was -nothing to be done with Sam in that house, but she pinned her faith to -Heaton Park: and not in vain. - -Allow for the difference in size, distance and the general scale of -things, and Heaton Park may be regarded as the Manchester equivalent to -Richmond Park. - -Once upon a time the Manchester Town Council had a magnificent -opportunity, and lost it. There are legends that they did not mean to -lose it, and that they did not lose it through any fault of theirs. But -they lost it. They lost the chance of buying Trafford Park, which lies -along the banks of the Manchester Ship Canal, and was bought by Mr. -Ernest Terah Hooley. It is said that Trafford Park, now a flourishing -and rather American-look-ing industrial town (even the streets in its -residential area are numbered, and not named, after the American plan, -and railways stray about the roads, _more Americano_), is the one -successful enterprise associated with the name of Hooley. That may or -may not be true: at any rate the Manchester Town Council missed its -chance at Trafford Park, and when Heaton Park, another old estate, came -into the market, the Council did not repeat their mistake. - -One goes, ascending all the way, through Cheetham Hill, the Ghetto, to -the heights of Crumpsall and the Park by a municipal tram, which -is admirably cheap or criminally cheap (according to one's views on -municipal trams), and, in any case, magnificently efficient: and at the -end of the ride, one finds beauty. One may find tea at Heaton Hall, and -pictures that overflow from the meagre Art Gallery in Mosley Street, and -municipal golf-links, but one finds also beauty. - -It is a rolling country, raised above the smoke, dotted with wood and -lake. Old gardens cling about the Hall, with rhododendron glades where -there are sculpture and pools, and the Park rolls free in open air that -is as clean as any air can be within five miles of Manchester Town Hall. -It, lacks of Paradise, and if one can see green hills from Heaton Park, -one cannot kelp but see the factory stacks that crown them or rise up -from the valleys, but beauty lingers here on the outskirts of an ugly -city secure against the jerry-builder and the ultimate defilement. - -Ada was going to Heaton Park. Lovers have gone to Heaton Park before Ada -and they will go when Ada has crumbled to dust. Ada went, and Sam went -with her. - -He went with her, not she with him: but if she led, he was very, very -far from admitting it, though it may have been his obscure, subconscious -knowledge of her leadership which made him outwardly assume the mien and -the gestures of a leader. He asserted, every inch of him, that he was -man, the conqueror, and she permitted the assertion and flattered it. -Leading, indeed, was not a habit of Ada's, who was born to be led, but -it is given to all of us to outstrip our nature on occasion, and this -was Ada's chance. A subtle skill was granted her that she might be -cunning with her opportunity. She was all calculation now, while Sam -forgot to calculate, and walked with Ada on his arm along the main drive -of Heaton Park. - -Romance kept step with him and put a radiant veil between his sober -senses and this witching hour: through glamour he beheld his Ada, and -saw that she was good. He soared to high ambition, either to die or -to possess the nymph, and now, that heady hour, to put all to the test -amongst the rhododendron bushes behind the Hall. - -There, by a patch of ancient turf, he halted her, and found a seat near -the pool where water-lilies thrive: a lovers' nook, love haunted. Who -knows what ardours of the old régime, when lords and ladies trod that -turf, had passed upon the now decaying stone of that comely seat? What -ghostly lovers in satin and brocade stood round to bless them or to -mock? Wood pigeons cooed above them, calling the tune, and Sam danced to -it in an ecstasy of hot desire. - -She had the sleek self-satisfaction of a cat, the same unhurried -certainty that the mouse was hers to gobble when she chose. Ada was very -happy. - -But apprehension gripped him now. He had not known her for a week, and -she was Ada. Peter's daughter. He stood aghast at his precipitance, -then, with the feeling that it was after all a "stroke" (though a larger -one than ever before), and that he believed in acting promptly, cleared -his throat and plunged into speech. - -"Miss Struggles," he said, "I know that I have only made your -acquaintance during the current week, but I seem to have known you all -my life. It's because I used to see you in church, I daresay. I mean we -were not strangers when we met, and, anyhow," he continued recklessly, -"I don't care if we were. I'm not the hesitating sort. I mean, show me a -thing, and I can tell you right off whether it's good or bad. My mind's -made up in a jiffy: that's the kind of fellow I am. And when my mind's -made up, I act." - -Ada had given a little gasp at the phrasing of his opening--that "during -the current week," an idiom from his business correspondence slipping -in here to mark his nervousness--but he was fairly launched now, and she -purred gently like a cat well lubricated with butter. - -"Yes, Mr. Branstone," she said, "I think men ought to be resolute." - -"So do I," he replied. "And so I am. Quite resolute and quite determined -about you." - -"About me?" She turned innocent eyes wonderingly at him. "I didn't know -you were being personal." - -"Well," he said, "I am. I am," he repeated, and took her hand. - -"Mr. Branstone," she murmured, as one who sees a vision splendid in a -dream, and let her hand lie limp in his. - -He bent to her. "Can't you," he asked hoarsely, "can't you call me Sam?" - -She called him Sam, and he kissed her. - -"Ada!" He spoke her name like a caress. "Ada!" Her name was wonderful; -she was a miracle; Sam was triumphant love. At that moment he was -passionately in love, and he had conquered. He had pressed the lips of -his divinity, shyly, with a revealing inexpertness which should have -charmed her, who, being a woman, knew all about love while Sam was in -short trousers. It didn't charm Ada, it touched no deeper chord than -satisfaction at a good job well done. This was his first, his freshest -love, but she cared only that the fish was on her line, securely hooked. -He saw her face, idealized her face and gloried in her face: she saw a -wedding-ring, she was to be Mrs., she was to escape the book-ridden home -of Peter Struggles. Both had their moment then, but Sam, in his, loved -Ada, and Ada only loved herself. - -"Darling," he said, and sought her lips again She saw the thirst of -him--and used it. - -She drew back. "I do not think you ought to kiss me again until we have -mentioned this to father," said Ada Struggles, digging the hook more -deeply in her fish. "Not," she went on, as she saw him flinch, "that I -do not want you to. Only----" - -"Yes," he said, as she left it at the "only," and allowed him to -appreciate her infinite delicacy. "Yes. Of course. Shall we have tea at -the Hall?" - -"Oh," said Ada, "ought we to?" She was seen to tremble on the brink of -a delicious temptation, and with difficulty to resist. "I'm afraid," she -decided, "not yet. But father will have finished his sermon by now, and -if you came and saw him at once, then... then, Sam..." She eyed -him, languishing, and opened up for him the golden vista of a jocund -courtship--once Peter had been "seen." He came, obediently, to see -Peter, and she relaxed her standard so far as to take his arm down the -drive of Heaton Park. Indeed, just at the corner by the copse, where -they were hidden, he had an arm round her waist: his feet trod air, and -his head was with the stars. - -Ada was thinking, "If he gets the engagement ring to-night, I can show -it after church to-morrow." - - - - -CHAPTER IX--ADA AND A MAD TRAM-CAR - - -|ON general grounds--on the grounds, for instance, of anything so -out-of-date and out of reason as filial piety--Ada was quite indifferent -to Peter's "consent," and wanted it only to shackle Sam more firmly. She -had not much doubt that Peter would consent, as in fact he did, though -not so readily as she had anticipated. She did not exhibit an engagement -ring at church next day for the reason that she had none to exhibit. -Peter kept Sam too late for that. - -Of course Ada was wrong about Peter: she thought him a good man and -consequently a perfect fool, whereas his foolishness was imperfect, and -he was subject, like most unworldly people, to streaks of acumen about -worldly affairs. They come sometimes, these disconcerting fits -of perception, as if a dam had burst, and usually the times are -inconvenient to those who have reckoned on the unworldliness. - -Peter answered her expectation so far as to say, "Bless my soul," and -so far only. After that, he began an elaborate and skilful catechism of -Sam, which pretended to be a friendly talk about books, but was really -an examination of Sam Branstone, his character and disposition. At the -beginning Peter knew little of Sam beyond what his observations at the -Concentrics had told him, and Sam's volunteered remarks about his salary -and his prospects interested Peter to a very slight extent. At the end -Peter decided that Sam was to be trusted to make things easy for Ada on -the material side, and that spiritually he was not beyond hope. - -But he had not, spiritually, been touched as yet. Would Ada touch him? -That was the question for Peter, who knew his Ada. Ada could be led. He -admitted that he himself had failed with her, but he was not a strong -man. A strong man, with love as his ally, could lead Ada, could form -her, and Sam had strength, and, Peter thought, love. It depended, then, -on whether Sam's love for Ada, reacting on him, would quicken his latent -spirituality so that the lead he gave to Ada would be good. And on the -whole Peter thought there was a reasonable chance. He believed in -the power of love, he believed that love is God and God is love, and -confronted with his pair of self-confessed lovers he read their future -optimistically in the light of his belief. What else could Peter do? -They said they were in love, they appeared to be in love, they had -the symptoms of the state of love. He could only judge the case on the -evidence before the court. - -He could not know that with Sam the symptoms, though real, were -temporary, and with Ada an intelligent mimicry. He gave his assent to -their engagement formally and very solemnly. - -Sam left the house late, thrilling with Ada's "Good-night" kiss, but the -glow was quick to fade, and he found himself thinking rather of Peter -than of Ada, whom of course, he loved. If ever probe was gentle, it was -Peter's: nevertheless, Sam had felt the probe antagonistically. He had -shivered naked before Peter's inquisition, he had understood that he -was under examination, and resented it. It was, however disguisedly, -opposition, and the thought of that kindly opponent led him to think of -one from whom, also, opposition was to be expected, and, probably, less -tactfully. It led to Anne. - -Well, that was the fate of lovers: it was the way to deepen love and, -perhaps already a little doubtful of his love, he welcomed the idea of -Anne in opposition. It was curious that, while he thought of Ada as the -one woman in the world, he should expect Anne to be hostile not merely -to the idea of his marriage in general, but to marriage with Ada -in particular. It was hardly loyal to Ada, who should have reigned -unchallengably queen; and he could offer Anne the argument of the -advantages of being Peter Struggles' son-in-law. But, with it all, he -looked for friction, and Anne was not to disappoint him there, although -at first she took it with a calmness which disarmed him. - -He came in, of course, late, and ate his supper, silently hoping that -she would give him an opening, but Anne asked no questions, though she -had not seen him since early morning, and Sam was not often out for -meals. She asked no questions because she wanted to watch him first. It -was clear to her at a glance that he was in one of two conditions: he -was drunk or he was in love, and she wanted to make no mistake. If it -was drink she would move very promptly and directly: if love, cannily -and by devious ways. She found quickly that it was not drink. It was -more serious. - -Her silence awed him. "Mother," he asked by way of breaking it, "aren't -you well?" - -"Aye," she said grimly, "I'm well. Are you?" - -"I've eaten a good supper." - -"I noticed that. I'll clear away now." - -"Wait a bit. I've something to tell you." - -"I reckon it'll keep till morning. You mayn't have known it, but you -came in late. It's bed-time and beyond." - -"Still," he said, "I'd like you to hear this tonight." - -"You sound serious," said Anne, and sat. "What is it, Sam?" - -"It's something rather wonderful, mother." - -"It would be," said Anne. "What's her name?" - -Sam rose, astonished at her perspicacity. "You guessed!" - -"I'm none in my dotage yet." Anne was grim. - -"Mother, I hope you're pleased. You must be pleased. It's all so -wonderful to me." - -"I asked you her name," said Anne. - -"It's Ada Struggles. You know," he went on hurriedly, "how much we all -admire her father." - -"I know, but I don't know Ada." - -"You will soon," said Sam enthusiastically. - -"I will that," said Anne, and there was menace in her voice. She took -her candle. "Good-night, my son," she said, kissing him, which was not -habitual. - -"Is that all?" he asked. "All that you have to say?" - -"I don't know Ada yet," she said, and so was gone to bed. - -Peter and Anne went opposite ways in their search to know whether this -marriage was the right thing for their children's happiness. Peter -ignored the bread and butter problem, or took it for granted: and his -was the higher wisdom. He knew that Sam was not made of the stuff that -starves for bread; not in his body but in his soul was Sam likely to be -pinched. - -Anne took the earthlier view that happiness resulted from home comforts. -Ada, as she knew, was no shining beauty, and the better for that. Beauty -is skin-deep. But she looked frail, only so, for the matter of that, -did some of the toughest girls, and she took it that Sam had had the -horse-sense to make some preliminary inquiries before he committed -himself. Sam, it appeared, had not. - -Was Ada strong and healthy? Was she economical? Could she cook? Was she -her own dressmaker? And when she found that Sam could answer none of -these questions, she said ironically: "Well, at least, you've eyes in -your head. Is their house clean?" - -Sam could only say that he supposed so, and Anne looked witheringly at -him. "Yes, you're in love all right," she said. "They say love's blind. -You're leaving a lot to me." - -"Mother," he said, alarmed, "what are you going to do?" - -"I'm going to get acquainted with Ada," she said. "One of us must know -her, and you don't." - -"If you'll be fair to her," said Sam. "I'm not afraid." - -"I'll be fair," said Anne, and meant to be; but is a mother ever fair to -the prospective wife of her only son? Perhaps, and in that case Anne -went to Ada with an open mind. "After all," she reflected, "I daresay -Tom Branstone's mother didn't think much of me, though Tom was one of -ten and it makes a difference. It oughtn't to, though"----she pulled -herself up. "Anne, you'll be fair to the girl." She looked indulgently -at Ada's curtains and rang Ada's bell. - -But Ada was wearing silver bangles on her wrists and her shoes were made -for show. Anne had the sort of pleasure which comes from having one's -worst fears realized. She may have generalized too sweepingly, but she -held that only shallow people wear silver bangles and shoes whose aim is -daintiness and not durability. - -First impressions, at any rate, went heavily against Ada, but Anne -remembered her promise to be fair. It was possible that when Tom -Branstone took Anne to see his mother, that lady did not like Anne's -way of doing her hair. To each generation the symbols of its youth and -perhaps bangles on Ada were not more skittish than a cairngorn brooch -had been on Anne. - -"I have tea ready, Mrs. Branstone," said Ada. "Sam told me you were -coming." - -"Did he?" Anne was surprised into saying. She had not told Sam of her -intention and his guess at it and his warning of Ada had spoilt her plan -of coming upon Ada unawares. She wanted Ada unprepared and unadorned: -Ada at home, not Ada "at home." And Ada was very much "at home." The -room had been "turned out"--and so had Peter that it might be--company -manners and the company tea-pot were on exhibition, and everything was -formal and obviously thought out. And, as Anne had to admit, not badly -thought out either. Ada had not been to that expensive boarding school -for nothing; she had an air to awe a porter's widow. Anne didn't like -her trick of putting the milk in the cup before she poured the tea, -nor her dogmatic way of asserting that it improved the flavour and that -"everybody did it now." Everybody, did not do it, Anne did not do it; -but, again, perhaps this was the modern touch, and Anne had come to be -fair. - -She made her first score when Ada left the room for hot water. "This -room's been dusted to-day," thought Anne. "I'll see what her dusting is -worth." She put it to the test by running her finger along the top of -the books on one of the shelves, and her finger was very black. - -The only way to keep books clean in Manchester is the way taken by nine -out of ten people: they have no books. Some of the others put books -behind glass, like orchids, the rest have the habit of blowing hard at a -book when they take it from its shelf, and of washing their hands before -opening it. - -Anne did not know that. She kept Sam's few books clean by daily -elbow-grease, and now furtively wiped her dirty finger on her stocking -with the feeling that she had found out Ada. The dust on the books (and -certainly it was thick) confirmed the impression left by the bangles, -and Anne was not in the least ashamed of her spying. Sam had stolen a -march on her by warning Ada and she paid him in his own coin. - -And from then onwards the score rose steadily against Ada. There were -cakes for tea. Now the only excuse for cakes was that one baked them -oneself and Ada confessed that they came from Mrs. Stubbins and made the -further mistake of showing an expert's knowledge in the productions of -Mrs. Stubbins' confectionery shop. "Frivolous in food as well as dress," -was Anne's comment. Her dress, Anne learnt, had been made by Madame -Robinson. - -"She's dear," said Ada, "but quite French. And, of course, she comes to -church." - -No Nonconformists need apply; but Anne was thinking not of Madame's -religion but her bills. The employer of a quite French dressmaker called -Robinson, born Duff, was no wife for Sam Branstone. - -And by way of making Anne's assurance doubly sure, Ada let slip -something about being under the doctor. - -But Anne was not sanguine. She saw clearly enough that it was precisely -Ada's weakness which was her strength with Sam. Sam had been leant upon -by Madge and George, and liked it, as Anne herself, in that case, had -liked it. But that was a different case from this. Madge had the claim -of sisterhood; Anne could see nothing in Ada and Ada's weakness to give -her the claim to lean on Sam: and the leaning in marriage should not be -one-sided. Ada could give Sam nothing except herself, and Anne did not -think that gift worth having. - -Sam, unfortunately, did and Anne doubted her power of changing his mind. -Her first attempt, at all events, must be with Ada, and she felt cramped -in Ada's house, for the reason, perhaps, that it was Peter's house, the -shrine of his simplicity. She wanted Ada cut off from the defences of -the tea-table and her own familiar surroundings, and saying something -about the warmth of the evening, suggested a ride on the top of a -tram-car. - -"I often do it myself," said Anne. "It blows the cobwebs away." - -She did it as a matter of fact not often, for so it would have lost its -quality of a dissipation, but with a wise irregularity she escaped the -thraldom of her house on a tram-car. Tram rides were her romance, her -safety-valve, her glimpse at life. Six-pennyworth of tram is cheaper in -the long run than fourpennyworth of gin: both carry one away, but the -tram-car brings one safely back. - -Anne's lip tightened when she saw that Ada did not change the flimsy -shoes and that her hat eclipsed their flimsiness. A "baby" hat, of -imitation lace, from which her face peeped out like a drooping, sapless -flower. "Yes," thought Anne. "Men being men, that hat is clever. It's a -trap for fools and it caught my fool. Ada Struggles, you're dangerous." - -They took the front seat on the tram and aloud she said, using purposely -her roughest accent: "It's queer to think of our Sam marrying a lady. -I'm not saying he doesn't deserve it, but his father were a railway -porter and mine were a policeman. His sister was in service." - -"Sam wall get on," said Ada, with conviction. - -"I'm none doubting it," said Anne. "But he's had luck and it's a -question if the luck'll hold. Mr. Travers took him up and sent him to -Grammar School, and Sam didn't do too well there. He disappointed me and -he's not gone on as he might have done. The fight's ahead of him yet and -he'll need a fighter by his side. I've done my share for him this long -while and I'm getting old. I shall be glad of a rest, Ada. Sam's an -early riser and it's weary work getting up on a winter's morning to -light the fire and get his breakfast ready. Only that won't trouble you. -You're young." - -"Of course," said Ada, "we shall have a servant." - -"What!" exclaimed Anne, "on two pounds ten a week, with me to keep and -all? I wouldn't reckon on that, if I were you. Later on, perhaps. But I -know it can't be done at present, or Sam would have done it for me." -The idea of Anne Branstone with a wench about her house struck her as -humorous. Anne might have help some day--when she was bed-ridden: till -then, her house was her house. "No," she went on, "you can take it from -me that it'll not run to a servant. I don't know what his idea is about -me, whether he will want me to live with you or not. Likely not. A man -doesn't want his mother about when he's wed." - -"No," agreed Ada hopefully. Anne oppressed her. - -"No. And I can get on with a pound a week from him. That'll leave you -thirty shillings. Well, I've done it, so I know it can be done, though -mind you, it's a struggle all the time and double tides when the babies -begin to come. But of course I'll help you--with advice. I'm not for -forcing myself on you, but naturally I know Sam's ways and his likings -about food. He's a bit difficult at times, too, but that's nothing. All -men are and you'll know that, having had your father to do for. I don't -say Sam's finicky, but he likes what he likes and I hope you're fond of -the same things. It always turned me up to clean a rabbit, and I never -liked the smell of onions, but that's a favourite dish of Sam's and so -I'd just to grin and bear it. And I know you'll do the same for Sam." - -Ada squirmed helplessly. She could have screamed. Anne sat at the -outside of the seat and pinned her to it. The tram seemed a Juggernaut -car which drove implacably over her dreams: a prison where she was -tortured by a coarse old woman with work-roughened hands and an endless -flow of vitriol. She wanted to tell Anne that she lied, that the more -she deprecated Sam the more desirable Ada knew him to be, that her -grapes were neither sour nor to be soured by Anne's insane jealousy; -and she could not do it. The ride seemed more of a nightmare with every -moment that passed. The tram was a mad wheeled cage with a mad driver -and a mad guard. It left the lines and careered wildly into desolation, -and she was fettered in it to an avenging fury who would not stop -talking, but with ruthless common sense pricked all the bubbles of her -hopes. She shut her eyes and abandoned herself to misery. Each minute -seemed an hour. She thought that somebody was throttling her, that the -flying cage was her tomb, that vampires sucked her blood, and her naked, -drained body was shackled to her seat until the car, driving inevitably -through black space, bumped finally against a star in one consuming -smash. She opened her eyes to find that the tram had stopped at its -suburban terminus and that Anne was asking: "Shall we get down for a -walk or shall we go back by the same car?" - -So she was still in the living world, and with the consciousness of -it courage returned to her. For a minute she was silent, fighting her -demons off, catching at facts and weighing them. Anne was not a -vampire, but an old worn woman who had, curiously, the right to call Sam -Branstone son--Ada's future mother-in-law, and a quaint one too; one to -be put firmly and haughtily in her place and kept there. - -"We'll stay on this car," she replied. Its madness had departed. It was -a tram, quite eminently sane and usual. "I think," she went on, "that -you exaggerate the difficulties. I've no doubt that Sam will have more -money by the time we're married. You see, he has me to work for now." - -Not a simper with it either. Pure matter-of-fact statement, and the -truth of it hit Anne, the cool assumption that Ada as a spur to effort -was more competent than Anne. And this to Anne who had learnt algebra -for Sam, to Anne who had underfed herself that he might wear the clothes -a Grammar School boy ought to wear, to Anne who--oh, it was ineffable, -but it defeated her because she knew, bitterly, gallingly, but -undeniably, that it was true. This baby-faced chit, this fool in -petticoats was more to Sam than the mother who bore him. Queen Anne was -dead and Ada Struggles reigned in place of her. - - - - -CHAPTER X--GERALD ADAMS, SOCIOLOGIST - - -|ANNE called at Madge's on her way home. Madge's, in spite of George's -progress, was still the house which had been the premises of the -Hell-fire Club. Anne did not often go there and never without reason, -but Madge was at a loss to know the reason of this visit, nor did she -guess it when Anne unobtrusively dovetailed into The conversation about -young Sam Chappie a question which might have seemed irrelevant. "Have -you done anything yet with that spare room of yours upstairs?" she -asked. - -"No," said Madge. "Nor likely to, I fancy." That was the reason of -the visit. Anne was safeguarding her retreat, though she by no means -admitted that it would come to a retreat. Engagements do not invariably -lead to marriage. Meantime, hers was the waiting game and a rupture with -Sam at this stage was to be avoided. - -When he asked her, not too confidently, if she did not agree with him -about the wonder of Ada, she exercised a noble self-restraint, and all -she said was: "She's not the wife for a poor man, Sam." - -"No," said Sam thoughtfully. "I'd tumbled to that. And I don't mean to -be poor either," and so went out to open the dark chapter of his bright -success. He went to the Concentrics, not knowing that he was going to -his fate. He went because it was the night of their weekly meeting -and he had to go somewhere to avoid Anne's eye, but his mood was not -concentric. "I must get rich for Ada, rich for Ada," was the burden of -his thought--so early did he justify Ada's words to Anne--and it was not -a timely thought for a Concentrics evening. - -He had even forgotten that he had a special interest in this meeting, -where the lecturer was to be Adams, once Sam's pet aversion and -unbeatable rival at the Grammar School. He was reminded of it when -he found himself accosted by a young man whom he could not at first -identify. - -"Jove! If it isn't Sammy Branstone! Are you a member of these fossils?" - -"Dubby Stewart!" said Sam, as recognition dawned on him. - -"Reed's here as well, somewhere," said Stewart. "It's a gathering of the -clan." - -Reed and Stewart, it seemed, were both members, which is to say that -they had come once or twice some time ago and continued to keep up the -small subscription from force of habit or through sheer weakness to -stop paying it. Few societies indeed could exist were it not for -the enthusiasm of the attending nucleus and the subscriptions of the -nonattending mass. - -"We came to hear Gerald Adams make an ass of himself," Stewart -explained. "What a subject!" - -Sam had even forgotten what the subject was. "Rich for Ada, rich for -Ada," was still ringing in his ears. - -The subject was "Social Purity." - -"Which accounts," said Stewart, "for the size of the audience. They've -all come hoping for the worst. I know I have." - -The worst did not happen, or, rather, if it did, it was so skilfully -disguised that nobody recognized it as the worst. It was easy to mistake -it for the best. - -Adams was one part in earnest and two parts impish in the manner of the -superior person who is out for an intellectual lark. He had a constant -preoccupation with that which is known above all other questions as -_the_ social question. It was not a nice preoccupation for a young -man: it was, for instance, remote from the healthy exuberance of Sam's -Rabelaisianism. And, of course, Adams was wily: he wasn't the stuff of -martyrdom. He enjoyed, as an intellectual gymnastic, the treatment of -his subject so that it should at once shock his audience and win him -their approval as an honest man doing an unpleasant job from conviction. - -Sam agreed with Stewart. His old prejudice against Adams was strong -within him and he hoped Adams would come a cropper. That was at the -beginning, when Adams, with an egregious affectation of superiority, -began to read his lecture; but soon, quite soon, Sam changed his -mind and hoped for nothing but that the skilful skater would keep his -balance, on the thin ice. - -"Rich for Ada," and here, as Sam saw it, was a "stroke" indeed if Adams -were successful to the end and if at the end he would listen sensibly to -Sam. - -Adams was in little danger. He was of Oxford, London, the world, and his -audience of Manchester. And he stooped to conquer with a lecture that -was a mosaic of advances and retreats, of blazing indiscretions and smug -apologies, of audacities and diffidence. - -Sam watched the audience keenly, and it would not be unjust to say that -the audience gloated. Not all of them gloated, but as a whole, as an -audience, they lapped up Adams' lecture like mother's milk. He called -it frankness and gave unnecessary detail, he had an appearance of -honest indignation and a reality of bathing in mud with relish. It was -abominable but diabolically clever; indecent to the core, it artfully -evaded anything to warrant a police court charge of indecency; it was -foulness cloaked in piety, marching under the banner of Reform. He was -a crusader in masquerade, flashing beneath their guard of British -reticence a rapier whose hilt was a cross. - -Adams found a curious satisfaction in standing there, like a penitent at -a Salvation Army meeting, pretending to an immense personal knowledge of -evil which was, happily, impossible, and he delighted in the presence -of a cleric in the chair. The thing developed, for him, into an exciting -game, a contest of his wits with Peter's. He had carried his audience, -but the chairman sat aloof and dubious. If Peter saw through him, he had -lost; if not, he won. For Peter he read the condemnatory passages -with vibrant earnestness, and for Peter he read as if reluctantly, -conscience-impelled, the details of his evidence. - -Sam caught the infection, too, but hardly as a game. He hung on Peter's -judgment with a deep anxiety, watched Peter flush and shuffle in his -chair, saw him take snuff nervously, trembled at the moment when Peter -seemed about to interrupt, sighed with relief when Peter sat back -silently again and waited feverishly for the chairman's speech. - -There would probably have been little doubt about Peter's verdict had -Adams been an ordinary Concentric, lecturer and a member of the Society. -But he was neither, and was there by invitation. And he was not only of -Oxford, Peter's University, but brilliantly of Oxford, of Balliol, with -academic honours thick upon him. If Peter thought, as Adams spoke, that -he ought to call him to order, he remembered that Adams was a Double -First, and desisted. He couldn't be a hypocrite--because he had won the -Ireland. He was terribly in earnest now--because he had won the -Greek Verse Prize. He was single-minded, chivalrous, braving the -misapprehension of the scurrilous, open and honest--because he was a -Fellow of Balliol. - -It did not matter to Peter that Adams' father was the richest -parishioner in St. Mary's; it mattered even less that Adams was -exquisitely dressed in exactly the shade of grey appropriate to an -ardent crusader. ("Look at his damned clothes," Reed had whispered to -Stewart. "Hasn't he thought it out?" He had: his clothes were chaste if -his lecture wasn't.) But scholarship did matter to Peter, whose other -name was Charity, and once he had decided that Gerald was sincere, that -all he said was subordinate to and justified by high purpose, he was -generous, and the more generous because he had doubted. - -"The subject of Mr. Adams' lecture," he said, "is like nettles: if it -is not handled boldly, it stings. I have nothing but praise for the -courage, the down rightness, the earnestness of his treatment of this -distressing evil. I think that we have all been deeply stirred by his -instances of man's inhumanity to women. As a churchman I feel a special -responsibility and, may I say, a special gratitude to Mr. Adams for his -study of this subject. Medicine, as we all know, has its martyrs, -its research workers who sacrifice themselves for the health of their -fellowmen. Mr. Adams, who has examined this social sore so thoroughly, -at what cost in pain to himself only the most sensitive amongst us can -guess, deserves to be ranked with the martyrs of science...." And so on, -doubly handsome because he felt ashamed of himself for doubting Gerald's -honesty, and made amends. - -Adams had won his game, hands down. He thought the old boy gloriously -funny and he thought Sam Branstone, who rose when Peter sat down, -funnier still. Sam believed in striking while the iron was hot: he -didn't want Peter to have the opportunity of changing his mind when he -came to think things over coolly. - -Sam began by congratulating himself on the good fortune that had been -his in having been the school-fellow of the distinguished Mr. Adams. -Adams gazed hard at Sam through his austere pince-nez and was observed -perceptibly to start. "Gad," he was thinking, "it's that lout, the -porter's son." But he liked Sam's flattery very well. Sam, it appeared, -had been so deeply impressed by Mr. Adams' admirable, indeed eloquent -and moving address, and by the chairman's very just eulogy of it, -that he thought it would be a tremendous pity if so arresting, so -well-written a paper failed to reach a wider audience than that before -which it had been read. They had been waiting for this paper; its appeal -was wide; the urgency of its need, instinct in every word of it, was -emphasized by the chairman's remarks. He had, therefore, a practical -proposal to make. The paper ought to be printed, and if Mr. Adams could -spare him a few moments after the meeting, Sam hoped that he would let -him arrange the matter. - -He sat down amongst great applause. Under its cover Stewart whispered: -"You inimitable ass!" Sam looked at him in pained surprise. "I want to -see that paper in print," he declared indignantly. - -The debate meandered in the usual futile way. Few had anything to -say, but many liked the sound of their own voices and indulged their -preference at length, till both speakers and talkers had taken their -innings and Sam was able to go up to the platform. Peter had not changed -his mind and was complimenting Adams in his simple, charming way. - -It ought, no doubt, to have made Adams thoroughly ashamed of himself, -but it did not. It hardened his cynicism so that, when Sam came up, all -he was thinking was: "I've gulled the parson. Now to bounce the porter's -son." - -"How are you, Branstone?" he asked. "Glad to meet you again." - -"And I you," said Sam. They shook hands. "Have you had time to think of -what I proposed?" - -"As a matter of fact," said Adams, which is the usual way of beginning a -lie, "I'd thought of sending my little paper to one of the Reviews--the -_Fortnightly_ or the _Contemporary_." - -"Excellent," said Peter. - -Sam could have kicked him. "I venture to differ," he said. "The chief -object should be to reach as wide a public as possible. My own idea was -to do it by itself in the form of a----" he was going to say "pamphlet," -but altered it to "brochure." He thought it sounded more attractive. "In -the heavy reviews it would be read by comparatively few, and it would -not stand alone as in a brochure. It would take its place along with -other articles. And I have heard that contributors to the reviews are -not paid highly." - -Adams had not thought of payment at all, but he thought of it now, with -zest. He was rich, but the idea of despoiling the porter's son, who had -had the assurance to go to school with him, struck him as the crowning -move in a jolly game. This was, transcendently, his night for winning. - -"Oh, I don't know," he said, which was true. "I suppose I should get -about twenty pounds for it." - -"I will give you twenty-five," said Sam. - -"Sam!" protested Peter. He approached the motive (as he understood it), -but considered the offer reckless from a young man who contemplated -matrimony. - -"Twenty-five pounds," repeated Sam firmly. - -"Well," laughed Gerald, quite unable not to laugh at the idiot's -persistence, "if you're as keen on doing good as all that, I'll take the -offer." - -"Right," said Sam. "I'll settle it at once." - -He went to the chairman's table and made out a form of assignment of -copyright. He had a little knowledge of the law, and it was a dangerous -thin--for the other fellow. But both Sam and Adams went home that night -in a state of cherubic self-satisfaction. - -"What a game?" thought Adams. "And what an ass!" - -Curiously, the thoughts of Sammy Branstone were not dissimilar. He had -this advantage over Adams: that Adams had read his paper and had not -watched his audience all the time. Sam had watched the audience and -thought twenty-five pounds a cheap price for that paper. - -He slept on it, and awoke next day with confidence in his investment -undisturbed, but the news which awaited him at the office shook him at -first. It was one thing to see a profitable side-line in the publication -of Adams' address and another to be suddenly obliged to regard the -copyright of that paper as his one sound asset. He feared, in cold -daylight, that it was not quite sound enough for that. - -Yet what had happened did not come as a complete surprise. Sam knew -Travers' habits and knew that men of his habits are liable to die -suddenly. Travers had died in the night, and Sam was very angry. - -He told himself that he had no luck with people's deaths. His father had -died too soon for Sam, and now Travers was dead just when Sam had become -engaged, and when he had undertaken a speculation which, however high -his hopes of it, was after all speculative. - -An estate agent's business is largely personal and, if there is -no obvious successor, no heir apparent already in training for the -succession, is apt to fall to pieces when its head dies. The process of -disintegration in this case had set in long ago; drink had begun what -death now ended; and there was no heir. Lance Travers had decided for -medicine and was, on the material side, little affected by his father's -death, since Travers had bought him a practice a year earlier -somewhere in the South, and the neighbourhood was proving healthily -valetudinarian. - -The office was not a cheerful place that day. Men estimated their -savings and balanced them against the probable weeks of unemployment -before they found new places. A few of them, no doubt, might hope to "go -with" the business to whomever bought it; and they wondered who would -buy and which of them would be engaged by the purchaser. - -They fancied Branstone's chances, and so, in fact, did Sam, but it was -all in the air and exceedingly disturbing just when he had given himself -so much else to think about. Even if he did move with the business, it -could only be as a clerk. He lost the advantage of Travers' friendliness -and, besides, he was not sure that anybody would think the business -worth buying. Travers had no right to die. - -Then the thought struck him that he was taking it lying down. He, a lad -of mettle, was whining like these gutless clerks in the office. He was -betraying his lucky star. Death, even Tom Branstone's, had not been -forbiddingly unkind to him. Tom's death had led him indirectly to -the office, to Minnifie, the Concentrics, Ada, and he began to see in -Travers' death the possibilities of good. It might be the finger of -fate, pointing him away from the office which had served its turn to -a new dispensation to be arranged by the collaborators, Sam and -Providence, upon the rock of Adams' paper. - -They carried on the routine work of the office as men under sentence of -death do little, ordinary things and find a solace in them. Then, -late that afternoon, Lance Travers came. He had travelled since early -morning, had been home, seen his father's doctor and his father's -solicitor and was now come to see Sam. They sat in Travers' private -office, where the blinds were drawn, and in the presence of Travers' -son, who owed his life to