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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5e9dd49 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #50953 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50953) diff --git a/old/50953-0.txt b/old/50953-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 41e3a6c..0000000 --- a/old/50953-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8042 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The making of a bigot, by Rose Macaulay - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The making of a bigot - -Author: Rose Macaulay - -Release Date: January 17, 2016 [EBook #50953] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAKING OF A BIGOT *** - - - - -Produced by Suzanne Shell, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - - THE MAKING OF A BIGOT - - - - - THE - MAKING OF A BIGOT - - BY - - ROSE MACAULAY - - Author of “The Lee Shore,” “Views and Vagabonds,” etc. - - HODDER AND STOUGHTON - LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO - - - - - - - - TO D. F. C. - - “How various is man! How multiplied his experience, his outlook, his - conclusions!”--H. BELLOC. - - “And every single one of them is right.”--R. KIPLING. - - “The rational human faith must armour itself with prejudice in an age of - prejudices.”--G. K. CHESTERTON. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - -CHAPTER I. - -CAMBRIDGE 9 - -CHAPTER II. - -ST. GREGORY’S 21 - -CHAPTER III. - -PLEASANCE COURT 38 - -CHAPTER IV. - -HEATHERMERE 52 - -CHAPTER V. - -DATCHERD AND THE VICAR 62 - -CHAPTER VI. - -THE DEANERY AND THE HALL 80 - -CHAPTER VII. - -VISITORS AT THE DEANERY 102 - -CHAPTER VIII. - -THE VISITORS GO 127 - -CHAPTER IX. - -THE CLUB 142 - -CHAPTER X. - -DATCHERD’S RETURN 167 - -CHAPTER XI. - -THE COUNTRY 189 - -CHAPTER XII. - -HYDE PARK TERRACE 209 - -CHAPTER XIII. - -MOLLY 230 - -CHAPTER XIV. - -UNITY 254 - -CHAPTER XV. - -ARNOLD 270 - -CHAPTER XVI. - -EILEEN 276 - -CHAPTER XVII. - -CONVERSION 286 - - - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -CAMBRIDGE. - - -It was Trinity Sunday, full of buttercups and cuckoos and the sun. In -Cambridge it was a Scarlet Day. In colleges, people struggling through a -desert of Tripos papers or Mays rested their souls for a brief space in -a green oasis, and took their lunch up the river. In Sunday schools, -teachers were telling of the shamrock, that ill-considered and -peculiarly inappropriate image conceived by a hard-pressed saint. -Everywhere people were being ordained. - -Miss Jamison met Eddy Oliver in Petty Cury, while she was doing some -house-to-house visiting with a bundle of leaflets that looked like -tracts. She looked at him vaguely, then suddenly began to take an -interest in him. - -“Of course,” she said, with decision, “you’ve got to join, too.” - -“Rather,” he said. “Tell me what it is. I’m sure it’s full of truth.” - -“It’s the National Service League. I’m a working associate, and I’m -persuading people to join. It’s a good thing, really. Were you at the -meeting yesterday?” - -“No, I missed that. I was at another meeting, in point of fact. I often -am, you know.” He said it with a touch of mild perplexity. It was so -true. - -She was turning over the sheaf of tracts. - -“Let me see: which will meet your case? Leaflet M, the Modern -Sisyphus--that’s a picture one, and more for the poor; so simple and -graphic. P is better for you. HAVE YOU EVER THOUGHT what war is, and -what it would be like to have it raging round your own home? HAVE YOU -EVER THOUGHT what your feelings would be if you heard that an enemy had -landed on these shores, and you knew that you were ignorant of the means -by which you could help to defend your country and your home? YOU -PROBABLY THINK that if you are a member of a rifle club, and know how to -shoot, you have done all that is needed. But--well, you haven’t, and so -on, you know. You’d better take P. And Q. Q says ‘Are you a Liberal? -Then join the League, because, etc. Are you a Democrat? Are you a -Socialist? Are you a Conservative? Are you----’ ” - -“Yes,” said Eddy, “I’m everything of that sort. It won’t be able to -think of anything I’m not.” - -She thought he was being funny, though he wasn’t; he was speaking the -simple truth. - -“Anyhow,” she said, “you’ll find good reasons there why you should -join, whatever you are. Just think, you know, suppose the Germans -landed.” She supposed that for a little, then got on to physical -training and military discipline, how important they are. - -Eddy said when she paused, “Quite. I think you are utterly right.” He -always did, when anyone explained anything to him; he was like that; he -had a receptive mind. - -“You can become,” said Miss Jamison, getting to the gist of the matter, -“a guinea member, or a penny adherent, or a shilling associate, or a -more classy sort of associate, that pays five shillings and gets all -kinds of literature.” - -“I’ll be that,” said Eddy Oliver, who liked nearly all kinds of -literature. - -So Miss Jamison got out her book of vouchers on the spot, and enrolled -him, receiving five shillings and presenting a blue button on which was -inscribed the remark, “The Path of Duty is the Path of Safety.” - -“So true,” said Eddy. “A jolly good motto. A jolly good League. I’ll -tell everyone I meet to join.” - -“There’ll be another meeting,” said Miss Jamison, “next Thursday. Of -course you’ll come. We want a good audience this time, if possible. We -never have one, you know. There’ll be lantern slides, illustrating -invasion as it would be now, and invasion as it would be were the -National Service League Bill passed. Tremendously exciting.” - -Eddy made a note of it in his Cambridge Pocket Diary, a small and -profusely inscribed volume without which he never moved, as his -engagements were numerous, and his head not strong. - -He wrote below June 8th, “N.S.L., 8 p.m., Guildhall, small room.” For -the same date he had previously inscribed, “Fabians, 7.15, Victoria -Assembly Rooms,” “E.C.U. Protest Meeting, Guildhall, large room, 2.15,” -and “Primrose League Fête, Great Shelford Manor, 3 p.m.” He belonged to -all these societies (they are all so utterly right) and many others more -esoteric, and led a complex and varied life, full of faith and hope. -With so many right points of view in the world, so many admirable, if -differing, faiths, whither, he demanded, might not humanity rise? -Himself, he joined everything that came his way, from Vegetarian -Societies to Heretic Clubs and Ritualist Guilds; all, for him, were full -of truth. This attitude of omni-acceptance sometimes puzzled and worried -less receptive and more single-minded persons; they were known at times -even to accuse him, with tragic injustice, of insincerity. When they did -so, he saw how right they were; he entirely sympathised with their point -of view. - -At this time he was nearly twenty-three, and nearly at the end of his -Cambridge career. In person he was a slight youth, with intelligent -hazel eyes under sympathetic brows, and easily ruffled brown hair, and a -general air of receptive impressionability. Clad not unsuitably in grey -flannels and the soft hat of the year (soft hats vary importantly from -age to age), he strolled down King’s Parade. There he met a man of his -own college; this was liable to occur in King’s Parade. The man said he -was going to tea with his people, and Eddy was to come too. Eddy did so. -He liked the Denisons; they were full of generous enthusiasm for certain -things--(not, like Eddy himself, for everything). They wanted Votes for -Women, and Liberty for Distressed Russians, and spinning-looms for -everyone. They had inspired Eddy to want these things, too; he belonged, -indeed, to societies for promoting each of them. On the other hand, they -did not want Tariff Reform, or Conscription, or Prayer Book Revision -(for they seldom read the Prayer Book), and if they had known that Eddy -belonged also to societies for promoting these objects, they would have -remonstrated with him. - -Professor Denison was a quiet person, who said little, but listened to -his wife and children. He had much sense of humour, and some -imagination. He was fifty-five. Mrs. Denison was a small and engaging -lady, a tremendous worker in good causes; she had little sense of -humour, and a vivid, if often misapplied, imagination. She was -forty-six. Her son Arnold was tall, lean, cynical, intelligent, edited a -university magazine (the most interesting of them), was president of a -Conversation Society, and was just going into his uncle’s publishing -house. He had plenty of sense of humour (if he had had less, he would -have bored himself to death), and an imagination kept within due bounds. -He was twenty-three. His sister Margery was also intelligent, but, -notwithstanding this, had recently published a book of verse; some of it -was not so bad as a great many people’s verse. She also designed -wall-papers, which on the whole she did better. She had an unequal sense -of humour, keen in certain directions, blunt in others, like most -people’s; the same description applies to her imagination. She was -twenty-two. - -Eddy and Arnold found them having tea in the garden, with two brown -undergraduates and a white one. The Denisons belonged to the East and -West Society, which tries to effect a union between the natives of these -two quarters of the globe. It has conversazioni, at which the brown men -congregate at one end of the room and the white men at the other, and -both, one hopes, are happy. This afternoon Mrs. Denison and her daughter -were each talking to a brown young man (Downing and Christ’s), and the -white young man (Trinity Hall) was being silent with Professor Denison, -because East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, -and really, you can’t talk to blacks. Arnold joined the West; Eddy, who -belonged to the above-mentioned society, helped Miss Denison to talk to -her black. - -Rather soon the East went, and the West became happier. - -Miss Denison said, “Dorothy Jamison came round this afternoon, wanting -us to join the National Service League or something.” - -Mrs. Denison said, snippily, “Dorothy ought to know better,” at the same -moment that Eddy said, “It’s a jolly little League, apparently. Quite -full of truth.” - -The Hall man said that his governor was a secretary or something at -home, and kept having people down to speak at meetings. So he and the -Denisons argued about it, till Margery said, “Oh, well, of course, -you’re hopeless. But I don’t know what Eddy means by it. _You_ don’t -want to encourage militarism, surely, Eddy.” - -Eddy said surely yes, shouldn’t one encourage everything? But really, -and no ragging, Margery persisted, he didn’t belong to a thing like -that? - -Eddy showed his blue button. - -“Rather, I do. HAVE YOU EVER THOUGHT what war is, and what it would be -like to have it raging round your own home? Are you a democrat? Then -join the League.” - -“Idiot,” said Margery, who knew him well enough to call him so. - -“He believes in everything. I believe in nothing,” Arnold explained. “He -accepts; I refuse. He likes three lumps of sugar in his tea; I like -none. He had better be a journalist, and write for the _Daily Mail_, the -_Clarion_, and the _Spectator_.” - -“What _are_ you going to do when you go down?” Margery asked Eddy, -suspiciously. - -Eddy blushed, because he was going for a time to work in a Church -settlement. A man he knew was a clergyman there, and had convinced him -that it was his duty and he must. The Denisons did not care about Church -settlements, only secular ones; that, and because he had a clear, pale -skin that showed everything, was why he blushed. - -“I’m going to work with some men in Southwark,” he said, embarrassed. -“Anyhow, for a time. Help with boys’ clubs, you know, and so on.” - -“Parsons?” inquired Arnold, and Eddy admitted it, where upon Arnold -changed the subject; he had no concern with Parsons. - -The Denisons were so shocked at Eddy, that they let the Hall man talk -about the South African match for quite two minutes. They were probably -afraid that if they didn’t Eddy might talk about the C.I.C.C.U., which -would be infinitely worse. Eddy was perhaps the only man at the moment -in Cambridge who belonged simultaneously to the C.I.C.C.U., the Church -Society, and the Heretics. (It may be explained for the benefit of the -uninitiated that the C.I.C.C.U. is Low Church, and the Church Society is -High Church, and the Heretics is no church at all. They are all -admirable societies). - -Arnold said presently, interrupting the match, “If I keep a second-hand -bookshop in Soho, will you help me, Eddy?” - -Eddy said he would like to. - -“It will be awfully good training for both of us,” said Arnold. “You’ll -see much more life that way, you know, than at your job in Southwark.” - -Arnold had manfully overcome his distaste for alluding to Eddy’s job in -Southwark, in order to make a last attempt to snatch a brand from the -burning. - -But Eddy, thinking he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, -said, - -“You see, my people rather want me to take Orders, and the Southwark job -is by way of finding out if I want to or not. I’m nearly sure I don’t, -you know,” he added, apologetically, because the Denisons were looking -so badly disappointed in him. - -Mrs. Denison said kindly, “I think I should tell your people straight -out that you can’t. It’s a tiresome little jar, I know, but honestly, I -don’t believe it’s a bit of use members of a family pretending that they -see life from the same angle when they don’t.” - -Eddy said, “Oh, but I think we do, in a way. Only----” - -It was really rather difficult to explain. He did indeed see life from -the same angle as the rest of his family, but from many other angles as -well, which was confusing. The question was, could one select some one -thing to be, clergyman or anything else, unless one was very sure that -it implied no negations, no exclusions of the other angles? That was, -perhaps, what his life in Southwark would teach him. Most of the clergy -round his own home--and, his father being a Dean, he knew many--hadn’t, -it seemed to him, learnt the art of acceptance; they kept drawing lines, -making sheep and goat divisions, like the Denisons. - -The Hall man, feeling a little embarrassed because they were getting -rather intimate and personal, and probably would like to get more so if -he were not there, went away. He had had to call on the Denisons, but -they weren’t his sort, he knew. Miss Denison and her parents frightened -him, and he didn’t get on with girls who dressed artistically, or wrote -poetry, and Arnold Denison was a conceited crank, of course. Oliver was -a good sort, only very thick with Denison for some reason. If he was -Oliver, and wanted to do anything so dull as slumming with parsons in -Southwark, he wouldn’t be put off by anything the Denisons said. - -“Why don’t _you_ get your tie to match your socks, Eddy?” Arnold asked, -with a yawn, when Egerton had gone. - -His mother, a hospitable lady, and kind to Egertons and all others who -came to her house, told him not to be disagreeable. Eddy said, truly, -that he wished he did, and that it was a capital idea and looked -charming. - -“Egertons do look rather charming, quite often,” Margery conceded. “I -suppose that’s something after all.” - -Mrs. Denison added, (exquisite herself, she had a taste for neatness): -“Their hair and their clothes are always beautifully brushed; which is -more than yours are, Arnold.” - -Arnold lay back with his eyes shut, and groaned gently. Egerton had -fatigued him very much. - -Eddy thought it was rather nice of Mrs. Denison and Margery to be kind -about Egerton because he had been to tea. He realised that he himself -was the only person there who was neither kind nor unkind about Egerton, -because he really liked him. This the Denisons would have hopelessly -failed to understand, or, probably, to believe; if he had mentioned it -they would have thought he was being kind, too. Eddy liked a number of -people who were ranked by the Denisons among the goats; even the rowing -men of his own college, which happened to be a college where one didn’t -row. - -Mrs. Denison asked Eddy if he would come to lunch on Thursday to meet -some of the Irish players, whom they were putting up for the week. The -Denisons, being intensely English and strong Home Rulers, felt, besides -the artistic admiration for the Abbey Theatre players common to all, a -political enthusiasm for them as Nationalists, so putting three of them -up was a delightful hospitality. Eddy, who shared both the artistic and -the political enthusiasm, was delighted to come to lunch. Unfortunately -he would have to hurry away afterwards to the Primrose League Fête at -Great Shelford, but he did not mention this. - -Consulting his watch, he found he was even now due at a meeting of a -Sunday Games Club to which he belonged, so he said goodbye to the -Denisons and went. - -“Mad as a hatter,” was Arnold’s languid comment on him when he had gone; -“but well-intentioned.” - -“But,” said Margery, “I can’t gather that he intends anything at all. -He’s so absurdly indiscriminate.” - -“He intends everything,” her father interpreted. “You all, in this -intense generation, intend much too much; Oliver carries it a little -further than most of you, that’s all. His road to his ultimate -destination is most remarkably well-paved.” - -“Oh, poor boy,” said Mrs. Denison, remonstrating. She went in to finish -making arrangements for a Suffrage meeting. - -Margery went to her studio to hammer jewellery for the Arts and Crafts -Exhibition. - -Professor Denison went to his study to look over Tripos papers. - -Arnold lay in the garden and smoked. He was the least energetic of his -family, and not industrious. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -ST. GREGORY’S. - - -Probably, Eddy decided, after working for a week in Southwark, the thing -to be was a clergyman. Clergymen get their teeth into something; they -make things move; you can see results, which is so satisfactory. They -can point to a man, or a society, and say, “Here you are; I made this. I -found him a worm and no man, and left him a human being,” or, “I found -them scattered and unmoral units, and left them a Band of Hope, or a -Mothers’ Union.” It is a great work. Eddy caught the spirit of it, and -threw himself vigorously into men’s clubs and lads’ brigades, and boy -scouts, and all the other organisations that flourished in the parish of -St. Gregory, under the Reverend Anthony Finch and his assistant clergy. -Father Finch, as he was called in the parish, was a stout, bright man, -shrewd, and merry, and genial, and full of an immense energy and power -of animating the inanimate. He had set all kinds of people and -institutions on their feet, and given them a push to start them and keep -them in motion. So his parish was a live parish, in a state of healthy -circulation. Father Finch was emphatically a worker. Dogma and ritual, -though certainly essential to his view of life, did not occupy the -prominent place given to them by, for instance, his senior curate, -Hillier. Hillier was the supreme authority on ecclesiastical ceremonial. -It was he who knew, without referring to a book, all the colours of all -the festivals and vigils; and what cere-cloths and maniples were; it was -he who decided how many candles were demanded at the festal evensong of -each saint, and what vestments were suitable to be worn in procession, -and all the other things that lay people are apt to think get done for -themselves, but which really give a great deal of trouble and thought to -some painstaking organiser. - -Hillier had genial and sympathetic manners with the poor, was very -popular in the parish, belonged to eight religious guilds, wore the -badges of all of them on his watch-chain, and had been educated at a -county school and a theological college. The junior curate, James -Peters, was a jolly young cricketer of twenty-four, and had been at -Marlborough and Cambridge with Eddy; he was, in fact, the man who had -persuaded Eddy to come and help in St. Gregory’s. - -There were several young laymen working in the parish. St. Gregory’s -House, which was something between a clergy house and a settlement, -spread wide nets to catch workers. Hither drifted bank clerks in their -leisure hours, eager to help with clubs in the evenings and Sunday -school classes on Sundays. Here also came undergraduates in the -vacations, keen to plunge into the mêlée, and try their hands at social -and philanthropic enterprises; some of them were going to take Orders -later, some were not; some were stifling with ardent work troublesome -doubts as to the object of the universe, others were not; all were full -of the generous idealism of the first twenties. When Eddy went there, -there were no undergraduates, but several visiting lay workers. - -Between the senior and junior curates came the second curate, Bob -Traherne, an ardent person who belonged to the Church Socialist League. -Eddy joined this League at once. It is an interesting one to belong to, -and has an exciting, though some think old-fashioned, programme. Seeing -him inclined to join things, Hillier set before him, diplomatically, the -merits of the various Leagues and Guilds and Fraternities whose badges -he wore, and for which new recruits are so important. - -“Anyone who cares for the principles of the Church,” he said, shyly -eager, having asked Eddy into his room to smoke one Sunday evening after -supper, “must support the objects of the G.S.C.” He explained what they -were, and why. “You see, worship can’t be complete without it--not so -much because it’s a beautiful thing in itself, and certainly not from -the æsthetic or sensuous point of view, though of course there’s that -appeal too, and particularly to the poor--but because it’s used in the -other branches, and we must join up and come into line as far as we -conscientiously can.” - -“Quite,” said Eddy, seeing it. “Of course we must.” - -“You’ll join the Guild, then?” said Hillier, and Eddy said, “Oh, yes, -I’ll join,” and did so. So Hillier had great hopes for him, and told him -about the F.I.S., and the L.M.G. - -But Traherne said afterwards to Eddy, “Don’t you go joining Hillier’s -little Fraternities and Incense Guilds. They won’t do you any good. -Leave them to people like Robinson and Wilkes.” (Robinson and Wilkes -were two young clerks who came to work in the parish and adored -Hillier.) “They seem to find such things necessary to their souls; in -fact, they tell me they are starved without them; so I suppose they must -be allowed to have them. But you simply haven’t the time to spend.” - -“Oh, I think it’s right, you know,” said Eddy, who never rejected -anything or fell in with negations. That was where he drew his line--he -went along with all points of view so long as they were positive: as -soon as condemnation or rejection came in, he broke off. - -Traherne puffed at his pipe rather scornfully. - -“It’s not right,” he grunted, “and it’s not wrong. It’s neuter. Oh, have -it as you like. It’s all very attractive, of course; I’m entirely in -sympathy with the objects of all these guilds, as you know. It’s only -the guilds themselves I object to--a lot of able-bodied people wasting -their forces banding themselves together to bring about relatively -trivial and unimportant things, when there’s all the work of the shop -waiting to be done. Oh, I don’t mean Hillier doesn’t work--of course -he’s first-class--but the more of his mind he gives to incense and -stoles, the less he’ll have to give to the work that matters--and it’s -not as if he had such an immense deal of it altogether--mind, I mean.” - -“But after all,” Eddy demurred, “if that sort of thing appeals to -anybody....” - -“Oh, let ’em have it, let ’em have it,” said Traherne wearily. “Let ’em -all have what they like; but don’t _you_ be dragged into a net of -millinery and fuss. Even you will surely admit that things don’t all -matter equally--that it’s more important, for instance, that people -should learn a little about profit-sharing than a great deal about -church ornaments; more important that they should use leadless glaze -than that they should use incense. Well, then, there you are; go for the -essentials, and let the incidentals look after themselves.” - -“Oh, let’s go for everything,” said Eddy with enthusiasm. “It’s all -worth having.” - -The second curate regarded him with a cynical smile, and gave him up as -a bad job. But anyhow, he had joined the Church Socialist League, whose -members according to themselves, do go for the essentials, and, -according to some other people, go to the devil; anyhow go, or -endeavour to go, somewhere, and have no superfluous energy to spend on -toys by the roadside. Only Eddy Oliver seemed to have energy to spare -for every game that turned up. He made himself rather useful, and taught -the boys’ clubs single-stick and boxing, and played billiards and -football with them. - -The only thing that young James Peters wanted him to join was a Rugby -football club. Teach the men and boys of the parish to play Rugger like -sportsmen and not like cads, and you’ve taught them most of what a boy -or man need learn, James Peters held. While the senior curate said, give -them the ritual of the Catholic Church, and the second curate said, give -them a minimum wage, and the vicar said, put into them, by some means or -another, the fear of God, the junior curate led them to the -playing-field hired at great expense, and tried to make sportsmen of -them; and grew at times, but very seldom, passionate like a thwarted -child, because it was the most difficult thing he had ever tried to do, -and because they would lose their tempers and kick one another on the -shins, and walk off the field, and send in their resignations, together -with an intimation that St. Gregory’s Church would see them no more, -because the referee was a liar and didn’t come it fair. Then James -Peters would throw back their resignations and their intimations in -their faces, and call them silly asses and generally manage to smooth -things down in his cheerful, youthful, vigorous way. Eddy Oliver helped -him in this. He and Peters were great friends, though more unlike even -than most people are. Peters had a very single eye, and herded people -very easily and completely into sheep and goats; his particular -nomenclature for them was “sportsmen” and “rotters.” He took the -Catholic Church, so to speak, in his swing, and was one of her most -loyal and energetic sons. - -To him, Arnold Denison, whom he had known slightly at Cambridge, was -decidedly a goat. Arnold Denison came, at Eddy’s invitation, to supper -at St. Gregory’s House one Sunday night. The visit was not a success. -Hillier, usually the life of any party he adorned, was silent, and on -his guard. Arnold, at times a tremendous talker, said hardly a word -through the meal. Eddy knew of old that he was capable, in uncongenial -society, of an unmannerly silence, which looked scornful partly because -it was scornful, and partly because of Arnold’s rather cynical -physiognomy, which sometimes unjustly suggested mockery. On this Sunday -evening he was really less scornful than simply aloof; he had no concern -with these people, nor they with him; they made each other mutually -uncomfortable. Neither could have anything to say to the other’s point -of view. Eddy, the connecting link, felt unhappy about it. What was the -matter with the idiots, that they wouldn’t understand each other? It -seemed to him extraordinarily stupid. But undoubtedly the social fault -lay with Arnold, who was being rude. The others, as hosts, tried to -make themselves pleasant--even Hillier, who quite definitely didn’t like -Arnold, and who was one of those who as a rule think it right and true -to their colours to show disapproval when they feel it. The others -weren’t like that (the difference perhaps was partly between the schools -which had respectively reared them), so they were agreeable with less -effort. - -But the meal was not a success. It began with grace, which, in spite of -its rapidity and its decent cloak of Latin, quite obviously shocked and -embarrassed Arnold. (“Stupid of him,” thought Eddy; “he might have known -we’d say it here.”) It went on with Peters talking about his Rugger -club, which bored Arnold. This being apparent, the Vicar talked about -some Cambridge men they both knew. As the men had worked for a time in -St. Gregory’s parish, Arnold had already given them up as bad jobs, so -hadn’t much to say about them, except one, who had turned over a new -leaf, and now helped to edit a new weekly paper. Arnold mentioned this -paper with approbation. - -“Did you see last week’s?” he asked the Vicar. “There were some -extraordinarily nice things in it.” - -As no one but Eddy had seen last week’s, and everyone but Eddy thought -_The Heretic_ in thoroughly bad taste, if not worse, the subject was not -a general success. Eddy referred to a play that had been reviewed in it. -That seemed a good subject; plays are a friendly, uncontroversial -topic. But between Arnold and clergymen no topic seemed friendly. -Hillier introduced a popular play of the hour which had a religious -trend. He even asked Arnold if he had seen it. Arnold said no, he had -missed that pleasure. Hillier said it was grand, simply grand; he had -been three times. - -“Of course,” he added, “one’s on risky ground, and one isn’t quite sure -how far one likes to see such marvellous religious experiences -represented on the stage. But the spirit is so utterly reverent that one -can’t feel anything but the rightness of the whole thing. It’s a rather -glorious triumph of devotional expression.” - -And that wasn’t a happy topic either, for no one but he and Eddy liked -the play at all. The Vicar thought it cheap and tawdry; Traherne thought -it sentimental and revolting; Peters thought it silly rot; and Arnold -had never thought about it at all, but had just supposed it to be -absurd, the sort of play to which one would go, if one went at all, to -laugh; like “The Sins of Society,” or “Everywoman,” only rather coarse, -too. - -Hillier said to Eddy, who had seen the play with him, “Didn’t you think -it tremendously fine, Oliver?” - -Eddy said, “Yes, quite. I really did. But Denison wouldn’t like it, you -know.” - -Denison, Hillier supposed, was one of the fools who have said in their -hearts, etc. In that case the play in question would probably be an -eye-opener for him, and it was a pity he shouldn’t see it. - -Hillier told him so. “You really ought to see it, Mr. Denison.” - -Arnold said, “Life, unfortunately, is short.” - -Hillier, nettled, said, “I’d much rather see ‘The Penitent’ than all -your Shaws put together. I’m afraid I can’t pretend to owe any -allegiance there.” - -Arnold, who thought Shaw common, not to say Edwardian, looked -unresponsive. Then Traherne began to talk about ground-rents. When -Traherne began to talk he as a rule went on. Neither Hillier nor Arnold, -who had mutually shocked one another, said much more. Arnold knew a -little about rents, ground and other, and if Traherne had been a layman -he would have been interested in talking about them. But he couldn’t and -wouldn’t talk to clergymen; emphatically, he did not like them. - -After supper, Eddy took him to his own room to smoke. With his unlit -pipe in his hand, Arnold lay back and let out a deep breath of -exhaustion. - -“You were very rude and disagreeable at supper,” said Eddy, striking a -match. “It was awkward for me. I must apologise to-morrow for having -asked you. I shall say it’s your country manners, though I suppose you -would like me to say that you don’t approve of clergymen.... Really, -Arnold, I was surprised you should be so very rustic, even if you don’t -like them.” - -Arnold groaned faintly. - -“Chuck it,” he murmured. “Come out