him, Sam was conscious of a deeper feeling -than he had ever known before, he was no longer angry because Travers -had died, but mourned him honestly. - -"By the way," said Lance presently, "did my father ever tell you about -his will?" - -"His will!" said Sam. "No. Why should he?" - -"I thought he might have done," said Lance. "He made it last year after -he bought me my practice. He thought then that he ought to do something -for you, but he didn't expect to live long and he put it in his will. -There's a thousand pounds for you." - -Sam took it nicely. "I'd rather," he said, "that he were still alive;" -and, at the moment, he meant it. - -But he had been right. It was the finger of fate. - - - - -CHAPTER XI--UNDER WAY - - -|AS a simple matter of course, Lance offered Sam the first refusal of -his father's business, but was not surprised when Sam declined to think -of it. - -Sam was far more surprised at himself than Lance at Sam. Lance had never -looked upon estate agency as a desirable profession, whereas Sam had -been bored with its routine without losing his respect for its utility, -and only yesterday he would have jumped at the chance of owning the -business. He heard with astonishment the sound of his own voice politely -refusing the offer, but having refused he did not tamper with his swift -decision. - -The fact is, one supposes, that what might be called the quick-firing -part of his intelligence had absorbed and reacted to the fact of his -thousand pounds before the whole of him was properly aware of it. At any -rate, he refused, and, on reflection, approved his refusal. - -His speculation in Gerald Adams wore a different aspect now that he was -a capitalist. "Money," as he had remembered once before, "breeds -money," and he doubted if Travers' business, robbed of Travers' genial -personality, were fecund enough for the pace of money-breeding he -anticipated. Perhaps, too, there was something in the thought that the -Travers' agency was dead man's shoes, while, win or lose, the idea of -publishing Adams' lecture was his own invention. - -Another thing that happened to him with his legacy was the feeling that -he had regained caste; he belonged again with his old school-fellows. -"How many of them," he thought, "can lay hands at a moment's notice on -a thousand pounds?" and walked erectly through the street where, -naturally, since he had not met him in eight years until last night, he -encountered Stewart. - -"Hullo," said Stewart, "how's the patron of letters? And would a drink -be any use to you?" - -Sam hesitated. Did the way to the society of the Olympians lie through -the doors of the public-house? Stewart was undeniably Olympian: he -had the air, the manner, the clothes of well-assured success. He had a -lightness and a poise that excited Sam's envy. He had style, this youth -who might be anything, but who, Sam cynically thought, had probably -not paid for his distinguished clothes, while Sam was the owner of a -thousand pounds. He was, thereby, Olympian in quiet fact, which need not -be shrieked from the house-tops, as Stewart had, apparently, to shriek. -Sam _was_, and there was the possibility that Stewart only appeared -to be. It gave him strength to refuse. Not from principle, but from -economical prejudice Sam was a teetotaller. - -"I don't take alcohol," he said. - -"It's never too late to mend," said Stewart. "Still, there's a café -here, and we'll drink coffee. It's bad for our hearts, but Balzac wrote -the 'Comédie Humaine' on black coffee, so there may be something in the -vice, though it isn't a habit of mine. Two black coffees, Sophie," he -ordered from the waitress. - -"If it isn't a habit of yours," asked Sam, "how do you come to know the -waitress by name?" - -"'My dear ass!" said Stewart pityingly. - -"Do you call them all Sophie?" - -"Only when it's their name. Your name is Sophie, isn't it?" he said as -the girl returned with their coffee. - -"Yes, sir." - -Stewart appreciated Sam's astonishment. "I know I'm showing off, but I -like it. If you see a girl with an idiotic silver brooch made up of the -letters _SOPHIE_ you can assume that it's her name, and not the name of -her best boy. Simple, when you know how it's done, like all first-rate -conjuring." - -"I hadn't noticed her brooch," said Sam. - -"I had. That's the difference. Still, it isn't fair to blame you. I'm -a professional observer." Sam took Stewart to mean that he was a -detective, but hadn't time to ask for confirmation, because Stewart -asked instead: "And what, by the way, are you?" And threw him into some -embarrassment by the question. What, indeed, at the moment was he? - -"Doesn't your observation tell you?" he fenced. - -"It told me last night that you're a considerable lunatic. Did you buy -that stuff of Adams'?" - -"Yes, I did." - -"Thought I saw you in the act as I went out. Obviously, then, you're a -tripe merchant." - -"I wonder," said Sam, "whether you could help me, Stewart. Seriously, I -mean." - -"In the tripe trade?" - -"I want very much to meet a journalist." He thought a detective ought to -know journalists. - -"But, my dear fellow, this is a café. It isn't a bar. What do you want a -journalist for?" - -"I will tell that to the journalist." - -"If you want to start a paper and you're looking for an editor, you -needn't look further than me. There have been candid moments in my -life when I have called myself a journalist. At present, I edit the -_Manchester Warden_, but I'm open to conviction." He didn't quite edit -that paper--yet, but reported for it at six pounds a week. He did not -know shorthand, but he quoted Joseph Conrad and Henry James, correctly -and incongruously, when he wrote a notice of a music-hall performance. - -"I'm afraid," said Sam astutely, "that when I said a journalist, I meant -something very different from you, but I will tell you how I stand and -perhaps you will advise me. Last night, as you know, I bought Adams' -paper. I gave him twenty-five pounds for it." - -"Lunacy," said Stewart, "is a mild word for your complaint. Twenty-five -shillings would be a top price for it in a friendly market." - -"To-day I reached the office to learn that my employer had died -suddenly. You remember Lance Travers? It was his father, and with his -death, for all practical purposes the business comes to an end. Well, -you see my position." - -Stewart quoted Sheridan: "'The Spanish Fleet thou canst not see, because -it is not yet in sight.' And much the same applies to your position, my -lad. Its postal address is the Womb of Time." - -"That is true," said Sam. "And I may add that I am engaged to be -married." - -"I can admire thoroughness," said Stewart. "You omit none of the -essentials." - -"Now, with it all," said Sam, "I'm still too proud to go to Adams and -ask him to let me off my bargain." - -"And it wouldn't be any use if you did," said Stewart. "He'd laugh at -you." - -"I can believe it of him. But I'm landed with his paper. It has cost me -twenty-live pounds. I meant to print it, and I mean to print it, but -I mean now to sell it when it is printed." Sam left Stewart to suppose -that, had Travers not died, he would have distributed that pamphlet -free. "Money," he added, "is a necessity." - -He had taken the right line. Stewart's instinctive generosity was -touched, and he meant to give this lame dog a lift over the stile. "I -see where your journalist comes in. All right, Branstone, you can count -on me." - -"On you?" said Sam. "Oh, I couldn't ask it of you." - -"You didn't ask," replied Stewart naively. "I offer. I may edit the -_Manchester Warden_, but Zeus nods sometimes,'busmen have been known to -take a holiday, and there is a paper called the _Sunday Judge_ in whose -chaste columns I have written under the name of Percy Persiflage. Send -me a proof of that pamphlet and Percy shall stamp upon it. He will say -that no decent person could read it without being revolted, and the -pamphlet will boom. It's the Sunday-paper public that you want, and... -No, Percy shall not stamp. Percy shall bless. He will be moved to -admiration of Mr. Adams' earnestness, he will applaud the high moral -purpose, and will do the rest by correspondence. Get your sisters and -your cousins and your aunts to pitch in letters on either side, and I'll -see they get printed. I make this alteration because of the bookstalls." - -"The bookstalls?" asked Sam vaguely. - -"This problem of distribution," said Stewart impressively, "is the -most difficult question of modern life. The producer is here, you; -the consumer (we hope) is everywhere, and the problem is to bring your -pamphlet to the thirsting consumer. The answer is the bookstall, but -the bookstalls are cautious. When I say bookstalls I mean the right -bookstalls. You will never see your money back if the only bookstalls -which will exhibit your pamphlet are those which sell atrociously -printed paperbacked editions of 'Nana' and 'Fanny Hill.' You must -flourish on _the_ bookstalls, and they banned 'Esther Waters.' The -bookstalls, Branstone, are going to call for tact, and tact shall begin -with Percy's appreciation." - -"Or earlier," said Sam. - -"Earlier?" - -"I hadn't thought of the bookstalls, but this may help there, as well as -in other ways. I mean, as far as Manchester is concerned, and if we get -it on the stalls here, they can't very well refuse it in other places." - -"Manchester being Manchester, it isn't likely," said Stewart. "What's -your idea?" - -"Only this," said Sam, and showed him his proposed cover for the -pamphlet. - - - -THE SOCIAL EVIL - -Being an Address - -By Gerald Adams, M.A., - -Fellow of Balliol College, Oxford. - -As Read before the Concentric Society with The Rev. Peter Struggles in -the Chair. - - -Stewart looked at it, then he looked at Sam, and Sam seemed to him very -little like a lame dog now. He whistled loudly. "You'll get your money -back, my lad," he said. "But this is rough on Peter." - -"Mr. Struggles approved of the lecture." - -"I wonder if he will approve of this?" said Stewart. - -"He can't go back on his word," said Sam. "Besides, I'm engaged to his -daughter." - -"The thing that troubles me," said Stewart admiringly, "is that I took -you for a harmless lunatic. I'm only a journalist myself, with one foot -in the _Manchester Warden_ and the other in the _Sunday Judge_. I'm a -Tory on Sundays and a Liberal on weekdays. I gave up honesty when I gave -up being young, and I thought I knew the ropes by this time. But when -I think that I took you for a guileless innocent, I want to go into a -corner and kick myself hard." - -Sam found this rather alarming he knew that his use, or misuse, of -Peter's name was cunning, but began to regret that he had shown Stewart -his pro posed cover. "But I get my review in the _Judge?_" he asked -hardily. - -"My son," said Stewart, "you do. I've spent sixpence on coffee and half -an hour on you. There's good copy in this and I can't afford to waste -it. I've my living to earn, and Gerald Adams deserves the worst he's -going to get. At the same time, I'll allow myself the luxury of telling -you that yours is a lowdown game." - -"We didn't make the world what it is, did we?" said Sam. - -"And neither you nor I will leave it any better than we found it," -said Stewart, prophesying rashly with the boundless cynicism of his -twenty-five years. "The worst of coffee," he went on, finishing his cup, -"is that it makes you thirsty. I'm going across the road for a drink. Do -you have one with me?" - -"No, thanks," said Sam. "I have to see a printer." - -"Oh, yes. Well, why not the Judge Press? I daresay I could get you in -there on the ground floor." - -"But they are not quite the right people for this. They print sporting -papers, and----" - -"You'll die from overheated bearings in your brain-box," said Stewart. -"You think of everything." - -Sam had, at least, thought that a printer (however obscure by comparison -was the Judge Press, whose works were a small town in themselves) who -issued a religious paper was better for his purpose than the printers of -the _Sunday Judge, Sporting Notions and the Football Times_. He went to -Carter, Meadowbank & Co., who were on the verge of bankruptcy, but had -the advantage of printing _Christian Comfort_ and the _Church Child's -Weekly_, and arranged with them to print five thousand copies of Adams' -paper. Carter, who was the whole firm, looked askance at the title, but -when Sam pointed out that the Rev. Mr. Struggles had approved of the -contents, Carter succumbed at once, and did not even attempt a protest -when Sam instructed him to print on the whole five thousand: - -"This first edition of one thousand copies is issued at sixpence. -The price for future editions will be one shilling. Samuel Branstone, -Publisher." - -Carter's dingy office was decorated with the chief products of his firm, -texts, the stock-in-trade of commercialized religiosity. Well handled, -there was money in texts, but Carter was an old man with declining -powers and a conservative mind. Meadowbank, who had looked after the -distributive side of the business, was lately dead, and Carter's -nightly prayer was that the concern might last his time. As things were -promising, it seemed unlikely, but here was Sam with an order for him -and no disposition to beat him down in price. Carter did not like the -instruction to describe five thousand copies as one thousand, and he -didn't like the subject of the pamphlet, but he wanted business, and he -couldn't conceive of a pirate sailing under the flag of Mr. Struggles. - -Sam rammed that home, feeling the man's hesitation. "I think it -probable," he said, "that Mr. Struggles will preach a sermon on -this pamphlet. Perhaps I might tell you that I am going to be his -son-in-law." - -That settled Carter, and he took the order. He knew, and was sensitive -to, the influence of Peter Struggles, curate. He knew that in the -parish of. St. Mary's, Peter's smile counted for more than the vicar's -weightiest word, and that while the vicar was unknown outside his -parish, Peter had authority throughout Manchester--an authority which -had lately growm through Peter's refusal of preferment to an easy living -in the country. It hadn't, of course, been Peter who had told of that -refusal, he had not told Ada. But it had leaked out, and Manchester, -which despises selflessness in men, honoured it in the curate; -Mancunians were flattered by his loyalty to St. Mary's and by the -thought that they were fellow citizens to saintliness. - -Emphatically, the name of Peter Struggles on the pamphlet was a _clou_, -but Sam had not told Peter of it yet, and he must do it. He could not -afford an accident, and Peter, he considered, was manageable. - -Ada met him at the door with a bright smile, and raised expectant lips, -but he shook his head, touch ing her shoulder tenderly, and passed -in front of her into the room so that, when she followed, her face -expressed the anxiety he desired. He entered himself as a man crushed by -grief. - -"What is it, Sam?" she asked. "What's the matter?" - -Peter closed "Plotinus" reluctantly: he never found time enough for -reading, and here was one of his few evenings interrupted. He had the -thought, feeling it ungenerous, that interruptions of this kind would -end when Ada was married. - -"I've had sad news to-day. Mr. Travers died in the night. It's... it's -rather a blow." - -Peter disdained priestly conventionalities. "He was a good friend to -you, Sam." - -"A second father," said Sam carefully, not taking the opportunity of -telling that Travers' friendship had lasted beyond death. Perhaps -he thought this moment too sacred for the intrusion of a legacy. "Of -course," he went on, "I've had all day to think of it, and of the -difference this will make to me--to us, that is, Ada, for you and me." - -"What difference, Sam?" she asked sharply. - -"It comes to this," he said dejectedly, "that I am out of work and -competition is so desperate. While he lived, I had his friendship behind -me. Now--I don't say that I'm afraid to stand alone. No doubt it will -be good for me eventually, but, Ada, you see how it may postpone our -hopes." - -Ada saw it. "Plotinus" took that opportunity of slipping from Peter's -knee, and Peter saw it, too, and sighed. "Oh, Sam!" said Ada. - -"And," said Sam, looking at Peter with a fine affectation of guilt, -"there is my recklessness of last night. In my then circumstances, it -was extravagant. To-day it looks worse than that." - -"You couldn't know," said Peter kindly. - -"No," Sam agreed. "I couldn't know, and I have the feeling now that I -must abide by what I did." - -"Very proper, Sam, but Mr. Adams is not poor and I should think that if -you were to go to him------" - -"Oh, please," said Sam, "please don't press me to do that. A bargain, I -feel so strongly, is a bargain and should be kept at all costs." - -Peter felt silently ashamed of himself. "You are perfectly right," he -said. - -"Well," said Sam, "that's how I feel, but in a sense I'm landed with the -thing and I propose to go on with it. As I see it--and I know there's -a certain amount of inappropriateness in thinking at all of these -practical affairs with my benefactor so recently dead, but I must, I -must----" he looked at Ada and it was understood that his thought for -her excused all--"As I see it, it's a case for going on and trying to -pull the chestnuts out of the fire, so to speak. I shall print that -paper, and the good that I hoped to do will not be lost because my -circumstances have altered, but I shall make a small charge for it to -cover expenses as far as possible. And as I naturally want it to sell -well, I had the idea of stating on the cover that it was first read at -the Concentrics under your chairmanship. The point of that is that all -the members were not there last night; it will call their attention -to it; and they will, I hope, buy. It makes certain of a few reliable -purchasers." - -"Quite, quite," said Peter. "It's an excellent idea. Though I can hardly -suppose that mention of my name has any value, the name of the society -should certainly help." - -His modesty was quite incurable. He had not the faintest notion of the -wide-spread influence of Peter Struggles. "I have thought of little else -all day but Mr. Adams' paper. I wondered if it was my duty to speak of -this terrible subject from the pulpit. The Church ought not to be silent -or it may be thought to acquiesce." - -Sam felt his heart leap within him. "Adams thought frankness best," he -said. - -"Yes, yes, at the Concentrics. But there are difficulties for me, -and perhaps I shall speak only to the Young Men's Class at the-Sunday -School. Though that," he reflected, "is perilously near to compromise." - -"But what is it?" asked Ada. "What are you talking about?" - -Sam was silent. So was Peter, and the silence grew till he felt it a -reproach. He looked at Sam. "You see?" he said. "That is the dilemma -of the Church. I shall speak to the young men, and, after that perhaps, -perhaps----" He glanced at Ada. - -"No," he finished decidedly, "I must leave it at that." He was -fifty-six, and most of his life had been lived under Victoria the Good. - - - - -CHAPTER XII--DROPPING THE PILOT - - -|ANNE lived for Sam: and if she rarely showed it, if, for instance, it -appeared sometimes that she lived to make her house the cleanest in the -row, that was no more than a symptom of her stoicism. She lived for Sam, -and he knew it. She belonged to a race which hates ostentation like the -devil and keeps its feelings veiled behind a grim reserve. It conceals -emotion as a hidden treasure and wears a mask which strangers take to -indicate a want of sensibility. She had not the habit of caressing -Sam; she chastened whom she loved; and Sam was very well aware of the -strength of Anne's love. - -She was ready, at the proper time, to give him to the proper woman, but -she held that Ada was not the woman nor this the time. She was ready to -go her ways from Sam, and from life itself, when he made a marriage -of which she could approve, but she was not ready to leave him to Ada -Struggles of whom she disapproved. She was not ready to die for the -likes of Ada Struggles. Let Sam marry Ada, and Anne, meant to live, -because some day he would have need of her and, when the day came, she -would be there. - -Now, Sam would have been pleased if he could have told Anne about the -pamphlet and the legacy. He had hoped after the Minnilie affair that his -next "stroke" would be one of which he could tell Anne, but he did -not see this as tellable. She would naturally ask what the pamphlet was -about, and if Peter could not speak of it to his daughter, Sam could -speak of it even less to his mother. And as to the legacy, what was the -use of mentioning that to a woman who would point out that security was -only to be had with two and a half per cent? Which wasn't at all Sam's -notion of the uses of a thousand pounds. - -After all, he was grown up and a man does not tell his mother -everything. But unless he is a fool, he tells her the things which she -is bound in any case to find out, and if he had foreseen the certainty -of her finding out he would, not being a fool, have told her these. -He did not foresee, because Anne did not read newspapers, but she had -neighbours who did and who told her, with comments, of the storm which -presently broke out in the columns of the _Sunday Judge_, and of Mr. -Travers' will, which received a small paragraph in the paper when it was -proved. - -"There was a time when you and me didn't go in for secrets," she said to -him. "You've not had much to say to me of late and I've not seen much of -you, either, with the hours you're keeping, but I'd put it down to love. -I know a man's not rational when he's courting, but it seems there's a -lot about my son that I've to learn. Why didn't you tell me about Mr. -Travers? Did you think I'd steal the money off you?" - -"Of course not, mother, but I meant to come to you with a finished tale, -not one that's only just begun. I'm engaged in a business affair of -which I was going to tell you when it was complete." - -"_Yes_," she said, "I see. You're risking your money. If you came out on -the right side, you'd tell me about it, and if you lost you'd forget to -tell me. Are you losing?" - -"It's early days to say." - -"Then maybe I'm still in time to nip this in the bud. What's this about -the _Sunday Judge?_" - -"I Have you seen it?" he asked. - -"Aye. You're the talk of the street." - -"That's splendid," he let slip before he was aware of it. - -"Splendid! There's a gentleman writing to the paper to say that you're -trading in immorality." - -"I wrote that letter myself," grinned Sam. - -"You did what?" - -"I'm afraid I shall never make you understand." - -"I doubt you won't. Lying to me like that. Expecting me to believe you -write to the paper about yourself and call yourself hard names. And the -letter's signed 'Truth-teller,' too. It's printed in the paper that my -son has lifted the lid from the cesspool and let loose a smell to make -decent people vomit." - -"Yes. I know. Advertising is a coarse art." - -"Your name's blackened for ever. And it's my name, Sam, and the name -your father gave me. It's the name of honest folk and----" - -"Mother, mother, don't I tell you that it's all advertisement?" - -"What you tell me and what I can believe are coming to be two different -things. I know what an advertisement in the paper is and I know what a -letter is. This is a letter." - -Sam felt the hopelessness of further argument. - -She had a simple-minded faith in the integrity of newspapers and the -printed word, but he could at least show that the word could contradict -itself. "Very well," he said, "it's a letter, and so is this." He took -a copy of the paper from his pocket. Stewart had kept his word, no great -feat since he had a good idea of what his editor supposed the Sunday -public to want, and a column of fervent correspondence flared under the -heading of "The Social Evil.--Is the Pamphlet Justified?" Sam chose a -letter which described Adams as a crusader and Branstone, his publisher, -as a high-souled social reformer courageously risking misapprehension -for principle and the right, calling the endorsement of the Rev. Peter -Struggles to witness in proof of his irreproachable motives. "Well," -said Sam, "am I to be misapprehended after all, and by you?" - -"You told me you wrote the other letter," she said. "Don't you mean that -you wrote this one?" - -"I don't," he said truthfully. He wrote his, attacking himself, on one -side of Stewart's desk, while Stewart at the other defended him. It had -been great fun. - -"And what," she asked, "is the business affair you say you're engaged -on?" - -"Why," he said unguardedly, "it's this." - -"Then I don't misapprehend at all, my son. I apprehend very well. And -you've worked Peter Struggles into it. Was that why you got engaged to -Ada?" - -"Mother!" he protested. "Doubt me if you like, but you must not doubt -Mr. Struggles. He surely is above suspicion." - -"He's keeping bad company just now," said Anne, "and I doubt you've been -too clever for him." - -Sam chose to be offended. "Is that what you think of me?" he asked. - -"That you're clever. Aye. I think that all right. I've known it since -the time when you tricked a parcel of schoolboys out of a house of -furniture and put George Chappie into it. You're clever in the wrong -places, Sam. When you were at school, you were clever out of school. -You're at business now and you ought; to be clever in honesty, and I've -the notion that you're being clever in dishonesty." - -"Of course," he said, "this only shows how right I was not to tell you. -It's the old story. Women don't understand business." - -"I know. Business is a pair of spectacles that makes black into white, -but I don't wear spectacles myself. Are you going to tell me what you're -doing with that thousand pounds?" - -"I told you it isn't decided yet. But if the sales of that pamphlet go -up this week as they did last, I'm going into the publishing business -with it." - -"So that you can publish more of the same sort?" - -"If I can get them. There's a lot of money in it." - -"Sam," she said earnestly, "is that all you're caring about?" - -"You told me yourself that Ada was not the wife for a poor man." He -considered that a very neat score, to seem to make Anne responsible, but -Anne was not to be deceived by any such seeming. As she saw it, Ada had -corrupted Sam, Ada was the motive of this misuse of his cleverness; and -the bitterness for Anne was doubly poignant. She believed in Sam, with -a faith which had never swerved in spite of her disappointment in his -school career; but she realized now that he had been marking time in -Travers' office, that it was Ada and not she who had quickened his -energies to rapid action. Ada had quickened them, where under Anne they -had lain dormant but the quickening had been corrupt. It came from Ada, -poisoned at the source, and took to poisonous ways. - -They had touched bottom now and reached essentials. "Sam," she said, "I -was joking like when I said a man's not rational when he's in love. But -it was a true word spoken in jest. You're not rational or you wouldn't -be doing these things and making a byword of the name of Branstone, and -the reason you're not rational is Ada. If you were in love with a good -woman, you could no more do dishonourable things than fly. But you're in -love with a bad woman and it leads to bad results. Sam, do you think I -like to tell you that you've made a mistake? And do you think I don't -know? Lad, lad, I love you, and I've never reckoned myself a fool. -Choose now, I'm not the sort of fool to be jealous just because you -get wed. I'd none be jealous of the right lass, Sam. I'd take her and -welcome her and know she had a better right to you than me. But Ada -Struggles has no right: she's mean and grasping and she's small in every -way there is. She's----" - -"Stop, mother. Don't forget that I am marrying Ada." - -"And nothing that I say will alter you? Sam, she'll go on as she's begun -by sending you to this." She put her hand on the lurid polemics of the -_Sunday Judge_. "She'll drive you down and down. You may make money and -you may be rich, but there'll be a curse on your riches and on all you -do, and Ada Struggles is the name of the curse." - -Sam attempted a small levity. "That will be all right," he said. "She's -going to change her name." Anne shook her head. "A change of name'ull -none change Ada's nature. It's the best part of your life that's before -you, and life with Ada spells ruin. I'm not telling you what I think. -It's what I know, and I ask you, Sam, to heed my words." - -"I'm heeding them," he said, "but I know you're wrong." - -"That's the last you've got to say?" - -"I'm sorry we don't agree, mother." - -"Agreeing's nowt," she said, "and I'm nowt against your happiness. See, -Sam, I'll prove it. There's a thought at the back of your mind that I've -nothing against Ada but a grudge because she's come between you and me. -I say that girl's no good for you, and I say I'll do anything to force -you to see it. There's nowt of myself in this and maybe this will make -you believe it." - -There was a good fire in the room and she put her hand into it. Sam was -alert enough to drag her away before much damage was done, and he had -oil on the hand in a moment. - -"Don't fuss," said Anne, "but tell me what you think." - -"I think," he said, "that you're plumb crazy--with jealousy." - -It was not craziness, but fanatic devotion to an idea: and the idea -was Sam, Sam's happiness, Sam's future. She put her hand into the -fire hoping to convince, and she would have sat on the fire if she had -thought the larger act would carry a fuller conviction. But he did not -need to be convinced that she objected to Ada; the point was that -her objections were unfounded, and, in the face of Ada's sublime and -stunning merits, idiotic. - -One cannot put a hand into the fire without suffering for it, and Anne -was suffering acutely. Her face was drawn with pain and her lips were -trembling uncontrollably, but her voice was firm. - -"I've done my best to save you, Sam. If you've nothing better to say -than that, you and me have come to a parting." - -"Then," said Sam, "we've come," and turned his back on her. He thought -she would come round, that she would get over her attack of frenzied -jealousy. It was idle threat to talk of a parting. Why, she was -dependent on him, and in more ways than one. He housed and kept her, -but, more than that, she needed him. His presence was the breath of life -to her. He knew that, and he let her go! - -Of course, he thought she would come back, with a sharp lesson well -learnt. She had to learn that he was grown-up, of an age to act for -himself and choose and think without her tutelage. Only, she did not -come back. She went to Madge and stayed with Madge; and the terms on -which she stayed were her terms. "I furnish the room," she said, "and I -pay you a rent for it. Also, I pay for what I eat." - -She paid. At the age of fifty-two the mother of Sara Branstone, of -Branstone and Carter, and the mother-in-law of George Chappie, of the -Chappie Window-Cleaning and Bill Posting Company (a smaller affair -than its name, but the source of a regular five pounds a week), was a -charwoman on three days out of the seven, and it was not lack of offers -which limited her to three days, but the fact that she paid her way on -three days' result. She kept other people's houses as clean as she had -kept her own. - -It was suggested to George Chappie that it was hardly decent in him to -allow his mother-in-law to go out charring at her age--a prosperous man -like him. "I know," he was reported to have replied, "and we've tried -all ways we can. But you can't argue with Mrs. Branstone." - -"She's one of the old sort, isn't she?" said his gossip, who, perhaps, -endured a mother-in-law of another kind. - -"All that," said George succinctly. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII--THE INTERMITTENT COURTSHIP - - -|ONLY by long service does one become an artist, but one becomes married -by a simple ceremony. It is the tragedy of marriage, which is the -most difficult of all the arts, that most people come to it without -apprenticeship. Perhaps the popularity of widows as brides is due to the -fact that the widow is a widow: that she has been broken in to marriage: -that she has not everything to learn: that one, at any rate, of the -contracting parties, is expert. There is much to be said for the policy -of the "trial trip." - -Courtship, if intimate enough, may be a fairish substitute, bowdlerized, -as it were, for a "trial trip," but when Sam married Ada he knew -pitiably little about her. - -He thought that she was wonderful. Not only had he to think it, but he -actually did think it. He had to think it because only for a prodigy -among women could he have treated his mother as he did. He had thought -her crazy when she put her hand into the lire, but he knew it was -heroic. If she were crazy, it was for love for him, and at the core, he -loved her too and felt ashamed of himself, but Ada stood between them, -and he was not going to give up Ada. Then he was busy, time wore on, -custom blunted the prick of conscience, and it finally became a habit -either not to think of Anne at all, or to think comfortably of her as -happy enough with Madge. - -And he actually thought Ada wonderful because the conditions of -his courtship fought for her. He was visibly prospering; he liked -prosperity; it was Ada who had initiated his prosperity; and she was -glamorous for that. Again, he was very busy in those days with the first -steps of his new business, too occupied to play the diligent lover, and -saw her very fitfully. So seen, she did not lose the wonder of surprise, -but came upon him freshly with each of their meetings, able to parade -for each some new attraction from her slender stock of charm. She kept -their intercourse egregiously correct, and he thought her mystery was -infinite. She hid her shallowness behind affected modesty, knowing that -an intimate courtship would discover to him that there was nothing to -discover, and attracted by aloofness. It was immensely clever in its -short-winded way: a cleverness that lasted the course of courtship, -but evaporated when the tape--the altar--was reached. It did not seem -necessary to Ada to go on being clever once that ring was on her finger. -She was married, she had achieved: she was clever for the spurt, and -had no cleverness left, for the Marathon Race. And Sam had many -preoccupations in those days which prevented him from thinking too much -about Ada. - -If he was dull about his courtship, his wits were sharp enough for other -matters. He had the satisfaction, almost from the day of its issue, of -seeing the pamphlet sell steadily. Very quickly it ceased to be a case -of getting his money back, and became merely a question of how many -cents per cent he was going to make. His first edition of five thousand -(the _soi-disant_ thousand) was rapidly exhausted, and the presses of -Carter Meadowbank worked overtime to cope with the demand. He cast bread -upon the waters by sending copies to every name in the Clergy List and -every Member of Parliament; and did not cast in vain. Free advertisement -was lavished upon him. Somehow, he had found one of those times when -the social conscience is stirred: he published, without knowing it, -opportunely, and the diabolic cleverness of Gerald Adams' writing -steered him safely past the rocks of the Public Prosecutor. It seemed -only to stimulate demand when he raised the price to a shilling. - -He had no further trouble with the pamphlet. It sold itself, but sitting -still watching the wheels go round did not appeal to Sam, who had a -thousand pounds to multiply. He hadn't quite the hardihood to -believe that he could multiply his thou sand as rapidly as he had the -twenty-five which he paid Adams, but he felt that he was launched as a -publisher and had nothing to publish. - -His thoughts were diverted from that solecism one day when he went into -Carter's printing-office to speed up the foreman. The foreman admitted -that the pace could be improved. "But I dunno, sir, that the boss wants -it improved. There's nothing in to follow this job of yours. You might -say you've been the saving of Mr. Carter." - -Sam was thoughtful for a minute. He had not looked upon himself as the -saviour of Mr. Carter and did not appreciate that character when it was -thrust upon him. He went into Carter's office. - -"This little tract of mine," he said ("tract" seemed the light -description in that text-hung room), "is selling remarkably well, and -the demand increases. Now, I've nothing to say about the past.