of it before it is too late, before -you get sucked in irrevocably. I’ll help you; I’ll tell the vicar for -you; yes, I’ll interview them all in turn, even Hillier, if it will make -it easier for you. Will it?” - -“No,” said Eddy. “I’m not going to leave at present. I like being here.” - -“That,” said Arnold, “is largely why it’s so demoralising for you. Now -for _me_ it would be distressing, but innocuous. For you it’s poison.” - -“Well, now,” Eddy reasoned with him, “what’s the matter with Traherne, -for instance? Of course, I see that the vicar’s too much the practical -man of the world for you, and Peters too much the downright sportsman, -and Hillier too much the pious ass (though I like him, you know). But -Traherne’s clever and all alive, and not in the least reputable. What’s -the matter with him, then?” - -Arnold grunted. “Don’t know. Must be something, or he wouldn’t be -filling his present position in life. Probably he labours under the -delusion that life is real, life is earnest. Socialists often do.... -Look here, come and see Jane one day, will you? She’d be a change for -you.” - -“What’s Jane like?” - -“I don’t know.... Not like anyone here, anyhow. She draws in pen and -ink, and lives in a room in a little court out of Blackfriars Road, with -a little fat fair girl called Sally. Sally Peters; she’s a cousin of -young James here, I believe. Rather like him, too, only rounder and -jollier, with bluer eyes and yellower hair. Much more of a person, I -imagine; more awake to things in general, and not a bit _rangée_, though -quite crude. But the same sort of cheery exuberance; personally, I -couldn’t live with either; but Jane manages it quite serenely. Sally -isn’t free of the good-works taint herself, though we hope she is -outgrowing it.” - -“Oh, I’ve met her. She comes and helps Jimmy with the children’s clubs -sometimes.” - -“I expect she does. But, as I say, we’re educating her. She’s young -yet.... Jane is good for her. So are Miss Hogan, and the two Le Moines, -and I. We should also be good for _you_, if you could spare us some of -your valuable time between two Sunday school classes. Good night. I’m -going home now, because it makes me rather sad to be here.” - -He went home. - -The clergy of St. Gregory’s thought him (respectively) an ill-mannered -and irritating young man, probably clever enough to learn better some -day; an infidel, very likely too proud ever to learn better at all, this -side the grave; a dilettante slacker, for whom the world hadn’t much -use; and a conceited crank, for whom James Peters had no use at all. But -they didn’t like to tell Eddy so. - -James Peters, a transparent youth, threw only a thin veil over his -opinions, however, when he talked to Eddy about his cousin Sally. He -was, apparently, anxious about Sally. Eddy had met her at children’s -clubs, and thought her a cheery young person, and admired the amber gold -of her hair, and her cornflower-blue eyes, and her power of always -thinking of a fresh game at the right moment. - -“I’m supposed to be keeping an eye upon her,” James said. “She has to -earn her living, you know, so she binds books and lives in a room off -the Blackfriars Road with another girl.... I’m not sure I care about the -way they live, to say the truth. They have such queer people in, to -supper and so on. Men, you know, of all sorts. I believe Denison goes. -They sit on a bed that’s meant to look like a sofa and doesn’t. And -they’re only girls--Miss Dawn’s older than Sally, but not very old--and -they’ve no one to look after them; it doesn’t seem right. And they do -know the most extraordinary people. Miss Dawn’s rather a queer girl -herself, I think; unlike other people, somehow. Very--very detached, if -you understand; and doesn’t care a rap for the conventions, I should -say. That’s all very well in its way, and she’s a very quiet-mannered -person--can’t think how she and Sally made friends--but it’s a dangerous -plan for most people. And some of their friends are ... well, rather -rotters, you know. Look like artists, or Fabians, without collars, and -so on.... Oh, I forgot--you’re a Fabian, aren’t you?... Well, anyhow, I -should guess that some of them are without morals either; in my -experience the two things are jolly apt to go together. There are the Le -Moines, now. Have you ever come across either of them?” - -“I’ve just met Cecil Le Moine. He’s rather charming, isn’t he?” - -“The sort of person,” said James Peters, “for whom I have no use -whatever. No, he doesn’t appear to me charming. An effeminate ass, I -call him. Oh, I know he calls himself frightfully clever and all that, -and I suppose he thinks he’s good-looking ... but as selfish as sin. -Anyhow, he and his wife couldn’t live together, so they parted before -their first year was over. Her music worried him or something, and -prevented him concentrating his precious brain on his literary efforts; -and I suppose he got on her nerves, too. I believe they agreed quite -pleasantly to separate, and are quite pleased to meet each other about -the place, and are rather good friends. But I call it pretty beastly, -looking at marriage like that. If they’d hated each other there’d have -been more excuse. And she’s a great friend of Miss Dawn’s, and Sally’s -developed what I consider an inordinate affection for her; and she and -Miss Dawn between them have simply got hold of her--Sally, I mean--and -are upsetting her and giving her all kinds of silly new points of view. -She doesn’t come half as often to the clubs as she used. And she was -tremendously keen on the Church, and--and really religious, you -know--and she’s getting quite different. I feel sort of responsible, and -it’s worrying me rather.” - -He puffed discontentedly at his pipe. - -“Pity to get less keen on anything,” Eddy mused. “New points of view -seem to me all to the good; it’s losing hold of the old that’s a -mistake. Why let anything go, ever?” - -“She’s getting to think it doesn’t matter,” James complained; “Church, -and all that. I know she’s given up things she used to do. And really, -the more she’s surrounded by influences such as Mrs. Le Moine’s, the -more she needs the Church to pull her through, if only she’d see it. -Mrs. Le Moine’s a wonderful musician, I suppose, but she has queer -ideas, rather; I shouldn’t trust her. She and Hugh Datcherd--the editor -of _Further_, you know--are hand and glove. And considering he has a -wife and she a husband ... well, it seems pretty futile, doesn’t it?” - -“Does it?” Eddy wondered. “It depends so much on the special -circumstances. If the husband and the wife don’t mind----” - -“Rot,” said James. “And the husband ought to mind, and I don’t know that -the wife doesn’t. And, anyhow, it doesn’t affect the question of right -and wrong.” - -That was too difficult a proposition for Eddy to consider; he gave it -up. - -“I’m going to the Blackfriars Road flat with Denison one day, I -believe,” he said. “I shall be one of the Fabians that sit on the bed -that doesn’t look like a sofa.” - -James sighed. “I wish, if you get to know Sally at all, you’d encourage -her to come down here more, and try to put a few sound ideas into her -head. She’s taking to scorning my words of wisdom. I believe she’s taken -against parsons.... Oh, you’re going with Denison.” - -“Arnold won’t do anyone any harm,” Eddy reassured him. “He’s so -extraordinarily innocent. About the most innocent person I know. We -should shock him frightfully down here if he saw much of us; he’d think -us indecent and coarse. Hillier and I did shock him rather, by liking -“The Penitent.” - -“I wonder if you like everything,” grumbled Peters. - -“Most things, I expect,” said Eddy. “Well, most things are rather nice, -don’t you think?” - -“I suppose you’ll like the Le Moines and Miss Dawn if you get to know -them. And all the rest of that crew.” - -Eddy certainly expected to do so. - -Six o’clock struck, and Peters went to church to hear confessions, and -Eddy to the Institute to play billiards with the Church Lads’ Brigade, -of which he was an officer. A wonderful life of varied active service, -this Southwark life seemed to Eddy; full and splendid, and gloriously -single-eyed. Arnold, in sneering at it, showed himself a narrow prig. -More and more it was becoming clear to Eddy that nothing should be -sneered at and nothing condemned, not the Catholic Church, nor the -Salvation Army, nor the views of artists, Fabians, and Le Moines, -without collars and without morals. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -PLEASANCE COURT. - - -One evening Arnold took Eddy to supper with his cousin Jane Dawn and -James Peters’ cousin Sally. They lived in Pleasance Court, a small -square with a garden. After supper they were all going to a first -performance of a play by Cecil Le Moine, called “Squibs.” - -“You always know which their window is,” Arnold told Eddy as they turned -into the square, “by the things on the sill. They put the food and drink -there, to keep cool, or be out of the way, or something.” Looking up, -they saw outside an upper window a blue jug and a white bowl, keeping -cool in the moonlight. As they rang at the door, the window was pushed -up, and hands reached out to take the jug and bowl in. A cheerful face -looked down at the tops of their heads, and a cheerful voice said -clearly, “They’ve come, Jane. They’re very early, aren’t they? They’ll -have to help buttering the eggs.” - -Arnold called up, “If you would prefer it, we will walk round the square -till the eggs are buttered.” - -“Oh, no, please. We’d like you to come up and help, if you don’t mind.” -The voice was a little doubtful because of Eddy, the unknown quantity. -The door was opened by an aged door-keeper, and they climbed -breathlessly steep stairs to the room. - -In the room was the smell of eggs buttering over a spirit-lamp, and of -cocoa boiling over a fire. There was also a supper-table, laid with cups -and plates and oranges and butter and honey, and brown, -green-wainscotted walls, and various sorts of pictures hanging on them, -and various sorts of pots and jugs from various sorts of places, such as -Spain, New Brighton, and Bruges, and bronze chrysanthemums in jars, and -white shoots of bulbs pricking up out of cocoa-nut fibre in bowls, and a -book-case with books in it, and a table in a corner littered with -book-binding plant, and two girls cooking. One of them was soft and -round like a puppy, and had fluffy golden hair and a cornflower-blue -pinafore to match cornflower-blue eyes. The other was small, and had a -pale, pointed face and a large forehead and brown hair waving back from -it, and a smile of wonderfully appealing sweetness, and a small, gentle -voice. She looked somehow as if she had lived in a wood, and had -intimately and affectionately known all the little live wild things in -it, both birds and beasts and flowers: a queer unearthliness there was -about her, that suggested the morning winds and the evening stars. Eddy, -who knew some of her drawings, had noted that chaste, elfin quality in -them; he was rather pleased to find it meet him so obviously in her face -and bearing. Seeing the two girls, he was disposed to echo James Peters’ -comment, “Can’t think how she and Sally made friends,” and to set it -down tritely to that law of contrasts which some people, in the teeth of -experience, appear to believe in as the best basis of friendship. - -Sally Peters was stirring the buttered egg vigorously, lest it should -stand still and burn. Jane Dawn was watching the cocoa, lest it should -run over and burn. Arnold wandered round the room peering at the -pictures--mostly drawings and etchings--with his near-sighted eyes, to -see if there was anything new. Jane had earned a little money lately, so -there were two new Duncan Grants and a Muirhead Bone, which he examined -with critical approval. - -“You’ve still got this up,” he remarked, tapping Beardsley’s “Ave Atque -Vale” with a disparaging finger. “The one banal thing Beardsley ever.... -Besides, anyhow Beardsley’s _passé_.” - -Jane Dawn, who looked as if she belonged not to time at all, seemed -peacefully undisturbed by this fact. Only Sally, in her young -ingenuousness, looked a little concerned. - -“I love the Ave,” Jane murmured over the saucepan, and then looked up at -Eddy with her small, half-affectionate smile--a likeable way she had -with her. - -He said, “I do too,” and Arnold snorted. - -“You don’t know him yet, Jane. He loves everything. He loves -‘Soap-bubbles,’ and ‘The Monarch of the Glen,’ and problem pictures in -the Academy. Not to mention ‘The Penitent,’ which, Jane, is a play of -which you have never heard, but to which you and I will one day go, to -complete our education. Only we won’t take Sally; it would be bad for -her. She isn’t old enough for it yet and it might upset her mind; -besides, it isn’t proper, I believe.” - -“I’m sure I don’t want to go,” said Sally, pouring out the egg into a -dish. “It must be idiotic. Even Jimmy thinks so.” - -Arnold’s eyebrows went up. “In that case I may revise my opinion of it,” -he murmured. “Well, anyhow Eddy loves it, like everything else. Nothing -is beyond the limit of his tolerance.” - -“Does he like nice things too?” Sally naïvely asked. “Will he like -‘Squibs’?” - -“Oh, yes, he’ll like ‘Squibs.’ His taste is catholic; he’ll probably be -the only person in London who likes both ‘Squibs’ and ‘The Penitent.’ -... I suppose we shan’t see Eileen to-night; she’ll have been given one -of the seats of the great. She shall come and talk to us between the -acts, though.” - -“We wanted Eileen and Bridget to come to supper,” said Sally. “It’s -quite ready now, by the way; let’s have it. But they were dining with -Cecil, and then going on to the theatre. Do you like cocoa, Mr. Oliver? -Because if you don’t there’s milk, or lemonade.” - -Eddy said he liked them all, but would have cocoa at the moment. Jane -poured it out, with the most exquisitely-shaped thin small hands he had -ever seen, and passed it to him with her little smile, that seemed to -take him at once into the circle of her accepted friends. A rare and -delicate personality she seemed to him, curiously old and young, -affectionate and aloof, like a spring morning on a hill. There was -something impersonal and sexless about her. Eddy felt inclined at once -to call her Jane, and was amused and pleased when she slipped -unconsciously once or twice into addressing him as Eddy. The ordinary -conventions in such matters would never, one felt, weigh with her at -all, or even come into consideration, any more than with a child. - -“I was to give you James’ love,” Eddy said to Sally, “and ask you when -you are coming to St. Gregory’s again. The school-teachers, he tells me -to inform you, cannot run the Band of Hope basket-making class without -you.” - -Sally got rather pink, and glanced at Arnold, who looked cynically -interested. - -“What _is_ the Band of Hope?” he inquired. - -“Temperance girls, temperance boys, always happy, always free,” Eddy -answered, in the words of their own song. - -“Oh, I see. Fight the drink. And does making baskets help them to fight -it?” - -“Well, of course if you have a club and it has to meet once a week, it -must do something,” said Sally, stating a profound and sad truth. “But I -told Jimmy I was frightfully busy; I don’t think I can go, really.... I -wish Jimmy wouldn’t go on asking me. Do tell him not to, Mr. Oliver. -Jimmy doesn’t understand; one can’t do everything.” - -“No,” said Eddy dubiously, thinking that perhaps one could, almost, and -that anyhow the more things the more fun. - -“It’s a pity one can’t,” he added, from his heart. - -Arnold said that doing was a deadly thing, doing ends in death. “Only -that, I believe, is the Evangelical view, and you’re High Church at St. -Gregory’s.” - -Jane laughed at him. “Imagine Arnold knowing the difference! I don’t -believe he does in the least. I do,” she added, with a naïve touch of -vanity, “because I met a clergyman once, when I was drawing in the -Abbey, and he told me a lot about it. About candles, and ornaments, and -robes that priests wear in church. It must be much nicer than being Low -Church, I should think.” She referred to Eddy, with her questioning -smile. - -“They’re both rather nice,” Eddy said. “I’m both, I think.” - -Sally looked at him inquiringly with her blue eyes under their thick -black lashes. Was he advanced, this plausible, intelligent-looking young -man, who was a friend of Arnold Denison’s and liked “The Penitent,” and, -indeed, everything else? Was he free and progressive and on the side of -the right things, or was he merely an amiable stick-in-the-mud like -Jimmy? She couldn’t gather, from his alert, expressive face and bright -hazel eyes and rather sensitive mouth: they chiefly conveyed a capacity -for reception, an openness to all impressions, a readiness to spread -sails to any wind. If he _were_ a person of parts, if he had a brain and -a mind and a soul, and if at the same time he were an ardent server of -the Church--that, Sally thought unconsciously, might be a witness in the -Church’s favour. Only here she remembered Jimmy’s friend at St. -Gregory’s, Bob Traherne; he was all that and more, he had brain and mind -and soul and an ardent fire of zeal for many of the right things (Sally, -a little behind the times here, was a Socialist by conviction), and yet -in spite of him one was sure that somehow the Church wouldn’t do, -wouldn’t meet all the requirements of this complex life. Sally had -learnt that lately, and was learning it more and more. She was proud of -having learnt it; but still, she had occasional regrets. - -She made a hole in an orange, and put a lump of sugar in it and sucked -it. - -“The great advantage of that way,” she explained, “is that all the juice -goes inside you, and doesn’t mess the plates or anything else. You see, -Mrs. Jones is rather old, and not fond of washing up.” - -So they all made holes and put in sugar, and put the juice inside them. -Then Jane and Sally retired to exchange their cooking pinafores for -out-door things, and then they all rode to “Squibs” on the top of a bus. -They were joined at the pit door by one Billy Raymond, a friend of -theirs--a tall, tranquil young man, by trade a poet, with an attractive -smile and a sweet temper, and a gentle, kind, serenely philosophical -view of men and things that was a little like Jane’s, only more human -and virile. He attracted Eddy greatly, as his poems had already done. - -To remove anxiety on the subject, it may be stated at once that the -first night of “Squibs” was neither a failure nor a triumphant success. -It was enjoyable, for those who enjoyed the sort of thing--(fantastic -wit, clever dialogue, much talk, little action, and less emotion)--and -dull for those who didn’t. It would certainly never be popular, and -probably the author would have been shocked and grieved if it had been. -The critics approved it as clever, and said it was rather lengthy and -highly improbable. Jane, Sally, Arnold, Billy Raymond, and Eddy enjoyed -it extremely. So did Eileen Le Moine and her companion Bridget Hogan, -who watched it from a box. Cecil Le Moine wandered in and out of the -box, looking plaintive. He told Eileen that they were doing it even -worse than he had feared. He was rather an engaging-looking person, with -a boyish, young-Napoleonic beauty of face and a velvet smoking-jacket, -and a sweet, plaintive voice, and the air of an injured child about him. -A child of genius, perhaps; anyhow a gifted child, and a lovable one, -and at the same time as selfish as even a child can be. - -Eileen Le Moine and Miss Hogan came to speak to their friends in the pit -before taking their seats. Eddy was introduced to them, and they talked -for a minute or two. When they had gone, Sally said to him, “Isn’t -Eileen attractive?” - -“Very,” he said. - -“And Bridget’s a dear,” added Sally, childishly boasting of her friends. - -“I can imagine she would be,” said Eddy. Miss Hogan had amused him -during their short interview. She was older than the rest of them; she -was perhaps thirty-four, and very well dressed, and with a shrewd, -woman-of-the-world air that the others quite lacked, and dangling -pince-nez, and ironic eyes, and a slight stutter. Eddy regretted that -she was not sitting among them; her caustic comments would have added -salt to the evening. - -“Bridget’s worldly, you know,” Sally said. “She’s the only one of us -with money, and she goes out a lot. You see how smartly she’s dressed. -She’s the only person I’m really friends with who’s like that. She’s -awfully clever, too, though she doesn’t do anything.” - -“Doesn’t she do anything?” Eddy asked sceptically, and Arnold answered -him. - -“Our Bridget? Sally only means she’s a lily of the field. She writes -not, neither does she paint. She only mothers those who do, and hauls -them out of scrapes. Eileen lives with her, you know, in a flat in -Kensington. She tries to look after Eileen. Quite enough of a job, -besides tending all the other ingenuous young persons of both sexes she -has under her wing.” - -Eddy watched her as she talked to Eileen Le Moine; a vivid, impatient, -alive person, full of quips and cranks and quiddities and a constant -flow of words. He could see, foreshortened, Eileen Le Moine’s face--very -attractive, as Sally had said; broad brows below dark hair, rounded -cheeks with deep dimples that came and went in them, great deep blue, -black-lashed eyes, a wide mouth of soft, generous curves, a mouth that -could look sulky but always had amusement lurking in it, and a round, -decisive chin. She was perhaps four or five and twenty; a brilliant, -perverse young person, full of the fun of living, an artist, a -pleasure-lover, a spoilt child, who probably could be sullen, who -certainly was wayward and self-willed, who had genius and charm and -ideas and a sublime independence of other people’s codes, and possibly -an immense untapped spring of generous self-sacrifice. She had probably -been too like Cecil Le Moine (only more than he was, every way) to live -with him; each would need something more still and restful as a -permanent companion. They had no doubt been well advised to part, -thought Eddy, who did not agree with James Peters about that way of -regarding marriage. - -“Isn’t Miss Carruthers ripping as Myra,” whispered Sally. “Cecil wrote -it for her, you know. He says there’s no one else on the stage.” - -Jane put up a hand to silence her, because the curtain had risen. - -At the end the author was called and had a good reception; on the whole -“Squibs” had been a success. Eddy looked up and saw Eileen Le Moine -looking pleased and smiling as they clapped her boyish-looking -husband--an amused, sisterly, half ironic smile. It struck Eddy as the -smile she must inevitably give Cecil, and it seemed to illumine their -whole relations. She couldn’t, certainly, be the least in love with him, -and yet she must like him very much, to smile like that now that they -were parted. - -As Jane and Sally and Eddy and Billy Raymond rode down Holborn on their -bus (Arnold had walked to Soho, where he lived) Eddy, sitting next Jane, -asked “Did you like it?” being curious about Jane’s point of view. - -She smiled. “Yes, of course. Wouldn’t anyone?” Eddy could have answered -the question, instancing Hillier or James Peters, or his own parents or, -indeed, many other critics. But Jane’s “anyone” he surmised to have a -narrow meaning; anyone, she meant, of our friends; anyone of the sort -one naturally comes into contact with. (Jane’s outlook was through a -narrow gate on to woods unviolated by the common tourist; her experience -was delicate, exquisite, and limited). - -She added, “Of course it’s just a baby’s thing. He _is_ just a baby, you -know.” - -“I should like to get to know him,” said Eddy. “He’s extraordinarily -pleasing,” and she nodded. - -“Of course you’ll get to know him. Why not? And Eileen, too.” In Jane’s -world, the admitted dwellers all got to know each other, as a matter of -course. - -“A lot of us are going down into the country next Sunday,” Jane added. -“Won’t you come?” - -“Oh, thanks; if I’m not needed in the parish I’d love to. Yes, I’m -almost sure I can.” - -“We all meet at Waterloo for the nine-thirty. We shall have breakfast at -Heathermere (but you can have had some earlier, too, if you like), and -then walk somewhere from there. Bring a thick coat, because we shall be -sitting about on the heath, and it’s not warm.” - -“Thanks awfully, if you’re sure I may come.” - -Jane wasted no more words on that; she probably never asked people to -come unless she was sure they might. She merely waved an appreciative -hand, like a child, at the blue night full of lights, seeking his -sympathy in the wonder of it. Then she and Sally had to change into the -Blackfriars Bridge bus, and Eddy sought London Bridge and the Borough on -foot. Billy Raymond, who lived in Beaufort Street, but was taking a -walk, came with him. They talked on the way about the play. Billy made -criticisms and comments that seemed to Eddy very much to the point, -though they wouldn’t have occurred to him. There was an easy ability, a -serene independence of outlook, about this young man, that was -attractive. Like many poets, he was singularly fresh and unspoilt, -though in his case (unlike many poets) it wasn’t because he had nothing -to spoil him; he enjoyed, in fact, some reputation among critics and the -literary public. He figured in many an anthology of verse, and those who -gave addresses on modern poetry were apt to read his things aloud, which -habit annoys some poets and gratifies others. Further, he had been given -a reading all to himself at the Poetry Bookshop, which had rather -displeased him, because he had not liked the voice of the lady who read -him. But enough has been said to indicate that he was a promising young -poet. - -When Eddy got in, he found the vicar and Hillier smoking by the -common-room fire. The vicar was nodding over Pickwick, and Hillier -perusing the _Church Times_. The vicar, who had been asleep, said, -“Hullo, Oliver. Want anything to eat or drink? Had a nice evening?” - -“Very, thanks. No, I’ve been fed sufficiently.” - -“Play good?” - -“Yes, quite clever.... I say, would it be awfully inconvenient if I was -to be out next Sunday? Some people want me to go out for the day with -them. Of course there’s my class. But perhaps Wilkes.... He said he -wouldn’t mind, sometimes.” - -“No; that’ll be all right. Speak to Wilkes, will you.... Shall you be -away all day?” - -“I expect so,” said Eddy, feeling that Hillier looked at him askance, -though the vicar didn’t. Probably Hillier didn’t approve of Sunday -outings, thought one should be in church. - -He sat down and began to talk about “Squibs.” - -Hillier said presently, “He’s surely rather a mountebank, that Le Moine? -Full of cheap sneers and clap-trap, isn’t he?” - -“Oh, no,” said Eddy. “Certainly not clap-trap. He’s very genuine, I -should say; expresses his personality a good deal more successfully than -most play writers.” - -“Oh, no doubt,” Hillier said. “It’s his personality, I should fancy, -that’s wrong.” - -Eddy said, “He’s delightful,” rather warmly, and the vicar said, “Well, -now, I’m going to bed,” and went, and Eddy went, too, because he didn’t -want to argue with Hillier, a difficult feat, and no satisfaction when -achieved. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -HEATHERMERE. - - -Sunday was the last day but one of October. They all met at Waterloo in -a horrid fog, and missed the nine-thirty because Cecil Le Moine was -late. He sauntered up at 9.45, tranquil and at ease, the MS. of his -newest play under his arm (he obviously thought to read it to them in -the course of the day--“which must be prevented,” Arnold remarked). So -they caught a leisured train at 9.53, and got out of it at a little -white station about 10.20, and the fog was left behind, and a pure blue -October sky arched over a golden and purple earth, and the air was like -iced wine, thin and cool and thrilling, and tasting of heather and -pinewoods. They went first to the village inn, on the edge of the woods, -where they had ordered breakfast for eight. Their main object at -breakfast was to ply Cecil with food, lest in a leisure moment he should -say, “What if I begin my new play to you while you eat?” - -“Good taste and modesty,” Arnold remarked, à propos of nothing, “are so -very important. We have all achieved our little successes (if we prefer -to regard them in that light, rather than to take the consensus of the -unintelligent opinion of our less enlightened critics). Jane has some -very well-spoken of drawings even now on view in Grafton Street, and -doubtless many more in Pleasance Court. Have you brought them, or any of -them, with you, Jane? No? I thought as much. Eileen last night played a -violin to a crowded and breathless audience. Where is the violin to-day? -She has left it at home; she does not wish to force the fact of her -undoubted musical talent down our throats. Bridget has earned deserved -recognition as an entertainer of the great; she has a social _cachet_ -that we may admire without emulation. Look at her now; her dress is -simplicity itself, and she deigns to play in a wood with the humble -poor. Even the pince-nez is in abeyance. Billy had a selection from his -works read aloud only last week to the élite of our metropolitan -poetry-lovers by a famous expert, who alluded in the most flattering -terms to his youthful promise. Has he his last volume in his -breast-pocket? I think not. Eddy has made a name in proficiency in -vigorous sports with youths; he has taught them to box and play -billiards; does he come armed with gloves and a cue? I have written an -essay of some merit that I have every hope will find itself in next -month’s _English Review_. I am sorry to disappoint you, but I have not -brought it with me. When the well-bred come out for a day of well-earned -recreation, they leave behind them the insignia of their several -professions. For the time being they are merely individuals, without -fame and without occupation, whose one object is to enjoy what is set -before them by the gods. Have some more bacon, Cecil.” - -Cecil started. “Have you been talking, Arnold? I’m so sorry--I missed it -all. I expect it was good, wasn’t it?” - -“No one is deceived,” Arnold said, severely. “Your ingenuous air, my -young friend, is overdone.” - -Cecil was looking at him earnestly. Eileen said, “He’s wondering was it -you that reviewed ‘Squibs’ in _Poetry and Drama_, Arnold. He always -looks like that when he’s thinking about reviews.” - -“The same phrases,” Cecil murmured--“(meant to be witty, you know)--that -Arnold used when commenting on ‘Squibs’ in private life to me. Either he -used them again afterwards, feeling proud of them, to the reviewer -(possibly Billy?) or the reviewer had just used them to him before he -met me, and he cribbed them, or.... But I won’t ask. I mustn’t know. I -prefer not to know. I will preserve our friendship intact.” - -“What does the conceited child expect?” exclaimed Miss Hogan. “The -review said he was more alive than Barker, and wittier than Wilde. The -grossest flattery I ever read!” - -“A bright piece,” Cecil remarked. “He said it was a bright piece. He -did, I tell you. _A bright piece._” - -“Well, lots of the papers didn’t,” said Sally, consoling him. “The -_Daily Comment_ said it was long-winded, incoherent, and dull.” - -“Thank you, Sally. That is certainly a cheering memory. To be found -bright by the _Daily Comment_ would indeed be the last stage of -degradation.... I wonder what idiocy they will find to say of my -next.... I wonder----” - -“Have we all finished eating?” Arnold hastily intercepted. “Then let us -pay, and go out for a country stroll, to get an appetite for lunch, -which will very shortly be upon us.” - -“My dear Arnold, one doesn’t stroll immediately after breakfast; how -crude you are. One smokes a cigarette first.” - -“Well, catch us up when you’ve smoked it. We came out for a day in the -country, and we must have it. We’re going to walk several miles now -without a stop, to get warm.” Arnold was occasionally seized with a -fierce attack of energy, and would walk all through a day, or more -probably a night, to get rid of it, and return cured for the time being. - -The sandy road led first through a wood that sang in a fresh wind. The -cool air was sweet with pines and bracken and damp earth. It was a -glorious morning of odours and joy, and the hilarity of the last days of -October, when the end seems near and the present poignantly gay, and -life a bright piece nearly played out. Arnold and Bridget Hogan walked -on together ahead, both talking at once, probably competing as to which -could get in most remarks in the shortest time. After them came Billy -Raymond and Cecil Le Moine, and with them Jane and Sally hand-in-hand. -Eddy found himself walking in the rear side by side with Eileen Le -Moine. - -Eileen, who was capable, ignoring all polite conventions, of walking a -mile with a slight acquaintance without uttering a word, because she was -feeling lazy, or thinking of something interesting, or because her -companion bored her, was just now in a conversational mood. She rather -liked Eddy; also she saw in him an avenue for an idea she had in mind. -She told him so. - -“You work in the Borough, don’t you? I wish you’d let me come and play -folk-music to your clubs sometimes. It’s a thing I’m rather keen -on--getting the old folk melodies into the streets, do you see, the way -errand boys will whistle them. Do you know Hugh Datcherd? He has musical -evenings in his Lea-side settlement; I go there a good deal. He has -morris dancing twice a week and folk-music once.” - -Eddy had heard much of Hugh Datcherd’s Lea-side settlement. According to -St. Gregory’s, it was run on very regrettable lines. Hillier said, “They -teach rank atheism there.” However, it was something that they also -taught morris dancing and folk-music. - -“It would be splendid if you’d come sometimes,” he said, gratefully. -“Just exactly what we should most like. We’ve had a little morris -dancing, of course--who hasn’t?