-I came in -here a total stranger and you quoted me accordingly. But it's only fair -to warn you that I have gone into prices with other printers and I may -find it necessary to make a change." - -Carter made no effort to hide his dismay. "I hope you won't do that, Mr. -Branstone. At least, give me a chance of revising my price." - -"Once bitten," said Sam, "is twice shy, and you don't deny that you -bit." - -"But surely business," argued Carter, "is business." - -"It is," said Sam grimly, "and if you'll answer me a few questions on -the understanding that this is a business interview and I'm not being -impertinently inquisitive, I shall be obliged." - -"I'll do my best," said Carter. - -"Thank you. How old are your printing-presses?" - -"Twenty years." - -"Consequently they are almost hopelessly out of date?" - -Carter had a tenderness for those presses. They had been young when he -was young, were bought when the world smiled on him and his business -had its hedyay. They had kept him and he could not be disloyal now. "I -believe that they have printed your tract efficiently, Mr. Branstone," -he defended them. - -"Oh, there's life in the old dogs yet," said Sam. "I'm not proposing to -make scrap-iron of them." - -"As they belong to me," said Carter tartly, "it would not make such -difference if you did propose it." - -"Therefore," said Sam, "I don't propose it--yet. Please remember that -I'm talking business. Do you care to tell me what that text cost to -produce and what you get for it?" - -Carter did not care, but, though he wondered at himself, he told. "And -that?" Sam asked, pointing to another; and again Carter told. - -"Then," said Sam, "there are two religious papers which you print for -the proprietors. What----?" - -"Young man," interrupted Carter, "are you proposing to buy my business?" - -"No," said Sam coolly, "only to become your partner in it. What profit -were you going to tell me you made on the papers?" - -Carter told: he was too stupefied to do anything else. "Um," said Sam. -"It isn't much." - -"They are a good work," said Carter, and Sam looked at him sharply, but -the old man was perfectly sincere. It was good work to print religious -magazines and he did it for next to nothing. - -"Well," said Sam, "thank you. Now I won't mince matters: When I came -along with my--tract, I enabled you to postpone filing your petition, -but it was only a postponement, and if you'll look facts in the face the -one big fact for you is bankruptcy." - -"The Lord will provide." Carter had lived from hand to mouth for many -months in that belief. - -"If you like to look at it that way. He has provided: He has provided -me. I will make you a good offer, Mr. Carter. I will introduce five -him dred pounds capital into the business for a halfshare in the plant, -goodwill and future profits of this concern. That is, the printing -business. What I, as publisher, do has nothing to do with you." - -"... I must think it over," said Carter; but they both knew that he had -already decided to accept. - -"The Lord," Carter was thinking, "_has_ provided." Sam, on the -contrary, was thinking, "I may or may not be a fool to go into this -without getting an accountant's report on the books, but I believe in -rapid action, and if I'd offered too high a price I'm certain that he's -imbecile enough to have told me." - -It remained to find something to print, and he wanted Stewart's advice, -but, with the idea of being first on the side of the angels, went to see -Peter Struggles. The battle which had raged round the pamphlet had left -Peter untouched, even though more than one of the clergy who received -it from Sam had thought it their duty to write to Peter's bishop. The -bishop failed to see a case for disciplinary measures: Peter might have -been sinned against but he had not sinned. And the _Sunday Judge_ was -read by neither Peter nor his bishop. (The Church is notoriously out -of touch with modern life, but, after all, it is hardly reasonable -to expect the Church to compliment its rival, the _Sunday Press_, by -reading it.) - -Nevertheless, Peter had, on reflection, felt some wavering doubts about -the pamphlet. His intermittent shrewdness threw a flickering light -through the haze of his charity and gave him moments of discomfort. - -Sam's attitude during this call was admirably calculated to resolve -his doubt. He wanted, with an eye to the future, to make sure of Peter, -whose name he might require another day, and was ready, even if it were -not immediately profitable, to placate Peter now. He explained that he -had joined forces with Mr. Carter, and at once acquired merit in Peter's -eyes. Carter was irreproachable. He did not explain by what means he had -been able to join Carter and it did not occur to Peter to ask. Sam was -not going to tell Peter, who would tell Ada, of his legacy. If she found -out, as Anne had found out, he could not help it, but, meantime, it -was his secret. Ada, like Anne, belonged to the sex which had no -understanding of business. - -"And the point," said Sam, "with a business like Mr. Carter's, is to use -it for good. I take it that the texts do good, but perhaps they are -only for the simple-minded. I hope I don't despise people for their -simplicity, but my own taste runs rather to books and I think you will -agree with me." - -Peter agreed, with a quotation which rather dashed Sam; he had an idea -that poetry did not sell. - -"'Poets are the trumpets which sing to battle. Poets are the -unacknowledged legislators of the world.'" - -"Yes," said Sam. "Quite so. But isn't poetry going to the opposite -extreme? I had the thought of something more direct. Good prose with a -good moral." - -"Excellent," said Peter, off again. - - "'Were not God's laws, - - His gospel laws, In olden time held forth - - By types, shadows and metaphors?'" - -"Of course they were," said Sam, wondering when Peter would close his -mental dictionary of quotations and come down to business, "and that -quotation is very apt because I was thinking of classics. English -classics, you know," he explained hurriedly, "and classics because they -are not copyright." - -"And have stood the test of time," said Peter. - -"Yes. Do you think you could propose a list? I should like to know that -the first books I publish had been selected by you. I don't think they -ought to be exactly theological, but they must be good in every sense of -the word." - -"Why not begin with the book from whose in traduction I just quoted?" - -"Why not indeed?" said Sam, who hadn't the faintest idea of the source -of the quotation. - -"Very well," said Peter. "Suppose you put that down for one." - -Same made vague scratches on paper. He had a bookish reputation to -sustain and he was not going to betray ignorance prematurely. "Then," -said Feter, "there is Law's 'Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life.'" - -"I'm letting myself in for something," thought Sam, but he wrote it -down. - -"'The Imitation of Christ,' and 'The Little Flowers of St. Francis,'" -Peter went on. - -"I think those should be enough to begin with," said Sam hurriedly. - -"Four, isn't it?" said Peter, recapitulating. - -"The 'Pilgrim's Progress '"----("Thank God," thought Sam, "I needn't -give myself away.") - -"Yes, four," he interrupted, reading the now completed list. "And I am -very much obliged to you." - -He wasn't, though, quite sure about it. He had "nobbled" Peter, but he -feared those books would be a millstone round his neck. There might be a -steady sale for the "Pilgrim's Progress" as a prize, but the -others----! Still, he need not print many copies of them, and--consoling -thought--they would be good window-dressing tor his list. He hoped it -would include other, very different, books. - -"I'm sorry Ada is out," Peter was saying, and Sam was rather startled to -realize that he had not missed her. But he was sure of his position -with her: it was his position for her which he had to consolidate. He -proceeded to consolidate it by going in search of Stewart, and found him -where he expected to find him, in a bar. - -"I want your advice," said Sam. - -"Whisky for the gentleman, Flora," said Stewart. "That's my advice and -you'll get no other till you've taken this." - -Sam took it. Business is business and, beyond that, his thrifty -prejudices were less necessary now. - -"You're not unteachable," said Stewart. "It's a point in your favour. -The proper thing when you've drunk that is to ask me if I will have -another. My reply will be in the affirmative and we shall then retire, -with sustaining refreshment, into that corner, where I will advise you -for as long as you can continue to buy whisky for me and drink level. I -hate a shirker." - -Sam told him of his partnership with Carter. "I'm always troubled about -you," said Stewart. "I can never make up my mind whether you're too -clever to live or whether you were born with luck instead of brain. -Obviously, you will publish novels." - -"There are so many kinds," said Sam. - -"No. Only two. Mine and the rest. But I suffer from honesty. Therefore I -tell you that my novel has been refused by every publisher in London. It -is waiting," he said hopefully, "for a man with courage. The difference -between it and the Yellow Book is that my book _is_ yellow." - -"I see," said Sam. "But I have gone into the publishing trade to make my -living." - -"On the whole," decided Stewart, "you are more knave than fool. And you -would call it the publishing trade. It's a benighted world, but there -are still some publishers who aren't in trade--beyond the midriff. Do -you seriously come to me to ask what sort of novels to publish?" - -"Yes." - -"The sort," he said, "that is written for nursemaids by people who ought -to be nursemaids." - -"That's jealousy," said Sam. "They get published and you don't." - -"Perhaps you're right," said Stewart. "But I've always heard that seeing -is believing. Do you ever go to the theatre?" - -"Not often." - -"It's a pity, because if you did, I've a tragedy in blank verse that -you might care to publish. It is great art and will never be produced. -Still, I'm a philanthropist to-night and you will come to the theatre -with me. I happen to be going for the _Warden._" - -"Are you a dramatic critic for the _Warden?_" asked Sam, rather awed. - -"I'm a reporter, old son. This isn't the kind of play they waste a -critic on. Drink up, and we'll go." - -Sam found, to his relief, that he was able to go and decided he had a -strong head. The theatre was crowded when they reached it and Stewart -was young enough to sit self-consciously in one of the two seats kept -for the _Manchester Warden_. Dramatic criticism was taken seriously on -that journal; at least two of the paper's regular critics were men of -genius, and Stewart hoped that he might be mistaken for one of them. But -the audience that night was not the kind which interests itself in the -lions of the higher journalism; rather it justified the contemptuous -reference to drama as the "art of the mob." It would have made a sincere -democrat weep for his convictions. "Behold them," said Stewart. "The -Public." - -Sam beheld them more than he beheld the play. He reminded himself that -he was there on business, to be shown something which Stewart wanted him -to see, and if he had not the gift of detachment, he assumed it. - -When Adams had read his paper to the Concentrics, Sam had listened but -kept his eyes on the audience. In a darkened theatre, the audience was -more difficult to watch, but he could feel its quick response to -the play, could hear its ready laughter and its quite eager ears. -Emphatically, here was a play which seized its audience, gripped them, -tickled them, beslavered them, throttled them, did with them what it -liked and when it liked; all to their immense and vociferous delight. He -tried to keep his aloofness, to see how it was done, to tear the heart -out of this mystery. Here was something which the public wanted; he had -only to diagnose it, and the Open Sesame to fortune was his. - -He couldn't do it. Detachment slipped from him, never to return till the -curtain fell. He wasn't a superman, immune from other men's emotions. -The play took hold of him and swayed him with the rest. He tried -resistance, vainly; told himself that he was here, not, as these others -were, for pleasure, but to learn, to learn; and the play gripped him the -harder for his attempt to take it coldly. - -At the end, Sam was applauding wildly while Stewart watched him with -cynical amusement. "Caught you all right," he said, "and by way of a -confession I'll own that the damned thing nearly got me once. Rum place, -the theatre, isn't it? But," he grew more serious, "I've to write about -that, write without being libellous about that maudlin, sentimental, -erotic, religious trash. It's enough to make a man give up journalism -and take to something honest, like coal-heaving. But I'm forgetting. I -brought you here to teach you something. Have you learnt it? That's a -play, but the same thing applies to a novel. You find novels with 'The -Sign of the Cross' in them, my boy. Queasy sentimentality to sicken a -bee, and, for the rest, don't forget that Jesus died for you to make -money out of novels. This play makes me blasphemous, but I'm doing the -devil's advocate to you to-night, so it's all in the picture. When -I've finished my notice I think I'll try a 'short' on 'The Tradesman -Publisher' or 'The Dignity of Letters.' It will be good for my -conscience." - -"I wish you would," said Sam. "I'll reply to it, with a list of the -classics I am going to publish." - -"Sometimes," said Stewart, "you rather sicken me. I am speaking of the -_Manchester Warden_, not the _Sunday Judge_. Good-night." - -But the vacillations of a journalist with a foot in two camps and an -idealistic standard which he hardly pretended to take seriously himself -left Sam unimpressed. The play and Stewart's description of its essence -had given him furiously to think. He imagined that he knew the sort of -novel he wanted and he was not troubled by Stewart's disease of dual -standards. Sam had one standard, the success standard; and anything else -was muddle-headedness. At the same time he felt most grateful to Stewart -who had advertised the pamphlet and now presented him with a policy. - -It was a policy, but not one for immediate application. _Festina lente_ -was his watchword for the moment, and he devoted himself to putting -new life into the sales of texts and to the issue of the "Branstone -+ Classics." They were, one might note in passing, the Branstone + -Classics: his name loomed large and the names of their authors, the -insignificants like à Kempis and Bunyan, were properly small; and he -put the sign of the cross between the Branstone and the Classics. He -intended it to be his trade-mark, and if it were his trade-mark, why not -use it? It infringed nobody's copyright. - -Amongst it all, he had little enough time for Ada, and she knew how much -she gained by being a luxury instead of a habit. But Sam was not engaged -for the sake of being engaged, and as soon as he knew he had made no -mistake in his business venture was eager to be married. There were no -objections from Ada. This intermittent courtship, in which his duties -as a lover took second place to his activities as a business man, suited -Ada well, but marriage, finality, the bond suited her better. - -Even to the end of that engagement it was things for Ada which -preoccupied him, rather than Ada herself, and he took the matter of -furnishing seriously--from a business point of view, interested less in -the furniture he bought than in the discounts he might, by this means or -that, secure. He suffered the usual surprise at the cost of mattresses -and kitchen equipment, but, to Ada, he appeared royally lavish. Ada did -not know of his legacy: she knew that Anne had told her on the top of -a fantastic tram-car that Sam had earned two pounds ten a week with -Travers, and the scale of this furnishing did not square with what a man -could save out of two pounds ten a week. It followed in Ada's mind that -Anne had lied to her, malignantly misrepresenting Sam's position to -frighten her; and the breach between Anne and Ada, which never had much -chance of closing, was permanently open. - -One does not have old connections with an estate agency without being -able to rent a good house cheaply. She was going to be mistress of a -house which fell little short of the dreams of her boarding-school days. -It was certainly "stylish"; she was not sure that it was not positively -"smart." - -Madge wept on the night before her wedding. Ada did not weep. She -was too busy hugging herself because she had surmounted the perils of -courtship. She had accomplished her aim in life. She was going to be -married. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV--HONEYMOONERS - - -|ADA was married in white satin, though Peter sold books to do it and -her trousseau lacked essentials. It depends, though, on one's point of -view. Ada thought white satin essential, while another might have put -underclothing first. But it is fitting to wear a crown at a coronation -and, when the object of one's life has been to get married, to celebrate -in satin the attaining of one's aim. - -It also reminded the congregation that the bride is the central figure -at a wedding. People might otherwise have remembered that they did not -come because Ada was Ada, but because she was Peter's daughter. - -She entered with _réclame_ into the state of being Mrs. Samuel -Branstone, resenting a little the tweeds of Stewart, Sam's best man, -but liking his manners and liking, too, the way in which Sam took it -for granted that the day was hers, not his. He did not even obtrude a -family. - -George was, in fact, obscurely there, hidden among the congregation. He -was there in the spirit of schoolboy, playing truant from Anne, who -was at home with Madge. Ada thought that the conspicuous absence of -Branstones added lustre to her satin. None but the necessary Sam was -there. - -They went to London, where neither of them had been before, and since it -is a bitter thing to have to look back to a boring honeymoon, the choice -of place had great discretion. There was so much besides themselves to -see in London that they postponed looking at each other till they -came home. They saw sights and went to theatres, but though they slept -together and rose together and saw the sights (all but one) together -there was no realization of "togetherness," no birth of a new life -in which they were not Sam and Ada, but these two in one. They were -furiously modest about things which no honeymooner has any right to be -modest about. If they are modest about them, they have no right to be -honeymooners. It may have been in their case something both worse -and better than modesty. It may have been downright shame. Perhaps -subconsciously they knew that this was not a marriage, not the coming -together of two fit mates. It had no passion in it. There was self when -they should have been ecstatically selfless. They were two when they -should have been most one. - -But Sam, if he fell immensely short of ecstasy, was still too much under -her spell to be critical. He wondered a little at the frank delight in -being married which she displayed in public, at her flaunting of her -new wedding ring, at her advertisement that this was a honeymoon, and -contrasted this outward relish with her intimate frigidity; but even -this seemed a disloyalty, and he told himself that Ada in a hotel was -one person and at home would be another. Ada would "settle down," and -meantime they were in London, and London was waiting to be explored with -her. - -They explored chiefly the London which Londoners do not know, the London -of the guide-books, and felt tremendously metropolitan because they went -to the Tower, the British Museum and the National Gallery. The shops -seared Ada. Their windows fascinated but their doors repelled. Probably -Sam would have held her back by main force had she attempted to go in, -but, as it was, she had the same satisfaction in identifying them that -social snobs find in recognizing, at a distance, famous people. These -were the authentic shops which advertised in the papers and they had a -game called "hunting the Harrod" or "looking for Barkers," which led -to a lot of fun with 'buses after they had quartered Oxford Street and -Regent Street. It was all very gay, and gayer, almost naughtily gay, to -go one night to a place called the Coliseum--a music-hall; a thing to -do audaciously, not to be spoken of at home; and yet the place was -very full of really most respectable people. They marvelled at the -emancipation of the Londoner. - -On his honeymoon, Sam became possessed of an ambition. It was not an -extraordinarily fine ambition, but he came to care about, it greatly and -it repaid his care a thousandfold. The way to sanity is to desire -very keenly something which it is just possible one may get, and Sam's -ambition kept him sane in the days when he knew that Ada had failed him. - -Struggles had suggested to our debater of the Concentrics that he ought -to see the House of Commons at debate, and had written to their local -Member for a pass to the Gallery. The result was the most thrilling -experience of Sam's honeymoon! It was, for one thing, unique that Ada -could not be with him: these were the first hours since he married her -that they spent apart and perhaps that, all unconsciously, had gilded -them for Sam. They had almost a tiff before she let him go: not quite, -but she resented his desertion of her and considered it his fault that -she was not allowed to sit with him to hear the legislators who made -laws for her as for him. Not that Ada cared who made her laws, nor cared -to watch the makers at their work, but she managed to put enough snap -into her resentment at his going to lend the added quality of a stolen -pleasure to his experience. - -That gallery, with its foreshortened view of the dingy cock-pit, is not -the first choice of the connoisseur in thrills, but on Sam its effect -was amazing. He must have had some gift, quite undisclosed till now, of -veneration, for it is almost beyond belief that the reality of the House -of Commons can impress. But the idea can and perhaps (to be just) the -reality is more impressive than that of any other Chamber on earth. -Imagination helping him, it caught and held his mind. - -A small stout man of undistinguished appearance was speaking in a -conversational tone not easy to hear from the Gallery, but presently the -orator warmed to his subject and poured out living words in a spate of -real emotion. He was one of those rare men, and this one of those rare -speeches, that really convert an opponent: and Sam's ambition to speak -as this politician spoke, and from those benches, came instantly to -birth. - -Not only did he want to be a Member of Parliament, but a Liberal Member, -because this man of words was Liberal. Up to this time, Sam had not been -a political animal although he had voted, and voted Tory because that -was in general the line of Mr. Travers and the property-owning class he -represented. Now with a swift enthusiasm he was Liberal, knowing nothing -of either side, but caught by sudden hero-worship for a little, pudgy, -snubnosed politician who spoke in sentences of prodigious length and -never lost his way in them. - -In a twinkling he acquired the bias of the politician: his hero's -opponent was palpably a fool; he had no gifts, no argument. Yes, Sam was -doubly right to be a Liberal. They had so obviously all the brains, they -were so undeniably the winning side. He did not understand the technique -of a division and was surprised when he looked at the paper next day -to find that the Liberals were outvoted. It gave him pause, but did -not shake him. When the Liberals came back to power, as with their -superiority in brain they were certain to do, he, Sam Branstone, would -come with them. Let it be only a year or two and he would be ready. He -too would loll upon those padded benches, and catch the Speaker's eye, -and be an orator. - -He walked along the Embankment towards his hotel, and it came into his -mind that he had spent four hours in the Gallery and had not thought of -Ada. Nor could he, though he tried, think of her now. - -Sky-signs still flashed across the river, and as he paused and leaned -against the parapet a young policeman kept a wary eye on him. But Sam -was meditating life, not death. The lights of London gleamed upon the -Thames and made it magical for him. He conquered London in his reverie, -and stepped, a member, from the House to his automobile. His home, he -supposed, was somewhere in Park Lane. - -He thought back now to the theatre where he had seen _The Sign of the -Cross_. It was different from the London Theatres he had seen where -audiences seemed afraid of emotion. Or was it that the plays had not -been right? That was it: they had not the note: they weren't--what was -Stewart's phrase?--erotic religious plays. He wanted to move audiences -as that play had moved its audience. Power! The power of the spoken -word. That was the thing, and since he could not write a play he must -rely upon himself, his oratory, his single voice. He saw himself on -platforms facing crowded halls, gripping his hearers, leading them where -he would, taming the mob till it made an idol of its master. As to where -he would lead, why, he would lead and that was what mattered. Branstone -was Prime Minister that night. - -It was one o'clock before the young policeman felt at liberty to resume -his beat, and Sam left the enchanted river for his little hotel in -Norfolk Street. Ada had her back to him and apparently she slept. -Actually she was wide awake; she was wondering whether it had happened -to any other woman to be treated so abominably on her honeymoon. - -She brushed her hair nest morning with a notable viciousness. Hair has -uses beyond those of mere adornment. It is an admirable veil through -which one can watch without being seen to watch. Ada was watching Sam -and she was also listening to him. - -She listened not because his enthusiasm for the House of Commons -interested her, but because she was waiting for some word of apology. -It did not come. He was full of regret, but only because this was their -last day in town and he could not go to the House again. - -"What time is our train?" she asked. - -He told her. - -"Then I have time to do some shopping first." - -"Shopping?" he asked, but unsuspiciously. - -She nodded. Sam was going to pay for his pleasures. Those blouses she -had seen at Peter Robinson's no longer seemed impossibly expensive. If -Sam chose to enjoy himself in his own way, without her, she would enjoy -herself in hers--with Sam to pay the piper. - -Shopping is a loose term; one shops when one buys a kipper or a diamond -tiara. Ada was putting her hair up and he imagined her to mean that she -wanted a packet of hair-pins. "Oh, yes," he said pensively. "And while -you go, I think I will just slip down to the House of Parliament again." -The House would not be sitting and he could not get in. He knew that, -but he wanted to gaze, to look at the frame which was some day to -contain him. He wanted to be certain that it was still there. - -"I think," she said, "that you will come with me to the shop. I shall -want you there to pay." - -Sam paused in the act of fastening his collar. "To pay?" he asked, not -unsuspiciously now. - -"Are your selfish pleasures all you think about?" Ada wanted to know. -"Isn't it a privilege to be allowed to buy me nice clothes?" - -He had not looked upon it in that light. In budgeting for their future -he had indeed assumed that a trousseau lasted a bride for her first -year. "I see," he said gloomily; then remembering that he was in love -with her, "of course," he added with a smile which might count to him -for heroism. "But we must not forget the fares, and after I have paid -the bill here I shall not have more than two pounds left to spend." - -"Then I spend two pounds on blouses," she said. - -He made a monosyllabic noise which might have been "Yes." It might also -have been "Damn." - -The truth was that he had deliberately kept those two pounds back, -intending to spend some, but not, he hoped, all of it, on a present for -Ada. He had thought of a hand-bag, had imagined her gasp of delight -when he audaciously entered with her one of those forbiddingly inviting -shops, her appreciation of his generosity. - -Last night had driven the thought entirely from his mind, and he was -annoyed now not only at his forgetfulness, but at Ada. She did not ask, -she demanded. A night in the Gallery may be regarded as dissipation, but -at least it is not a crime. It is even patriotic, and he was asked to -foot a bill for two pounds as the price of his patriotism. Ambition, he -thought, would be an expensive luxury if he had to pay in clothes for -Ada every time he went to a political meeting. For that, plainly, was -her attitude: she demanded a _quid pro quo_: she announced a policy of -retaliation. - -There is a queer perverted pleasure in scratching an open wound, in -cutting off one's nose to spite one's face. He had meant to be generous -and he wanted still to be generous, but the money he had laid aside for -generosity was now hypothecated to meet her claim. He would give her her -pound of flesh, but wanted very badly to roast it for her with coals of -fire. - -Gloom lifted from him suddenly. He took off the old tie which he had put -on as being good enough to travel in, and fastened very carefully one -which he had bought "for London." - -"I'll do it," he was thinking. "It is--almost--a stroke." - -At breakfast he was positively gay, so that Ada wondered furtively what -he was up to, and whether the way to raise his spirits would always be -to demand new clothes of him. It did not seem likely, but she proposed -at any rate to experiment freely in that direction. - -He divided his attention between her, breakfast, and the Parliamentary -report of the _Times_. He felt that he had virtually participated in -that debate, and even the shock of reading that the division had gone -against his hero did not spoil the pleasure he found in reading of it. -He read with a prophetic eye. He, too, would be reported in the _Times_ -some day. - -He called the waiter. "Marmalade, sir?" asked the man. - -"No, thanks. Bring me the directory." - -"The directory," protested the waiter, "is in the reading-room." - -"And I," said Sam superbly, "am in the coffee-room." - -The waiter brought him the directory. - -Sam smiled broadly. He was testing his form, and decided that if it -were equal to coercing a waiter into carrying a directory to his -breakfast-table, it would probably not fail him in what he proposed -to do. He consulted the book and noted an address which was not, he -observed, in Park Lane. His respect for Sir William Gatenby suffered a -slight decline. - -Half an hour later he rang the hell of that gentleman's house. Gatenby -was the local member, to whom Peter Struggles had written for Sam's pass -to the Gallery. - -"Sir William in?" he asked. - -"Yes, but----" A trained eye observed his clothes. They were not cut in -Savile Row. - -"He will see me," said Sam serenely. Some people are at their best in -the early morning. - -His card was accepted from him, and he was shown into a library of -severe Blue Books, possibly qualified by a reproduction of Millais' -portrait of Gladstone. Ordinarily, Sam would have been met in the -library by a secretary who earned his salary by his talent for -administering polite snubs to unwanted callers. The secretary was not -earning his salary to-day, but, probably, spending it. It was Derby Day. - -After all, a vote is a vote, and Sir William came in with a show of -geniality. "Good morning, Mr. Branstone," he said, reading Sam's card. -"From the old town. I see." - -"Is that all you remember about me?" asked Sam. - -"At the moment," confessed Sir William warily. His majority was not -large. - -"Well," said Sam, "the Reverend Mr. Struggles is my father-in-law." - -"Sit down," said Sir William. "I am very glad you called. How is Mr. -Struggles?" - -"T left him well, thank you. Perhaps you remember that he wrote to you -to ask you for a pass to the Gallery for me." - -"I was happy to be lucky in the ballot," said the Member. - -"Yes," said Sam, "I went last night. But I mentioned that to establish -my identity. My object in calling upon you is to ask you to lend me five -pounds." - -Sir William thought of his secretary, who should have saved him this. -Thinking of his secretary, he thought of Derby Day and the probable -intentions of a man who chooses that day to ask for a loan. "My dear -sir!" he said. - -"Quite," agreed Sam. "Life would be unbearable to you if every -constituent who came to London tried to borrow money off you. But I -am Branstone. I run the Branstone Press and the Branstone Classics. I -published the 'Social Evil' pamphlet and sent you a copy which, I regret -to say, you did not acknowledge." Sir William thought again of his -secretary, and unkindly. "This," said Sam, "is merely to indicate that I -am a man of substance." - -Sir William Gatenby wore side-whiskers. He was an old man and there was -little left of him besides pomposity and a determination to hold his -seat. He looked, what at this moment he felt, some one in a farce. He -was quite sure that Sam was some one in a farce. They were both in -a farce, and of course five-pound notes fly in farces like gnats in -August. It did not seem to him that there was anything to do but to -produce a five-pound note. - -"Thank you," said Sam, and sat at a desk. "I will give you my cheque for -this." - -It staggered Sir William. He nearly warned Sam of the danger of issuing -a cheque which was not likely to be honoured, but refrained in time. -"Then," he said, "there was really no need for you to come to me at -all?" - -"Only," said Sam, "that I wanted you to remember me." - -"I think I shall do that," said Sir William. - -"Thank you," said Sam calmly. "I wanted to know you because I intend to -go into politics." - -"The Cause," said Sir William solemnly, "demands his best from every -earnest worker." - -"I will work for the Cause," said Sam. Neither of them attempted to -define the Cause, and Sam left without further remark, but his call had -this result: that on finding the cheque honoured Sir William wrote -to his agent to tell him of "a queer fish called Samuel Branstone who -called on me the other day, and offered to work for the Cause. A young -man whom I think you should encourage. He is the son-in-law of -Mr. Struggles, and the Church, alas, is so tepid towards our great -Principles that we must not neglect a promising recruit from that fold." - - - - -CHAPTER XV--OTHER THINGS BESIDE MARRIAGE - -|DEBT appeals to some people. They feel that when they are in debt they -have had more out of life than life owes to them. Sam had given Gatenby -his cheque and was therefore not in debt to him, but he proceeded to -spend the five pounds as recklessly as if it had been borrowed money. - -He meant to astonish Ada, and succeeded, but the surprise he sprang did -not work quite as he anticipated. For a moment, indeed, as he bought -her hats and blouses she glowed with unaffected gratitude, and he tasted -with her the joy of headstrong acquisition. But Ada's glow was quick to -pass. - -She had time in the train to forget the splendour of his presents and -the dash that she would cut next Sunday, and to remember that he had -spent a lot of money; he who denied that he had more than two pounds to -spend had spent seven. Obviously, he had lied to her. - -It was true, she thought, that he had repented of his lie and of his -meanness, and bought handsomely: the more handsome the purchase, the -more demonstrable the lie. - -She recalled her dreadful interview with Anne, Anne's statements of his -means, and how little they conformed to the scale of Sam's furnishing. -She pondered Sam's open-handedness in the blouse-shop, and concluded that -the Branstones were congenital liars about money. - -In the future she would know how to act. Sam had plenty. - -"So you had money up your sleeve all the time," she said. - -Sam winked facetiously. "There are a lot of funny things up my sleeve," -he said. - -"I'm learning that," said Ada. Which he took for a compliment; and -grinned. - -He had long since made up his mind that the way with women was to -mystify them, to treat them like children at a conjuring entertainment, -to surprise them with results, but never to explain. He nearly choked -with pride over his exploit with Sir William Gatenby. But for the -hat-box and the blouses up there on the rack, what he had done was too -good to be true, and certainly it was too good to be told to a woman. -They did not understand business; no woman could appreciate the daring -spirit of his feat. - -If he told Ada that he had borrowed from Gatenby, she would simply say -"Oh, yes," and treat his unexampled audacity as a matter of course. It -was inspiration, brilliantly conceived and brilliantly executed, and its -bright memory was not to be tarnished by a woman's dull acceptance of it -as something not in the least extraordinary. - -He grinned and did not tell, and what did not occur to him was that if -he offered no explanation she would supply one of her own. It is -idiotic to tell a wife everything, but wise to tell nearly everything; -especially when it is open to her to draw a false conclusion. - -Sam did not think a false conclusion open to her, because he still -believed the best of Ada, because he was still in love. But falling out -of love is desperately easy. - -"As a walled town," says Touchstone, "is worthier than a village, so is -the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a -bachelor," and Sam was married. He could lay that flattering unction -to his soul, could hold his head higher, because he was a ratepayer and -bore responsibilities, and went home at night to a house with a garden. -He did all that, and it was empty honour because success in marriage, as -in all else, is not to be had ready-made, but depends upon the will to -make adjustments. - -The will can come best from passion, and there was no passion here to -tide them over the awkward age of marriage, the first difficult year -when the adjustments must, if ever, be made. Granted passion, a man can -love a woman whom he knows to be a murderess; let passion lack, and -he can fall out of love because the woman snores or is untidy. Sam's -marriage was not made in heaven, but by Ada in Heaton Park, and with -a marriage so made it is as easy to fall out of love as off a house. -Little things count more than big when there is no passion to create its -life-long mirage. - -If you cannot have the mirage of passion there is a useful substitute -called common sense, another name for compromise, and Ada refused to -compromise. She was for self, unmitigated and supreme. Ada left the -adjustments to Sam, and relaxed in nothing from her perfect selfishness. - -The little thing which counted heavily against her, almost at once, was -simply that Ada was untidy. She did not invent places for things, or, if -she did, they were never used. She left her clothes downstairs after she -had been out, and the piano is not the place for a hat or the sofa -for an umbrella. It annoyed Sam to distraction to find her clothes -distributed about their bedroom, slung carelessly over chair backs, -pitched on the floor. - -Men are not the untidy sex: the virtue of tidiness, like most others, is -evenly distributed. Sam was tidy by nature, and habit is stronger still. -Ada's misfortune was that he was used to Anne, that Anne was neat and -Ada a slut. Sam did not know until he missed it how much he appreciated -Anne's tidiness, how much he needed it and how much he hated untidiness -until he lived with it in Ada. In London, in the hotel, he had excused -what he saw of it, because it was in an hotel; which was also why there -had been little to see, by reason of a good chambermaid. - -At home, it hurt him and he could do nothing. Ada did nothing, either. -She had not married for love, and one does not change a habit without -strong motive. His hints appeared to Ada peevish and unreasonable. -She thought he made mountains out of molehills and despised him for -small-mindedness; he thought a woman who could not put a petticoat into -a drawer when he asked her was wilfully provoking him. - -She was not wilful of set purpose. She simply refused to disturb her -habits, to accommodate herself to him, to make a sacrifice to love. She -had no love to which to sacrifice. - -And presently he found out that he, too, did not love. But that was -all. Then and afterwards that was, damnably, all. He did not love, but -neither did he hate. He had never loved her deeply enough to hate her. -That was the tragedy of Sam's marriage: indifference, the deadliest sin. - -He was indifferent to her, to her untidiness and even to her -extravagance. She could not treat clothes reasonably, she did not know -how to wear them when she had them, but she lusted madly to possess -them. She was grossly, inexcusably extravagant, and he was indifferent. -He was indifferent because he was growing rich, and wanted his energies -for the purpose of growing richer, not of quarrelling with her. - -That was another tragedy. They never quarrelled. They never cleared the -air, they never flushed the drain. They did not make adjustments, but -left things where they were, in a bad place. On honeymoon, they turned -from looking at each other to look at London, and at home, after one -experience of revelation, they did not seek another, but rebounded and -looked anywhere but at themselves. - -But Peter was looking, and Anne, through the eyes of George, was -looking, and it seemed to her that things were happening as she had -expected they would happen. She had said the girl was no good and what -George told her in his fumbling way gave her to see that the girl turned -wife was equally no good. Anne tightened her lips grimly and went on -with her efficient charring. She thought her time would come. - -Peter looked for the coming of love to bless this marriage to which he -had consented in the belief that his God of love would sanctify. He -had trusted to the strength of Sam, and to the hope that Sam's strength -would turn to sweetness; and it only turned to business. It did not -lead Ada from materialism, but drew Peter himself, unwittingly at -first, towards it. Peter found himself selecting texts for Sam's "Church -Child's Calendar," a labour of love, which nevertheless had nothing to -do with Ada, except in the most indirect way, and nothing to do with the -Sam and Ada situation. - -It was the fact that, to them, there seemed to be no situation which -distressed Peter. They simply let things be, and things let be obey -the law of gravity. He hoped, ardently, for children. Children blessed -marriage in the physical sense, and from that blessing the other, the -spiritual blessing, might arise. - -There was at one time hope that Ada might have a child... and then the -hope was blighted, and the doctor told them not to hope again. Ada would -never be a mother. - -"I could have told them that," said Anne. "You'd only to look at the -girl to see it." Which may only have been wisdom after the event, but -certainly did not imply that Anne was disappointed; though Peter was, -and bitterly. - -Sam, too, had wanted a son, but not, as Peter thought, by Ada and -for Ada. He wanted an heir for dynastic reasons. He was the Branstone -Publishing Company, its parent and original, and wanted flesh of his -flesh to publish after him. He dreamed of a young Sam in the cap of the -Grammar School, who should go to the University to which he had not gone -and have the chances he had missed. He built many castles in Spain for -the son who was never born. - -Ada got up from bed and flashed greedily into new clothes. If the -measure of her buying was the measure of her grief, she had been deeply -touched. Perhaps she was touched, for she had aimed at marriage, which -is incomplete without a child. But in the shops, the fashion papers, -her clothes and the clothes of other women she found distraction and -an occupation. She passed a milestone and went on her way. Ada was no -stoic, no hider of her grief, and since she did not complain she must -have thought her childlessness was nothing to complain about. When she -set her heart on marriage, she hadn't, perhaps, looked further than the -ring, the ceremony and the honourable state of being Mrs. Branstone. - -She plunged to shops and spending money, Sam to business and making it; -and some, at any rate, of the now thwarted love he had been storing for -his son passed to the business. Somewhere at the back of his mind he -knew his business was not lovable; that it was pitch; that one cannot -touch pitch without being defiled. But neither can one deal successfully -in pitch without arriving at faith in the virtues of pitch. At intimate -moments he was aware that the "Social Evil" pamphlet was pernicious, -but Sam Branstone, inducing a bookseller to stock it, was more than an -advocate who believes temporarily in his brief: he was a missionary with -faith in his mission. So, too, with the texts. He sold them with the -conviction that it was good for people to have texts on their walls. He -counterfeited sincerity until he came to be sincere, or, at all events, -to forget that he was insincere. - -Further and further into the unsearched recesses of his mind he pressed -the thought that he sold texts because their sales were good for -him, and with his working, everyday, non-introspective mind he had a -sincerity about his wares, convenient but none the less authentic,-which -was invaluable both to his self-respect and as a first aid to success -in salesmanship. He never, in the old days, praised a house with the -ringing voice of absolute conviction which he used about Law's "Serious -Call." He had not read Law, but the sales hung fire till he became -persuaded of Law's tremendous worth. - -He had a serious call of his own, a call to sell good books at -good profits, and the call expressed itself in his clothes and his -appearance. He seemed older, graver, took his frock-coat into daily -wear, used only black in ties and socks, and had the air of one, who, -if not a clergyman, was often in their company, though as a fact he was -more frequently with commercial travellers, and in the hotels at night -his repertoire of smoke-room stories came no less gaily from his tongue -than of old. - -And about this time his moustache began to droop like a curtain over his -resolute mouth. - -Stewart came into the office one day with a parcel under his arm. He had -seen neither Sam nor his office lately, and stared wide-eyed at both. -Carter, partner in the printing business, still occupied the dilapidated -office where Sam had found him, but the Branstone Publishing Company had -ampler premises next door, in a building which Sam rented as warehouse -for his stock. Gilt lettering on its windows called the attention of the -passer-by to the Branstone + Classics. - -Sam still looked after detail, and when Stewart came in was correcting -proofs of a tear-off calendar with a Bible at his elbow. - -"I suppose," said Stewart, "that you _are_ Branstone, but why disguise -yourself as a Scottish Elder?" - -"I am in my usual clothes," said Sam, rather huffed. - -"If the clothes are the man, this is no place for me. Do you often use -the Bible in your business hours?" - -He often did, not only to check with a quite beautiful precision the -texts on his calendars by the Authorised Version, but in another way, -and one which seemed to show, if it showed anything, that he looked -upon the Bible with intimate familiarity. Perhaps one mascot was the -vellum-bound copy of the "Social Evil" pamphlet and the other the Bible. -At any rate, his price code used in the office was made up this way: - -M Y F A T H E R G O D - -1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 20 - -New clerks initiated into that code used to wonder at it for a day. Then -they got used to it. - -"I'm correcting the proofs of this calendar," Sam explained. "You see, -it's a shaving calendar. You hang this up by your shaving-mirror and -study the text for the day while you shave." - -"I don't," said Stewart. "I go to the barber's. My hand's unsteady in -the morning. But I see the idea. First read the text, then wipe your -razor on it." - -"That is not the idea. See." He pointed to the card of the calendar, and -read solemnly: - - "A text a day - - Drives care away." - -"It wouldn't drive my sort of care away," said Stewart. "Mine's -serious." - -"There can be no trouble too serious for you to find consolation in this -calendar." - -"But suppose I have toothache on quarter-day, and the consolation you -offer for that date is consolation to a man who can't pay his rent? -Seriously, Branstone, am I behind the scenes in this office, or do you -never drop the showman? I admit you're in the pi-market, and you've -dressed the pi-man's part and you've got his patter, too, but I don't -know that you need exercise it on me. This stock of yours looks dire," -he commented, strolling round the office. "I suppose it's the stuff that -sells?" - -"My business," said Sam, "is founded on a rock." - -"I came in here to sell you a fortune," said Stewart. "If you're going -to talk cant at me, I'll take the fortune to a London publisher. Your -business may be founded on a rock, but the name of the rock is the -'Social Evil.'" - -"The word rock," said Sam, with a twinkle in his eye, "is also used for -a kind of toffee." - -"Well, now that I know you're sane, I'll talk to you. And I'll talk -toffee, too I didn't think in the days of my earnest youth that I -should come to this, but you never know what debt will do to a man. I've -written a novel. At least, it isn't a novel, it's an outrage on decency. -It's a violent assault on the emotions. It's the sort of thing I deserve -shooting for writing. Treacle is bitter compared with it, and it does -not contain one word of literature. It is a cast-iron certainty." - -"I must read it," said Sam. - -"You're growing distrustful," said Stewart sadly. - -"I don't buy pigs in pokes, even when they're yours," said Sam. "Come -along in a couple of days." - -He read the novel, and was ready for Stewart when he came. - -"I have taken the liberty," he said, "of marking some passages in this -manuscript which you may care to alter." - -"Oh? I know it's mawkish, but I don't believe there is a limit to what -they'll stand--and like." - -"I refer particularly to the character you have called Hetaera." - -"But only once. After that she's called Hetty." - -"Hetty," said Sam severely, "will have to be cut out. She is an impure -woman." - -"Even the most popular of novels should bear some relationship to life." - -"If you wish me to publish this one, Hetty must go. Branstones have a -reputation to sustain." - -"Good God!" said Stewart. "Hetty is the one oasis of truth in a desert -of sloppy sentimentality. She's true because I happen to know her." - -"That is nothing to your credit, Stewart." - -Stewart stared. "Are you pulling my leg, Sam, or is this really -serious?" - -"Why should you doubt my seriousness when I ask that fiction should be -devoid of offence?" - -"Don't you mean devoid of truth?" He recovered his temper and his -perspective. After all, he was very short of money. "All right, Sam," he -said. "Edit me. Censor me. I thought I knew things, but there are deeps -below the lowest depths, and you have reached them. I surrender. What -are the terms?" - -Sam offered terms which were quite generous. He might want Stewart -again. - -The novel was purged of Hetty and published. The three-page prayer of -the distressed heroine was used, in paraphrase, from quite a number of -nonconformist pulpits, and the book was a huge success. It was the -first of that series--Branstone's Happy Novels for Healthy Homes--which -carried the strength of the literary emetic to a point of concentrated -sweetness undreamt of before, and discovered somewhere a public stomach -which did not reject its nauseating jam, but revelled in it. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI--THE POLITICAL ANIMAL - - -|IF only Ada had had the courage of what ought to have been her -convictions, things would have been very different. But she hadn't the -pluck or the zest in life to be anything at all except an almost perfect -negative, and a man will fight for a wife for many reasons, but not for -the reason that she is a full-stop. - -Ada, as Peter knew when he consented to the marriage, could be led: with -even surer hope of good result she could be driven, and if Sam had cared -to drive, to play Petruchio with Ada, he could have turned her negative -into a comparative, if not into a positive. - -Unhappily, his driving powers were otherwise engaged, and his objectives -were on the battlefield, his office, rather than in the dormitory which -he might have turned into a home. And since Ada had all that she was -conscious of wanting, she had a dull contentment. Two servants and -credit at the shops were good enough for Ada, and good enough, too, for -Sam, because they advertised success. If Ada had been actively vicious, -if she had drunk, if men or a man had obsessed her, if indeed she had -been anything that was bad perceptibly, Sam would have abandoned his -indifference and taken a strong and effective line with her. It might, -at first, have been only because a positively vicious Ada would have -been bad for the Branstone + Classics, but it would have ended by being -good for Ada and for Sam: it would have been the beginning of Ada _and_ -Sam, of their dual life which had not yet come to birth. But, as it was, -he saw nothing to fight. There was a superficial rightness; therefore -all was right, he could forget Ada and turn to the things which were -vital to him, business for its own sake, and business considered as a -stepping-stone to politics. - -He was content for some time to leave his political ambitions alone, -because it seemed to him that money, quite a lot of money, was needed -for politics. In truth, he was rather awed by his ambition: the House of -Commons seemed a tremendous distance from his office in Manchester, -and he thought a great deal of money would be needed for the fare. -Fundamentally, he was modest and rarely overrated his abilities, but he -believed that he had luck, and thought money a good first aid to more -luck. Well as he was doing in business, he could not afford to divert -his energies from moneymaking to politics, wherein he did not mean to -begin at the bottom. - -He was not ready yet to make political opportunities for himself, but if -political opportunities came to him, that was another matter. And they -did come. When he interviewed Sir William Gatenby, he threw a pebble -into a pool whose wave was to wash him to high places. - -It washed him into the knowledge of Mr. Charles Wattercouch, who was -agent for the Division. Wattercouch read Gatenby's letter about Sam with -some surprise, as one of his recruiting grounds for voluntary workers -was the Concentrics, and he thought he recalled hearing Sam speak for -the other faction, but he catalogued the name for future reference on -his list of earnest young men. - -Wattercouch, like Sam, was in no hurry. He preferred men to come to him, -not to go in search of them, but Sam did not come, and a letter from -Gatenby was not to be neglected. Though Gatenby had probably dismissed -the subject from his mind, he paid half of Wattercouch's salary, and -he might inquire about Sam some day. So the agent called on Sam at the -office. - -He was a square-built, square-faced man of forty, with a pink, eupeptic -complexion, and light hair which bristled hardily. Your organizer of -victory, like your editor, is apt to be cynical about the politics he is -paid to profess, but Wattercouch kept his perfect faith in Liberalism, -in spite of the fact that he served the Liberal Party, a feat in the -accommodation of blameless principle with unscrupulous opportunism, -which he accomplished with entire sincerity. One can be sincere and -Jesuitical, in fact one can hardly be Jesuitical without being sincere, -and to Mr. Wattercouch the most egregiously illiberal acts of the -Liberal Party were justified because they were the acts of that party, -and must, however improbable it seemed, be means to the end which was -Liberalism. - -This is not to suggest that Mr. Wattercouch was complex, for he was -indeed quite simple, as witness the man's relish in his grotesque name. -He knew the value of being ridiculed when one can turn ridicule into -respect, and much of his popularity resulted from the genial way in -which he took jokes about his name. He made an asset of what might, to a -less good-natured man, have been a handicap. "Indeed," says Ben Jonson, -"there is a woundy luck in names, sir," and Wattercouch turned doubtful -luck to good account. - -Sam had the gift of the gab, which means that he knew both how and -when to speak, and how and when to be silent. He was silent while Mr. -Wattercouch spoke of the valuable work to be done by an earnest labourer -in connection with the annual revision of the register. The point of the -work was to see that all possible known Liberals were on the register, -and all possible objection taken to any known Conservatives, and, -complicated as the work was by the removal habit amongst electors, -it was no light undertaking. Certainly no agent could have carried it -through without the aid of industrious volunteers. - -But Sam did not see himself in the character of an industrious -volunteer, and he was silent for two reasons. The first was that his -silence was causing Mr. Wattercouch visible embarrassment, and Sam liked -the other man to be embarrassed; the second was that he was considering -how to make Mr. Wattercouch see that his suggestion was an absurdity, if -not an insult. - -He smiled with quite polite superiority. "But I think, Mr. Wattercouch, -that you are making a mistake," he said, as one who apologizes for -having to be blunt. - -"Well," admitted Wattercouch, "I had my doubts, because I fancied I'd -heard you support Stephen Verity at the Concentrics." - -"That," said Sam, "is not the mistake to which I allude. I am aware that -I have supported Verity at the Concentrics. And I am aware that the -way to learn how to cut a man's hair is to practise on a sheep's head. -Verity was my sheep's head." - -"I'm afraid I hardly follow," said Wattercouch, who was indeed rather -scandalized by such an allusion to Mr. Verity, who, if a Conservative, -was an alderman and a noted figure in local politics. - -"I will make it easier for you by admitting that even I had to learn," -said Sam. - -"Ah! I see. You have now seen the error of your ways. You realize the -grandeur of Liberalism, the----" - -"I always did," Sam asserted. "When I supported Verity, I was teaching -myself to speak. I was practising on Toryism that I might become perfect -in Liberalism. Those days when I made a convenience of Toryism were the -days of my apprenticeship to the art of speaking. Would you have had me -speak badly for such a cause as Liberalism? No. But if I spoke badly for -Toryism, I damaged nothing. Toryism _is_ nothing unless, as I said, it -is a sheep's head for Liberals to practise on when they are novices, and -the mistake you made is to suppose that I am still a novice, when, as a -matter of fact----" He paused elaborately and hoped that Mr. Wattercouch -would fill in the blank intelligently. "But it is premature to speak -of that," he said. "As to the registration, I can send you one of my -clerks." He made a gesture dismissing as an affair of pygmies that chief -event of an agent's year. - -"I see... I see," said Wattercouch, trying hard to believe that he had -so far been looking at Sam through the wrong end of a telescope. "And -you yourself, Mr. Branstone?" - -It tempted Sam, that tone of quite startled respect which Wattercouch -adopted now. The misfortune of Sam's imaginative flights was that he -never knew when to stop. All that he cared about, at the moment, was to -give Wattercouch the impression that Sam Branstone was too important -to be asked to drudge at registration work. He was in no hurry about -politics, but when he began it would not be as a volunteer clerk. - -"I?" he replied. "Two things. One a fact and the other a prophecy. -The fact is that I am an orator, and the prophecy is that Sir William -Gatenby will not live long and that I shall take his place as member -for the Division. Have you a cold?" he added, as Wattercouch choked with -irresistible stupefaction. - -He had not a cold, neither had he powers of speech just then, and the -silence grew emphatic without in the least disconcerting Sam. Once -launched on the sea of bluff, Sam was a hardy navigator, and he had the -moral support of knowing that his whole purpose just now was to avoid -being a clerk. To avoid being a clerk it is justifiable to do more -than to romance: it is justifiable to commit most of the crimes in the -Newgate Calendar. Sam was hardly asked to do that, but Wattercouch's -cough was a challenge, and a bluff half bluffed is worse than no bluff -at all. It became a matter of pride to convince this unbeliever. - -"I intend," said Sam with aplomb, "to do a good deal of platform for the -Party. If an election comes soon, so much the better. I shall take -the opportunity to make myself more popular with the electors than Sir -William Gatenby is. That is easy. He quotes Latin in election speeches, -and I'm a man of the people. After that, I expect to contest a -by-election for a seat which the Party regards as a forlorn hope. If -it is possible to win that seat for our Great Cause, I shall win it. -If not, I shall trust to two things, the senile decay of Sir William -Gatenby and the discretion of the Whip's office." - -Wattercouch was adapting himself painfully to the new perspective. He -granted that Sam had plausibility, and an assurance which nearly lent -conviction to his astonishing statement. - -"You are in touch with the Whips!" he gasped. - -Sam remembered and varied an old formula. "Do you suppose," he asked -indignantly, "that I should be speaking to you like this if I were not?" - -Wattercouch did not suppose it. For one thing he was acquainted with the -devious ways of Whips, and nothing that those secretive autocrats did -could surprise him: for another, he wished to believe what Sam wished -him to believe. He saw in Sam the way out of a dilemma. - -His dilemma was a common one. A death had caused a vacancy in the -Town Council, and the local Liberal caucus was almost pathetically -embarrassed as to its choice of a candidate. There were at least -three veteran workers for the Cause who expected, with justice, to be -approached and none of the three could be selected without offence being -given to interests which it was impolitic to offend. - -It was all very well for the caucus: they left it to Wattercouch, the -general handy man, to make suggestions, and as he listened to Sam he -thought he had found a candidate who, simply because he was politically -unknown, could offend nobody. If the obvious men were wrong, he must -rely on the rightness of the unexpected, and, after all, Sam might be -speaking the truth. One never knew where one was with Whips, and here -was his chance to propitiate Sam and at the same time to solve the -problem which troubled the caucus. Sam was a dark horse and he wished he -knew more about him; it was startling to come in search of a voluntary -clerk and to find a candidate; but, finally, he saw it as a legitimate -case for taking a risk. - -"I don't know, sir," he said, with a very pretty respect in his voice, -"whether municipal politics will appeal to a man of your calibre, but -there is a vacancy in St. Mary's Ward, and I hardly think there will be -any difficulty about your adoption as candidate if you cared to stand." - -Sam pretended to reflect. The truth was that the prospect of an -immediate seat in the Council made his heart beat fiercely. He had meant -for a while longer to put business before politics, but this sort of -politics was business. The Council took up one's time, but conferred a -prestige on Branstone and the Branstone Publications which would more -than compensate for the waste of time. - -And it was deliciously unexpected. He had not studied to impress -Wattercouch, but had talked exaltedly simply to excuse himself from -the unseen, thankless drudgery of organization: yet it seemed he had -impressed. Virtually, he was offered a seat, He was, this soon, to sit -where Travers had sat, to be a City Father before he was thirty-five. He -had romanced glibly about a bird in the bush, and found himself grasping -a bird in hand, and no contemptible fowl either. - -"We must despise nothing," he said, "which makes for Liberalism." -Wattercouch nodded with enthusiasm. "Of course," Sam went on, "strictly -between ourselves, the Council is small beer. But it is for the Cause, -and if I were asked to stand, you may take it that I should not allow -the larger view I have of my ultimate activities to interfere with my -acceptance. I take pleasure in duty and I see it as my duty, even if it -involves the postponement of my Parliamentary ambitions, to throw myself -wholeheartedly into this conflict." He was wonderfully pious. - -Wattercouch was less emotional. He had heard too many speeches from -prospective candidates to be carried away by Sam's. "Quite probably -there will be no contest," he said dryly. "It's a safe Liberal seat." - -"I should have preferred a fight," Sam lied wistfully. "But I put duty -first." - -As a fact, there was no contest, and if each of the three veteran -workers thought himself aggrieved, he had the consolation of knowing -that the other two shared his grievance. Wattercouch was discreetly -mysterious about Sam in the inner councils of the local Party, used -Gatenby's name freely and managed to convey that Branstone was something -much bigger than he appeared to be. He had, at least, got them out of -their quandary. - -Nor did Sam discredit his sponsor either at the private meeting he -addressed or at the public one which followed. He had said he was an -orator, Wattercouch had repeated it indefatigably, and Sam's audience -believed it implicitly. He was not quite an orator, but was coming along -nicely under the tuition of an old actor who had failed on the stage and -now called himself a professor of elocution. - -He became Mr. Councillor Branstone, and happy little references to the -event began to appear in the papers. The _Sunday Judge_, for instance, -had "no doubt that Mr. Branstone will live to look back upon his -unopposed return to the Council as a minor episode of his political -career, and we speak by the book. Branstone will go far, but, meantime, -it is something even for him to know that he is the most popular man in -St. Mary's Ward. We had almost written in the whole city, but that would -be to anticipate. How is it done? How is such popularity achieved? How, -in other words, did merit become recognized? Mr. Branstone himself only -smiled when we asked him, but his smile is half of his secret and his -rousing, earnest oratory the other half. They are indeed an open smile -and an open secret. But there are other secrets less open. All we shall -say now is, 'Watch Branstone. He will not disappoint you.'" - -There was a low evening paper, run in the Conservative interest, which -fastened on the phrase "other secrets less open" and published the -scurrilous statement that one of the less open secrets was the fact that -Mr. Councillor Branstone's mother was a charwoman, but the paragraph -appeared only in the early edition and unaccountably disappeared from -later issues. It did no harm, as first editions are not published for -politicians, but for sportsmen, and, in any case, there was a brief, but -dignified, eulogy of Mr. Branstone in the _Manchester Warden_ next day. -That paper happened, fortunately, to be Liberal in politics, and indeed -to be, on just occasion, a valiant log-roller. It rolled a log for Sam; -the popularity of Branstone was established, hall-marked by the Press; -and it was about this time that Stewart's second potboiler was accepted -for inclusion in Branstone's Novels. The terms were even more favourable -to the author than before. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII--THE VERITY AFFAIR - - -|THE curse of the Wandering Jew is upon the advertiser: he must move -perpetually. Not that Sam would have been in any case content to sit -idly on a seat in the Council Chamber. He hadn't the sedentary gifts, -nor was he of the breed of Ada, who, the state of matrimony once -achieved, existed in contemplation of a glory which was even more -vegetable than animal. - -He had to do something to justify a paper reputation for popularity and -he had even to convince himself that he would not soon wake up to find -it all a dream. It had happened too easily to be true, or, at least, -safe. Wattercouch had hinted that things were expected of him. - -They were, of course, expected of him as a Liberal, and Sam was not, -in fact, a Liberal but a Conservative. A Conservative is a man who -conserves, who says "Aye" to the words of Giovanni Malatesta. - - "What I have snared, in that I set my teeth - - And lose with agony." - -Sam had snared, he proposed to go on snaring and never to lose what he -had snared. Whereas a Liberal is a Conservative weakened by sentimental -compassion for the dispossessed. He is not the opposite of a -Conservative, but a Conservative who is weak-minded, or timid or -scrupulous enough to think himself a robber and to propose to give the -poor some five per cent of his plunder. The opposite of a Conservative -is an anarchist. - -Politically he was a Liberal because he thought the Liberals certain to -come in for a long innings at the next election, and if there was any -feeling about it at all (beyond a desire to be on the winning side), -it was for the pudgy orator whose tremendous sentences had caught his -imagination when he visited the House of Commons. - -What he did became known as the Verity affair. It might with equal and -perhaps superior justice have been called the Branstone affair but for -that malicious impulse which causes people to refer to a scandal by the -name of the exposed rather than the exposer. It is like the odium which -we attach to a man who has been in prison, where he had already had his -punishment. Mankind is resolute against letting sleeping dogs lie. - -Mr. Alderman Verity was an elder statesman of the Council and a -Conservative of the honest, unyielding type who thought that to approve -of Tory Democracy was to be either a rogue or a fool, and Sam objected -to him not because he was a Conservative, but for deeper reasons. -Verity was the landlord of Sam's offices. Every tenant objects to every -landlord. - -One calls Verity an honest Conservative because he made no concessions, -not because he was himself a fount of honour. He had no sympathy with -the modern mawkishness about pampering the people. He admitted that one -had to make promises, that the way to win elections was to tickle the -elector as if he were a trout, but as an Alderman he sat above the -cockpit of electioneering and frowned upon the Liberal attitudes to -which younger Conservatives descended to catch a vote. And their view -that the Council existed for the people honestly revolted him: it was so -patently the other way about. - -The particular instance was Baths in Hulme. He saw no sense in Baths in -Hulme. He was quite sincere in his belief that to build Baths in Hulme -was to cast pearls before swine. Hulme had not asked for Baths and did -not want Baths. Baths were opportunities for cleanliness and Hulme did -not want to be clean. Hulme would not be Hulme if it were clean. - -The uncleanliness of Hulme was an institution. Conservatives conserve -institutions, and the only thing which could remove his Conservative and -Aldermanic objection to Baths in Hulme was self-interest. - -Self-interest is the greatest institution of them all. - -He continued to oppose the young bloods of his Party because for a long -time he did not see where his self-interest came in. He even opposed -them publicly. He said in public that Baths in Hulme were a nasty, -pandering, Liberal idea and that no decent-minded Conservative could -think of it without nausea. And then, suddenly and silently, he was -found to be with those who proposed that Hulme should bathe if it wanted -to. His change of mind coincided with the discovery that there was no -open space in Hulme where Baths could be erected. Something would have -to come down that the Baths might go up, and what would come down, and -why, was the secret of Mr. Alderman Verity and one or two others of -the Old Gang who had the habit of standing loyally by each other when a -little simple jobbery was in question. Really, it was too simple to -be reprehensible. If a Town Council can by one and the same resolution -clear away a slum, and confer Baths, who benefits, and doubly, but the -Town? Naturally, the slum owner has to be compensated, though adequate -compensation can hardly be put high enough. Slums are so profitable. - -Wattercouch had many preoccupations just now, but his vigilance was -a habit, and he was struck by the change in Mr. Alderman Verity's -attitude. The silence which succeeded his eloquence seemed pregnant -with something, and Wattercouch wondered with what. It was an error of -judgment in the Alderman not to be ill at this time, but he had covered -his tracks and the affair was prejudged, settled before it ever came -before the Council. Verity had neither conscience nor fears about it, -and the Conservative Party, with a prescient eye on the imminent General -Election, was going to use its majority in the Council that it might -figure as the Party which bestowed cleanliness on Hulme. - -Wattercouch wondered why it was Simpson's Buildings which those -benefactors of mankind proposed to buy and demolish so as to clear a -site for their Baths. - -"This might be your opportunity, Branstone," he said. - -"Isn't it asking a good deal of the junior member of the Council to -suggest that he tackle an old hand like Alderman Verity?" asked Sam, -leaning back in his chair with his thumbs in his waistcoat armholes. - -"We all expect great things of you," flattered Wattercouch, who had -still to justify his selection of Sam to the Liberal caucus. - -"I don't intend to fail you, either. But I can't oppose these Baths. As -a Liberal I am in favour of them." - -"So are we all. But we are not in favour of Alderman Verity's being in -favour of them." - -"It's David and Goliath to pit me against Verity, Wattercouch." - -"David won." - -"And Samuel will win. But he will make a condition. The condition is -a free hand. I want no help and no advice and I undertake on that -condition to pulverize Verity." - -"But you'll tell me what you propose to do?" - -"I said a free hand, Wattercouch. Leave this to me and I'll settle it." - -It seemed to Wattercouch that every time he had dealings with Sam he was -asked to take a gambling chance, but he had no plan of action, and the -man without a plan is always at a disadvantage against the man who, with -or without a plan, looks confident. He left it to Sam and there was, as -it happened, nobody to whom he could have left it better. - -Wattercouch had no inside information and only vague suspicions that -Verity's change of mind was rooted in the same earth as Verity's -self-interest. But Sam knew something and was not boasting idly when he -undertook to "pulverize" Verity. - -What he knew, rightly used at the right moment, was dynamic enough, but -he lacked evidence and he did not see how to get evidence. The Council -meeting was at hand and he was finding it each day more difficult to -grin with cheerful assurance at the mutely questioning Wattercouch. He -felt distinctly unassured. - -The facts were clear enough to him. Verity now approved of the Baths -because they were to be erected on the site of Simpson's Buildings, and -Verity owned that dilapidated pile. He did not own it publicly because -respectable aldermen do not own slum property; he owned it in the name -of Mr. Sylvester Lamputt, Verity's second cousin, a man of straw; and -Sam knew that he owned it because he had a good memory, he remembered -a conversation between Lamputt and Mr. Travers, which he had overheard, -and all the present circumstances pointed to the relations of Lamputt -with Verity being as they had been when Sam was in the estate agent's -office. - -Verity was aware that retail profits are higher than wholesale, and -small retail than large retail; that when, for instance, a poor woman -buys an ounce of tea she pays a higher rate for it than when a rich -woman buys a pound or ten pounds, and similarly that when a family rents -a room in a slum property it pays immensely more for it proportionately -than when a cotton king rents a warehouse in the centre of the city. But -it is dignified to let a warehouse to a cotton king, and disreputable -to let single rooms in Hulme, so second cousin Lamputt was the putative -owner of Simpson's Buildings. Sam smiled at the ludicrous thought of -the burly alderman sheltering behind the shrivelled form of his second -cousin Lamputt. It was like trying to hide a bull behind a weasel. - -But he did not smile often in those days. He paid a visit, at dusk, to -Simpson's Buildings, and breathed softly lest Simpson's Buildings should -collapse upon him. Obviously, the alderman was finding his market in the -nick of time. It eliminated doubt, but did not provide proof. - -He knew that in the matter of Simpson's Buildings, Lamputt was identical -with Verity, but he wanted evidence, and to get evidence he must rely -upon the dullness of Mr. Lamputt, and did not think that he was dull. -The totem of Lamputt was certainly a ferret, and Sam credited the ferret -tribe with nimble wit. He had to be more nimble, then. - -He rejected the idea of making Mr. Lamputt gloriously drunk because it -seemed impossible to associate glory, even the glory of intoxication, -with Mr. Lamputt's feeble body. It was a case, as usual with Sam, of -taking chances. - -He did nothing at all until the morning of the meeting which was to -decide if Hulme might bathe, and, even then, left his office only a -little before his usual time for going to the Town Hall. He turned into -a back street, ran up many stairs to the attic office whose door bore -the name of Sylvester Lamputt, Agent (more sins are committed in the -name of agency than of charity), and flung panting into the single room. - -He won the first throw in his game. Sylvester was in. - -He sat on a high office stool writing on the malodorous page of an -enormous ledger, looking for all the world like a diminutive office -boy on whom some one has fitted, in cruel jest, a hoary head. If the -calendars on his walls were trustworthy witnesses, he was agent for half -the insurance companies in the British Isles. Autolycus was Sylvester's -other name. - -He reverenced his ledger as other men reverence the Bible. He kept no -other diary, for the ledger was his book of life, and when Sam burst -upon him he was absorbed in his records. He closed the book mechanically -through pure secretive habit, and closed into it just enough of his wits -to put him at a disadvantage with Sam. - -Sam gave no quarter. "Mr. Verity," he gasped before he was fairly in the -room. "Simpson's Buildings... the title-deeds... here, or has Mr. Verity -got them?" - -It succeeded. Lamputt took him for an urgent special messenger from -Verity. "If Mr. Verity's memory is going," he said with dignity, "mine -is not. The title-deeds are in the third drawer of his safe in his -office." - -"In his name?" asked Sam quickly. - -"Of course," said Lamputt, and then, too late, became suspicious. "I -say," he began, "what-------?" - -But Sam had gone, and though Mr. Lamputt reached his hat and the door in -one bound and careered down his familiar stairs like the office boy -his figure aped, Sam had turned a corner and was lost to sight. Lamputt -raced to Verity's office, only to find that the alderman was then -attending a Council meeting. Lamputt could do no more, indeed for a -man with a weak heart he had already done too much: but he had a strong -foreknowledge of the wrath of Alderman Verity, and goes, an unhappy, -shrinking figure, out of this story to an unknown fate. - -Sam went to the Town Hall with his bomb-shell, and they disapprove of -bombs at Council meetings, so he was sedulous to spare their feelings. -He supported that part of the resolution which referred to the erection -of Baths, but proposed that it should stand alone and that the naming of -a site should be deferred. Curiously, his proposal made the Conservative -majority very angry: the resolution was one and indivisible. Sam -regretted that in order to vote against the misuse of a particular site, -he was forced to vote against the Baths, but standing as he did for -purity in civic life, detesting the very shadow of jobbery, he had no -alternative but to move that the resolution be rejected. Here was a -proposal which, however innocent its wording, did in fact imply that -ratepayers' money was to be handed over to a prominent member of the -party opposite, to a gentleman in whose safe, at whose office, in the -third drawer of the safe, were deposited at that moment the title-deeds -of the property whose acquisition by the city was suggested. He -abhorred personalities, he shrank from mentioning a name, and if the -second part of the resolution were withdrawn, he---- - -It was too much for a young, impetuous innocent opposite. "You dare not -mention a name. You lie." - -Sam hoped the Council would absolve him of causing a scene. - -"Prove your words," cried the rash gentleman. - -"I suggest," said Sam blandly, "that we avoid unpleasantness. I have -made a statement and I am asked to prove it. If a deputation of three -will go with me and Mr. Alderman Verity to his office, the title-deeds -of Simpson's Buildings will be found in the place I have indicated." - -It was the sort of drama which appealed more to the readers of the -evening papers than to the Council. Mr. Mayor, in the chair, was -speechless in embarrassed distress. Sam had the calm of imperishable -rock in wind-tossed surf. In the midst of a breathless excitement, Mr. -Alderman Verity was seen to totter to his feet. "I own the property," he -said, collapsed into his seat and graced that seat no more. - -Impossible even for a Conservative paper to uphold Verity, impossible -to do more than to suggest that Sam's manners were deplorable: while -his own papers made a hero of him, found his manners a model of -consideration and his triumph as graceful as it was complete. - -All Sam cared to know was that he was on the crest of a wave of -popularity and a general election was at hand. Night after night he -spoke, and the tritest platitudes, with Sam's smile behind them, shone -like new-found truth. He was _persona gratissima_ before he opened his -mouth: it gave him confidence, and confidence is half the speaker's -battle. He coined some of those ugly, smart, journal-easy catch-words -which help to win elections, and are quoted in the papers and blossom -on the placards. And, with it all, he became what he had prematurely -called himself, an orator. - -He had the satisfaction of watching audiences sit through the boredom of -Gatenby that they might hear Branstone, and of being himself the "star" -speaker at outlying meetings. Gatenby was returned by a record majority -and it was Bran-stone for whom the mob yelled outside the Town Hall. - -The election was an early one, and Sam was called to speak in other -constituencies. He had wires, not only from agents in quite distant -divisions, but actually from Headquarters. He was in touch with the -Whips! Less than a year after he had lied to Wattercouch, the lie -turned true. He was in touch with the Whips, a wanted speaker, a man of -reputation, a name to be applauded when it was announced on a platform, -for all the world like people applaud when the number of a star -performer goes up on the announcement board of a music-hall. He was not -of the Great Unwanted, but of the few who were wanted. - -Someone discovered at this time the old canard which had once appeared -in the first edition of an evening paper, that his mother was a -charwoman. He did not deny it, but used it as Wattercouch his name, -making an asset of a handicap. He was of the people, blood of their -blood, a democrat by birth, knowing their aspirations and their needs -because he, too, had needed and aspired. In the heat of that election -he became egregiously a Radical. It told, it "went" with the audiences: -that was the thing that mattered to Sam. He hadn't so much as the shadow -of a principle, he was winning, on the winning side, and pleased himself -enormously. - -And by the end of the campaign he stood, actually, where he had aimed -to stand: amongst prospective candidates who fight, as it were, -probationary elections where, they have scarcely a sporting chance, to -pay their footing towards the sort of candidature which gives a man -his seat. If the Conservatives had offered him a tolerably safe seat, -without preliminary fight, he would have ratted eagerly, and the -charwoman his mother would have been pressed into service on the other -side. It was all one to Sam Branstone. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII--WHEN EFFIE CAME - - -|THEN Effie came with beauty, shattering the life he lived as sunshine -breaks the April clouds. At first he did not know what had happened to -him: there was a radiance, but he thought it nothing greater than -her physical appeal. He was disturbed, moved as nothing had moved him -before--not even applause--but did not see that more had come to him -than loveliness where all had been unlovely. He did not realize that -there were greater things in Effie than her comeliness. - -She was the daughter of a doctor who had lived up to every penny of his -income and died leaving his widow nothing but a cottage in the country, -which had been their week-end haunt. The widow sold the practice and got -for it enough to keep herself, with care, in the cottage. - -There Mrs. Mannering lived unhappily, resentfully, nourishing a grudge -against her poverty, developing a vein of hardy thrift unseen till now. -With management, she had enough, but lacked the gift of management. She -did not see things in proportion, imagined herself deep sunk in poverty -and made unreasoning demands on Effie. On Effie, not on her son who -managed a rubber plantation at Penang and followed the spendthrift -habits of his father. Father and son, the Mannerings were cursed with a -passion for popularity and entertained with open house to all comers. In -the East, it cost Rex Mannering more than it had cost his father at home -and, granted his habits, he was right in saying that he could do nothing -for his mother. He could deny himself nothing. - -It left the more for Effie. She who was not trained to work must go -into the world and fight not only for her bread but for her mother's -luxuries. Augusta Mannering was merciless in her demands. She believed, -quite sincerely, that Eflie was gaining riches in the offices of -Manchester and withholding a share from her in simple self-indulgence. -Was it not by going to offices that Dr. Mannering's rich patients had -been able to pay their bills? And hadn't they an army of friends who -used to eat their salt? - -But the friends, misunderstanding Effie's pride, offered no help of the -kind she could accept. She wanted work, not invitations to houses where, -with dress and servants' tips, it would cost her more to live than in -the rooms she found in Rusholme. She had not the means to be decorative -now, and it occurred to nobody that Effie was a clerk, wanting a clerk's -place. They could not think of her, that brilliant girl, shackled to a -typewriter. They did not offer what she wanted and she was too proud to -ask. - -Then memories are short, especially of the popular men who buy their -popularity across the dining-table and charge high fees to the unwell to -procure high feeding for the well; and when the Mannerings disappeared, -Augusta to her cottage and Effie to Rusholme, there were few inquiries -made. - -Some other entertainer stepped into the breach of local hospitality; -Effie's net-play became a legend on their tennis lawns; and she herself -was deemed to be with her mother in the country, shining on other courts -than theirs. - -It was not pure callousness, but things are as they are, and one cannot -live by money and then lose money without losing more than money. - -Effie went into the city unfriended and alone, and her mother lived, a -miser, in her cottage. She wrote to Effie that she needed this and that; -that Effie must spare of her abundance or her mother must starve, and -Effie out of her thirty shillings a week did send, but her mother did -not buy. She warmed her hands at a bank-book, wore ancient clothes -and watched her credit grow. It was more than a perversion of her old -extravagance, it was insanity and Effie knew it. To keep an insane woman -moderately happy, she sacrificed necessities. That is why she was shabby -when she came into Mr. Branstone's office for the post of typist one -bright, revealing afternoon soon after his party had triumphed at the -polls and he had made himself a figure on the hustings. - -Effie had found companionship in Rusholme, and knew by now the -difference between the friendship which is given and the friendship -which is bought. She had become expert in friendship, and Sam, from -their first encounter, seemed to her more like a friend than an -employer. By then, she had experience of employers. That was why she was -out of work. - -It wasn't, of course, the normal Sam she met, but a Sam exalted, -genuinely raised and not merely puffed up, by his electioneering -notoriety. He had a new self-confidence; it seemed to him that little -was beyond his reach, that he might even hope to come to terms with -Effie. Not, that is to say, to such terms as her last employer had -proposed. Sam was not, in these matters, the average sensual man. The -point was, and it was to his credit, that he discerned something fine -in Effie even at this stage, and the mood of confidence gave him to hope -that he might not seem commonplace to her. Already, that afternoon, he -cared so much. Her opinion mattered. - -It mattered so greatly that he went slowly about the business of -surprising her: for that, of course, was what he thought he had to do. -She might not know things about Branstone which it was good for her to -know. He might be any employer who advertised for a typist, and he was -not any employer. He was Branstone, of the Classics and the Novels; town -councillor; politician; and she must be told about him. She must learn -what manner of man he was. He wanted to tell her how much greater he was -going to be, but decided that could wait. First she must know what he -had done, before it came to telling her what he was going to do, and his -record would come better from others than from himself. In the office -they knew it all and, even if she asked no questions, there was much -which the routine work would tell her of him. - -He curbed impatience and left her for some weeks in the general office, -where it was supposed that she was picking up some knowledge of the -business before beginning to act as his secretary, but what he hoped she -was picking up was some knowledge of him. He had the idea that he was -popular with his staff, and did not think that they would libel him to -her. - -All the time he burned to have her sitting with him in the private -office. It was for that purpose that he had advertised for a -typist-secretary, and to bring her from the general office could excite -no comment. On the contrary, to leave her there so long might look -strange or at least suggest that Effie was a failure. A failure! Much -he cared whether she was efficient at her work. Yet she was splendidly -efficient, and still he coquetted with his purpose of having her with -him. It seemed to him that to call her in would be a step definite and -irrevocable, one which he wanted and even yearned to make, but about -which he hesitated sensuously as a bridegroom might hesitate on the -threshold of the bridal chamber. He neglected to make two certainly -profitable journeys to London at this time because he could not deny -himself the pleasure of seeing her neck as she bent over her typewriter -when he passed through the office. - -And he had hardly spoken to her! But his dreams were vibrant with the -music of her voice, swelling like an organ till it filled his life with -new harmony. It filled his life not because he refused to think of Ada, -but because he could not think of her. Ada wasn't there; she didn't -exist. She never had been there, for Sam, in the true sense, so that the -step from the custom which is nothingness to complete nothingness -was almost imperceptible. She was a ghost from the past fading in the -radiance of the present. The sun puts out the candlelight. - -He was seeing Effie, of course, with quite grotesquely unperceiving -eyes. She might have been, for all he saw of her, the beautiful doll she -emphatically was not. Her outside pleased and satisfied his eye, and he -took it for granted that the woman within would satisfy him in the same -way as the woman without. And so, in the long run, she did, but not till -Sam had made a hurdle race of it and come some awkward croppers on the -course. The harmony of his organ dream might have been true prophecy; -it certainly was not present fact. He wasn't seeing himself as Effie -saw him, or the sidelong glances he cast at her pretty neck might have -expressed more desire to break than to kiss it. - -He seemed to her a jolly monster, quite lovable if trained, but at -present as untrained as a badly brought-up dog, and perhaps too old to -learn. But it might be amusing to see if he could learn, and from her -who was not used to breaking in a mastiff. That made the thing worth -while, his bigness and the lovableness she recognized behind the -rankness of him. Chance might not come her way, and she thought it -unlikely that it would, but if it did, she meant to take it with -both hands. Effie, aged twenty-six, proposed to herself to form Sam -Bran-stone, who was thirty-five and her employer! She smiled at her -preposterous audacity, but the more she saw and the more she heard of -him, the more determination bit into her. Droll, officious, absurd--all -these her idea was, and she liked it because it was fantastic and -because Sam was Sam. In Effie's wise, impertinent eyes fantasy and Sam -seemed bound together. And yet he paid her wages; he was a solid man, -a member of the Council, and a serious politician! She was impertinent -indeed. - -But he could not, either for his sake or hers, keep her for ever on -the threshold. For all his late-won confidence he was quite pitiably -nervous, and held back for days in pure hesitation before the simple -action of calling her into his office. He thought of it as initiation, a -ritual to which a high solemnity attached. He intended to act up to -its solemnity, to usher her into that office with all that was most -impressive, to signify to her the importance of being secretary to -Branstone; and, instead, he who was wordy fumbled for words, he who was -painfully correct dropped two aitches in a sentence, and stood there -most comically aghast at his slip. - -Of course, the ritual was finished; one cannot be ritualistic and -conscious of aitchlessness. Ritual implies the superhuman, the -something, at least, which sets the executant above the common clay, and -to drop an aitch is human. In the moment of solemnity, in the mouth of -the ritualist, it is drolly human. We find incongruity amusing, and the -more solemn the occasion the more readily does an impish mirth intrude -on light pretext. - -Effie giggled. She did not mean to be unkind, but the spectacle of his -confusion was too much for her. She hadn't the strength to resist, and -though she turned her giggle, quite neatly, into a cough, it was not -before he had seen. - -This was his great moment, to which he had looked forward, and she -giggled at him! He felt himself writ down an ass, and wondered for -the fraction of a second whether he would get more satisfaction from -smacking her or from kicking himself. Then he saw her looking at him, -and nothing seemed to matter. He dropped aitches and she giggled. Very -well, then he wasn't a superman, and she wasn't divine. They were human -beings, at this moment in the relationship of employer and employed. - -"In future, you will sit at the little desk in here, Miss Mannering." He -met her eye defiantly as he spoke the "here." - -"If you have your notebook you can take this letter down." - -He was running away from his ruined situation. To dictate a letter to -her had not been in the scheme at all, as he had planned it. It was -a refuge, and a safe one, but as he dictated he saw in the letter -his opportunity to indicate to her that he forgave the giggle. He was -writing to an author about a manuscript, which he intended to publish, -but broke off before he reached that decisive point of his letter. - -"Wait a bit," he said. "Here is the novel I am writing about. I want -your opinion of it to fortify my own before I do anything definite. Will -you have a look at it in here? I'm due at a Council meeting and must -go." - -"Certainly, Mr. Branstone," she said; "but my judgment isn't very -reliable." - -"We don't know that until you try," he said, escaping from his office -to the Town Hall, where he kicked his heels for an hour till the meeting -began Nor did he return to business that day. He had a shyness and a -feeling of deflation. He needed time before he could expand again. - -Effie took her reading of the novel conscientiously rather than -seriously, not supposing that her verdict either way would go for -anything, but appreciating his hint of confidence, and the fact that, -considered as work, novel-reading was pleasant. And not finishing the -manuscript at the office, she took it home with her to Rusholme. - -In Rusholme the landladies are a little humanized from their primitive -Grundyism, partly by the girl clerk, but mainly because few of them have -avoided, at one time or another, the theatrical lodger, a valiant tilter -at conventionalities; and it is possible for a woman in lodgings to be -called upon by a man in the evening without being evicted as a sinner. -One must, of course, choose one's landlady with discretion. - -Effie, who had not had the opportunity of selecting her parents and had -suffered accordingly, chose her landlady with discretion. By now she had -her friends, those she had made in Manchester, not those she inherited -from her father; there were men amongst them, and they came to see her. -Often, in fact, and especially on Sundays, her room was over-crowded; -but a bed, in the semi disguise of a travelling rug, holds many -callers, and they solved the problem of hospitality by bringing each a -contribution to the feast. - -To-night she had one caller, Stewart, who, having been brought one -Sunday by a man who knew a woman who was a fellow-clerk with Effie at -her last-but-one place, had formed the habit of coming as often as he -could. He was not at the _Warden_ office that night, for the same reason -which accounted for his not knowing that she had gone to Branstone's. He -was convalescent after influenza, too limp to write the super-journalism -of the _Warden_, well enough to come out to take the tonic called Effie. - -"I ought not to let you in to-night," she said. "Thank Heaven for -that," he said, coming in. "Doing what one ought is the dullest thing I -know--unless you're really serious, Effie? In which case I'll go." His -hand was on the door-knob. - -"I'm really serious," she said with mock impressiveness. "I'm working -overtime. Behold!" She threw herself on the bed with the manuscript in -hand. "This," she announced, "is Work." - -"I can believe it," he said, "because that looks like the typescript of -a novel. If it were mine it would be a pleasure to read; but as it is -not mine, it is probably work." - -"Oh, it's work all right," she said. "Hard labour, too. I'm reading it -by order of my new chief. He publishes things like this." - -Stewart sat up. "Not Branstone?" he, said. "Don't say you've gone to -Sammy!" - -"Yes. Do you know him?" - -"Know him? I invented him. Bit of a Frankenstein for all that. Better -say I know most of him. He can still spring surprises on me, and you in -his office are one of'em." - -"Why? Don't you like his office?" - -"It's an office. So long as you've to be in an office, you could pick -worse--easily. Sammy's a stream with a lot of shallows in him, but there -are also depths, and I've never fathomed them. There's mud in him, but -it's not the nasty sort of mud." - -"I've seen that much," she said. "Polluted but curable." - -"You're not by any chance thinking of yourself as a Branstone River -Conservancy, are you?" - -"I rather like him, Dubby," she said. - -"Good Lord! You and Sam: I say, old thing, no offence, but you know he's -married?" - -"I know," said Ellie. "What's she like?" - -"Haven't seen her since I was his best man. Wasn't tempted to see more -of her." - -"It's as bad as that?" - -"Oh, rather worse, I believe. Pitch that novel over. I'll tell you in -five minutes if it's any use." - -"Five minutes isn't very fair to the author," she protested. - -"Oh, quite. I'm a reviewer, and reviewing's badly paid. It teaches you -to rip the guts out of a novel quickly. Smoke that cigarette and I'll -tell you all about it by the time you're through." - -He fluttered the pages while she smoked. "Utter," he decided. "Utter." - -"I haven't finished it," she said; "but so far I agree with you." - -"You'll agree with me to the end. Pluperfect trash. Sam will love it." - -"What!" - -"You'll see. It's just his line." - -"Aren't you trying to prejudice me against him?" - -He stared. "I'm trying to save you the trouble of reading the beastly -thing. I've given you expert opinion. It's trash and the brand of trash -that he likes. Didn't I tell you there, was mud in Sam?" - -"You told me you invented him. I don't believe your influence has been -for good." - -"Don't be hard on a fellow, Effie; I only introduced him to the mud. I -didn't know he'd wallow. Anyhow, let's talk of something else." - -"You know," she said, "you do influence people, Dubby." - -"Of course. That's what I'm paid for. I'm a journalist. Have you never -heard of the power of the Press? It means a lot of little journalists -like me writing as their editors tell 'em to. But I don't appear to -have much influence on you. I asked you to change the subject and you're -still thinking about Sam." - -"Yes," she agreed, "I'm still thinking of Sam." - -"You and Sam!" he repeated, looking incredulously at her. - -Effie nodded. "But," she said, "I don't know yet." - -He rose to his feet. "You're sure, Effie? You're sure you don't know -about him yet?" - -"Quite sure." - -"Then you do know about me? Effie, I've got to ask. Are you sure about -me?" - -She met his eyes bravely, knowing that she must hurt. She was sure she -did not love Stewart, who was free, and not sure about Branstone, who -was married. "I am quite, quite sure, Dubby," she said softly. - -"I see," he said. "Well, I'm not the sort that pesters, but if you want -me, Effie, if you find you want me, I'll be there. I... I suppose I'd -better go now. It will take some doing to change the subject after -this." - -"Dubby, I'm sorry. You're not well, and----" - -She could see him trembling. - -"Not that, old thing," he interrupted. "Not pity. That would make me -really ill. Love's just a thing that happens along, but one starter -doesn't make a race." He held out his hand. "Well, doctor's orders to go -to bed early. Good-night." - -"Good-night, Dubby," she said, and added hesitatingly: "You'll come on -Sunday?" - -"Lord, yes," he said. "I don't love and run away. Good-night." - -She sat for a long while staring into vacancy, then found that something -wet was dropping on her hands. She bathed her eyes and took the novel up -again. A proposal occupied, she found, twelve pages of turgid, emotional -dialogue; but, of course, her experience might be limited. Certainly it -did not confirm the book's verbosity. - -She was quite sure that she did not want Dubby Stewart. He did not -strike her as humorous at all. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX--EFFIE IN LOVE - - -|SEVERAL causes combined to make her think of Sam, too, as not at all -humorous when she saw him in the morning. Unlike him, she was not at -her best in the early hours of the day, and the strain of arriving at -an office by nine a.m. was one from which she did not recover for some -time. She hated business, but without that cross of early rising she -might have found it almost tolerable. - -She woke that day to her landlady's rap more resentfully than usual. The -world was disgustingly mismanaged. Why couldn't she love Dubby, who was -free? She couldn't, but she hated Sam for being married, he had no right -to be married. "Damn Mrs. Sam! Damn her!" she said heartily, by way of -a morning prayer, as she ran hairpins viciously into her glorious -hair. "But I'll cure him of mud," she added, as she raced downstairs to -swallow the tea and toast which she took almost in the same rush that -carried her from her bedroom to the tram. - -She reached the office and walked into Sam's room to find him already -in possession. His obvious briskness at that hour struck her as almost -indecent; it was, at any rate, another cause for resentment, and one of -which he was himself quite blandly unaware. - -He was not stealing a march upon her any more than he habitually stole -marches on the rest of the world. He knew that early morning suited him, -and used it to advantage. They were certain in town that Branstone had -luck rather than brains because he was lazy; but if a man arrives at -his office at eight a.m., and puts in two hours of solid work by ten -o'clock, he is well ahead of his fellows of the employing class who go -down to offices on the 9.21 from home. He can afford to appear lazy. - -He liked that uninterrupted hour with the books, opened the letters -himself, and had them annotated before the men came, whose business it -was to deal with their contents. He planned out the day's work, and -saw it in hand before his earliest caller came. After ten, which is the -first hour when it is etiquette for a salesman to call, Sam was never -too busy to talk of matters which were not strictly business--with -the right, the gainful caller. It was known that one could kill time -pleasantly with Branstone. Branstone was a lazy fellow, and his office -a good place to sit in on a wet afternoon, when there was no point in -going to Old Trafford. - -He came this morning even earlier than usual, to be ready for Effie when -she came at nine. He had slept off his embarrassment, and was ready in -his early morning ebullience to pooh-pooh it. It was stupid to be so -extraordinarily sensitive about an aitch. Accent had always troubled -him, but he need not overrate its importance, and especially now that -he wore the political badge of a democrat, and had acknowledged publicly -that his mother was a charwoman. - -So he was here, installed in his chair with the back of his morning's -work broken, waiting for her when she came. - -No, she decided, not at all humorous to-day: formidable, in fact. He -had all the advantages; he was seated; he was first upon the ground, and -that ground his own, and he was abominably awake. He might have run away -yesterday, but this was the morning of retrieval. - -"Good morning," he said, assuming an attitude of leisure. - -"Good morning," she said, then saw that he was looking quizzically at -the parcel she carried, as if, she thought, he mistook it for her lunch. -"I took the novel home to finish," she explained nervously, and called -herself a fool for giving him this readymade chance to open the subject -which of all things she wanted to delay until her suaver hour had come. -She might be able to cure him of mud, but a doctor should have a bedside -manner, and she distrusted her manners until the landlady's knock had -ceased ringing in her ears. - -If she had not given him the chance, he would have made it. He gave no -quarter to bad starters. Had he known of her weakness, he might have -spared her. He might, because she was Effie; but it wasn't his habit to -indulge the weaknesses of others, especially a weakness which he did not -share, did not understand, and denied to be anything but sloth. - -"Yes," he said encouragingly. "And the verdict?" - -"Does my verdict matter, Mr. Branstone?" she asked. He hadn't given her -time to get her jacket off! - -"What? Certainly it matters. I wasn't asking you to waste your time when -I gave you the manuscript to read. The question is whether we ought to -publish it, and the answer depends on your opinion." - -"Is that quite fair--to the author, I mean? My opinions of novels are -inexpert." - -"That author can take care of himself very well," he assured her. "He -won't starve if we refuse his novel." - -"I'm afraid my opinions are also intolerant," she said. - -"Still," he smiled, "I should like to hear them." - -"They might infuriate you, and--well, I'd rather not be sacked if I can -help it." - -"We will forget that it is in my power to sack you. Does that satisfy -you?" - -Oh, how she loathed people who could be magnanimous at nine a.m.! "You -are being very kind," she said. - -"And you are not giving me your opinion. Come, Miss Mannering, you've -read it. What do you think of it?" - -Later in the day she might have put it more gently. Just now she could -manage nothing more kindly than: "I think it's appalling. It's false -from start to finish," and she rejoiced to see how much her vehement -candour disconcerted him. "I've drawn first blood," she thought; but -bleeding as a curative process is discredited. - -"But," he said, "it is very like others of my series. I made sure it -would be popular." - -"I'm not a judge of that. It's possible enough. And now"--she smiled a -little wryly--"I'm afraid you know my opinion of the series. I warned -you," she added hastily, "that my opinions were intolerant. I imagine -you will not ask for them again." She turned resolutely to the -typewriter and took its cover off. She thought she had closed the -discussion, and was suiting action to her word, and sitting at her desk -when he motioned her back to the chair opposite his. It was not the sort -of motion one ignored. - -"I may ask for them again or I may not," he said; "but in the meantime I -have certainly not given you anything to do at that machine, and we were -trying to forget that you are my typist." - -"I thought after what I've said that it might be time to remember it," -she suggested. - -"Not at all," he assured her. "I get to the bottom of things, and, if -you please, we'll have this out." - -"Of course, if this is part of your secretary's work----" she began. - -He cut her short. "It is. Now, you find my novel series appalling?" - -Effie was growing angry. _In vino veritas_--and in anger. "I could go -even further," she said. "I find it degrading." - -He thumped the desk. "But it sells, Miss Mannering, it sells. Did you -know that?" He leant back in his chair in one of the attitudes he took -when he was scoring heavily, thumbs in his waistcoat arm-holes. - -"It's the most popular series of cheap novels on the market. See any -bookstall, if you doubt me." He paused for her apology. - -Effle did not apologize. "That does not alter my opinion of it," she -said coolly. "A public danger isn't less dangerous because it's large. -I'm afraid I can believe that there are no depths to which it is -impossible to degrade the public taste, but that does not make me like -any the better a series which degrades it." - -Now a child is a child. It may be deformed, and its begetter may in -clairvoyant moments have acknowledged the deformity to himself, but he -resents its being pointed out to him. Sam was the father of his series. - -"I say!" he protested. "That's nasty." - -"It's a nasty series," she said hardily. "You are proud of it because it -sells when you ought to be ashamed of it because it's bad." Somehow -she had to say it. She couldn't hedge from what she saw as truth, even -though she expected truth to hurt him and to be hurt in return. But Sam -wonderfully controlled himself. Emphatically, he was forgetting that she -was a typist. He remembered that she was Effie. - -He addressed the ceiling. "The fact is," he mourned, "that women do not -understand business. Even business women don't. Even you don't." - -Mentally she thanked him for his "even you." It seemed to her a good -place to end the matter for that morning. She still distrusted her -manners, and not, she thought, without reason. - -"Consequently," she told him quietly, "my opinion cannot matter," and -moved as if to go to her typewriter. - -He held her to her seat. "That is to beg the question," he replied, "and -we were to have it out." - -"But," she tried, "you have told me that I do not understand business." - -"And you did not believe me." - -He challenged her, in fact. Well, she must pick up his gage. "I do not -understand this about business, Mr. Branstone. What is it about business -which makes a man like you content to be a confectioner selling people -wares that give them mental indigestion? Business! It's the name for -half the meanness and nine-tenths of the ugliness in the world. You see, -women do know something about business to-day. It isn't their fault that -they are not still sitting cosily at home, hugging the old belief that -business is a dignified, majestic thing to which only the masculine -intellect can rise. It's your fault, the men's. You wanted cheap clerks, -and you raised the veil so that women have seen business at close -quarters, and the only thing they do not understand is how men continued -for so long to magnify its low chicane and its infinite humbug into a -cult which deceived them." - -Sam came to the conclusion that Effie was not perfect. She suffered -from hysteria, but she must be answered. "Well," he said, "you don't -think much of business. But you came into it." - -"I needed money," she defended that. - -"So did I," he said dryly. "We're birds of a feather." - -"You hate it, too?" she asked hopefully. - -"Honestly," he said, "I like it. But," he went on with mischief in his -eye, "I can tell you something that will please you. You dislike the -novel series. You think they degrade. You don't think the Classics -degrade?" - -"No." - -"I would much rather that the Classics sold largely than the novels." - -"Why?" She was eager now. "Because they are great literature?" - -"No. That would be being sentimental about business, and it can't be -done. Because they are not copyright, and it saves book-keeping." He -grinned at her discomfiture. "Business," he defined, "is money-getting." -He was feeling tremendously pleased with himself, her master in -argument. He gave her rope indulgently, for she was Effie; then crushed -her utterly, for he was Sam. - -"Isn't it better," she asked, "to win a little money decently than to -gain a great deal by trading in poison? Whether you know it or not, -these books are poisonous." - -"I don't know it," he said brusquely. "They give pleasure." - -"So, I suppose, does opium. There are lots of pleasant poisons. Would -you keep an opium den if it paid? If you were a milkman, would you -adulterate milk and poison babies? You adulterate books and poison -minds. For money! Oh, yes; I, too, needed money, and I, too, came to -business. But we are not birds of a feather. I do not like business. I -don't like having to get money. I don't like money, but I need it. I've -things to do with it." - -"My case again," he capped her. "I've things to do with it." He saw that -she was looking at him curiously, and that she took him to mean that he -wanted money for Ada. Incidentally he did, but essentially he did not. -"Politics," he added. "Power! Power!" He repeated the word ecstatically, -not only because he was admitting her to the intimacy of his private -thought, not only because he felt it an ecstatic idea, but because -he had so thoroughly defeated her in argument. She sat there staring -speechlessly, and he exulted to perceive that she was mute before his -slashing common sense. - -Only, that was not the reason of her silence. She thought that, for a -first attempt, she had gone far enough, and had the hope that something -of what she had said would remain in his mind, perhaps stingingly. -She could only hope. Heaven knew it had been a queer enough interview -between an employer and his typist, and her prayer, as she sat there -permitting his exultation, was for an interruption. - -Her prayer was answered. Just as she thought him on the brink of seeing -that her silence was not entirely acquiescent, the office-boy brought in -the name of a caller he must see, and Effie rose with huge relief. She -hadn't it in her to keep silent much longer, and felt that if she then -let go all that was firing her, she would say more than he could stand. -True, he had stood a good deal, but then she had said little of what -she had to say! She wanted to say it gradually, to lead him, not to spur -him, to her point of view. Already she was taking a more modern view of -the virtues of bleeding her patient. - -She thought, too, that his was the easier part. - -She had ideals for her Sam, but when she attempted to define them, they -seemed nebulous, indeed, against his simple practice of expediency. He -had his theory that what was expedient was just, and she--what was -her theory except that his was not good enough for him? And his was -in possession everywhere, established, honoured, received of all but a -trivial minority. He thought with the mass and she thought mass-thinking -was not good enough for him. It was difficult to explain. He wasn't a -criminal, he wasn't even individual in thought or method; he played the -common game, playing perhaps a little more astutely than the average, -but keeping honestly within the rules. He followed the crowd, and she -wanted him to follow the gleam. A gleam is indefinable, but she thought -she had a chance because she was so much more grown-up than Sam. -Business was a game of marbles, and girls do not play with marbles, but -with dolls. - -He was not to remain for long with the delusion that he had silenced her -in their first talk. There followed many other talks, although she was -coming to the conclusion that talking would not do the business for her. -It helped, it made a preparation of the ground, but it was stubborn clay -in which he had his roots. Talking did not dig deep enough; she must -uproot, she must transplant. - -"Politics," he had said to pulverize her argument. - -"Another thing," she told him, "which is not quite the mystery for women -that it was. Politics, but--why?" - -And he replied with the word which had raised him to ecstasy. "Power,"; -he said. - -"Yes?" she questioned. "Business leads you to money, money to politics, -and politics to power. And after that? You want power--for what?" - -"Why," he cried, "power is power." - -"An end in itself?" - -"At least, it's an ambition," he replied. - -It was, and so had Ada had her ambition to be married, an end, _the_ -end. He did not think of Ada, but he found it difficult to justify -himself. He could not even tell her that he was a Liberal, because he -had a decent hatred of a Tory; he wasn't in politics for a faith which -enabled him to endure their artifice; he relished the artifice, he was -in with an axe to grind, but with no clear idea of the use he wished -to make of his axe when it was sharp. Ambition, purpose narrowed to two -letters--M.P. He wanted to be M.P. for Branstone, that Bran-stone might -hear the voice of Branstone speaking in the House of Commons. - -She watched him slyly, and thought her leaven worked. "Of course," she -said casually, "it would be useful for your business if you were an -M.P." - -"Enormously," he agreed, marching blindly into her little trap. "It -gives prestige to any business." - -"And completes the vicious circle," she said. "Business takes you to -politics and politics brings you back to business." - -He remembered an appointment hastily, and went to keep it. Sam Branstone -stumped for a reply was an unusual phenomenon, and she con gratulated -herself again that it worked. It worked, but slowly. She was not -impatient, but he was still doing unchanged the things she hated to see -him do, and she wanted the change to come. She doubted that it would -ever come by talk alone. One did not convert by conversation. - -She had intended to say so much, to keep a steady pressure on him, and -she couldn't do it, partly because her point of view was difficult of -definition, partly because she thought no talk, no matter how inspired, -could change him of itself. She did not know of Anne, who had talked -and kept the pres sure up, and put sacrifice behind the talk even to the -point of thrusting her hand into the fire; but Effie, too, had sacrifice -in mind. Anne's sacrifice had failed. It wasn't, perhaps, the right -sacrifice: it was, at any rate, the immortal commonplace, the sacrifice -of the older generation to the younger, of the mother to the son, of -age to youth. Spectacular, heroic as it was, it was yet in the scheme of -things, and it is the sacrifice of youth to youth which can surprise by -unexpectedness. - -For some it is a sacrifice to cease talking even when they are convinced -that talk is futile. If Effie was one of these, she made that little -sacrifice at once. She never told him that his life was mean and ugly -and despicable, his triumphs worthless, his success a failure, his -highest ambition to know that people grovelled to him, his money and his -power. She did not say these things, but neither did she yield an inch -of her attitude which implied them. - -"I'll win," she told herself, "I'll win." - -By now she was crusading for the soul of Sammy Branstone, and all the -while her passion grew, fed as much by that in him which irritated her -as by what attracted. She accepted the fact that he was married and -discounted it. It was one with the other irritants, mattering less to -her, for it was irremovable. She could neglect the wife: what mattered -was the man. She must bring beauty to his life. - -They have tamed many wild things in a world growm standardized; they -have tried for centuries to bridle love and make it run in harness; but -love refuses to be tamed and standardized by the marriage service. -You don't scare love away by the bogey-sign, "Trespassers will be -prosecuted." Love's wild, it's free, blind to the handcuffs which Church -and State pathetically try to rivet on a given pair, lawless because -it knows no law, timeless because it know's no time. Sometimes it lasts -while a butterfly could suck a flower's honey, sometimes the space of a -man's life, and they have tried to regulate this love, this volatility, -to pretend that because it sometimes does not evaporate, it never -evaporates till death. They sought to link love with property, and to -control the uncontrollable. They make laws round love, which is like -enclosing an eagle in a cobweb; and we suffer for their laws. We keep -the law and suffer; break it and we suffer. - -She knew that she would suffer, but she would bring beauty to Sam. He -hadn't capitulated to her talk, and she thought that he had no chance -in Manchester. Perhaps her Sam was with her in his dreams, but each dawn -brought him to accustomed ugliness, and habit clogged his days with mud. -He couldn't escape, he wanted wings, and she was there to bring them -him. He did not know there was another side to life, but she would show -it him. He should see her beauty, and, through that, the beauty of the -other side. - -She was presumptuous, but presumption is a quality of faith. She -interfered, but there are three inevitable interferences in life--birth, -love and death--and hers was one of these. It was them all: it was love -and the birth of the new Sam, and the death of the old. She interfered, -where she had right to interfere. She loved. - -Time passed between the day when she came to her decision and the day -when they acted upon it, and she never knew how long it was nor how she -spent it. She belonged to a living fact, and there were shadows in the -world, such as her work, her mother, the silly detail of arranging to go -away, and Stewart, a haunting shadow of one Sunday afternoon, but these -were unrealities and only her idea was real. She never remembered how -she put it to Sam, nor what he said, though she had a hazy memory -that he was desperately shocked and more profoundly humorous than ever -before. But she thought that he was only shocked as the right thing -shocks by rightness, not as the wrong by wrongness: and she knew that -difficulties melted: and they came. - -They came to the Marbeck Inn and entered into their kingdom of a week. - - - - -CHAPTER XX--THE MARBECK INN - - -|SAM was vilely dull about it all at first: his comprehension, stuck in -the mud, failed utterly to rise to the occasion, but before long; he was -looking back with horror on his turgid mental processes when she told -him that they would come away together. - -He had a shadow, not more than a shadow of excuse for his preposterous -misunderstanding of her ease. Sam followed the crowd, accepted readymade -their principles and their lack of principles, their morality and their -immorality, and to the crowd he followed the theory was faithfulness and -the practice as much licence as they could take without being found out. -They made a boast rather than a secret of their affairs with a shopgirl -or a typist, he had never had an affair and was flattered to think that -he was to have one now. - -He thought that an affair was rather a manly thing to have. - -When Effie spoke, he had a great surprise, then cheapened her -insultingly. He decided that he had been wrong about her. After all, she -was nothing more than a pretty typist with whom he was going to have his -first affair, who was going to give him the opportunity to join in that -sly boasting in hotel smoke-rooms which was the habit of his crowd. He, -too, would rank amongst the sportsmen. - -But, even at his worst, he had the grace to doubt that this was of the -same kind as those other affairs. It had a lowest common measure with -them, but--Effie! Cheapen her as he would, he could not think of her as -cheap enough for that. When others did this thing it was, surely, that -they were giving rein to grossness: it was at least charitable to assume -that the women of their amours were of coarser grain than their wives, -and Effie's was not the coarser grain. He drifted, acquiescing and -puzzled, through the fog of his perplexity. - -Illumination came to him, not in the crowded railway carriage, but -in the trap which drove them from the station to the Inn. It came, he -thought, miraculously, but perhaps the miracle was nothing more than -that a man sees clearly in Westmoreland, and sees through dirt in -Manchester. He worshipped Effie who was sacrificing all to him, and -with abasement at the thought that he had meant, with his pitiful -achievements, to surprise her. - -He, shepherded to joy at the Marbeck Inn had set out to surprise Effie! -That was what made it, from the first dawn of understanding, a perfect -wonder-tale. He had not calculated this; it happened, like a dream, in -the air, unrooted in prevision. But that was all it had, except its rapt -intensity, of the quality of dream. It was dreamlike because it was more -vivid than his experience of life, but it was life. Only, he had not -known these things about life before. He had underestimated life. - -The Inn lay in a saucer of the hills at the end of a road which led to -nowhere. As a road, it finished at the Inn and went on only as a rough -cart-track which dwindled and divided into two trails across the passes. -The fells came down in grandeur to the Inn--it wasn't a place from which -one looked at distant hills, but one where the hills were intimately -there--and half a mile away there was the Lake. - -They were twelve miles from a station, at the end of the world, alone -with happiness. Of course, there were other people at the Inn, but Sam -and Effie were alone: they two with the heather and the bracken and the -pines: they two with love. - -The crowd has not discovered Marbeck. The Inn, the Church, the Vicarage, -down by the Lake the Hall, a farmhouse or two along the road, and that -is all. Six miles away there is a post-office. - -He had followed the crowd on his rare holidays. He knew Blackpool -Promenade and Morecambe and the things to do at Douglas. Here, one did -not do those things. One walked and climbed and lay extended on the -heather or in the perfect isolation of high bracken, and bathed in the -Lake or the streams or the tarns, haphazard, naked, where one liked and -when one liked; and all the time one breathed the air. - -It needed no thunderous knocking on the door to get her out of bed into -the Marbeck air. Sam would go for an early dip in the pool below the Inn -where two streams cascaded into a swimmable basin, and when he returned -she would be up or ready to get up that he might brush her hair, or not -up that she might play at being peevish and be lifted out of bed by him. - -And the food, the good rough plenty of the Marbeck Inn! They ate of it -prodigiously and carried to the hills parcels of sandwiches and