--but none of the other thing.” - -“Which evening will I come?” she asked. A direct young person; she liked -to settle things quickly. - -Eddy, consulting his little book, said, “To-morrow, can you?” - -She said, “No, I can’t; but I will,” having apparently a high-handed -method of dealing with previous engagements. - -“It’s the C.L.B. club night,” said Eddy. “Hillier--one of the -curates--is taking it to-morrow, and I’m helping. I’ll speak to him, but -I’m sure it will be all right. It will be a delightful change from -billiards and boxing. Thanks so much.” - -“And Mr. Datcherd may come with me, mayn’t he? He’s interested in other -people’s clubs. Do you read _Further_? And do you like his books?” - -“Yes, rather,” Eddy comprehensively answered all three questions. All -the same he was smitten with a faint doubt as to Mr. Datcherd’s coming. -Probably Hillier’s answer to the three questions would have been -“Certainly not.” But after all, St. Gregory’s didn’t belong to Hillier -but to the vicar, and the vicar was a man of sense. And anyhow anyone -who saw Mrs. Le Moine must be glad to have a visit from her, and anyone -who heard her play must thank the gods for it. - -“I do like his books,” Eddy amplified; “only they’re so awfully sad, and -so at odds with life.” - -A faint shadow seemed to cloud her face. - -“He _is_ awfully sad,” she said, after a moment. “And he is at odds -with life. He feels it hideous, and he minds. He spends all his time -trying and trying can he change it for people. And the more he tries and -fails, the more he minds.” She stopped abruptly, as if she had gone too -far in explaining Hugh Datcherd to him. Eddy had a knack of drawing -confidences; probably it was his look of intelligent sympathy and his -habit of listening. - -He wondered for a moment whether Hugh Datcherd’s sadness was all -altruistic, or did he find his own life hideous too? From what Eddy had -heard of Lady Dorothy, his wife, that might easily be so, he thought, -for they didn’t sound compatible. - -Instinctively, anyhow, he turned away his eyes from the queer, soft look -of brooding pity that momentarily shadowed Hugh Datcherd’s friend. - -From in front, snatches of talk floated back to them through the clear, -thin air. Miss Hogan’s voice, with its slight stutter, seemed to be -concluding an interesting anecdote. - -“And so they both committed suicide from the library window. And his -wife was paralysed from the waist up--is still, in fact. _Most_ -unwholesome, it all was. And now it’s so on Charles Harker’s mind that -he writes novels about nothing else, poor creature. Very natural, if you -think what he went through. I hear he’s another just coming out now, on -the same.” - -“He sent it to us,” said Arnold, “but Uncle Wilfred and I weren’t sure -it was proper. I am engaged in trying to broaden Uncle Wilfred’s mind. -Not that I want him to take Harker’s books, now or at any time.... You -know, I want Eddy in our business. We want a new reader, and it would be -so much better for his mind and moral nature than messing about as he’s -doing now.” - -Cecil was saying to Billy and Jane, “He wants me to put Lesbia behind -the window-curtain, and make her overhear it all. Behind the -window-curtain, you know! He really does. Could you have suspected even -our Musgrave of being so banal, Billy? He’s not even Edwardian--he’s -late-Victorian....” - -Arnold said over his shoulder, “Can’t somebody stop him? Do try, Jane. -He’s spoiling our day with his egotistic babbling. Bridget and I are -talking exclusively about others, their domestic tragedies, their -literary productions, and their unsuitable careers; never a word about -ourselves. I’m sure Eileen and Eddy are doing the same; and sandwiched -between us, Cecil flows on fluently about his private grievances and his -highly unsuitable plays. You’d think he might remember what day it is, -to say the least of it. I wonder how he was brought up, don’t you, -Bridget?” - -“I don’t wonder; I know,” said Bridget. “His parents not only wrote for -the Yellow Book, but gave it him to read in the nursery, and it -corrupted him for life. He would, of course, faint if one suggested that -he carried the taint of anything so antiquated, but infant impressions -are hard to eradicate. I know of old that the only way to stop him is -to feed him, so let’s have lunch, however unsuitable the hour and the -place may be.” - -Sally said, “Hurrah, let’s. In this sand-pit.” So they got into the -sand-pit and produced seven packets of food, which is to say that they -each produced one except Cecil, who had omitted to bring his, and -undemurringly accepted a little bit of everyone else’s. They then played -hide and seek, dumb crambo, and other vigorous games, because as Arnold -said, “A moment’s pause, and we are undone,” until for weariness the -pause came upon them, and then Cecil promptly seized the moment and -produced the play, and they had to listen. Arnold succumbed, vanquished, -and stretched himself on the heather. - -“You have won; I give in. Only leave out the parts that are least -suitable for Sally to hear.” - -So, like other days in the country, the day wore through, and they -caught the 5.10 back to Waterloo. - -At supper that evening Eddy told the vicar about Mrs. Le Moine’s -proposal. - -“So she’s coming to-morrow night, with Datcherd.” - -Hillier looked up sharply. - -“Datcherd! That man!” He caught himself up from a scornful epithet. - -“Why not?” said the vicar tolerantly. “He’s very keen on social work, -you know.” - -Peters and Hillier both looked cross. - -“I know personally,” said Hillier, “of cases where his influence has -been ruinous.” - -Peters said, “What does he want down here?” - -Eddy said, “He won’t have much influence during one evening. I suppose -he wants to watch how they take the music, and, generally, to see what -our clubs are like. Besides, he and Mrs. Le Moine are great friends, and -she naturally likes to have someone to come with.” - -“Datcherd’s a tremendously interesting person,” said Traherne. “I’ve met -him once or twice; I should like to see more of him.” - -“A very able man,” said the vicar, and said grace. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -DATCHERD AND THE VICAR. - - -Datcherd looked ill; that was the predominant impression Eddy got of -him. An untidy, pale, sad-eyed person of thirty-five, with a bad temper -and an extraordinarily ardent fire of energy, at once determined and -rather hopeless. The evils of the world loomed, it seemed, even larger -in his eyes than their possible remedies; but both loomed large. He was -a pessimist and a reformer, an untiring fighter against overwhelming -odds. He was allied both by birth and marriage (the marriage had been a -by-gone mistake of the emotions, for which he was dearly paying) with a -class which, without intermission, and by the mere fact of its -existence, incurred his vindictive wrath. (See _Further_, month by -month.) He had tried and failed to get into Parliament; he had now given -up hopes of that field of energy, and was devoting himself to -philanthropic social schemes and literary work. He was not an attractive -person, exactly; he lacked the light touch, and the ordinary human -amenities; but there was a drawing-power in the impetuous ardour of his -convictions and purposes, in his acute and brilliant intelligence, in -his immense, quixotic generosity, and, to some natures, in his -unhappiness and his ill-health. And his smile, which came seldom, would -have softened any heart. - -Perhaps he did not smile at Hillier on Monday evening; anyhow Hillier’s -heart remained hard towards him, and his towards Hillier. He was one of -the generation who left the universities fifteen years ago; they are -often pronounced and thoughtful agnostics, who have thoroughly gone into -the subject of Christianity as taught by the Churches, and decided -against it. They have not the modern way of rejection, which is to let -it alone as an irrelevant thing, a thing known (and perhaps cared) too -little about to pronounce upon; or the modern way of acceptance, which -is to embark upon it as an inspiring and desirable adventure. They of -that old generation think that religion should be squared with science, -and, if it can’t be, rejected finally. Anyhow Datcherd thought so; he -had rejected it finally as a Cambridge undergraduate, and had not -changed his mind since. He believed freedom of thought to be of immense -importance, and, a dogmatic person himself, was anxious to free the -world from the fetters of dogma. Hillier (also a dogmatic person; there -are so many) preached a sermon the Sunday after he had met Datcherd -about those who would find themselves fools at the Judgment Day. -Further, Hillier agreed with James Peters that the relations of Datcherd -and Mrs. Le Moine were unfitting, considering that everyone knew that -Datcherd didn’t get on with his wife nor Mrs. Le Moine live with her -husband. People in either of those unfortunate positions cannot be too -careful of appearances. - -Meanwhile, Mrs. Le Moine’s fiddling held the club spell-bound. She -played English folk-melodies and Hungarian dances, and the boys’ feet -shuffled in tune. Londoners are musical people, on the whole; no one can -say that, though they like bad music, they don’t like good music, too; -they are catholic in taste. Eddy Oliver, who liked anything he heard, -from a barrel-organ to a Beethoven Symphony, was a typical specimen. His -foot, too, tapped in tune; his blood danced in him to the lilt of -laughter and passion and gay living that the quick bow tore from the -strings. He knew enough, technically, about music, to know that this was -wonderful playing; and he remembered what he had heard before, that this -brilliant, perverse, childlike-looking person, with her great brooding -eyes and half-sullen brows, and the fiddle tucked away under her round -chin, was a genius. He believed he had heard that she had some Hungarian -blood in her, besides the Irish strain. Certainly the passion and the -fire in her, that was setting everyone’s blood stirring so, could hardly -be merely English. - -At the end of a wild dance tune, and during riotous applause, Eddy -turned to Datcherd, who stood close to him, and laughed. - -“My word!” was all he said. - -Datcherd smiled a little at him, and Eddy liked him more than ever. - -“They like it, don’t they?” said Datcherd. “Look how they like it. They -like this; and then we go and give them husks; vulgarities from the -comic operas.” - -“Oh, but they like those, too,” said Eddy. - -Datcherd said impatiently, “They’d stop liking them if they could always -get anything decent.” - -“But surely,” said Eddy, “the more things they like the better.” - -Datcherd, looking round at him to see if he meant it, said, “Good -heavens!” and was frowningly silent. - -An intolerant man, and ill-tempered at that, Eddy decided, but liked him -very much all the same. - -Mrs. Le Moine was playing again, quite differently; all the passion and -the wildness were gone now; she was playing a sixteenth century tune, -curiously naïf and tender and engaging, and objective, like a child’s -singing, or Jane Dawn’s drawings. The detachment of it, the utter -self-obliteration, pleased Eddy even more than the passion of the dance; -here was genius at its highest. It seemed to him very wonderful that she -should be giving of her best so lavishly to a roomful of ignorant -Borough lads; very wonderful, and at the same time very characteristic -of her wayward, quixotic, self-pleasing generosity, that he fancied was -neither based on any principle, nor restrained by any considerations of -prudence. She would always, he imagined, give just what she felt -inclined, and when she felt inclined, whatever the gifts she dealt in. -Anyhow she had become immensely popular in the club-room. The admiration -roused by her music was increased by the queer charm she carried with -her. She stood about among the boys for a little, talking. She told them -about the tunes, what they were and whence they came; she whistled a bar -here and there, and they took it up from her; she had asked which they -had liked, and why. - -“In my Settlement up by the Lea,” said Datcherd to Eddy, “she’s got some -of the tunes out into the streets already. You hear them being whistled -as the men go to work.” - -Eddy looked at Hillier, to see if he hadn’t been softened by this -wonderful evening. Hillier, of course, had liked the music; anyone -would. But his moral sense had a fine power of holding itself severely -aloof from conversion by any but moral suasions. He was genially -chatting with the boys, as usual--Hillier was delightful with boys and -girls, and immensely popular--but Eddy suspected him unchanged in his -attitude towards the visitors. Eddy, for music like that, would have -loved a Mrs. Pendennis (had she been capable of producing it) let alone -anyone so likeable as Eileen Le Moine. Hillier, less susceptible to -influence, still sat in judgment. - -Flushed and bright-eyed, Eddy made his way to Mrs. Le Moine. - -“I say, thanks most awfully,” he said. “I knew it was going to be -wonderful, but I didn’t know how wonderful. I shall come to all your -concerts now.” - -Hillier overheard that, and his brows rose a little. He didn’t see how -Eddy was going to make the time to attend all Mrs. Le Moine’s concerts; -it would mean missing club nights, and whole afternoons. In his opinion, -Eddy, for a parish worker, went too much out of the parish already. - -Mrs. Le Moine said, with her usual lack of circumlocution, “I’ll come -again next Monday. Shall I? I would like to get the music thoroughly -into their heads; they’re keen enough to make it worth while.” - -Eddy said promptly, “Oh, will you really? How splendid.” - -Hillier, coming up to them, said courteously, “This has been extremely -good of you, Mrs. Le Moine. We have all had a great treat. But you -really mustn’t waste more of your valuable time on our uncultivated -ears. We’re not worth it, I’m afraid.” - -Eileen looked at him with a glint of amusement in the gloomy blue -shadowiness of her eyes. - -“I won’t come,” she said, “unless you want me to, of course.” - -Hillier protested. “It’s delightful for us, naturally--far more than we -deserve. It was your time I was thinking of.” - -“That will be all right. I’ll come, then, for half an hour, next -Monday.” She turned to Eddy. “Will you come to lunch with us--Miss Hogan -and me, you know--next Sunday? Arnold Denison’s coming, and Karl -Lovinski, the violinist, and two or three other people. 3, Campden Hill -Road, at 1.30.” - -“Thanks; I should like to.” - -Datcherd came up from the back of the room where he had been talking to -Traherne, who had come in lately. They said goodbye, and the club took -to billiards. - -“Is Mr. Datcherd coming, too, next Monday?” Hillier inquired gloomily of -Eddy. - -“Oh, I expect so. I suppose it’s less of a bore for Mrs. Le Moine not to -have to come all that way alone. Besides, he’s awfully interested in it -all.” - -“A first-class man,” said Traherne, who was an enthusiast, and had found -in Datcherd another Socialist, though not a Church one. - -Eddy and the curates walked back together later in the evening. Eddy -felt vaguely jarred by Hillier to-night; probably because Hillier was, -in his mind, opposing something, and that was the one thing that annoyed -Eddy. Hillier was, he felt, opposing these delightful people who had -provided the club with such a glorious evening, and were going to do so -again next Monday; these brilliant people, who spilt their genius so -lavishly before the poor and ignorant; these charming, friendly people, -who had asked Eddy to lunch next Sunday. - -What Hillier said was, “Shall you get Wilkes to take your class again on -Sunday afternoon, Oliver?” - -“Yes, I suppose so. He doesn’t mind, does he? I believe he really takes -it a lot better than I do.” - -Hillier believed so, too, and made no comment. Traherne laughed. -“Wilkes! Oh, he means well, no doubt. But I wouldn’t turn up on Sunday -afternoon if I was going to be taught by Wilkes. What an ass you are, -Oliver, going to lunch parties on Sundays.” - -With Traherne, work came first, and everything else, especially anything -social, an immense number of lengths behind. With Eddy a number of -things ran neck to neck all the time. He wouldn’t, Traherne thought, a -trifle contemptuously, ever accomplish much in any sphere of life at -that rate. - -He said to the vicar that night, “Oliver’s being caught in the toils of -Society, I fear. For such a keen person, he’s oddly slack about sticking -to his job when anything else turns up.” - -But Hillier said, at a separate time, “Oliver’s being dragged into a -frightfully unwholesome set, vicar. I hate those people; that man -Datcherd is an aggressive unbeliever, you know; he does more harm, I -believe, than anyone quite realises. And one hears things said, you -know, about him and Mrs. Le Moine--oh, no harm, I daresay, but one has -to think of the effect on the weaker brethren. And Oliver’s bringing -them into the parish, and I wouldn’t care to answer for the effects.... -It made me a little sick, I don’t mind saying to you, to see Datcherd -talking to the lads to-night; a word dropped here, a sneer there, and -the seed is sown from which untold evil may spring. Of course, Mrs. Le -Moine is a wonderful player, but that makes her influence all the more -dangerous, to my mind. The lads were fascinated this evening; one saw -them hanging on her words.” - -“I don’t suppose,” said the vicar, “that she, or Datcherd either, would -say anything to hurt them.” - -Hillier caught him up sharply. - -“You approve, then? You won’t discourage Oliver’s intimacy with them, or -his bringing them into the parish?” - -“Most certainly I shall, if it gets beyond a certain point. There’s a -mean in all things.... But it’s their effect on Oliver rather than on -the parish that I should be afraid of. He’s got to realise that a man -can’t profitably have too many irons in the fire at once. If he’s going -perpetually to run about London seeing friends, he’ll do no good as a -worker. Also, it’s not good for his soul to be continually with people -who are unsympathetic with the Church. He’s not strong enough or -grown-up enough to stand it.” - -But Eddy had a delightful lunch on Sunday, and Wilkes took his class. - -Other Sundays followed, and other week-days, and more delightful -lunches, and many concerts and theatres, and expeditions into the -country, and rambles about the town, and musical evenings in St. -Gregory’s parish, and, in general, a jolly life. Eddy loved the whole -of life, including his work in St. Gregory’s, which he was quite as much -interested in as if it had been his exclusive occupation. Ingenuously, -he would try to draw his friends into pleasures which they were by -temperament and training little fitted to enjoy. For instance, he said -to Datcherd and Mrs. Le Moine one day, “We’ve got a mission on now in -the parish. There’s an eight o’clock service on Monday night, so -there’ll be no club. I wish you’d come to the service instead; it’s -really good, the mission. Father Dempsey, of St. Austin’s, is taking it. -Have you ever heard him?” - -Datcherd, in his grave, melancholy way, shook his head. Eileen smiled at -Eddy, and patted his arm in the motherly manner she had for him. - -“Now what do you think? No, we never have. Would we understand him if we -did? I expect not, do you know. Tell us when the mission (is that what -you call it? But I thought they were for blacks and Jews) is over, and -I’ll come again and play to the clubs. Till then, oughtn’t you to be -going to services every night, and I wonder ought you to be dining and -theatreing with us on Thursday?” - -“Oh, I can fit it in easily,” said Eddy, cheerfully. “But, seriously, I -do wish you’d come one night. You’d like Father Dempsey. He’s an -extraordinarily alive and stimulating person. Hillier thinks him -flippant; but that’s rubbish. He’s the best man in the Church.” - -All the same, they didn’t come. How difficult it is to make people do -what they are not used to! How good it would be for them if they would; -if Hillier would but sometimes spend an evening at Datcherd’s -settlement; if James Peters would but come, at Eddy’s request, to shop -at the Poetry Bookshop; if Datcherd would but sit under Father Dempsey, -the best man in the Church! It sometimes seemed to Eddy that it was he -alone, in a strange, uneclectic world, who did all these things with -impartial assiduity and fervour. - - * * * * * - -And he found, which was sad and bewildering, that those with less -impartiality of taste got annoyed with him. The vicar thought, not -unnaturally, that during the mission he ought to have given up other -engagements, and devoted himself exclusively to the parish, getting them -to come. All the curates thought so too. Meanwhile Arnold Denison -thought that he ought to have stayed to the end of the debate on -Impressionism in Poetry at the Wednesday Club that met in Billy -Raymond’s rooms, instead of going away in the middle to be in time for -the late service at St. Gregory’s. Arnold thought so particularly -because he hadn’t yet spoken himself, and it would obviously have been -more becoming in Eddy to wait and hear him. Eddy grew to have an -uncomfortable feeling of being a little wrong with everyone; he felt -aggrieved under it. - -At last, a fortnight before Christmas, the vicar spoke to him. It was -on a Sunday evening. Eddy had had supper with Cecil Le Moine, as it was -Cecil’s turn to have the Sunday Games Club, a childish institution that -flourished just then among them, meet at his house. Eddy returned to St. -Gregory’s late. - -The vicar said, at bedtime, “I want to speak to you, Oliver, if you can -spare a minute or two,” and they went into his study. Eddy felt rather -like a schoolboy awaiting a jawing. He watched the vicar’s square, -sensible, kind face, through a cloud of smoke, and saw his point of view -precisely. He wanted certain work done. He didn’t think the work was so -well done if a hundred other things were done also. He believed in -certain things. He didn’t think belief in those things could be quite -thorough if those who held it had constant and unnecessary traffic with -those who quite definitely didn’t. Well, it was of course a point of -view; Eddy realised that. - -The vicar said, “I don’t want to be interfering, Oliver. But, frankly, -are you as keen on this job as you were two months ago?” - -“Yes, rather,” said Eddy. “Keener, I think. One gets into it, you see.” - -The vicar nodded, patient and a little cynical. - -“Quite. Well, it’s a full man’s job, you know; one can’t take it easy. -One’s got to put every bit of oneself into it, and even so there isn’t -near enough of most of us to get upsides with it.... Oh, I don’t mean -don’t take on times, or don’t have outside interests and plenty of -friends; of course I don’t. But one’s got not to fritter and squander -one’s energies. And one’s got to have one’s whole heart in the work, or -it doesn’t get done as it should. It’s a job for the keen; for the -enthusiasts; for the single-minded. Do you think, Oliver, that it’s -quite the job for you?” - -“Yes,” said Eddy, readily, though crest-fallen. “I’m keen. I’m an -enthusiast. I’m----” He couldn’t say single-minded, so he broke off. - -“Really,” he added, “I’m awfully sorry if I’ve scamped the work lately, -and been out of the parish too much. I’ve tried not to, honestly--I mean -I’ve tried to fit it all in and not scamp things.” - -“Fit it all in!” The vicar took him up. “Precisely. There you are. Why -do you try to fit in so much more than you’ve properly room for? Life’s -limited, you see. One’s got to select one thing or another.” - -“Oh,” Eddy murmured, “what an awful thought! I want to select lots and -lots of things!” - -“It’s greedy,” said the vicar. “What’s more, it’s silly. You’ll end by -getting nothing.... And now there’s another thing. Of course you choose -your own friends; it’s no business of mine. But you bring them a good -deal into the parish, and that’s my business, of course. Now, I don’t -want to say anything against friends of yours; still less to repeat the -comments of ignorant and prejudiced people; but I expect you know the -sort of things such people would say about Mr. Datcherd and Mrs. Le -Moine. After all, they’re both married to someone else. You’ll admit -that they are very reckless of public opinion, and that that’s a pity.” -He spoke cautiously, saying less than he felt, in order not to be -annoying. But Eddy flushed, and for the first time looked cross. - -“Surely, if people are low-minded enough----” he began. - -“That,” said the vicar, “is part of one’s work, to consider low minds. -Besides--my dear Oliver, I don’t want to be censorious--but why doesn’t -Mrs. Le Moine live with her husband? And why isn’t Datcherd ever to be -seen with his wife? And why are those two perpetually together?” - -Eddy grew hotter. His hand shook a little as he took out his pipe. - -“The Le Moines live apart because they prefer it. Why not? Datcherd, I -presume, doesn’t go about with his wife because they are hopelessly -unsuited to each other in every way, and bore each other horribly. I’ve -seen Lady Dorothy Datcherd. The thought of her and Datcherd as -companions is absurd. She disapproves of all he is and does. She’s a -worldly, selfish woman. She goes her way and he his. Surely it’s best. -As for Datcherd and Mrs. Le Moine--they _aren’t_ perpetually together. -They come down here together because they’re both interested; but -they’re in quite different sets, really. His friends are mostly social -workers, and politicians, and writers of leading articles, and -contributors to the quarterlies and the political press--what are -called able men you know; his own family, of course, are all that sort. -Her friends are artists and actors and musicians, and poets and -novelists and journalists, and casual, irresponsible people who play -round and have a good time and do clever work--I mean, her set and his -haven’t very much to do with one another really.” Eddy spoke rather -eagerly, as if he was anxious to impress this on the vicar and himself. - -The vicar heard him out patiently, then said, “I never said anything -about sets. It’s him and her I’m talking about. You won’t deny they’re -great friends. Well, no man and woman are ‘great friends’ in the eyes of -poor people; they’re something quite different. And that’s not -wholesome. It starts talk. And your being hand and glove with them does -no good to your influence in the parish. For one thing, Datcherd’s known -to be an atheist. These constant Sunday outings of yours--you’re always -missing church, you see, and that’s a poor example. I’ve been spoken to -about it more than once by the parents of your class-boys. They think it -strange that you should be close friends with people like that.” - -Eddy started up. “People like that? People like Hugh Datcherd and Eileen -Le Moine? Good heavens! I’m not fit to black their boots, and nor are -the idiots who talk about them like that. Vulgar-mouthed lunatics!” - -This was unlike Eddy; he never called people vulgar, nor despised them; -that was partly why he made a good church worker. The vicar looked at -him over his pipe, a little irritated in his turn. He had not reckoned -on the boy being so hot about these friends of his. - -“It’s a clear choice,” said the vicar, rather sharply. “Either you give -up seeing so much of these people, and certainly give up bringing them -into the parish; or--I’m very sorry, because I don’t want to lose -you--you must give up St. Gregory’s.” - -Eddy stood looking on the floor, angry, unhappy, uncertain. - -“It’s no choice at all,” he said at last. “You know I can’t give them -up. Why can’t I have them and St. Gregory’s, too? What’s the -inconsistency? I don’t understand.” - -The vicar looked at him impatiently. His faculty of sympathy, usually so -kind, humorous, and shrewd, had run up against one of those limiting -walls that very few people who are supremely in earnest over one thing -are quite without. He occasionally (really not often) said a stupid -thing; he did so now. - -“You don’t understand? Surely it’s extremely simple. You can’t serve God -and Mammon; that’s the long and the short of it. You’ve got to choose -which.” - -That, of course, was final. Eddy said, “Naturally, if it’s like that, -I’ll leave St. Gregory’s at once. That is, directly it’s convenient for -you that I should,” he added, considerate by instinct, though angry. - -The vicar turned to face him. He was bitterly disappointed. - -“You mean that, Oliver? You won’t give it another trial, on the lines I -advise? Mind, I don’t mean I want you to have no friends, no outside -interests.... Look at Traherne, now; he’s full of them.... I only want, -for your own sake and our people’s, that your heart should be in your -job.” - -“I had better go,” said Eddy, knowing it for certain. He added, “Please -don’t think I’m going off in a stupid huff or anything. It’s not that. -Of course, you’ve every right to speak to me as you did; but it’s made -my position quite clear to me. I see this isn’t really my job at all. I -must find another.” - -The vicar said, holding out his hand, “I’m very sorry, Oliver. I don’t -want to lose you. Think it over for a week, will you, and tell me then -what you have decided. Don’t be hasty over it. Remember, we’ve all grown -fond of you here; you’ll be throwing away a good deal of valuable -opportunity if you leave us. I think you may be missing the best in -life. But I mustn’t take back what I said. It is a definite choice -between two ways of life. They won’t mix.” - -“They will, they will,” said