cakes -and cheese, shamelessly large, which they emptied to the last crumb, and -eked out in the woods with raspberries and nuts. - -She took him on the Lake, with a rod borrowed from the Inn, and showed -him how to fish. He relished it amazingly, catching little but the -spirit of the thing, happy because of the green reflection of the woods -in the water and because of her. His restlessness found pause in a boat -with Effie and she noted with a keen delight that he did not envy the -expert basket of the postman who cycled to Marbeck in the mornings -and fished till he cycled away with the letters in the afternoon. She -registered as a happy gain that he did not want to shine, or try to beat -that seasoned fisher at his game. Nor did the posts distract them. They -had no letters there. - -They bathed continually, for it was hot, and here again he made no -effort to excel, but let it be admitted that she was the better swimmer. -How much the better she did not let him know. She knew that he found the -water here a purer element than in the old Blackfriars Baths where he -had learnt when he was at school, and she tired less rapidly than he -did. But he was wondrously content to own inferiority. - -She had a deep symbolic faith in bathing. They were here to wash his mud -away, and water was cleaner than talk. Talk, indeed, was but a surface -pattern of their time. They hardly needed it, except as levity to -mitigate a deep communion which sometimes grew almost intolerably sweet. - -It was Blea Tarn, one of the many of that name, which they made -peculiarly theirs, their favourite bathing-place, their best lunch-room. -Effie stretched herself luxuriously on the close-cropped turf, at peace -in mind and body. - -"Sam," she asked, "have you noticed that Frump at the Inn? She sits -behind me at dinner." - -"No," said Sam truthfully. "When I'm with you I notice nobody else. And -I don't know how you saw her if she sits behind you." - -"Eyes in the back of my head," she explained. "You have them when you're -a woman. Do you mind if I give her a shock?" - -"You would if she could see you now," he said. "Yes, but she doesn't -deserve it," said Effie complacently. She surveyed herself and Sam did -the same. She pleased them both, taking her sun-bath there on the mossy -turf. "But I may shock her?" - -"You may do anything," he said. - -"Thank God for that," said Effie joyously, and something glittered in -the sun and fell with a splash far into the tarn. "Too deep to dive -for it," she decided. "Bang goes a shilling and I'm glad. I never liked -pretence." - -"I say!" Sam protested, and then fell silent comprehendingly. - -She looked at him and greeted his silence with a nod. "I shan't catch -cold," she said, holding up her finger where the wedding ring had been. -"I feel better now I'm rid of that." - -The remarkable fact was that Sam understood. His education had -progressed and he knew that it was not for the Frump at the Inn that she -shed the imitation wedding ring which for form's sake he had suggested -she should wear: it was for him. The ring was counterfeit, it was a -false symbol of something which was not true: it had no place in the -Marbeck scheme. - -She curled up happily like a stroked cat, partly in sheer physical -well-being, partly in gladness at her scheme's success. "And to think," -she crooned, "that I am a wicked woman!" - -"Effie," he pleaded, taking her hand. "Don't." - -"As if I care," she said, rolling over on to her back and taking his -hand with her to shade her eyes. "I might have been doing this all -my life." Indeed, in her perfect absence of embarrassment, she might. -"Wicked!" She shied a stone after the wedding ring into the tarn and -laughed at a world well lost. "The Frump won't understand, my dear, but -I think you do." - -"I think I do," said Sam, but the fullness of understanding had not come -to him yet. - -Something, indeed, of her fineness he did perceive, but not its whole, -its utter selflessness. He saw, roughly, what she was after: that it -was here, in Westmoreland when she made her sacrifice, here when she -lay beside him in the sun that she expressed in deed what she had been -baffled to express in Manchester. She had brought him away from the murk -and the fog and the place where they rather like dirt than otherwise -because dirt means money, to where nature was beautiful. She had shown -him beauty there, her beauty and the beauty of sacrifice and the beauty -of things. She had taught him that there was beauty in the world. "We'll -never go back," he cried. - -"No. Not back," she said. "But we will go to Manchester." - -"No. No. We'll build a tabernacle here." - -"Here? No. We've been lawless here. We'll go to Manchester." - -It rang in his ears like the trump of doom. So far they had marched in -thought together, and he imagined that in her scheme they were to be -together to the end. He thought her purpose was that they two were -to work together to give shape to beauty--and no bad exercise in -perception, either, for Sam Branstone. - -That was her purpose, but, as she saw it, they were not to work together -in the sense he meant. Her spirit was to go on with him, but she herself -would stand aside, denying herself the right and the joy of sharing his -work with him in physical partnership. She would have done her share at -Marbeck: she was a sign-post whose direction he was to follow but which -he left behind, not a guide to go with him on his way: and she thought -she was content with that. - -She renounced and she imagined that of the two of them it was she who -was the realist and he who was romantic, he was romantic because he -wanted her with him and she the realist because she remembered Ada. She -was not jealous of Ada no'; if she could not bless Ada, neither did she -damn her. Ada had never held him as Effie held him now. She thought it -satisfied her to know that she held him, and to let the days slip -past uncounted. Nothing is infinite except our human capacity for -self-deception. - -For the present, for the Marbeck heyday, it did satisfy her, and she -went about the business of her tutelage with the unruffled serenity of -fulfilled purpose, almost involuntarily now, thinking little, feeling -everything in the passionate intensity of her sacramental love. It would -end and she would suffer: meantime there were only so many days and -it was no use impairing finite days with regrets that they were not -infinite. - -Thought was for before and afterwards, not for now when she crusaded for -the soul of Sammy Branstone with the mystic rapture of a trance, joyful -like the other sorts of true religion. She would wake up, but she would -have taught Sam his lesson; she would have given him his gleam; and she -was selfless after that.... - -Of course she may have deceived herself. There is spiritual love, but -Effie was flesh and blood. - -Sam, at any rate, was not etherealizing things. He did not appreciate -the happiness of renouncing happiness. He wanted it to last, to go on -with the gay days on the hills when she put health into his body and -health into his mind, when it was all a high-spirited riot without -an undertow. For hours on end, they lived their lives unclouded by a -thought... rude, rough, exhilarating exercise on the glamorous fells -like that illustrious day when they climbed the Pike and lost themselves -in mist and found themselves again just where they wished to be, on the -downward trail by Corner Tarn to Yorkdale: then on the steamer down the -Lake, and the lonely moonlight walk across the Moor to Branley, where -the trap from the Inn met them and took them, comfortably tired, to -Marbeck and a giant's feast. And there were other days, more leisured, -on their Lake or in the woods when more seemed to happen in his soul and -less in his body; and their day of Bathes, in five well separated tarns, -with a makeweight bathe in the Marsland Beck for luck. He wanted it to -last. He had intoxication of the hills, of her, of everything. - -He had not seen, he would not and he could not, see the possibility of -her leaving him. He did not know that leaving him was as fundamental a -part of her plan as coming to him. - -"We'll go hack to Manchester," she said, and it seemed to him that he -was ordered hack to hell. "That's where your business is," she added, a -little wickedly. - -Business! Hadn't she shown him the ugliness of his business, and the -beauty of Marbeck? Why should they ever leave the hills? He had all the -extremity of a convert. - -Effie would say no more, and now, as the end of their time grew near, -the magic seemed to him less magical, because he had to leave it, -because she would not stay for ever in that lonely place, but wanted him -to go where other men lived, in an ugly town, where he had a business -she had taught him to despise, and responsibilities, and Ada. - -He plunged to gloom. What was the use of knowing that there was light if -he must go back to darkness? Was it not treachery in her to come so far -with him, then leave him to himself? - -"Effie!" he pleaded, and she consented to make things clear. - -"Don't you see, Sam? We've done what we came here to do. You've seen, -you know, and you will not slide back. I won't allow you to." - -"You won't allow! Then you'll be there?" - -"I hope my spirit will be always there," she said. "Do you doubt that?" - -"Spirit?" he said. "You're overrating me. You're asking more than I can -give. I cannot give what isn't there." - -"I've put it there," she said. "You cannot fail. You can't forget." - -* "I'd not forget, but I should fail. It's we, my dear. Not I alone, but -you and I. Without you I am lost." - -She made a great concession. "Then, if you're sure----" - -"Quite sure," he said, and she decided to indulge his weakness. - -"Then don't dismiss your secretary. Then I'll be there." - -"As secretary?" - -"Of, of course." She spoke impatiently. All else was at the end. - -That only made it more impossible than ever. She was to be there--and -not to be there. There, in his office where he would see her every day, -where he had only to stretch out his hand to touch her, and where he was -not to touch, where he was to forget that he had ever touched. He -wanted her, all of her, the touch, the glow, the life of her, and she -offered--what? A sexless wraith, a spiritual guide, her presence in -asceticism. - -"No," he said. "No. I'd rather die than that." - -"Oh, death is a good arrangement, Sam, but well be brave." - -"There are limits even to bravery." - -"No," said the realist. "There are none." - -So she sent him, though he did not know that the suggestion came from -her, to gather strength in the peace of the everlasting hills. She -sent him to Hartle Pike to think, to see that she was right. He would -remember Ada there. - -He did remember Ada, but it seemed to him, when he tried to sum up his -recollections, that Ada was not the woman who counted in his life. The -women who counted were before Ada and after Ada. They were Anne and -Effie. - -In the gathering dusk on Hartle Pike he tried to be cool about it and to -see things in proportion. Effie had the supreme advantage of immediacy. -It wasn't easy, whilst he lived encircled by her glamour, to see Ada at -all. - -But he had been Ada's husband for ten years, a long time, more than a -quarter of his life. In all those years there must be something which -he could positively remember of her, some definite characteristic; -something, at any rate, which was individual to her. He searched -and found nothing. She had less individuality in his mind than his -sideboard. He supposed that she kept house, or did she? Didn't he -recall that the cook's wages went up one year, and that the cook became -cook-housekeeper? In that case, and he felt certain of it now, Ada did -nothing. He was equally certain that she was nothing. Since he had grown -accustomed to her demands for money, she was not even an irritant. She -was a standing charge, like the warehouse rent. - -Quite suddenly, as he lingered over that definition of his wife, "a -standing charge," he saw that it was double-edged. It cut at him, and -shrewdly. - -Ada, like Effie, was a woman, and he knew from Effie what a woman could -be. There must, at least, have been possibilities in Ada. Dear God, what -had he done with them if she was nothing now? That was the charge--that -he had married her and that she was nothing: that he had permitted -her to become nothing. He could summon no witness for his defence, he -remembered no occasion when he had fought for Ada, as Effie had fought -for him. And as to sacrifice----! Yet he was supposed to have loved Ada. - -He could have howled for very shame, he could not, in fairness, think -that Ada had given him anything, but writhed that he had thought just -now of Anne and Effie as the two women who counted in his life. They -were the women who gave. Was he to take all from women and render -nothing to a woman in return? If he could say of Ada, his wife these -last ten years, that she did not count, then he was very much to blame -and the path was clear before him. He saw to where the gleam that Effie -gave him pointed. To Ada. It annoyed him desperately that it should -point to Ada. - -He began to descend the hill in a cold fury. The world was hideous, -Marbeck an illusion, Effie a fool. No: Effie was right. One could not -run away from facts and hide one's head amongst the hills, and say there -were no facts. She had not brought him there to obscure facts, but to -reveal them. - -It remained to face them, to return to Manchester with new knowledge and -new courage. It needed courage to turn his back on Marbeck, to go away -from happiness to Ada. - -He stamped upon that thought, as on a snake. It was disloyalty to Effie -who had sacrificed to him and shown him all the beauty of her sacrifice. -He, too, would sacrifice and find a beauty in it. - -He found it extraordinarily difficult to meet Effie, and spent an -unnecessarily long time with the landlord of the Inn. Then he went in to -her. - -"I'm leaving," he stammered. "I couldn't stay another night. By driving -fifteen miles I can catch the South Mail at midnight. I've arranged for -you to come to-morrow." - -He jerked each sentence out painfully. - -Effie met his eyes with her serene gaze. "That's infinitely best," she -said. "I'm proud of you." - -He had seen! It was her victory, complete and unequivocal, and she -was proud of him and of herself. He had got rid of mud and he had seen -beauty. Now he was facing the facts as she would have him face them, -clear-eyed, without romance. Like her, he was a realist, and she was -glad... glad. - -But when he went up to their room to pack his bag, Effie left the Inn -quickly and walked hard. She must put space between them: space, that -she might cry unheard. It seemed to her that if he heard her crying he -would not go, and she wanted him to go. She was a realist. She was... -stifling her sobs amongst the heather; triumphing in victory on Marbeck -Ridge. - -She won, as she had said that she would win. But there were limits to -her bravery. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI--SATAN'S SMILE - - -|THE theory that Satan is a subtle devil is one which will not bear -examination. He is a crude fellow, theatrical, Mephistophelean. It may, -of course, be only because his experience of human nature has made a -cynic of him, and certainly his interferences do not as a rule lack -success because they want delicacy. He attacked Sam with a blatant -effrontery which suggested that he thought Sam's a contemptuously easy -case. - -Sam reached Manchester very early in the morning, and spent the rest -of his broken night in a lugubrious hotel near the station. Manchester -hotels rarely make for gaiety, but it is wonderful what even a short -night will do in the way of altering a point of view. - -He expected to be depressed at the very air of Manchester, and, instead, -he sniffed at it as Mr. Minnifie had once relished the odours of -Greenheys, with an exile's greed. He knew that he ought to feel a -loathing of the office, but found that he opened the letters with more -than his usual zest. He knew that it was wrong, all wrong, and checked -his itching fingers. - -There have been prisoners who, when offered freedom, have pleaded to -remain in the familiar cell. - -Was it like that with him, he wondered, as had as that, the jail-fever -so ineradically in him that he must breathe the tainted air to live? -But, was he offered freedom? He had to go to Ada, who was a mill-stone -and implied the other mill-stones. Unless she was not a mill-stone, -unless he could alter her. In the meantime, at all events, she was not -altered, she wanted the things which she had always wanted; and the -office was their source. It seemed to him that he was still in prison, -with the difference that he now knew that it was prison. He found little -comfort in the knowledge. - -His gaze returned to the pile of correspondence. There seemed nothing -else for it to do, and he saw an envelope, addressed not to the firm, -but to himself, which sent the blood whirling to his head in simple -premonition of its contents. From the postmark (S.W.--Satan's Work?) -he saw that it had only come that morning and had not been waiting -his arrival. He thought of that as of a portent. Suppose he had stayed -another day at Marbeck! He might have been too late. - -It was a careful letter, but the facts were that, owing to the sudden -death of Sir Almeric Pannifer, the seat tor the Sandyford Division -of Marlshire was vacated. Mr. Morphew, who had reduced Sir Almeric's -majority in that agricultural constituency to three hundred was, for -private reasons, unable to stand again ("I know these private reasons," -thought Sam. "Morphew considers he has earned a walkover next time"), -but Headquarters were of opinion that a resolute candidate of strong -personality, etc.... - -In short, he was offered the opportunity to be the figurehead in a -demonstration for the Liberal Party. It was no more than that. Morphew -had doubtless nursed the constituency like a mother, and if at the -landslide of the last election he had done no better than to come within -three hundred of his opponents' votes, the chances of a stranger's -capturing the seat were negative. But it was the stepping-stone, the -_liaison_ between obscurity and the House of Commons. It was what he had -aimed at. - -He tried to believe that the letter did not exhilarate him as it would -have done a fortnight earlier, and Satan, the connoisseur of good -resolutions, smiled his age-long smile. - -He looked across at Effie's chair. "My spirit will be always with you," -she had said; he wondered if it were there now, and tried to see her. -Surely now, if ever, was her time; now when he had so lately left her, -when her scent was in his nostrils and her voice in his ears. Her voice -_was_ in his ears. He heard it clearly. She spoke one word, "Renounce." - -"Yes, but, my dear," he argued, "I have renounced. I've renounced you. -I've come back here and I'm going to Ada, to plumb the depths of her, -to find the good in her, and drag it to the top. I'm going to dive for -pearls," he grew almost picturesque as he cited his intentions towards -Ada in his defence, "and I shall grow short of breath. I'm not doubting -that the pearls are there, because Ada's a woman, and so are you, but I -know that they lie deep and I want breath for such a dive as that. I've -renounced you, and I'm going to make a woman of her; don't I deserve -some recompense to make amends? It's here beneath my hand, and I have -only to say 'Yes.' Effie," he pleaded, "if you knew what this meant to -me, you wouldn't frown. It's not backsliding." He denied that it was -backsliding, well knowing that it was. "It's politics, I know, and you -don't like politics. You told me women knew about politics now. Oh, -but you don't know, you don't. Smile at me, Effie, smile as I have seen -women smile when men talked of golf. I know we men are babies, and so do -you. Give me my game. It's nothing but a hobby, like golf, but this is -mine, and I want it so much. Ada is my work and this is my play, and -just as necessary. It will not be a hindrance to what I have to do for -Ada, it will be a help. Effie, tell me that I may have my help." - -He tried to blarney a consenting smile out of the figure of Eflie he -imagined sitting in her chair. He had no difficulty in imagining her -there; he saw her, too easily, too really to imagine a false Effie. He -could not imagine, try as he would, that he had won consent from her. He -was too near the real Effie for that. And Effie said "Renounce." - -Then his cashier came into the office and routine swallowed him for -the day. A score of little points had arisen in his absence and must -be discussed and settled. The thought occurred to him that if he -telegraphed to London in the morning, Headquarters would hear from him -as soon as if he wrote to-day. They might expect a wire to-day; well, -they would not get it. He crammed the letter into his pocket and decided -that he would sleep upon it before he sent them his reply. - -And if Satan still smiled it was wistfully, as if he regretted his lost -subtlety; but there was still Ada, the married woman. - -If Ada was nothing else, she was a married woman; in a world where many -fail, she had succeeded; she had got married, and, like other people who -have reached their earthly paradise, she did not know what to do when -she got there, and did nothing. She stopped growing when she married. - -The emptiness of her life was a thing to marvel at. She slept and ate -and shopped. She was spared the ordinary duties of running a house, and -the trials of servants, because the cook, an elderly, reliable woman, -took (it seemed) a fancy to Sam and became a fixture first and a -housekeeper second, taking from Ada's shoulders the burden of engaging -her underling. She had two "At homes" a week, and went to other people's -"At homes." On Sunday, she went to church, where one can display new -clothes to a larger audience than at the largest private "at home." -She killed the evenings somehow, in company with a friend, or with the -fashion papers. - -Evenings interested her little; they were the time when Sam was often, -but not too often, at home. He was not, strictly, a nuisance, because -he never asked her, after a first experiment, to entertain a business -acquaintance, and did that at hotels. Nor did he ask her to entertain -him. Usually, he read a manuscript, or worked out costs or did something -which made no demand on Ada, except that she be reasonably quiet. She -was very quiet with Sam, for the reason that she had nothing to say. - -She did not go out much in the evenings and told her friends that this -was because she liked to be at home with her husband. They were supposed -to deduce an idyll of conjugal bliss where proximity was perfect -happiness. The real reasons were, first, pure laziness and, second, her -shoulders. Other married women might expose their shoulders in low-cut -dresses, but not Ada. It wasn't modest. Her shoulders were ugly. - -She never went to see Peter, who had given her offence by suggesting the -blessedness of work. He had dared to lecture her, a married woman, -and she let fly at him in such fashion that he never tried again, he -deplored his weakness, but he gave her up. The cobbler's child is the -worst shod, and something analogous often happens with the daughters of -the clergy: Ada was, perhaps, the worst of Peter's flock. He knew and, -knowing the hopes he had had of this marriage, suffered at its failure, -but silently, confessing impotence. There were always books in which he -could forget, and the peace which had come to his house since Ada left -it. It is not easy to be saintly all the time, and her outrageous attack -had been, humanly speaking, unpardonable. - -"There must be something in her," he told himself, as he left the -office, "and I've to find it." - -The day had, naturally, after an absence, been unusually busy, and had -given him no time to think. He was bursting with intention, but it was -vague, unformed, though urgent and doubly urgent because of the letter -in his pocket. If he could make a woman of Ada, if that evening he could -make a fair start, perhaps he could conjure up the figure of Effie, his -ghostly counsellor, with a smile on her face consenting to his standing -for the seat. - -"Oh," Ada greeted him, "I thought you were not coming back till -Saturday." - -"I wasn't," he said. "Something changed my plan a little. I wanted to -get home." - -She looked at him resentfully. There was no reason why he should not -change his plan and come home two days before she expected him, but -she resented the unexpected. And there was something about him which -appeared strange. - -"Tell me you are glad to see me," he said. - -"Well, it wasn't to be till Saturday," she repeated stupidly. - -"Are you thinking of dinner?" he asked. "Kate will manage something." - -She was not thinking of dinner, and no doubt Kate would manage -something. It was Kate's business. - -"You're wearing funny clothes," she said. - -"Country clothes," he explained. "You see, I've been in the country." - -"Oh." She was not curious. - -"Yes. In the country. It was rather beautiful, Ada." - -"I nearly went with Mrs. Grandage to the 'Métropole,' at Blackpool, but -I don't like dressing for dinner." - -"Blackpool's not beautiful," he said. "Ada, I want to talk to you, and I -hardly know how to begin, except that I want you to understand that I'm -in earnest. It's a serious matter." - -"Money?" said Ada, sitting up sharply in her chair. - -"Not money. We've both been wrong about money, I think. We've both taken -it too seriously." - -"If you're going to tell me that something has gone wrong with your -money, it's very serious indeed." - -"It hasn't. No. This is a larger thing than money. I want, if I can, -to alter things between us, Ada. How can I put it? There's your -father----" - -"I never want to hear his name again," she interrupted. "He insulted -me." - -"You go to church, you know; you listen to him there." - -"People would talk if I didn't go. I needn't listen to him when I am in -church." - -"He's a good old man. I'm sorry we have drifted from him. But I'll not -press that now. If the rest comes right, that will come right with it. -It might even come so right as to include my mother." - -"My word!" she said, "you _are_ digging up the past. I don't see how you -could call things right when they include me with a charwoman." - -"Ada!" he protested. - -"It's what she is." - -"By her own choice. But please forget that, Ada. Yes, it's true that I -am digging in the past. I want to go back to see where we went wrong." - -"Went wrong? When who went wrong?" - -"Why, you and I." - -"I didn't know we had gone wrong." She looked at him. "You look well," -she decided, "but you can't be." - -"I am better than I've ever been," he said, "and stronger, and if need -be I shall use my strength, but I hope the need won't come for that. -Ada, can you tell me this? Can you tell me what it is you want?" - -"You're sure it's all right about your money?" she asked anxiously. - -"Yes, of course it's right," he said impatiently. - -"Then I don't know that I want anything. I could do with more, -naturally. Who couldn't?" - -"More money. Not more beauty? Not a new purpose? Not something to live -for?" - -"I don't know what you're talking about, Sam. You're very strange -to-night." - -"I hardly know myself," he confessed. "I know it's all confused, and I -ought to have got things out of the tangle before I spoke to you. But -I thought you might have seen and so be able to help me out. No: that's -all right, Ada," he went on as she glared at him indignantly. "I'm -blaming no one but myself. It's my responsibility. You don't see it yet, -and I must make you see." - -"If a thing's there, I can see it." - -"Oh, it's there," he said. "We can both see that. It's only the cure for -it that isn't plain." - -"What's there?" - -"The failure of our marriage, if I must put it into words." - -"Failure! But we _are_ married. What do you mean?" What Ada meant was -that the ring was on her finger and the marriage certificate in her -desk. Failure in marriage, if it meant anything to her, meant failure -to get married, a broken engagement, and since their engagement had not -been broken, since they had been formally and legally married in church, -there could be no failure. - -"We didn't exult in marriage," he tried. - -"Exult? I'm sure I was the proudest woman in the parish the day I -married you." It was true. "But afterwards, afterwards!" - -"Oh," she cried, "are you throwing it in my teeth that I didn't have a -baby? Was that my fault?" - -"No, no. But it might have saved us, all the same, and when the baby did -not come we made no effort to save ourselves. There's a light somewhere -in every one of us and you and I have quenched our lights. They may be -small, they may not be a great light like your father's, or... or the -light which I have seen in the country, they may be nothing but a feeble -glow, and we can only give our best. You and I have not given ours. We -have not tried to find our light, but now--now that we have discovered -what has been wrong with us all this while--we can try, and together. We -can all of us give something to the world, not children in our case, but -the something else which we were made to give. We don't know what it -is that you can give and I can give, and we've left it late to begin to -find out, but it is not too late, is it, Ada? Ada," he pleaded, "it is -not too late?" - -She looked at the clock. "If you want to wash your hands before dinner -you'd better do it now," she said, "or you will be late." She rose, but -before she left him, she had a moment of illumination. She thought she -saw what he was driving at, that he must have seen some happy family -while he was away and came back with the cry of the child less man on -his lips. "I suppose this means," she said, "that you want me to adopt a -child. That's what you mean by giving. Well, I won't do it, Sam. I've -something else to do with my time than to look after another woman's -brat." - -"What have you to do?" he asked. "What is it that you want to do?" - -"To eat my dinner," she said. She had a healthy appetite. Perhaps that -was why she wanted nothing else. - -He stood by the door when she had gone, and his hand strayed to his -pocket as though it sought a talisman. He felt the letter crinkle, then -tore his hand away. Ada was work for a man. There wasn't room for Ada -and for politics. "Deeply regret private reasons compel total withdrawal -from politics." Yes, that was the wording of the telegram which he would -send: it was best to be thorough, and, plainly, the man who had Ada in -hand had no time to spare on a hobby or an ambition or whatever it was -that politics represented for him. He had other work to do in the world. - -He stamped upon the ruins of a hope which came to birth ten years ago, -and which he had carried with him in his heart of hearts and, as the -letter in his pocket proved, not a fool's hope either. Yes, he had loved -that hope which was born on his honeymoon. - -It occurred to him that in all he had said, or tried to say, to Ada he -had not mentioned love. It had not seemed the right word for use in a -conversation with Ada, but, he reflected savagely, he had loved his hope -of politics from the time of the honeymoon onwards: and from that time -he had not loved Ada. - -Was that true? Had he neglected the substance for the shadow, used love -upon his hope and not upon his wife? If he had his talk with her again, -could he honestly begin it in another way? Could he begin with love? He -knew that he could not, and squared his shoulders to the fact. It was a -case, then, for the more courage. What was it Effie had said? "There are -no limits to bravery." He wondered, but he meant to see. - -And Satan's smile had faded. There is more joy amongst the devils over -one sinner who back-slideth.... But not this time, Mephistopheles! Effie -was winning still. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII--THE OLD CAMPAIGNER - - -|EFFIE and Sam knew that they ought to be happy in the weeks which -followed, because to be good is, theoretically, to be happy: but they -were not happy. Sam, indeed, was less unhappy than Effie because he had -sunk into one of those leaden, numbed moods of his which he knew of old -as the stage preliminary to his brightest inspirations, and he could -wait resignedly if not happily for the inspiration to emerge. - -Decidedly, he thought, he needed inspiration, He had to discover Ada, to -search for her reality, and, having found it, to drag it out and set it -in the forefront of her being. A big task: one whose success he must not -jeopardize again by rushing at her prematurely without distinct plan. He -had only made her suspicious of him by his first impulsive attempt, and -time must undo the mischief before a return to the attack was either -discreet or opportune. - -He waited, but he did not savour life. When he had quickened Ada, life -would, no doubt, be worth the living, but, meantime, it dragged. He told -himself that he was too young yet at this new business of giving to feel -the joy of it. Certainly, he was not joyful, but he was resolute. There -was a grim tightening of the lips and a dogged look in the eyes which -proclaimed that this was Samuel, the son of Anne. In this mood he could -eat Dead Sea apples and feel they were a proper diet. Politics had gone, -and with them any interest in the Council. And he did not know what to -do about his business. He wanted to ask Effie, and Effie was not there -to be asked. - -It was not that she did not want to be there or that she did not suffer -for her absence. Effie was not numb, and she suffered keenly, but she -thought her absence strengthened Sam. When he came down from Hartle -Pike with his resolution formed she took it that her scheme, as she had -planned it, was complete and that she could forget her weak concession -to return to the office. She was to be there in spirit, and spirit is -strong though flesh is weak. Effie at the office in the flesh would have -wanted to hug Sam and to kiss him, things which it is unbefitting to do -in well-conducted offices. And, of course, she suffered. She had always -known that she would suffer, but not that it would be as bad as this. - -The office was a temptation every day: to go there was to be with him, -it was to find alleviation for her fever, it was to be at peace: but -it was also to fling away hard-won success, and she resisted. That -resistance engrossed her. It was all that she was capable of doing; it -demanded all her strength. - -The obvious, the practical thing, if she was not to go to Sam's office, -was to go to someone else's, to work, both as an antidote and as a means -of livelihood, and she could not rouse herself to do it. She pawned some -of the jewellery which remained to her, memorials of her father's lavish -past, sent the weekly dole to her mother and lived upon the rest. She -had sunk to this, Effie the crusader, Effie the advocate of courage! -With Mélisande, she told herself she was not happy. She was not happy, -she was not well, and she wanted, wanted Sam. She stayed at home lest -she should go to him and ruin all that she had done. It could not last -and she knew it could not last, but neither did she see the end of it. - -Then began the game of consequences: the moves of two pieces, one a -pawn, the other the knight called Dubby Stewart. - -It is a frumpish world, a world where the Frumps, of one or other sex -or of neither sex, in one or other of their manifestations, have a great -deal to do with the ordering of things. That is why it is politic, for -one's ease, never to ignore the Frumps and never, never to challenge -them by an act of gallant defiance such as shying an imitation wedding -ring into the waters of Blea Tarn. - -Effie held, of course, that since she was in any case defying the Frumps -it was honest to defy them in form as well as in substance, but it is -only certain kinds of honesty which are the best policy. - -The Frump who sat behind Effie at meals at the Inn (her name was -Miss Entwistle) had doubted the genuineness of that ring, and when it -disappeared her doubts went with it. The hussy, she saw, had realized -that her ring deceived nobody, and was brazening it out in the shameless -way of hussies. - -Women are wicked, but men are only weak; so that, though Miss Entwistle -faced Sam at dinner from the next table, it was some days before -she could spare her attention from the back of the greater sinner and -transfer it to the face of the lesser. She could stare to her heart's -content; it did not matter to Sam, who had only eyes for Effie: and the -stare of Miss Entwistle was very persistent indeed. It was rude, but -it was also pensive. It seemed to be looking for something it could not -find. - -She could not place him and was annoyed because she felt certain she had -seen him before. She got up early more than once to read the names on -the morning's letters, but did not find one which she could associate -with Sam, and came home to Manchester a disappointed woman. Her failure -to identify him spoiled her holiday. - -But all things come to her who waits, especially, as the world is made, -to Frumps, and Miss Entwistle came by the knowledge she craved one -afternoon when her friend Mrs. Grandage took her to Ada Branstone's "At -Home." - -The two photographs of Sam in Ada's drawing-room were intended to sustain -her reputation for perfect domesticity. She couldn't live without -him; she drew her very breath from him when he was there, and from his -photographs when he was not. And since one was full-face and the other -profile, they supplied Miss Entwistle with reliable identification of -the sinner of Marbeck. - -It was heavenly. Hers was the power and the glory of initiating a -scandal, of exploding a bomb--which would certainly disturb the peace -of quite a number of people, of figuring in a maelstrom of backbiting -tea-parties as the one authentic eyewitness. It was irresistible, -besides plain duty to her injured hostess. - -The drop of gall in her brimming honey-pot was that she did not know -Ada well enough to tell her the secret by herself, but must share the -excitement of that first surprise with Mrs. Grandage. She whispered with -her friend for some close-packed, hectic moments, and the two ladies -stubbornly outstayed the rest of the callers. - -They told Ada with a wonderful tenderness, watching her the while as -cats watch mice, and Ada did not disappoint them. She cast no doubt on -Miss Entwistle's story; she did not tell her that she knew Sam was in -London at the time because she had had letters from him. Though she had -nothing in the world but her marriage, she made no effort to protect its -reputation. She exhibited herself to them in all the fury of her jealous -rage, so that naturally, seeing her instant belief in what they told -her, the ladies formed their own conclusion. - -"It is not the first time," is what the eyes of Mrs. Grandage said, and -the eyes of the spinster looked back at her sepulchrally and said, "It -never is." - -Ada was married. She had the title of wife, and unfaithfulness on her -part was as far removed from her imagination as from her opportunity. -She was married to Sam; she was the woman in possession, with the -title-deeds in her desk and the seal upon her finger, and this was -flagrant outrage. It struck at the roots of her complacency, and -complacency was life. Yet she hadn't the wits to confound these -iconoclasts with one little uninventive lie. It needed only that to -abash Miss Entwistle--men's faces are often alike, she knew perfectly -well that he was in London: anything would have done, anything would -have been better than this abject, immediate betrayal of her citadel. -She struck her flag without firing a shot, and lapsed into a slough of -inarticulate anger. - -"What shall I do? What shall I do?" she wailed as soon as she was able -to speak coherently. - -"That," said Miss Entwistle, "that, you poor dear, is your business." - -She had announced the glad tidings, she had found a titillating pleasure -in watching Ada's reception of them and now she was eager to be off, -to spread the news, to be the first that ever burst into her friends' -drawing-rooms with word of a glorious scandal. She pleaded another call -and escaped to her orgy. - -"I'll make him pay for this," said Ada viciously. - -"My dear," advised Mrs. Grandage, who had a husband of her own, "I hope -you will be tactful." - -"Tactful:" blazed Ada. "Tactful, when--oh! oh!" She screamed her sense -of Sam's enormity. - -"Yes, but you know, men will be men." - -"It isn't men. It's Sam. After all I've done for him! Oh!" and this was -a different "oh" from the others. It made Mrs. Grandage look up sharply. -"The beast! The beast! This explains it all. Ethel, that man came home -to me and asked me to adopt his child. He had the face. Of course I -didn't know it was his own he was speaking of, but I see it now. Ethel, -what shall I do?" - -They seemed to Mrs. Grandage to be drifting into deeper waters than she -had skill to swim in. "I should take advice," she said, meaning nothing -except that neither by advising nor anything else was she going to be -entangled in this affair. - -"A solicitor's?" asked Ada, catching at the phrase. "Yes. Naturally. -Sam shall be made to pay to the uttermost farthing." Her idea of legal -obligations were, perhaps, not vaguer than other people's. - -"Not a solicitor's," said Mrs. Grandage in despair. "At least, my dear, -not yet. Your father's." - -"Yes. My