Eddy to himself, and went to bed. If the -vicar thought they wouldn’t, the vicar’s way of life could not be his. -He had no need to think it over for a week. He was going home for -Christmas, and he would not come back after that. This job was not for -him. And he could not, he knew now, be a clergyman. They drew lines; -they objected to people and things; they failed to accept. The vicar, -when he had mentioned Datcherd, had looked as Datcherd had looked when -Eddy had mentioned Father Dempsey and the mission; Eddy was getting to -know that critical, disapproving look too well. Everywhere it met him. -He hated it. It seemed to him even stranger in clergymen than in others, -because clergymen are Christians, and, to Eddy’s view, there were no -negations in that vivid and intensely positive creed. Its commands were -always, surely, to go and do, not to abstain and reject. And look, too, -at the sort of people who were of old accepted in that generous, -all-embracing circle.... - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -THE DEANERY AND THE HALL. - - -Eddy was met at the station by his sister Daphne, driving the dog-cart. -Daphne was twenty; a small, neat person in tailor-made tweeds, -bright-haired, with an attractive brown-tanned face, and alert blue -eyes, and a decisively-cut mouth, and long, straight chin. Daphne was -off-hand, quick-witted, intensely practical, spoilt, rather selfish, -very sure of herself, and with an unveiled youthful contempt for manners -and people that failed to meet with her approval. Either people were -“all right,” and “pretty decent,” or they were cursorily dismissed as -“queer,” “messy,” or “stodgy.” She was very good at all games requiring -activity, speed, and dexterity of hand, and more at home out of doors -than in. She had quite enough sense of humour, a sharp tongue, some -cleverness, and very little imagination indeed. A confident young -person, determined to get and keep the best out of life. With none of -Eddy’s knack of seeing a number of things at once, she saw a few things -very clearly, and went straight towards them. - -“Hullo, young Daffy,” Eddy called out to her, as he came out of the -station. - -She waved her whip at him. - -“Hullo. I’ve brought the new pony along. Come and try him. He shies at -cats and small children, so look out through the streets. How are you, -Tedders? Pretty fit?” - -“Yes, rather. How’s everyone?” - -“Going strong, as usual. Father talks Prayer Book revision every night -at dinner till I drop asleep. He’s got it fearfully hot and strong just -now; meetings about it twice a week, and letters to the _Guardian_ in -between. I wish they’d hurry up and get it revised and have done. Oh, by -the way, he says you’ll want to fight him about that now--because you’ll -be too High to want it touched, or something. _Are_ you High?” - -“Oh, I think so. But I should like the Prayer Book to be revised, too.” - -Daphne sighed. “It’s a bore if you’re High. Father’ll want to argue at -meals. I do hope you don’t want to keep the Athanasian Creed, anyhow.” - -“Yes, rather. I like it, except the bits slanging other people.” - -“Oh, well,” Daphne looked relieved. “As long as you don’t like those -bits, I daresay it’ll be all right. Canon Jackson came to lunch -yesterday, and he liked it, slanging and all, and oh, my word, how tired -I got of him and father! What can it matter whether one has it or not? -It’s only a few times a year, anyhow. Oh, and father’s keen on a new -translation of the Bible, too. I daresay you’ve seen about it; he keeps -writing articles in the _Spectator_ about it.... And the Bellairs have -got a new car, a Panhard; Molly’s learning to drive it. Nevill let me -the other day; it was ripping. I do wish father’d keep a car. I should -think he might now. It would be awfully useful for him for touring round -to committee meetings. Mind that corner; Timothy always funks it a bit.” - -They turned into the drive. It may or may not have hitherto been -mentioned that Eddy’s home was a Deanery, because his father was a Dean. -The Cathedral under his care was in a midland county, in fine, rolling, -high-hedged country, suitable for hunting, and set with hard-working -squires. The midlands may not be picturesque or romantic, but they are -wonderfully healthy, and produce quite a number of sane, level-headed, -intelligent people. - -Eddy’s father and mother were in the hall. - -“You look a little tired, dear,” said his mother, after the greetings -that may be imagined. “I expect it will be good for you to get a rest at -home.” - -“Trust Finch to keep his workers on the run,” said the Dean, who had -been at Cambridge with Finch, and hadn’t liked him particularly. Finch -had been too High Church for his taste even then; he himself had always -been Broad, which was, no doubt, why he was now a dean. - -“Christmas is a busy time,” said Eddy, tritely. - -The Dean shook his head. “They overdo it, you know, those people. Too -many services, and meetings, and guilds, and I don’t know what. They -spoil their own work by it.” - -He was, naturally, anxious about Eddy. He didn’t want him to get -involved with the ritualist set and become that sort of parson; he -thought it foolish, obscurantist, childish, and unintelligent, not to -say a little unmanly. - -They went into lunch. The Dean was rather vexed because Eddy, forgetting -where he was, crossed himself at grace. Eddy perceived this, and -registered a note not to do it again. - -“And when have you to be back, dear?” said his mother. She, like many -deans’ wives, was a dignified, intelligent, and courteous lady, with -many social claims punctually and graciously fulfilled, and a great love -of breeding, nice manners, and suitable attire. She had many anxieties, -finely restrained. She was anxious lest the Dean should overwork himself -and get a bad throat; lest Daphne should get a tooth knocked out at -mixed hockey, or a leg broken in the hunting-field; lest Eddy should -choose an unsuitable career or an unsuitable wife, or very unsuitable -ideas. These were her negative anxieties. Her positive ones were that -the Dean should be recognised according to his merits; that Daphne -should marry the right man; that Eddy should be a success, and also -please his father; that the Prayer Book might be revised very soon. - -One of her ambitions for Eddy was satisfied forthwith, for he pleased -his father. - -“I’m not going back to St. Gregory’s at all.” - -The Dean looked up quickly. - -“Oh, you’ve given that up, have you? Well, it couldn’t go on always, of -course.” He wanted to ask, “What have you decided about Orders?” but, as -fathers go, he was fairly tactful. Besides, he knew Daphne would. - -“Are you going into the Church, Tedders?” - -Her mother, as always when she put it like that, corrected her. “You -know father hates you to say that, Daphne. Take Orders.” - -“Well, take Orders, then. Are you, Tedders?” - -“I think not,” said Eddy, good-tempered as brothers go. “At present I’ve -been offered a small reviewing job on the _Daily Post_. I was rather -lucky, because it’s awfully hard to get on the _Post_, and, of course, -I’ve had no experience except at Cambridge; but I know Maine, the -literary editor. I used to review a good deal for the _Cambridge Weekly_ -when his brother ran it. I think it will be rather fun. You get such -lots of nice books to keep for your own if you review.” - -“Nice and otherwise, no doubt,” said the Dean. “You’ll want to get rid -of most of them, I expect. Well, reviewing is an interesting side of -journalism, of course, if you are going to try journalism. You genuinely -feel you want to do this, do you?” - -He still had hopes that Eddy, once free of the ritualistic set, would -become a Broad Church clergyman in time. But clergymen are the broader, -he believed, for knocking about the world a little first. - -Eddy said he did genuinely feel he wanted to do it. - -“I’m rather keen to do a little writing of my own as well,” he added, -“and it will leave me some time for that, as well as time for other -work. I want to go sometimes to work in the settlement of a man I know, -too.” - -“What shall you write?” Daphne wanted to know. - -“Oh, much what every one else writes, I suppose. I leave it to your -imagination.” - -“H’m. Perhaps it will stay there,” Daphne speculated, which was -superfluously unkind, considering that Eddy used to write quite a lot at -Cambridge, in the _Review_, the _Magazine_, the _Granta_, the -_Basileon_, and even the _Tripod_. - -“An able journalist,” said the Dean, “has a great power in his hands. He -can do more than the politicians to mould public opinion. It’s a great -responsibility. Look at the _Guardian_, now; and the _Times_.” - -Eddy looked at them, where they lay on the table by the window. He -looked also at the _Spectator_, _Punch_, the _Morning Post_, the -_Saturday Westminster_, the _Quarterly_, the _Church Quarterly_, the -_Hibbert_, the _Cornhill_, the _Commonwealth_, the _Common Cause_, and -_Country Life_. These were among the periodicals taken in at the -Deanery. Among those not taken in were the _Clarion_, the _Eye-Witness_ -(as it was called in those bygone days) the _Church Times_, _Poetry and -Drama_, the _Blue Review_, the _English Review_, the _Suffragette_, -_Further_, and all the halfpenny dailies. All the same, it was a -well-read home, and broad-minded, too, and liked to hear two sides (but -not more) of a question, as will be inferred from the above list of its -periodical literature. - -They had coffee in the hall after lunch. Grace, ease, spaciousness, a -quiet, well-bred luxury, characterised the Deanery. It was a well-marked -change to Eddy, both from the asceticism of St. Gregory’s, and the -bohemianism (to use an idiotic, inevitable word) of many of his other -London friends. This was a true gentleman’s home, one of the stately -homes of England, how beautiful they stand. - -Daphne proposed that they should visit another that afternoon. She had -to call at the Bellairs’ for a puppy. Colonel Bellairs was a land-owner -and J.P., whose home was two miles out of the town. His children and the -Dean’s children had been intimate friends since the Dean came to -Welchester from Ely, where he had been a Canon, five years ago. Molly -Bellairs was Daphne Oliver’s greatest friend. There were also several -boys, who flourished respectively in Parliament, the Army, Oxford, Eton, -and Dartmouth. They were fond of Eddy, but did not know why he did not -enter one of the Government services, which seems the obvious thing to -do. - -Before starting on this expedition, Daphne and Eddy went round the -premises, as they always did on Eddy’s first day at home. They played a -round of bumble-puppy on the small lawn, inspected the new tennis court -that had just been laid, and was in danger of not lying quite flat, and -visited the kennels and the stables, where Eddy fed his horse with a -carrot and examined his legs, and discussed with the groom the prospects -of hunting weather next week, and Daphne petted the nervous Timothy, who -shied at children and cats. - -These pleasing duties done, they set out briskly for the Hall, along the -field path. It was just not freezing. The air blew round them crisp and -cool and stinging, and sang in the bare beech woods that their path -skirted. Above them white clouds sailed about a blue sky. The brown -earth was full of a repressed yet vigorous joy. Eddy and Daphne swung -along quickly through fields and lanes. Eddy felt the exuberance of the -crisp weather and the splendid earth tingle through him. It was one of -the many things he loved, and felt utterly at home with, this motion -across open country, on foot or on horse-back. Daphne, too, felt and -looked at home, with her firm, light step, and her neat, useful stick, -and her fair hair blowing in strands under her tweed hat, and all the -competent, wholesome young grace of her. Daphne was rather charming, -there was no doubt about that. It sometimes occurred to Eddy when he met -her after an absence. There was a sort of a drawing-power about her -that was quite apart from beauty, and that made her a popular and -sought-after person, in spite of her casual manners and her frequent -selfishnesses. The young men of the neighbourhood all liked Daphne, and -consequently she had a very good time, and was decidedly spoilt, and, in -a cool, not unattractive way, rather conceited. She seldom had any -tumbles mortifying to her self-confidence, partly because she was in -general clever and competent at the things that came in her way to do, -and partly because she did not try to do those she would have been less -good at, not from any fear of failure, but simply because she was bored -by them. But a clergyman’s daughter, even a dean’s, has, unfortunately, -to do a few things that bore her. One is bazaars. Another is leaving -things at cottages. Mrs. Oliver had given them a brown paper parcel to -leave at a house in the lane. They left it, and Eddy stayed for a moment -to talk with the lady of the house. Master Eddy was generally beloved in -Welchester, because he always had plenty of attention to bestow even on -the poorest and dullest. Miss Daphne was beloved, too, and admired, but -was usually more in a hurry. She was in a hurry to-day, and wouldn’t let -Eddy stay long. - -“If you let Mrs. Tom Clark start on Tom’s abscess, we should never get -to the Hall to-day,” she said, as they left the cottage. “Besides, I -hate abscesses.” - -“But I like Tom and his wife,” said Eddy. - -“Oh, they’re all right. The cottage is awfully stuffy, and always in a -mess. I should think she might keep it cleaner, with a little -perseverance and carbolic soap. Perhaps she doesn’t because Miss Harris -is always jawing to her about it. I wouldn’t tidy up, I must say, if -Miss Harris was on to me about my room. What do you think, she’s gone -and made mother promise I shall take the doll stall at the Assistant -Curates’ Bazaar. It’s too bad. I’d have dressed any number of dolls, but -I do bar selling them. It’s a hunting day, too. It’s an awful fate to be -a parson’s daughter. It’s all right for you; parsons’ sons don’t have to -sell dolls.” - -“Look here,” said Eddy, “are we having people to stay after Christmas?” - -“Don’t think so. Only casual droppers-in here and there; Aunt Maimie and -so on. Why?” - -“Because, if we’ve room, I want to ask some people; friends of mine in -London. Denison’s one.” - -Daphne, who knew Denison slightly, and did not like him, received this -without joy. They had met last year at Cambridge, and he had annoyed her -in several ways. One was his clothes; Daphne liked men to be neat. -Another was, that at the dance given by the college which he and Eddy -adorned, he had not asked her to dance, though introduced for that -purpose, but had stood at her side while she sat partnerless through her -favourite waltz, apparently under the delusion that what was required -of him was interesting conversation. Even that had failed before long, -as Daphne had neither found it interesting nor pretended to do so, and -they remained in silence together, she indignant and he unperturbed, -watching the festivities with an indulgent, if cynical, eye. A -disagreeable, useless, superfluous person, Daphne considered him. He -gathered this; it required no great subtlety to gather things from -Daphne; and accommodated himself to her idea of him, laying himself out -to provoke and tease. He was one of the few people who could sting -Daphne to real temper. - -So she said, “Oh.” - -“The others,” went on Eddy, hastily, “are two girls I know; they’ve been -over-working rather and are run down, and I thought it might be rather -good for them to come here. Besides, they’re great friends of mine, and -of Denison’s--(one of them’s his cousin)--and awfully nice. I’ve written -about them sometimes, I expect--Jane Dawn and Eileen Le Moine. Jane -draws extraordinarily nice things in pen and ink, and is altogether -rather a refreshing person. Eileen plays the violin--you must have heard -her name--Mrs. Le Moine. Everyone’s going to hear her just now; she’s -wonderful.” - -“She’d better play at the bazaar, I should think,” suggested Daphne, who -didn’t see why parsons’ daughters should be the only ones involved in -this bazaar business. She wasn’t very fond of artists and musicians and -literary people, for the most part; so often their conversation was -about things that bored one. - -“Are they pretty?” she inquired, wanting to know if Eddy was at all in -love with either of them. It might be amusing if he was. - -Eddy considered. “I don’t know that you’d call Jane pretty, exactly. -Very nice to look at. Sweet-looking, and extraordinarily innocent.” - -“I don’t like sweet innocent girls,” said Daphne. “They’re so inept, as -a rule.” - -“Well, Jane’s very ept. She’s tremendously clever at her own things, you -know; in fact, clever all round, only clever’s not a bit the word as a -matter of fact. She’s a genius, I suppose--a sort of inspired child, -very simple about everything, and delightful to talk to. Not the least -conventional.” - -“No; I didn’t suppose she’d be that. And what’s Mrs.