father made me marry Sam. He brought Sam home and threw him -at me. I will go to my father. Of course, in any case, I can't stay -here." - -Mrs. Grandage made a last rally for wordly-wisdom. "Couldn't you bring -yourself to see your husband first?" she asked. - -"See him!" said Ada heroically. "I will never see him again as long as I -live." - -The visitor buttoned her glove. After all, if Ada chose to make a fool -of herself it was no business of hers, and she had tried her best, if a -resolutely non-committal attempt can be a best. She kissed Ada with real -sympathy. - -"My dear," she said, "I'd give a great deal to undo this." And by "this" -she did not mean the peccadillo of Sam Branstone, but the pruriency of -Miss Entwistle. She was an experienced woman, and angry with herself for -having listened to the temptress and for aiding and abetting her. - -When Mrs. Grandage referred in after years to "that woman," it was -understood that she was thinking of Miss Entwistle. - -Ada saw her to the door, and went straight to the kitchen. - -"Kate," she said to her cook, "Mr. Branstone has disgraced himself, he's -been unfaithful. I am going to my father's. Please tell him that I know -everything and that I shall not return." She had no reticence. - -"Very well, mum," said the Capable cook. - -The result was that when Sam went into the drawing-room that night, he -found Anne Branstone sitting there, darning his socks, and perhaps it -was because she was happy that she did not look a day older than when he -saw her last; perhaps charring suited her; or perhaps living for an idea -had kept her young. The idea was that, some day, Sam would need her. - -It wasn't a miracle: there was nothing more wonderful about it than the -fact that Anne was a very good friend of the cook, Kate Earwalker: but -Sam stood gaping helplessly. In his own house, at his age, and after all -these years he stood before his mother, the intruder, like a schoolboy -who knows himself at fault. She lacked nothing of the old ascendancy. - -"Well," she said, "you're nobbut happy when you've got folks talking of -you. But you don't look thriving on it, neither." - -"Mother," he gasped, "what's this?" - -"It's you that will tell me that," said Anne. - -"Where's Ada?" - -"Gone to her father's, and none coming back, she says. Says you're -unfaithful and told Kate she knows everything. What is it, Sam? What's -everything?" - -"Who brought you here?" - -"Kate did," said Anne calmly. "Why, Sam, did you think I've lived with -nothing better than what George Chappie and the papers told me of you? -I'd a fancy for the truth, and it's not a thing to get from men. Kate's -been a spy, like." - -"Has she!" he cried. - -"She has, and you'll bear no grudge for that. You'd have lived in a -pig-sty and fed like a pig if I'd none sent Kate to do for you, but I've -come myself this time. It looks summat beyond Kate." - -"But what's happened? What is it?" - -"You know better than me what it is. You've got folks talking of you and -they've talked to Ada. Unfaithful, she told Kate, and she's gone home to -Peter's." - -"She must come back," said Sam. - -"And why?" asked Anne. "Because folk talk? To stop their mouths?" - -"No. Because I want her here. They're talking, are they? Well, they -can." - -Anne looked at him. "You don't care if they do?" - -"Why should I?" - -"And you a politician?" - -"Oh, politics!" he said. "That's gone." It had, and, as he saw -thankfully, at the right time. He tried to imagine how differently this -would have affected him if it had come in the midst of the Sandyford -election. Electors postulate respectability in a candidate. But that -had gone, and gossip did not matter now. The real things mattered. Ada -mattered. - -"You've had a move on, then," she said, and neither her look nor tone -suggested that she found the move displeasing. - -"I daresay," he said carelessly. "But Ada must come back. I've got to -get her back." - -"Happen she'll come and happen she won't, and I'd have a better chance -of knowing which if you'd told me what's upset her." - -"What did she say?" he asked. "Unfaithful? Yes, it's true. I've been -unfaithful for ten years. I've never been faithful and I've never been -fair. I've thought of the business and politics when I ought to have -been thinking of her. I worked at them and I didn't work at Ada. Don't -blame Ada, mother. I'll not have that. You never liked her, and you -prophesied a failure. It's been a failure, but I made it one; I let -it drift when I ought to have taken hold. But it isn't going to be a -failure now. I've given up the other things and I've come back to -my job, the job I neglected, the job I did not see was there at all -until----" He paused. - -"Till what?" she asked. - -"Till Effie showed it me." - -"Effie?" she asked. "Oh! Then there's something in their talk." - -"Something? There's everything, and everything that's wrong-headed and -abominable. That's where this hurts me, mother. They'll be saying wrong -things of her, of Effie." He began to see that gossip mattered. - -"What would be the right things to say?" asked Anne dryly. "Who's Effie? -And do you mean her when you say you've been unfaithful for ten years?" - -"I meant what I said. That I've put other things in front of Ada." - -"Including Effie?" - -"Effie's a ray from heaven," he said. - -"Oh, aye," said Anne sceptically. - -"Look here, mother, you're not going to misunderstand?" - -"Not if you can make me understand." - -"I can try," he said, "and the chances are that I shall fail. The only -thing that will make you understand Effie is to see her." - -"Try the-other ways first," said Anne grimly. - -"She made me see. She gave me everything. She gave me herself. I found -myself because of her and I'm only living in the light she gave me." -It was difficult to find words for what Effie was and meant to him. "I -don't know if I can ever explain," he faltered. - -"Go on. You're doing very well." He was--Anne's insight helping her. - -"It's like rebirth. It's as if I'd lived till I met her six months ago -with crooked eyesight. I didn't see straight, and then, mother----" He -hesitated as a man will hesitate before voicing a profound conviction, -afraid lest he be thought absurd. "Then I found salvation, I've been a -taker and we're here to give. I took from you------" - -"Leave that," said Anne curtly. "I know it." - -"And I didn't," he replied. "It seems to me that I knew nothing till -Effie come." - -"Why do you want Ada back?" - -"It's time I gave to her." - -"Did Effie show you that?" - -"Yes." - -Anne was silent for a minute. Then: "I'll have a look at Effie," she -said. "You can take me to her." - -"I can't do that," said Sam. "We're not to meet." - -She pondered it, and him. "Kate told me you were looking ill," she said -with apparent inconsequence. "Well, if you can't take me to Effie, I -must go alone. I'm going, either road. Give me her address and I'll go -to-morrow." - -He wrote it down. "Effie Mannering," she read. "Aye," she said grimly, -"I'll give that young woman a piece of my mind." - -"Mother," he said, alarmed, "you'll not be rude to her! You've not -misunderstood?" - -"Maybe," said Anne, "but I don't think so. I think I understand that -you've got your silly heads up in the clouds and it'll do the pair of -you a lot of good to have them brought to earth. I'll know for sure when -I've set eyes on her." - -"You'll see the glory of her, then," he said defiantly. - -"Shall I?" she asked. "If you ask me, Sam, there's been a sight too -much glorification about this business. It shapes to me," she went on, -thwarting the protest which was leaping to his lips. "It shapes to me -like a plain case of love. Aye, and love's too rare a thing in this -world to be thrown away. I was never one to waste." - -So Anne Branstone took control, and Sam sat staring at her helplessly -like a man who dreams. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII--THE KNIGHT'S MOVE - - -|IT might very well have occurred to Sam to retort that he and Effle had -not "their silly heads in the clouds" any more fantastically than had -Anne her self when she retreated to Madge's and watched her loved son -only through the eyes of Kate Earwalker. But it did not occur to him -and, if it had, Effie at least would have disproved the retort. Effle -outstripped them all. - -The truth was that as soon as Effle knew what was the matter with -her she was not appalled, dismayed, ashamed, or any of the things -appropriate to a young lady in her situation, but simply and purely -exultant. Unhappiness fell from her like a cloak, and left her radiant -with joy. And she had called herself a realist! - -She was a realist; she was engrossed with fact, not with the -circumstantial detail of her fact. She hardly wanted Sam now, she had -him, she was miles and leagues from care, alone in a shining world with -her transcendant fact. Courage returned in full flood to her and she -brimmed with bravery and pride. - -She was out of work and must find work quickly which would pay her -well. She was going to suffer, she was going (to put it mildly) to -be misunderstood. What did it matter, what did anything matter in -comparison with her exultant fact? She was going to be the mother of his -child. Marbeck was not a dream; Marbeck was coming true, and the truth -and the glory of it swept her to a heaven which only women know. - -Perhaps she was a trespasser within the gates, but they had opened to -her and they would not close. She might be prosecuted for her trespass. -Let them try! You cannot hurt invulnerability. She was a world within a -world, self-satisfying, self-complete, not so much derisive of the other -world as utterly forgetful of it. Her cloud of glory hid it from her -eyes, and if she peeped at all through breaches in the cloud she -saw people as one sees them on the road beneath a mountain-top, like -crawling ants. - -A knock came at her door, and she looked bemused through a gap in the -clouds into the eyes of Dubby Stewart, but it was not to look at the -world which did not understand. It was to look at Dubby, who loved her. - -And Dubby knew. It had not been difficult to know. She had refused him, -she had let him see why, and Sam and Effie had been away from Manchester -at the same time. It was not precise evidence, but he had written -leaderettes on evidence not more exact and did not doubt the facts. They -had kept him from her till now, but he could keep away no longer. And -before he went into her room he knew all there was to know. - -"Effie," he said, "I'm not sure if I'm welcome." - -"Oh, but you are," she said. "I ought to have written to you long ago. -I've been home weeks from my holiday." It was no use trying to see -Dubby as a crawling ant, and she gave her hand in friendship. - -"That breaks the ice," he said. - -"If there was ice to break." - -"Well," he reminded her, "I said I didn't love and run away, and I did -more or less run away. I came one Sunday because I said I would, but -I couldn't do it again. The trouble with me is that I ought to be a -journalist, and after about twelve years of it I'm still human." - -"Dubby! I'm sorry!" - -"All right, Effie; I didn't come to bleat. That's only an apology for -not coming before. And now I'm here----" - -"You'll have tea," she said quickly, going to the bell, but he caught -her hand before she pulled. - -"Do you want to put a table between us? Do, if you must"--he released -her hand--"but I'd hoped it would not come to that. Shall I ring the -bell, Miss Mannering?" - -"You needn't punish me by calling names. Don't ring." She armed herself -with courage, and turned to face him. - -"Thanks. Really thanks, Effie. I know I'm a bore, but if the old song -has a good tune to it I don't see why I shouldn't sing twice. It _is_ -a good tune," he went on with a passion which belied his surface -flippancy. "It's the best I have in me, which mayn't be saying much, -because I've a rotten ear for music, but this tune's got me badly, like -the diseases they play on the barrel-organs, and I can't lose it. I -get up to it in the morning, and I go to bed to it at night, and it's -ringing in my ears all day. Effie, I'm not much of a cove and I've -flattered myself that sincerity departed from me when I cut my wisdom -teeth. I tried to live up to that belief and it's only half come off. -I've tried to make a raree-show of life, to sit outside and watch the -puppets play, and life's won. Life's got me down, and I'm inside now. -I'm where you've put me, and a good place too: I'm near the radiator and -it warms the cockles of my heart. But I never liked radiators. Mind you, -I can do with them and I can be grateful for them. If a season ticket -for life for a seat near the radiator is all that you can give me, I can -keep a stiff upper lip and thank you for what I've got. But I never had -a passion for radiators, and I do like fires. There's life in a fire -Must it be just the radiator, or can you make it hearth and home for -us?" - -"Dubby," she said, "I told you before." - -"I know. Nothing doing in second thoughts?" She shook her head. - -"All right. I only got drunk last time. This time it will need the binge -of my life. I'd cherished hopes of this." - -"Drunk," she said reproachfully. "With a stiff upper lip?" - -"Oh, I dunno," he said. "It takes a stiff upper lip to get me to the -dentist's, but I make him use an anæsthetic all the same. Still, if -you'd rather I didn't----" - -"I think it would be braver." - -"Right. But I'd like to hit something. There's nobody you'd like me to -hit, is there?" - -"Of course not." - -"Sure?" he said. He had it well in mind that somebody ought to hit Sam. -"Let's get back to where we were before I made a stump oration--to when -I came in and you looked at me like a friend." - -"I hope I always shall." - -"All right. It's the privilege of a friend to be impertinent, and I'm -rather good at impertinence. You see, Effie old thing, you're supposed -to be one of the world's workers, and you're not at the office to-day. -You haven't been at the office for weeks. I know, because I gave Florrie -half a crown." Florrie was the maid. "And it isn't that you've come into -money, because Florrie tells me you've been starving yourself." - -"I've not." Effie was indignant. She had not starved herself. While -all was dreary, food had certainly not attracted her, but neither had -anything else; and she expected to take a lively interest in it now. -"Really I've not." - -"What you say goes," he said. "And Florrie imagined it, but she didn't -imagine the part about your not going to the office, and if anything's -wrong there, don't forget that I know Branstone pretty well. I can talk -to him like a father." - -"There's nothing wrong, anywhere," she said, and, indeed, things were -not only not wrong but exuberantly right, only she could not tell him -why. - -"You're sure of that?" he persisted. "There's nothing you can tell a -pal? Nothing you can tell me, when you know I'd walk through fire for -you? Damn it, I can't pretend. I'm not a friend. I'm a man in love, and -I ask you to be fair." - -"Dubby," she pleaded, "don't make things too hard for me." - -"Is it I who make them hard?" he asked, "oris it Sam?" - -She looked at him amazed, and certainly Effie was stupid then, or, at -least, too wrapped up in her great preoccupation to be alert. "Oh, don't -be petty," she said. "I didn't debit you with jealousy." - -"No? No? And yet I have a certain right to be jealous of him. I think -you won't deny it." - -It wasn't what he said or even the deep bitterness of his tone, it -was something in his eyes, like a hurt animal's, which made her quite -suddenly, and as a thing apart from his words, see what had happened. -But she did not see even now the whole of Dubby's love and the beauty of -his knightly move. - -"You know!" she said. "Dubby, you knew when you spoke just now. You knew -that Sam and I----" - -"I told you I had a word with Florrie." - -"Florrie?" she asked. "What could Florrie tell you?" - -"Nothing," he said, "that she knew she told. Guessing is another of the -things I'm good at." - -She saw it then, to what perceptiveness his love had brought him, to -what high action. It had sped her cloud and she saw, clear-eyed as he, -his fine, impeccable fidelity. - -"Oh! And I called you petty! I told you you were jealous. Dubby, I -didn't know. You'd have done that for me!" - -"Well, you see," he apologized, "I'm in love with you." - -"Why can't we order love? Why does it come all wrong?" she cried. - -"It hasn't come so wrong but I can put it right for you," he said, -making his offer again. - -"I? I didn't mean myself," she said, wondering. "Love's not come wrong -to me. It's you I'm thinking of." - -"But is it right for you?" he asked. - -"Oh, yes," she smiled. "Terrifically." - -"Is it? When Sam has not been near you in weeks?" It was wedged in his -mind that Sam was playing the villain. "When you are here alone, do you -see him, Effie?" - -"No. That's why it's all so right." - -He shook his head, perplexed. "It may be good metaphysics, but it sounds -bad sense. I'll be quite honest with you. I'm suffering pretty badly -from suppressed desire to horsewhip Sam Branstone. I think he deserves -it, I know I'd enjoy it and I think you're trying to head me off it. I -daresay it's primitive of me, but it will do me good and I don't mind -telling you I need good doing to me. Effie, mayn't I go and horsewhip -Sam?" - -"If anybody's going to horsewhip Sam," said a voice, "it's me. I'm in -charge of this job, not you, my lad." - -They had not seen Anne come in. They saw her now, a little old woman -of the working class in her best clothes, with a bugled cape and cotton -gloves, elastic-sided boots and a quaint bonnet tied with ribbon beneath -her chin, and, unaccountably, she filled the room. They would have -passed her in the street without a second glance as one of the throng, -at face value insignificant; but this was not Anne in the street. It -was Anne in arms for Sam, and when Effie and Stewart compared notes -afterwards they each confessed to having had the same thought: that -their eyes were traitors and that what they saw was fantasy and what -they felt was real. - -"I'm Sam's mother," she introduced herself, "and it's like enough I were -overfond of him when he was a lad and didn't thrash enough, but I'm not -too old to start again. You'll be Effie? Aye, I've come round here to -put things in their places. They've got a bit askew amongst the lot of -you, and what I heard when I came in won't help." She looked accusingly -at Dubby. "You'll be her brother, I reckon?" - -It seemed to him the best way out. Anne had come to "put things in their -places," and she reckoned he was Effie's brother, which, now he thought -of it, was exactly his place. Brotherhood was thrust upon him, but he -thought he had achieved it. Plainly, for all Effie's enigmas, there was -nothing else for him, and he let Anne put him in his place. - -"Yes," he said, without a glance at Effie, "her brother." - -"You're a clean-limbed family," she complimented them, and Dubby stole -a look at Effie, half humorous and half defying her to contradict his -brotherhood. "Well, I came to see Effie, but I'll none gainsay that her -brother has a right to stay and listen, if he'll listen quiet." - -"Yes," said Dubby, still challenging Effie, "her brother has a right." -And Effie did not deny him. She had her courage, but the unexpectedness -of Anne and the force of her, as if for all these years she had been -winding up her will, which now came into play like a spring immensely -braced in super-tightened coils, caused her to want an ally and she -agreed that Dubby had a right if not the one conferred on him by Anne. - -"Won't you sit, Mrs. Branstone?" she said. - -"I was wondering when I should hear your voice," said Anne. "You're not -a talker, lass." - -"No," said Effie. - -"More of a doer." Effie was wondering whether that was praise or -condemnation, when Anne added: "I like you the better for that, though -it's a good voice. I haven't heard it much, but I've heard it. I haven't -seen you much, but I've seen enough. I'm on your side, Effie." She -astonished them both by rising as if to go. - -"But," said Dubby, "is that all?" - -Anne looked with humorous sympathy at Effie. "That's men all over, isn't -it?" she said. "They're fond of calling women talkers, but a man's not -happy till a thing's been put in words. Me and your sister understand -each other now." - -"I'm not quite certain that I do," said Effie. - -"Well, maybe you're right," conceded Anne. "It's a fact that I told Sam -last night I was coming round here to give you a piece of my mind, and I -don't notice that I'm doing it. The need seemed to go when I set eyes -on you, and I'm pretty full of a thing I want to do, only I've not quite -got the face to ask." - -"What is it, Mrs. Branstone?" - -"I want to kiss you, lass," said Anne. - -Dubby Stewart had for the second time that day the impression that women -talked, so to speak, in hieroglyphics.... There seemed to be a kind -of feminine shorthand to which only women held the key, and he did not -understand the sudden softening of Ellie's face nor her quick response. -And he did not know why, when Anne kissed her, Effie said, "No, no," nor -why Anne said, "It isn't no. It's yes." A kiss, it seemed, had various -meanings. - -Anne in effect had conveyed to Effie that she thanked her and, more, she -honoured her. Effie denied that she merited honour and Anne maintained -that she did. - -"Aye," said Anne, "he's had two dips in the lucky-bag and he's drawn a -prize this time. It's more than any man deserves, but we'll not grudge -it Sam, will we, Effie?" And to Dubby the thing took on a fresh -aspect of bewilderment. If that meant anything, it meant that Anne was -welcoming a daughter. Didn't the woman know that Sam was married? - -"I've grudged him nothing," Effie said. - -Anne meditated that, then looked at Effie with a touch of what was, for -her, shyness. "You've grudged him nothing," she disagreed, "except your -pride in giving up. And you can do it, you can give up, but Sam's nobbut -a man, and they're a weak flesh, men. He looks the shadow of himself," -she exaggerated resolutely. - -"Does he?" said Effie anxiously, and Anne nodded a sombre face. "What do -you want me to do, Mrs. Branstone?" - -"I want you to give up giving up. Sam said a thing to me last night. -He said you'd make him find salvation. Well, happen; but what's certain -sure is that you made him find love. He's found it, lass, and he mustn't -lose it, and he will if you leave things where they are. He's trying -to do a thing that isn't, possible. He's trying to live aside of Ada, -loving you. He'll try to love her for the love of you, and kiss her, -telling himself he's kissing you, and it will not be you; and the love -he tries to bring her will turn to loathing in his heart. And what'll -happen then, when love goes sour within him? Eh, lass, you took yon lad -to heaven and you're sending him to hell." - -It was not fair to Stewart. It was hardly bearable: he was not her -brother and he hadn't the feelings of a brother. He saw great happiness -in Effie's face, as if two happinesses mingled there, the one of giving -up her dream, the other of awakening to a sweet reality. He saw her put -out a hand towards Anne, surrendering, consenting, giving all in one -swift, heady leap from cloud to earth, and then he saw her sway, and -caught her in time to break her fall. - -Anne eyed him sharply. "Have you heard of your sister's fainting before, -lately?" she asked, busy on her knees with Effie. - -"Yes. Florrie told me. Twice. Can I do anything?" - -"I'll bring her round," said Anne. "But you can do something. You can go -to Sam at his office and tell him he's wanted here. Tell him I want him, -and there's news for him. Send Florrie up as you go, and you needn't -take that horsewhip with you, neither." - -"No. I needn't take it now." - -So Dubby, Effie's brother, went out on an embassy for Anne. "Feeling it? -Feeling?" he thought, "you God-abandoned devil, what right have you to -feel? A journalist. A looker-on. There's a story in this for you. -There's the guts of a story given away to you with a cup of tea... on, -no, we didn't have the tea; given neat, and you can't be decently -grateful. What's the title? 'The Charwoman's Son'? No, damned if it is. -Something about brother. Brother! Yes, you blighter, brother... brother, -and proud of it. 'Pride of Kin.' That'll do, and God help me to live up -to it." He turned into Sam's office and delivered his message in a cold, -unemotional voice. It seemed that Effie, brave herself, was the cause of -bravery in others. - -"Effie! My mother! What have you to do with them?" asked Sam, amazed. - -"I've given you a message," said the taciturn herald. - -"But what's behind it, Dubby? Is Effie ill?" - -Stewart was silent. - -"Is she--dead?" - -Dubby was tempted to say he didn't know. It; seemed to him that things -went too happily with Branstone, that it was fit, if only for the twenty -minutes which it would take for him to reach Busholme, to let Sam think -that Effie might be dead, to let him taste the flavour of torture. -Dubby suffered and would suffer, not for twenty minutes but, he gloomily -anticipated, for a lifetime. Let Sam have his minutes of it! Then he -remembered he was Effie's brother, and before Sam had his hat and coat -on, malice had left him. "It's all right, man," he said. "She's neither -ill nor dead. They've got good news for you." - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV--THE NEW BOOK OF MARTYRS - - -|IF there was news which Anne must send posthaste to hid him come to -hear, and if Effie was neither ill nor dead, he need not overtax his -wits to guess it. Yet he had never thought of this very natural sequel -to the Marbeck week, and the plain fact is that he did not much want to -think of it now. - -"I like your Effie," Anne told him. "I like her very well. She's going -to make a grandmother of me." - -He thought his mother had never been fatuous before: she thought he took -the news morosely, and perhaps her expectation had been too high. She -assumed that a child was the first consideration of a man's life; which -is not true, even, of all women and true of only a minority of men. - -Nor was Sam, in fact, morose. He had never been more intensely and -silently alive. In itself, this thing was right with a shining exultant -rightness which warmed him to the marrow. It crowned and completed -Marbeck and it crowned and completed him. He who was childless was to be -a father, and by Effie! He had nothing but a thankful emotion for that, -and looked with yearning eyes at Effie, giver of all else, who was now -to give him this. He had not known her wonder could increase. - -He saw that more was expected of him than that he should look at her -adoringly. Anne was on tip-toe with anticipation. Her difficulty, if -indeed she had acknowledged to herself that there was any, had been to -make these visionaries see that love mattered and that Ada did not; -and her success with Effie had been complete. She had never doubted of -success with Sam, the weaker vessel, for there was love, sufficient in -itself; and there was now the added argument of Effie's child. She could -not see that he had any choice. - -He stood there conscious of the expectancy of their regard, and knew -that he was failing them. He thought they took a blinkered view, seeing -the child and nothing else. To them, apparently, the child came first: -they were hypnotized by what was, really, an afterthought, and there was -the greater need for him to keep a steadfast eye upon the truth. As he -saw it, the truth was that he had put his hand to another plough; on -Hartle Pike he had lighted such a candle by Effie's grace as he trusted -would never be put out; and he had gone to Ada. True, Ada had gone -from him, but that was temporary and trivial, whereas here was a real -distraction and he saw two loyalties before him--to Effie and the idea, -and to Effie and her child. It seemed to Sam that the first was the -greater of these two. - -He had wrestled with an afterthought before, one which hardly yielded -in temptation to that which now confronted him, and he had thrown it. He -had refused to contest Sandyford because there was not room for politics -in a scheme which included Ada, and still less was there room for Effie. -He felt faint with discouragement at the thought that Effie, unless -appearance belied her, had capitulated to her afterthought, but he stood -firmly by their treaty. They had decided that duty came first; he had -shouldered duty; and he, at any rate, had no room for afterthoughts. - -He was loyal to Effie and the Marbeck pact, duty's bondsman, Ada's -husband. He made a gesture of decision, which Anne misinterpreted. - -"Aye," she said a little smugly, "this settles it all right. It wasn't -common sense in you to part before, but I reckon there'll be no parting -now." - -"No," said Effie softly, "not now." She stole a look of shy, glad -confidence at Sam, and he found it extraordinarily difficult to meet -her eye, and still more difficult to say what he must, at any cost, get -said. - -"I'm not so sure," he said at last, wishing the earth would swallow him. - -At that moment he would cheerfully have given a hand to escape having to -differ from them. They were Effie and his mother: they were his mother -and Effie: the two women to whom he owed everything: more, he loved -Effie so that every fibre in him yearned for her, and, even more than -that, he was delicately sensitive to Effie in her present case. But it -couldn't change him. His loyalty was engaged, to fanaticism, to another -Effie, high Effie of the hills, of the crusade and the idea; and this -seemed to him somehow, a lower Effie, an Effie who had dipped the -flag of her ideal to a coming baby, whilst he was faithful to the old -unbending Effie who had thrown an imitation wedding ring away. It almost -seemed as if she wanted that ring back, base metal though it was. - -A case, perhaps, of splitting hairs, but, at any rate, the case of a man -with a faith at one extreme and at the other his miserable conviction -that happiness was not for him. He had abandoned happiness when he left -Marbeck, and lived now in a place where happiness was barred by Ada. - -"I'm not so sure," he repeated drearily. "You see, there's Ada and I -have to be fair to her." - -"Ada's left you," snapped Anne. A contentious Sam was not going to find -her amiable. - -He chose to put it in another way. "My wife," he said, "is staying at -present with her father. Yes, mother," he went on firmly, "I'm going to -be fair to Ada and I've to guard against unfairness all the more because -you won't be fair. You won't be ordinarily just. You always hated Ada." - -"Yes," she agreed viciously. "I'm a clean woman. I always hated vermin." - -Sam turned to Effle immensely heartened by this virulence. "You see!" he -appealed, calling to witness the hopeless bias of his mother. It was, he -wished to imply, this blind hatred of Anne for Ada which accounted for -his mother's attitude, her exalting of--well--the mistress over the -wife, her flagrant unmorality. He tried to put all this into his -gesture. "And you," he reinforced it, "you sent me to her, Effie." - -She bowed her head, admitting it, but Anne was not prepared to let it go -at that. "Even Effie," she said "can make a mistake. She would not send -you now." - -And, looking at Effie, he saw that it was true. He had seen it from the -first and it bothered him profoundly. Effie had changed: there was, in -all they said, this noticeable stressing of the "now," to differentiate -them from the "then." What was it? Anne's arguments, or the baby, or had -Effie, uninfluenced by either, really changed her mind about the Marbeck -treaty? he couldn't believe that last. Marbeck was infallible and he was -dogged in the faith. He responded to the Marbeck creed like the needle -of a compass to the meridian, and if with this needle also there was -deflection it was corrected by his racial stubbornness. He had his -people's queer, infatuated pride in the contemplation of their own -tenacity, even when, perhaps mostly when, it hurts to be tenacious. - -Whereas Effie had known ever since Dubby Stewart brought her back from -cloud-land that Marbeck was very fallible indeed, or, rather, Marbeck -was one thing and living up to Marbeck was another. If he had said, -instead of only thinking, that she was a lower Effie now, she would not -have contradicted him, though she did not want a wedding ring of either -metal. She wanted Sam. She was changed from the idealist who thought she -could be happy as a sign-post and a spiritual guide. She had come down -to Mother Earth where men and women live. At Marbeck they were on an -altitude where the air was too rarefied for human lungs, and she wanted -to fall with Sam from selflessness to mere humanity. - -"No," she agreed again with Anne, "I should not send you now." - -"I shall have to think this out," he said. Effie admitted to being -earthly, and he was horribly dismayed! "Effie," he cried in pain, "don't -you see?" he wanted desperately to be understood by her, if not by Anne. - -"I see," she said, and not without pride either. Whatever was fine in -him, whatever reacted from an Eflie come to earth, was due to her, -and she was proud of him even when, as now, he used her tempered steel -against her. - -Anne watched with a grim appreciation his anxiety to make a pikestaff -plain. "We all see," she said. "You're none so deep and we're none so -daft as all that. You've got a maggot in your brain, and I know the -shape of it. I've had the same in mine, and if you'll think back ten -years, you'll know what I mean. We're the same breed, Sam, and we can -both do silly things and stand by then and suffer for them. I flitted -from you to Madge, and I didn't set eyes on you from that day till last -night. That's what I mean by suffering." - -And there, in those few words, the tragedy of ten years stood confessed. -Parted from Sam, she lived in exile, suffering, and, of course, he had -known it and deliberately forgot it, so that the point of her revelation -was not its truth, but the amazing fact that she should speak of it at -all. Anne had the pride which suffers silently. - -"Mother!" he said, distressed for her. - -"Nay, none of that," she bade him harshly. "If I were soft enough to -let it hurt me, that's my look out. But here's the point, Sam. There's -another woman soft about you, too, and she's not the same as me. I'd -had you since I bore you, and I were not young when you and me came to -a parting; but she's young, and you'll none make Eflie suffer the road -I suffered while there's strength in me to say you nay. I'd have gone to -my grave without your knowing this if it hadn't been for Effie. It's not -good for a man to know too much. They're easy stuffed with pride." - -She pretended, with deep magnanimity, to think that he had not known -until she told him, but they both knew very well that he had always -known. She dwelt deliberately on it now to inform him, not of her -suffering, but of the intensity of her feeling for Effie. It was so -intense that she could speak of her own suffering: for Effie's sake she -had unveiled, thrown off her stoicism, and flung the spoken truth as a -challenge and a revelation at him. - -He knew what speaking in this manner cost her, but he was stubborn still -in relating all she said to her ungovernable hate of Ada; whereas Anne -did not hate Ada ungovernably, but only when Ada hurt Sam. - -Again he said "Mother!" and got no further with it. - -"I know I'm your mother," she said, "and you can stop thinking of me now -and think of Effie." - -"I'm trying to," he said. - -"Well?" said Anne impatiently. She hadn't imagined an obstinacy which -would not yield to what she had said. Surely he knew the sacrifice of -pride she made in saying it! And there was Effie, too, who said little -and looked the more. - -"I don't know," he despaired. - -"Then others must know for you," said Anne, and when his lips only -tightened at that, "Sam," she pleaded, "surely you'll never go against -the pair of us." - -But there were two Effies, and he wasn't "going against" them both, -while he held Anne to be mesmerized by hate of Ada. For all that, it -desolated him to be in opposition to them now, to Anne and Effie, the -women who counted, the women who gave. "Still," he had to say, "there's -Ada." - -He said it, as he hoped to say it, finally. He wanted to get away from -these two, to escape from their distracting presence to a place where he -could think. After all, Hartle Pike had not settled his problem, and -he must try somewhere else--Platt Fields, perhaps. They had a sort of -space. - -But he could not escape--not, at least, till Anne had played her -ace. Anne had not finished yet, though she had hoped ten years in the -wilderness had been enough. It seemed that they were not, and she must -wander still. Well, she could do what she must. - -"Oh, aye," she said dryly, "there's Ada. There's your bad ha'penny, -and I reckon summat'll have to be done with her. But if you'll stop -worrying, lad, and if worst comes to the worst, I'll take Ada on -myself." - -Effie started towards her. "No, no," she cried. - -"You hold your hush," said Anne. This was Anne's game, not Effie's. - -Sam was still staring at her. "You!" he said. "What can you do?" - -"I can see you and Effie happy, and I dunno as owt else matters." It -did not matter what the cost was to Anne. "When you used to come home to -your tea from Mr. Travers' office, what you left was always good enough -for me, and I can stomach your leavings still." - -It startled Effie, who had thought herself a specialist in sacrifice. -This was the very ferocity of self-denial. - -So far, tired and overstrained, Effie had found peace in resigning the -leadership to Anne, but here was a lead she could not follow. It was not -that she mistook Anne's purpose or doubted her capacity. Her faith in -Anne was young but adamantine, and she knew that if Anne replaced -Sam with Ada, and made herself heir to the Marbeck plan, she would -unquestionably do for Ada what Sam had undertaken to do. But the thing -was simply not good enough. - -"No, Mrs. Branstone, no," she said firmly. - -"Get oft' with you," said Anne impolitely. "I can tackle Ada with one -hand tied behind my back." - -"Of course," Sam agreed, "you could, but you are not going to. Ada's my -job." - -"I can be pig-headed as well as you, my lad," Anne menaced him. - -"It's not that, mother." - -"No, it isn't that," said Effie, conceiving perhaps that it was time for -her to enter into this tragicomedy of rivalry in self-surrender. "Sam's -right. Ada does matter, and it is I who am the failure, I who have -broken faith, I who was arrogant. I thought that I could bear a torch, -and I can only bear a child. But I know now what I have to do. I can go -away. I can disappear." - -It seemed to Anne that this was serious because obviously it was a way -out; but she thought it a way much more appalling in prospect than the -plan she had proposed for herself of "taking Ada on." She took alarm. In -another than Effie it might have been heroics, but Effie's was not the -stuff that mouths bravado. Anne granted that, and saw a tragic chasm -yawn She signalled her alarm to Sam, who answered it with a glance which -made appeal to her, whilst yielding nothing of his obstinacy. - -"If you go away," he said, "my mother goes with you. I've meant that -from the first." - -Anne nodded without enthusiasm. Certainly that was a solution and -equally not the solution. It gave Sam to Ada, and Effie, it -appeared, was not seeing it as a solution at all. There were strange -possibilities, Anne thought, in this young woman, and she did not want -them to be tested too far. Effie was not a talker, and when she said -a thing she did not overstate. There was danger. Well, Anne was -forewarned, and addressed herself in her most humorous, common-sense -manner to laugh it out of court. One can deal with danger in worse ways -than to apply to it the acid--ridicule. - -She put her arms akimbo and surveyed Effie and Sam appraisingly. "I -dunno," she said, "that there's a pin to choose between the three of us -for chuckle-headed foolishness. We're all fancying ourselves as hard as -we can for martyrs and arranging Ada's life for her. It hasn't struck -any of us yet that Ada's likely to arrange things for herself." - -And if Sam's impulse was to say gloomily: "It isn't likely at all," he -repressed it when Anne's eye caught his, and said instead, "That's so," -without knowing why he said it and without believing it. - -The flicker of a smile crossed Effie's face; Sam as conspirator struck -her as crudely humorous. Anne saw the smile and understood, but brazened -it out. "Of course it's so," she said, defying Effie. "Ada's a poor thing -of a woman, but she's none beyond having a mind and speaking it. I was -always one to take the short road out of trouble, so I'll go along to -Peter Struggles' now." - -"Very well," consented Effie, and Anne understood her to mean that -the crisis, if one had impended, was postponed. "But," said Effie, "of -course, I saw." - -Which was, in its way, a challenge; it was, at any rate, to tell Anne -that Effie knew what had been suspected of her. - -Anne met it as a challenge. "Well?" she said. - -"You were quite wrung, Mrs. Branstone," said Effie quietly. "I'm not a -coward." - -Anne was tying her bonnet-si rings, and found it convenient to look -down. She preferred, just then, not to meet Effie's eye. "I know I'm -overanxious," she mumbled in apology. - -"And there's no need," said Effie, a little cruel in her victory. - -To Sam the conversation seemed to have slipped into another dimension. -He hadn't the faintest idea what they were talking about. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV--WHOM GOD HATH JOINED - - -|PETER Struggles walked into his tobacconist's and put his snuff-box on -the counter. There was no need to state his requirements; in fact, he -had not stated them for many years. Shopman and customer understood each -other very well, and business came first; then if there was inclination, -as there usually was, talk followed. - -To-day, however, the shopman gaped at Peter in surprise, and made a -half-turn of his head, so that he could see his calendar Wednesday was -Peter's day for buying snuff with a regularity to which time had given -the force of a tradition, and the tobacconist had even the habit of -using Peter's visit as a reminder to a fallible memory that he must -wind his clock. The calendar continued him in his belief that to-day was -Thursday, and he felt sure that Peter had been in as usual on Wednesday. - -Peter had. Snuffing, of course, is a wasteful habit in any case, and a -shaking hand misses the target more freely than a steady one; but, for -all that, Peter, in his mental anguish, had consumed in one night the -better part of his week's supply of snuff. The box was indubitably -empty. He had not come to replenish it without some conscientious -qualms--an allowance is an allowance--but he felt that life which -comprised Ada in her present mood and did not comprise snuff, was beyond -bearing. Ada was, it seemed, inevitable: he must mitigate Ada. - -"The usual, if you please, Thomas," he unusually said. - -"Yes, sir," said Thomas, filling the box. "You've had a little -accident?" - -"An accident? Oh!" Then the fitness of that guess struck him. "Yes, -Thomas, a little accident. By the way, do you know anything about -divorce?" - -"Well, sir, I read the _Sunday Judge,_" Thomas replied deprecatingly. -"Very human subject, sir, divorce." - -"You find it so?" - -"I take a lot of satisfaction in reading about my sinful -fellow-creatures." - -"Quite, quite," said Peter vaguely, and went out of the shop, leaving a -puzzled salesman behind him. "Forgot to pay, and all," thought Thomas. -"Not that I'd grudge it if he didn't pay, only it's not like him. He -looks sadly to day. The old boy's breaking up. Him and divorce! What -does he want to worry his head about divorce for?" - -Peter did not know that he had mentioned divorce, to his tobacconist. -It would have shocked him if he had known. He spoke unconsciously, -and listened mechanically to the man's reply, but he was, harrowingly, -"worrying his head" about divorce. He took snuff in the street, an -unheard-of occurrence, but it did not clear his aching brain of the -fateful word "divorce." - -Ada had put it there too firmly in her stupid and invincible malignity. -She had one aim--to do Sam the greatest injury she could. His offence -was rank, and she demanded a proportionate revenge. - -She had lived as a spinster for marriage and as a wife by marriage. -Marriage was not a duty, but a state of beatitude, and she had walked -in the faith of her grotesque illusion that her marriage was singularly -blessed. It was childless, and the more blessed for that: there were no -intruders on the perfect union of man and wife. It was illusion, and -a wilder perversion of the truth than the ordinary self-deceiver can -attain; but illusion is the breath of life, and she had fed on her -deception till, like a drug-taker, she could not live without it. -She had blazoned it abroad in a hundred drawing-rooms. If there were -low-voiced colloquies of this or that affair, if it was hinted that -men were faithless ever, Ada would grow superior and boast the flawless -rectitude of Sam. These were things which happened to other people, who -very likely deserved them, and could by no manner of means occur to her. -She was not so sunk in imbecility as to deny that they did happen, and -to people who were, nominally, married; but they were unsound people, -insecurely married. There was a fundamental difference between their -marriages and hers. She couldn't explain; it was too obvious for -explanation. She was married, and these others, somehow, were married, -yet not married. They had, through lack of merit, stopped short of the -seventh paradise where nothing could shake consummate bliss. They were -not as she was. - -And now she had to face the fact that the impossible had happened to -her, and not only had it happened, but was known to have happened. That -was where the blow struck home. She had publicly elaborated her case -of absolute conviction, she had vaunted his faithfulness, the cardinal -connubiality of Sam, and Miss Entwistle was spreading the news that she -had been a doting fool! And she hadn't. She had not doted on Sam. She -had not been infatuated with her husband, but with the idea of her -husband which she had created and maintained. If only she had had the -gumption to defy Miss Entwistle! If only she had concealed her belief -in the story as successfully as she had hidden the fact that Sam had -a separate room! She had been taken by surprise, she had admitted -everything by default, and, worse, she had assured Mrs. Grandage that -she would never see Sam again. She did not doubt, in spite of Mrs. -Grandage's good-nature, that this little sequel to the story of Miss -Entwistle was in rapid circulation. - -She was humiliated publicly, and, as she saw it, the one course open to -her was to make Sam suffer a humiliation as drastic and as public as her -own. Though it hurt her, he must pay for it; though she died, he must -be punished and, sincerely, she expected it to kill her. She lived in a -garden of lies, and life without the illusion of her marriage would be -as impossible as life without the fragrance of her poisonous flowers to -Rappaccini's daughter, but no matter for that. Ada must be revenged, -and divorce, though it killed her, would be the greatest injury that she -could do a politician and a pietistic publisher. She managed to square -the circle, too. She was to die and make a murderer of him; she was to -ruin his business and make a bankrupt of him; and at the same time -she was to have the compensation of a handsome alimony. But perhaps -vengeance is always irrational, and that is why it belongs to God. - -She dinned her word into Peter's ears with the merciless reiteration -of a hurt and howling child. It was her first word and her last, and -appeals based on religion shattered themselves against it as fruitlessly -as the appeal to reason. What she had said she had said: and she had -said "Divorce." Alternatives did not exist. - -For Peter, divorce ranged itself with the abominations of the world, -a man-made legal subterfuge to evade the law of God. There might, -conceivably, be occasions when divorce was to be condoned as the -comparatively little wrong which did a great right, and he tried very -honestly to see Ada's as one of those heroic needs. He failed: he could -not even see that Ada was hurt in soul, or in anything but pride. She -was in a mood, not of spiritual revolt, but of peevish discontent. - -Small wonder that he snuffed prodigiously that night. He had his meed -of suffering, and overcharged his small account with dreadful -self-reproach. He, not Ada, and not Sam, was responsible for her -violence and for the cause of it; he and the books upon his shelves; -reading, his darling sin. He blamed himself for consenting too readily -to their marriage. Sam, he had thought, would lead Ada: on what grounds -had he thought it? What had he known of Sam's leadership--a prolix, -fluent boy at the Concentrics? He had exchanged his daughter for -peaceful, solitary evenings with his books--"Self-seeker!" he -thought--and the exchange was to recoil upon him now. He had abandoned, -after one harsh, undaughterly repulse, his attempt to show her that -wearing a wedding ring was not the whole duty of woman--"The sin of -Pride," he thought--and had returned to browse amongst his books. Sam -seemed a good fellow, too. There were those Classics, and the texts, and -the prosperous old age of Mr. Carter, who, but for Sam, would certainly -have ended his days in the workhouse. But, failing with Ada, he ought to -have appealed to Sam.... Yes, he ought to have taken a strong line with -Sam, instead of letting Sam's worldly success dazzle him. Sam had seemed -too big for Peter Struggles to grapple with--the sin of cowardice. - -Now it had come to this! Sam had broken the seventh commandment, and Ada -wished to forget the words which Peter had read over them when he -joined their right hands together, and said, "Those whom God hath joined -together, let no man put asunder." She commanded a divorce, and it was -useless for Peter to insist, out of his small store of worldly wisdom, -that divorce was not hers to command. Sam had not been "cruel." - -Her fury only doubled. Gone, vanished like the snows of long ago, was -her painted idyll of domestic bliss. - -"Cruel?" she said. "He's never been anything but cruel. I'm black and -blue with his atrocities." - -Very gently he tried to tell her that he did not believe it. "We must -not exaggerate," he said. - -"Exaggerate!" she blazed. "Won't you believe me till you see it? I'll go -upstairs and strip. Come when I call." - -He soothed her down at that, seeing that she was capable of doing -herself some signal injury to call in evidence. - -"Well, then," she said, "I want my divorce: get me a divorce." That was -her simple demand of the priest who married her: it was why Peter took, -unrepentantly, as much snuff in a night as he commonly took in a week, -and why, with replenished stock, he continued next day to take snuff -with a lavish hand. - -It irritated Ada, though she had always associated Peter with a -snuff-box, and the untidiness of the habit could not offend her, who -was never offended by dirt, as any mechanical movement in another will -irritate one whose nerves are ill-controlled. They had talked themselves -to a standstill, and sat in moody silence, broken only by the deplorable -sound of taking snuff. - -She looked viciously at him. "If you do that again, I shall leave the -room," she said. - -"I'm sorry, my dear," he said, although, really, it was a pleasant -threat; but when he did it again, it was through pure absent-mindedness, -and he was terribly distressed at his selfishness when Ada flung out -of the room. He had the feelings of a child put in a corner as a -punishment, and to relieve them he took snuff again. She heard him from -the stair, and heard him immediately afterwards poking the fire; and she -thought the loathsome self-absorption of men and their utter callousness -to the anguish of sensitive women were proved beyond the possibility -of doubt. She threw herself on the bed in her old room, alone in a -friendless world.... The bed had a warm eiderdown. - -Peter poked the fire because it needed poking. It often did. The grate -was one of those labour-making contrivances which must be periodically -cleared of ash if the fire is to burn at all, and it was rarely cleared. -The woman who "did for" Peter, did for him badly, and he was at the age -when a man needs artificial warmth: a gaunt, shrunk figure as neglected -as his house. Small wonder that, apart from his attachment to St. -Mary's, he was still a curate. They had considered him for the living -when his vicar moved some years ago, they had considered the little -circle of rich parishioners who made an oasis of civilization in that -savage place, and they had decided that Peter lacked the social graces. -They had seen his mittens, his unfinished coat... they had seen him eat -an orange: and he remained a curate. - -The fire was gone beyond the reach of his unscientific poking. That, -too, often happened with a man who had the habit of standing by his -bookshelf reading gluttonously, with his austere person frozen into a -grotesque attitude, some book which he had not the patience to carry to -the fireside: and he was now upon his knees making pathetically clumsy -efforts to revitalize the flame when his inefficient housekeeper opened -the door and showed Anne into the room. - -It eased the situation for them both. Anne indeed, was nervous, so -nervous that she had walked three times past the door before she pulled -the bell. She had a befitting awe of the priest, and a tremendous -respect for the man. At Effie's, because the circumstances there were -tense, it had seemed an easy thing to come to Peter's, but she had -needed to call on her reserves of courage to keep her place on the -doorstep after she had rung the bell. - -Now, however, when she came into the room and saw what he was at, she -pushed him gently aside, and took the poker from his hand. She nursed -the fire skilfully; she was with familiar things which gave her back her -confidence. - -As to the trouble, she diagnosed it in a moment. "That woman of yours is -a slut," she said. "And I'll talk to her before I go. I reckon I've the -right, me and you being connections by marriage." - -She looked at him over her shoulder, and saw that he did not recognize -her. How, indeed, should he? She had avoided Ada's wedding, and she was -one of a large flock: a face, perhaps, but not a name to him. "I'm Anne -Branstone," she explained. "Sam's mother; and I'll not have you blaming -Sam for this." - -"For the fire?" asked Peter vaguely, he was rather muddled by her brisk -incursion. - -"No," said Anne, almost gaily; "for the fat that's in the fire." - -She thought she had his measure now--the sort of a man who could live -in a dirty room like this, with a choked ash-pan and fire-irons with the -rust thick on them. But Peter was greater than that. She judged him by -those of his surroundings which had significance for her, and not by -books which expressed everything for him and nothing for her. - -"Mrs. Branstone!" he said, as if realizing now with whom he had to deal. - -"Sam's mother," she repeated, rising from a healthy fire; "and I've told -you where not to put the blame. You can, maybe, think yourself of the -right place to put it." - -"Yes," he surprised her by saying; "on me." - -"You! Oh, if you want to go to the back of behind, you can blame Adam -and Eve. But that's not what I meant." - -"On me," he said again. "I consented to this marriage. I sanctioned it." - -"Well," said Anne, "I've not come here to crow, but I've the advantage -of you in that. I did not consent," and her eye strayed involuntarily -to a scar on her hand, memorial of the form of her dissent. "I didn't -consent because I knew they weren't in love. I told Sam I knew it." - -"Then," said Peter, "you are worthier than I am, Mrs. Branstone." - -"Because I knew love matters? There's nowt so wonderful in knowing that, -and nowt so crafty in foreseeing that a marriage where there is no love -is marred from start to finish." - -"Love matters," he agreed. "It matters all, for God is love." - -"We'll come to an agreement, you and me," she said appreciatively. -"We've the same mind about the root of things." - -"This is a terrible business, Mrs. Branstone." - -"I'm none denying it. It's a terrible thing for a man and wife to live -together when love's not a lodger in the house; it's wrong, and the -worst of wrong is that it won't stay single. Wrong's got to breed. But, -there," she finished briskly, "I'm telling you what you know, and when -all's said, there's nowt so bad that it's past mending." - -"Ada wants a divorce," said Peter, and a sudden glint of triumph came -into Anne's eye, only to vanish as quickly as it came. She had said, -without believing it, that Ada might make arrangements, and this was to -arrange indeed. It unmade the hollow marriage, it was a solution which -really solved, it was a clean cut; and she wanted to glorify Ada, who -was proving at the eleventh hour that she had the saving grace of common -sense. - -Peter did a curious thing. He rose and took a book haphazard from his -shelf, came back to his chair and opened the book. He did not read it, -and he was not being rude, but this was an agitation beyond the reach of -snuff. He tried to calm himself by resting his eyes on print. - -Anne was not practised in the ways of bookish men, but, by strange -insight, understood that Peter had gone to a book much as she went to -his grate, to be soothed by its familiarity, and her rejoicing at his -words came to an abrupt end. His action brought home to her, more than -his horror-struck tone, whose significance she almost missed in her joy -at Ada's practical solution, his loathing of divorce: and it seemed to -her, quite suddenly, that what mattered most in all this business was -that Peter should be happy about it. - -It mattered more than Sam and Ada, and even more than Effie, that Peter, -who was, so to speak, an old and sleeping partner, should be satisfied -by their solution. She did not care if this was to per vert the values: -the remnant of Peter Struggles' life was of more importance than the -young lives of the active members of the firm. And because she had a -practical mind, and believed that one is happy in soul only when one -is first happy in body, she was already thinking past their present -problem: she was considering how the slut in Peter's kitchen could be -replaced by her own housewifely self. - -She resolutely consigned that thought to the future, and returned to -the question of to-day. Ada, wonderfully, wanted a divorce: but Anne -required that Peter should be happy about it, and she perceived the -incompatibility. She saw that juxtaposition could hardly be more crude. -He was a priest, the priest who married them, and she wanted him to -acquiesce contentedly in their divorce. - -"Wants a divorce, does she?" she said. "Well, there's more than Ada to -be thought of." - -"There is, indeed," said Peter, thinking of his church. - -"There's you," said Anne, thinking of him. "If she gets one, does she -plant herself on you again?" - -He supposed so, unable to disguise his depression at the prospect. - -"Aye," she rubbed it in, "you were well rid of Ada once. It's not in -human nature to want her back again." She was thinking singly of his -comfort. - -Peter, on his part, took her to imply that if he opposed a divorce it -was for interested motives, that he could continue to be "well rid -of Ada." He saw with dismay that it was an interpretation which could -reasonably be put on any opposition from him. He thought, in his -humility, that it was a reasonable interpretation, whereas, Peter being -Peter, it was a ludicrously unjust interpretation, and, of course, -Anne did not make it. She had only stated as a fact that Ada at home -prejudiced her father's comfort: and the comfort of Ada's father had -become a matter which touched Anne Bran-stone nearly. - -"And there are other people, too. There's Sam," she went on, "and he is -a desperate bad case. He has no love for Ada. He's hoisted his notion of -his duty higher than a living love. He wants Ada to come back." - -"I'm sorry to say," mourned Peter, "that the more he wants it, the less -likely she is to go." - -She tried not to exult too openly at that. "And then," she said, -"there's Effie." - -"Effie!" He spoke in scandalized protest. - -"Aye, that's her name, and yon's just the tone of voice I had myself -when I first heard of her. I want you to see Effie." - -"Never!" said Peter, and for a mild man his bitterness was remarkable. - -"Then I must show her to you," said Anne placidly, "and that'll mean -going back a bit and showing you other things as well. It'll mean," and -she very much regretted it, "showing you this." She held out her hand -and pointed to the scar. "When Sam told me he wanted to marry Ada, I -came to see her. I saw what I saw, and I told him she'd be the ruin of -him. He didn't believe me, and I tried to make him see I meant it. I -put my hand into the fire, and I thought to keep it there till he agreed -with me, but he's stronger in the arm than me, and he got me away." She -spoke without passion, in simple narrative which Peter found impressed -him deeply. "So I left him and earned my living, and all that. Sam -married her, and the ruin's come, but it's not come suddenly. It's been -coming all the time. I'd date it back," she reflected, "to the day when -he fooled you about the 'Social Evil' pamphlet. He did that because he -wanted a rich husband for Ada." - -Peter had nothing to say. If he had not known before that Sam had -"fooled" him, he did not doubt it now. - -"And it grew from that. He's made money because Ada wanted money, and -after that it grew to be a bad habit. He made it then by writing lies -about himself in the papers, and I don't know how he's done it since -then, except that it has been by more lies. He began to fancy himself -at politics. He wanted to be a crowing cock, and it didn't matter if he -crowed on a dung-heap so long as he crowed. And Ada didn't care. He gave -her money, and she didn't care. She didn't love, and he didn't love, -and there's a thing you said just now that I'll remind you of. You said -God's love. I'll leave it to you to name what it is when there isn't -love. - -"And then love came to Sam. Effie came, and you say that God is love. -Sam put it to me in another way. He said he'd found salvation. Well, -it's a big word, and I dunno. But I do know he found love and it changed -him. He's done with politics, and he's done with crowing and with -riches, too. Effie did that by the power of love, and there's another -thing she did, that's marked yon lass for me as the finest, strangest -woman in the width of the world. She gave him up and sent him back to -Ada. Well, I've heard of sacrifice before, and I've done a bit that way -myself, but give up a man she loved and teach him how to make a woman of -his wife, and send him home to do it--it's more than I can rise to. And -that is Effie Mannering. - -"He went home and he tried, and Ada laughed at him. She couldn't -understand: there wasn't the one thing there that could make her -understand: there wasn't love. And he gave up his politics that night -she laughed at him, to leave himself free to tackle Ada. Now Ada's left -him, and there's sum-mat else turned up as well. You can guess." -He looked up sharply. "Aye, that's it, and the rum thing is that it -surprised them both. Their love's that sort of love, and I reckon there -are folk would call it careless of them. I would myself nine cases -out of ten, aye, and ninety-nine in a hundred, but not this case. This -wasn't a case for care; it was a case of love. But a baby's coming to -Effie, and you know' as well as I do that none will ever come to Ada. -I've finished telling you about Effie now." There was a long pause and -it seemed several times that Peter was about to break it, and each time -changed his mind. All that he finally said in comment on Effie was, "A -lawless woman," and it might have been deduced from his tone that he did -not condemn, if he could not, confessedly, admire. - -"Aye, lawless," Anne agreed, "but there's a law of lawless women and she -has not obeyed it. She's not a breaker. She's a maker." - -Peter bowed his head. Perhaps he did not wish Anne to see what was -written in his face. And he lacked conviction when he tried to speak -again. "Whom God hath joined--he began. - -"But God," Anne said, "is love." - -He threw up his hands in a despairing gesture of surrender. "I deserve -to be unfrocked for this," he said, but he closed the book on his knee -and took snuff violently. It marked the passing of a crisis. - -As for Anne, there mingled with her satisfaction at his consent a keen -despondency at his unhappiness. She had both lost and won, and Anne took -little pleasure in a mixed victory. She had not finished yet with Peter -Struggles. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI--SNOW ON THE FELLS - - -|LIFE is still greater than machines. Machines accomplish marvels and -very wonderfully continue to accomplish them, but life refuses the -mechanical. It was man, and not nature, who invented the wheel, and life -does not revolve upon an axle. Life will not repeat itself: and it can -excel itself. - -They had not thought, when they came back to Marbeck at the turn of the -year, that Marbeck could be better than before. They came hoping, they -said, to recapture the old emotions, and brought Anne with them to show -her their fairyland. They did not recapture the old emotions, because -they were young emotions, a ferment like youth itself, and things were -settled now. They seemed to look back from their equable security to -a wild infancy of their emotion, a fumbling, frenzied, awkward age of -love. Of course they looked back happily, from a place where things were -happy and serene to one where things were happy and impetuous. - -The Dale was full of wonder, with a wonder which now belonged unerringly -to fact and had mellowed in reality. - -For Anne, it was a pretty place, but "lonesome," and, amazingly to them, -she chafed to leave it. Anne did not suffer holidays gladly. - -They had extolled Anne, they had not thought it credible that she should -fail at anything, and it ruffled them disturbingly to find her fail at -this. They had planned eagerly and, indeed, generously to bring her with -them to Marbeck--generously, because they wanted to be alone, and even -Anne, owe her what they did and be she what she might, was an intruder. -But they wanted her to share with them their wonderland. Marbeck was -theirs, theirs intimately and alone, their holy place, and they could -think of nothing finer, nothing which came more nearly to her deserts of -them, than to initiate her to their secret worship. - -They made her free of Marbeck, relived their week for her as much as for -themselves, showed her where this and that dear folly happened, took -her to view-points whence she could see the tops of hills they climbed, -using the landscape as the ground-plan of an ecstasy which they invited -her to share, and were discomposed to find that Anne, plainly straining -enthusiasm in their behalf, could only say of Marbeck, their Marbeck, -"I'm sure it's very nice." - -She damned with faint praise their enchanted valley in whose every -tree they took by now as fierce a joy as if they had created it, and -in despair they dragged her, as a last hope, to the very Holy of their -holies, the top of Hartle Pike. If she failed them there, if she did -not see the beauty and the grace, the penetrating significance and the -absolute sanctity of Hartle Pike, then her greatness was lopsided, -resulting, like a show chrysanthemum, from the atrophy of other -possibilities. - -It was a great day for the fells, when a frozen surface crushed -elastically underfoot and kept one dryshod anywhere, and they walked -in frosty, sun-kissed air, keenly exhilarating yet spicily warm. Snow -capped the greater heights and seemed to clarify an atmosphere already -clear, but the dales were free of snow and never more fit for walking -than now when their boggy surface was dried up and roughened to the -tread by crisp, granulated particles of frost. - -Anne granted to herself that if one must take a holiday, this generous -activity made nearly a venial matter of it. To climb these slopes was -almost as satisfying to her body as to wash a long flight of steps, and -she reached the top feeling as pleasantly tired as if she had done half -a day's charring. - -Still, she hadn't charred, and there was in fact nothing which needed -charring, nothing but a cleanliness which positively irritated her. -She itched to be doing something and there was manifestly nothing to do -except to enjoy herself. And if Anne Branstone was not doing a job, she -liked, at any rate, to know that her next job was around the corner. She -began, for the first time in her life, to feel a friendliness -towards dirt. In the midst of this sprawling insolence of triumphant -cleanliness, she hankered for a little humanizing soot. She could have -loved her life-long enemy, and he did not appear... it was not a bit -like Manchester. - -Far to the west, beyond a barrier of gleaming snow, she saw a murky -cloud of smoke where the foul boot of industrialism stamps on the -Lakeland Coast--a message and a call. It spoke, to her of natural dirt -in this great waste of unstained purity; it made her sick for home and -the thing she had to do. - -Effie and Sam stood gazing at the hills, spell-hound by loveliness, and -when they tore their dancing eyes away it was to look into each other's. -They had no need of words: their eyes exulted in the burnished splendour -of the scene, and with a doubled exultation each in the other's joy. -Then Sam turned hopefully to Anne and saw that she was looking with a -rapt intensity at the west. At last, it seemed, the hills had touched -her. - -"Where's yon?" she asked, "yon smoke?" - -His face fell as he told her, but he saw that this explained Anne's -failure. She had not relished Marbeck because she had not seen it. She -had not been looking at Marbeck, but all the while at something else. - -And why, he questioned, why, now that things had so admirably arranged -themselves, must Anne still live in thought in Manchester? There seemed -to him to be no law, nothing which could conceivably distract her -attention, nothing which had not with genial finality been neatly -finished off. Of course they had stupid legal business to come, but that -was well ahead and, in any case, was not to worry them. - -She could not, surely, be troubling about Ada. It was he who had made -the trouble there, insisting that Ada was "his job." - -He insisted to the point of almost literally forcing himself upon her in -Peter Struggles' house, and remembered now with a twinge that desolating -interview, if interview it could be called, and its liberating end; how -Ada had looked at him, and answered nothing to his abject and -passionate appeals (he wondered how he could have made them, but he was -despairingly sincere): how he had pleaded and apologized for the past -and supplicated for the future, all in the mastering grip of his Marbeck -faith, and how she had kept silent till she turned on Peter and told him -she must leave a house which did not shelter her from the deadly insult -of this man's presence. He remembered the good woman, Mrs. Grandage, -who had carried Ada to a Hydro at Southport, and wrote to Peter that Ada -seemed quite happy there, "nursing her grievance like a child," and -was looking for a house. He had found something mystifying about the -intervention of Mrs. Grandage: good nature fortified by a bad conscience -was his attempt to explain her attitude, but what emerged clearly -from the letters she wrote to Peter was that Ada had no intention of -returning to Manchester: and when he thought of Southport, he realized -its quintessential rightness as her home. He had not shirked his job; he -had eaten dirt before her in his anxiety to do his job; and he was not -allowed. What she was she must remain, and Southport seemed the aptest -place for her. "Only," as Mrs. Grandage wrote, "she mast have money." - -That was not difficult, and the money might have come in many ways: it -came actually in a way which Effie hated and Sam thought exquisitely -right. It came through Stewart, that faithful ally of the publishing -business in its early days. - -Dubby was in Effie's room, "which is where," he said, "your brother has -a right to be." - -"You keep that up," she smiled. - -"Is the poor dog to get none?" he asked. - -"He is to have whatever he wants," she said. - -"--that's going," he completed her sentence. - -"Yes," said Effie, not smiling now, and kissed him very simply to seal -his brotherhood. - -He stood silent for a moment, then, with a jerk of his head he, so to -speak, cut his loss and turned to her with the frank confidence of their -settled relationship. "Now we can talk," he said. "Tell me about old -Sam. What are you going to do with him? And with his business?" - -She evaded his first question. "The business? Oh, he'll sell that." - -"Then let me buy." - -"You! Oh!" - -"Why not?" - -"You know what I think of it." - -"I'm only the dog, my dear. Do you know any Greek? There's a connection -between being a dog and being a cynic. In certain circumstances, I'd -have thought with you to the crack of doom, but your brother's a cynic." - -"I see," said Effie sadly. "But he will always be my brother, Dubby." - -"Thanks, Effie," he said. "That will keep me on the sweeter side of -currishness. But a dog wants meat. You'll tell Sam I'm to have the first -refusal of that business. I'll scrape a syndicate together in a week." - -So the Stewart Publishing Syndicate, which now has dashing offices near -Covent Garden, came to birth and Ada got her money. When Sam tried to -tell Effie that his investments outside the business were ridiculously -small, she had refused to be impressed. - -"It's not the means of life that matters, Sam. It's living: it's the -quality of life: it's what we do with life," she said, and Ada got the -means. - -"She'll be married in a year to a man from Liverpool," said Dubby, when -he heard. - -"Why Liverpool?" asked Sam, and Dubby shrugged his shoulders. He thought -Sam's question stupid. - -"By the way, Sam," Dubby said, "have you and Effie any plans?" - -"No," said Effie, when Sam hesitated, but a brother's curiosity was not -to be stifled like that, and Sam's face told her, too, how he had -hung on her reply. She resented his anxiety, the proof that he had not -dropped his calculating habit. They had not discussed the question of -plans because she held there was no question to discuss, and Sam, -she thought, deserved a little punishment for thinking otherwise. "I -suppose," she went on, "we shall stay in Manchester and face the music." - -"Oh!" said Sam blankly. - -"Well, we must give Mr. Verity his revenge," she teased. - -"But it can't hurt me now I'm out of politics," he said, confessing by -his tone that it would hurt him very much. - -"It will please him, though," she said. - -"I'd... I'd thought of going to America," he ventured. - -"America!" scoffed Dubby. "_O sancta simplicitas!_ America's not El -Dorado, Sam. El Dorado's been found. I'd even say it's been found out." - -"There are big things in America," Sam defended his idea. - -"As a matter of fact, Dubby," said Effie, silencing him, "we shall go to -Marbeek for a little while. It's a good place to begin from." - -With that a great contentment came to Sam. They were to go to Marbeek; -they were to begin; and he no longer questioned what. He made no hard -and fast surrender of his will, but recognized the fact, not for the -first time, that when Effie made a decision it had a shining rightness. -Perhaps she had retreated from her first decision of Marbeck, but, -if so, Anne helping him, he had retreated with her; and they went to -Marbeek now, not to end, but to begin, and to begin together. - -Reflecting on it all, he could not see the blemish. He couldn't, for the -life of him, make out why Anne was not content. - -He half explained the valley's failure to enchant her when he perceived -that she had not really looked at it. At what, then, could she be -looking? And how could she, how in the name of beauty was it possible -for anyone to pick out from all that noble amphitheatre of the hills the -one smoke-clouded spot? - -"Mother," he cried in downright exasperation, "aren't you happy here?", - -"I'd be happier in Manchester," she said. "Yon smoke's too far away to -taste. Aye, I think I'll leave you here and go to-day." - -"But you're not going back to Madge's--to the work in other people's -houses, I mean. That's surely over now." - -"Maybe." - -"Mother, you've done with work." - -She eyed him grimly. "Not till I'm dead, my lad," she said. - -"Why won't you tell me what you're thinking of?" - -"I'm thinking," she said, "of yon slut in Peter Struggles' kitchen. I'll -have her out of that tomorrow." - -He glanced at Effie, and then looked again. He fancied he had surprised -a little smile on Effie's face and looked twice to make sure. And when -he looked he found that Effie was looking back at him in the wise, -humorous way that he had come to know so well. "Don't you see?" was what -she seemed to say. - -And he did see. He saw that it was not Manchester, but a man in -Manchester; not the woman in Peter Struggles' kitchen, but the man -in Peter's parlour who interrupted his mother's vision of the Marbeck -hills. She lost their beauty in a greater beauty of her own. - -"And don't be incredulous," said Effie's eyes. - -She turned to Anne. "We'll go down to the Inn at once," she said, "and -you shall catch the train this afternoon." - -A quick look passed from Anne to Effie, from which they both excluded -Sam. It almost seemed that Anne was asking Effie for support, and that -Effie understood and nodded imperceptibly. And if Anne had seriously -doubted, her doubts were dissipated by a look which told her that, where -she was concerned, Effie believed in the feasibility of anything. - -Nothing at Marbeck became Anne Branstone like her leaving it. "Why, -mother, how young you look!" he cried when she came downstairs to the -trap. - -"It's just as well," said Anne, meeting Effie's eye over his shoulder. - -Then, after she had gone, and so pat upon her going as to be hardly -decent, life flamed for them ungrudgingly. There was something quite -impudently callous about the haste of it, as if life pulled a face -behind the older generation and turned lightheartedly to burn more -ardently for them. But Anne, and they knew it, would not have thanked -them to be sorry for her. She had gone to Peter Struggles, who needed -her. - -They could not now resume the half amphibious life of their autumn days, -but the air itself from the snow-clad fells had all the stimulation of -a bath. It cleansed and healed by touch and heightened their well-being -till they moved in radiant exhilaration, now clamant at the joy of it, -now dumb before its wonder. - -Happy themselves, they were the cause of happiness in others, not -self-contained in joy, but effervescing to the old black-beamed kitchen -of the Marbeck Inn. - -They had, as Sam cannily observed, the advantages of a private room at -an hotel without paying for it--and abrogated them. In the autumn -they had isolated their joy from others: now it brimmed from them and -affected all the people of the Inn, making the long nights short. Good -listeners were a godsend to the Dale in winter, and the shepherds, -dropping from heaven knew how far, found a rare satisfaction in telling -this attentive audience tales of the fells, of sheep wanderers that -strayed as wide afield as Derbyshire, of dogs that ran amok and ravaged -the flocks they ought to tend, of the epic Beast of Ennerdale, of the -legends of John Peel and all the sagas of the Lakes. It needed little to -make these dalesmen happy, nothing beyond a patient ear for a slow, -rambling narrative--a long chain strung with pearls of racy episode--or -an hour of Effie at the piano, when the dalesmen disappointed her by -knowing no ballads, but having, instead, a sound acquaintance with the -latest music-hall songs stacked in the cupboard at the Inn. In here, in -the smoke room, they were knowing wags, in the kitchen they were -themselves, talking shop, and therefore interesting. Effie and Sam -preferred them in the kitchen, telling their slowly-moving tales, to -seeing them in their smoke-room mood, imitating badly a thing not worth -the imitating. But, in either room, they helped them to be happy. - -Well coated they would go each night from the tobacco-laden air of the -kitchen down the road to the bridge over Marbeck Force. A great peace -brooded there. Even the stream ran softly now when all the surface water -of its gathering ground was frozen hard. - -They stood there on the bridge while the moon rose over Hartle Pike -and scattered silver on the snow. Great shadows leaped to instant birth -below the Pike whose comely top was one black silhouette against the -brightened sky, and the beauty of the valley, seen by day with an almost -Alpine harshness, mellowed in the moonlight to a subtle luminosity. -Behind them were the lights of the friendly Inn; near by the low church -tower saluted God amongst the pines, and all around them spread the -lustrous radiance of the moon-flushed Dale. - -For the hundredth time he restrained his impulse to repeat his words, -"We'll build a tabernacle here," and Effie read his thought. - -"We're making the good beginning here," she said. "We're practising and -I think we grow." - -"We grow in happiness," he said, which he thought good argument for -staying at Marbeck. - -"Yes. We grow in happiness. We shall have outgrown Marbeck soon. We -shall have grown a sturdy happiness that can withstand the towns. It -might withstand Manchester and I think it will. To love, to work, to -look for other people's strength and not for other people's weaknesses: -that is to be happy, Sam. And happiness counts more than all. It roots -and then it spreads. It spreads. Infection isn't only of disease, -infection is of happiness and youth. There's too much age, too many men -and women in the world who have forgotten love. We have to build, and -build on happiness." They gazed at the unguessed future through the -silent night. God knows that there was work ahead for them to do! - - -THE END - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Marbeck Inn, by Harold Brighouse - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MARBECK INN *** - -***** This file should be named 50131-8.txt or 50131-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/1/3/50131/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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