--the other one -like?” - -“Mrs. Le Moine. Oh, well--she’s--she’s very nice, too.” - -“Pretty?” - -“Rather beautiful, she is. Irish, and a little Hungarian, I believe. She -plays marvellously.” - -“Yes, you said that.” - -Daphne’s thoughts on Mrs. Le Moine produced the question, “Is she -married, or a widow?” - -“Married. She’s quite friends with her husband.” - -“Well, I suppose she would be. Ought to be, anyhow. Can we have her -without him, by the way?” - -“Oh, they don’t live together. That’s why they’re friends. They weren’t -till they parted. Everyone asks them about separately of course. She -lives with a Miss Hogan, an awfully charming person. I’d love to ask -her, too, but there wouldn’t be room. I wonder if mother’ll mind my -asking those three?” - -“You’d better find out,” advised Daphne. “They won’t rub father the -wrong way, I suppose, will they? He doesn’t like being surprised, -remember. You’d better warn Mr. Denison not to talk against religion or -anything.” - -“Oh, Denison will be all right. He knows it’s a Deanery.” - -“Will the others know it’s a Deanery, too?” - -Eddy, to say the truth, had a shade of doubt as to that. They were both -so innocent. Arnold had learnt a little at Cambridge about the attitude -of the superior clergy, and what not to say to them, though he knew more -than he always practised. Jane had been at Somerville College, Oxford, -but this particular branch of learning is not taught there. Eileen had -never adorned any institution for the higher education. Her father was -an Irish poet, and the editor of a Nationalist paper, and did not like -any of the many Deans of his acquaintance. In Ireland, Deans and -Nationalists do not always see eye to eye. Eddy hoped that Eileen had -not any hereditary distaste for the profession. - -“Father and mother’ll think it funny, Mrs. Le Moine not living with her -husband,” said Daphne, who had that insight into her parents’ minds -which comes of twenty years co-residence. - -Eddy was afraid they would. - -“But it’s not funny, really, and they’ll soon see it’s quite all right. -They’ll like her, I know. Everyone who knows her does.” - -He remembered as he spoke that Hillier didn’t, and James Peters didn’t -much. But surely the Dean wouldn’t be found on any point in agreement -with Hillier, or even with the cheery, unthinking Peters, innocent of -the Higher Criticism. Perhaps it might be diplomatic to tell the Dean -that these two young clergymen didn’t much like Eileen Le Moine. - -While Eddy ruminated on this question, they reached the Hall. The Hall -was that type of hall they erected in the days of our earlier Georges; -it had risen on the site of an Elizabethan house belonging to the same -family. This is mentioned in order to indicate that the Bellairs’ had -long been of solid worth in the country. In themselves, they were -pleasant, hospitable, clean-bred, active people, of a certain charm, -which those susceptible to all kinds of charm, like Eddy, felt keenly. -Finally, none of them were clever, all of them were nicely dressed, and -most of them were on the lawn, hitting at a captive golf-ball, which was -one of the many things they did well, though it is at best an -unsatisfactory occupation, achieving little in the way of showy -results. They left it readily to welcome Eddy and Daphne. - -Dick (the Guards) said, “Hullo, old man, home for Christmas? Good for -you. Come and shoot on Wednesday, will you? Not a parson yet, then?” - -Daphne said, “He’s off that just now.” - -Eddy said, “I’m going on a paper for the present.” - -Claude (Magdalen) said, “A _what_? What a funny game! Shall you have to -go to weddings and sit at the back and write about the bride’s clothes? -What a rag!” - -Nevill (the House of Commons) said, “What paper?” in case it should be -one on the wrong side. It may here be mentioned (what may or may not -have been inferred) that the Bellairs’ belonged to the Conservative -party in the state. Nevill a little suspected Eddy’s soundness in this -matter (though he did not know that Eddy belonged to the Fabian Society -as well as to the Primrose League). Also he knew well the sad fact that -our Liberal organs are largely served by Conservative journalists, and -our great Tory press fed by Radicals from Balliol College, Oxford, -King’s College, Cambridge, and many other less refined homes of -sophistry. This fact Nevill rightly called disgusting. He did not think -these journalists honest or good men. So he asked, “What paper?” rather -suspiciously. - -Eddy said, “The _Daily Post_,” which is a Conservative organ, and also -costs a penny, a highly respectable sum, so Nevill was relieved. - -“Afraid you might be going on some Radical rag,” he said, quite -superfluously, as it had been obvious he had been afraid of that. “Some -Unionists do. Awfully unprincipled, I call it. I can’t see how they -square it with themselves.” - -“I should think quite easily,” said Eddy; but added, to avert an -argument (he had tried arguing with Nevill often, and failed), “But my -paper’s politics won’t touch me. I’m going as literary reviewer, -entirely.” - -“Oh, I see.” Nevill lost interest, because literature isn’t interesting, -like politics. “Novels and poetry, and all that.” Novels and poetry and -all that of course must be reviewed, if written; but neither the writing -of them nor the reviewing (perhaps not the reading either, only that -takes less time) seems quite a man’s work. - -Molly (the girl) said, “_I_ think it’s an awfully interesting plan, -Eddy,” though she was a little sorry Eddy wasn’t going into the Church. -(The Bellairs were allowed to call it that, though Daphne wasn’t.) - -Molly could be relied on always to be sympathetic and nice. She was a -sunny, round-faced person of twenty, with clear, amber-brown eyes and -curly brown hair, and a merry infectious laugh. People thought her a -dear little girl; she was so sweet-tempered, and unselfish, and -charmingly polite, and at the same time full of hilarious high spirits, -and happy, tomboyish energies. Though less magnetic, she was really much -nicer than Daphne. The two were very fond of one another. Everyone, -including her brothers and Eddy Oliver, was fond of Molly. Eddy and she -had become, in the last two years, since Molly grew up, close friends. - -“Well, look here,” said Daphne, “we’ve come for the puppy,” and so they -all went to the yard, where the puppy lived. - -The puppy was plump and playful and amber-eyed, and rather like Molly, -as Eddy remarked. - -“The Diddums! I wish I _was_ like him,” Molly returned, hugging him, -while his brother and sister tumbled about her ankles. “He’s rather -fatter than Wasums, Daffy, but not _quite_ so tubby as Babs. I thought -you should have the middle one.” - -“He’s an utter joy,” said Daphne, taking him. - -“Perhaps I’d better walk down the lane with you when you go,” said -Molly, “so as to break the parting for him. But come in to tea now, -won’t you.” - -“Shall we, Eddy?” said Daphne. “D’you think we should? There’ll be -canons’ wives at home.” - -“That settles it,” said Eddy. “There won’t be us. Much as I like canons’ -wives, it’s rather much on one’s very first day. I have to get used to -these things gradually, or I get upset. Come on, Molly, there’s time for -one go at bumble-puppy before tea.” - -They went off together, and Daphne stayed about the stables and yard -with the boys and the dogs. - -The Bellairs’ had that immensely preferable sort of tea which takes -place round a table, and has jam and knives. They didn’t have this at -the Deanery, because people do drop in so at Deaneries, and there -mightn’t be enough places laid, besides, drawing-room tea is politer to -canons and their wives. So that alone would have been a reason why -Daphne and Eddy liked tea with the Bellairs’. Also, the Bellairs’ _en -famille_ were a delightful and jolly party. Colonel Bellairs was -hospitable, genial, and entertaining; Mrs. Bellairs was most wonderfully -kind, and rather like Molly on a sobered, motherly, and considerably -filled-out scale. They were less enlightened than at the Deanery, but -quite prepared to admit that the Prayer Book ought to be revised, if the -Dean thought so, though for them, personally, it was good enough as it -stood. There were few people so kind-hearted, so genuinely courteous and -well-bred. - -Colonel Bellairs, though a little sorry for the Dean because Eddy didn’t -seem to be settling down steadily into a sensible profession--(in his -own case the “What to do with our boys” problem had always been very -simple)--was fond of his friend’s son, and very kind to him, and thought -him a nice, attractive lad, even if he hadn’t yet found himself. He and -his wife both hoped that Eddy would make this discovery before long, for -a reason they had. - -After tea Claude and Molly started back with the Olivers, to break the -parting for Diddums. Eddy wanted to tell Molly about his prospects, and -for her to tell him how interesting they were (Molly was always so -delightfully interested in anything one told her), so he and she walked -on ahead down the lane, in the pale light of the Christmas moon, that -rose soon after tea. (It was a year when this occurred). - -“I expect,” he said, “you think it’s fairly feeble to have begun a thing -and be dropping it so soon. But I suppose one has to try round a little, -to find out what one’s job really is.” - -“Why, of course. It would be absurd to stick on if it isn’t really what -you like to do.” - -“I did like it, too. Only I found I didn’t want to give it quite all my -time and interest. I can’t be that sort of thorough, one-job man. The -men there are. Traherne, now--I wish you knew him; he’s splendid. He -simply throws himself into it body and soul, and says no to everything -else. I can’t. I don’t think I even want to. Life’s too many-sided for -that, it seems to me, and one wants to have it all--or lots of it, -anyhow. The consequence was that I was chucked out. Finch told me I was -to cut off those other things, or get out. So I got out. I quite see his -point of view, and that he was right in a way; but I couldn’t do it. He -wanted me to see less of my friends, for one thing; thought they got in -the way of work, which perhaps they may have sometimes; also he didn’t -much approve of all of them. That’s so funny. Why shouldn’t one be -friends with anyone one can, even if their point of view isn’t -altogether one’s own?” - -“Of course.” Molly considered it for a moment, and added, “I believe I -could be friends with anyone, except a heathen.” - -“A what?” - -“A heathen. An unbeliever, you know.” - -“Oh, I see. I thought you meant a black. Well, it partly depends on what -they don’t believe, of course. I think, personally, one should try to -believe as many things as one can, it’s more interesting; but I don’t -feel any barrier between me and those who believe much less. Nor would -you, if you got to know them and like them. One doesn’t like people for -what they believe, or dislike them for what they don’t believe. It -simply doesn’t come in at all.” - -All the same, Molly did not think she could be real friends with a -heathen. The fact that Eddy did, very slightly worried her; she -preferred to agree with Eddy. But she was always staunch to her own -principles, and didn’t attempt to do so in this matter. - -“I want you to meet some friends of mine who I hope are coming to stay -after Christmas,” went on Eddy, who knew he could rely on a much more -sympathetic welcome for his friends from Molly than from Daphne. “I’m -sure you’ll like them immensely. One’s Arnold Denison, whom I expect -you’ve heard of.” (Molly had, from Daphne.) “The others are girls--Jane -Dawn and Eileen Le Moine.” He talked a little about Jane Dawn and Eileen -Le Moine, as he had talked to Daphne, but more fully, because Molly was -a more gratifying listener. - -“They sound awfully nice. So original and clever,” was her comment. “It -must be perfectly ripping to be able to do anything really well. I wish -I could.” - -“So do I,” said Eddy. “I love the people who can. They’re so---- well, -alive, somehow. Even more than most people, I mean; if possible,” he -added, conscious of Molly’s intense aliveness, and Daphne’s, and his -own, and Diddums’. But the geniuses, he knew, had a sort of white-hot -flame of living beyond even that.... - -“We’d better wait here for the others,” said Molly, stopping at the -field gate, “and I’ll hand over Diddums to Daffy. He’ll feel it’s all -right if I put him in her arms and tell him to stay there.” - -They waited, sitting on the stile. The silver light flooded the brown -fields, turning them grey and pale. It silvered Diddums’ absurd brown -body as he snuggled in Molly’s arms, and Molly’s curly, escaping waves -of hair and small sweet face, a little paled by its radiance. To Eddy -the grey fields and woods and Molly and Diddums beneath the moon made a -delightful home-like picture, of which he himself was very much part. -Eddy certainly had a convenient knack of fitting into any picture -without a jar, whether it was a Sunday School class at St. Gregory’s, a -Sunday Games Club in Chelsea, a canons’ tea at the Deanery, the stables -and kennels at the Hall, or a walk with a puppy over country fields. He -belonged to all of them, and they to him, so that no one ever said “What -is _he_ doing in that _galère_?” as is said from time to time of most of -us. - -Eddy, as they waited for Claude and Daphne at the gate, was wondering a -little whether his new friends would fit easily into this picture. He -hoped so, very much. - -The others came up, bickering as usual. Molly put Diddums into Daphne’s -arms and told him to stay there, and they parted. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -VISITORS AT THE DEANERY. - - -Eddy, while they played coon-can that evening (a horrid game prevalent -at this time) approached his parents on the subject of the visitors he -wanted. He mentioned to them the facts already retailed to Daphne and -Molly concerning their accomplishments and virtues (omitting those -concerning their domestic arrangements). And these eulogies are a -mistake when one is asking friends to stay. One should not utter them. -To do so starts a prejudice hard to eradicate in the minds of parents -and brothers and sisters, and the visit may prove a failure. Eddy was -intelligent and should have known this, but he was in an unthinking mood -this Christmas, and did it. - -His mother kindly said, “Very well, dear. Which day do you want them to -come?” - -“I’d rather like them to be here for New Year’s day, if you don’t mind. -They might come on the thirty-first.” - -Eddy put down three twos in the first round, for the excellent reason -that he had collected them. Daphne, disgusted, said, “Look at Teddy -saving six points off his damage! I suppose that’s the way they play in -your slum.” - -Mrs. Oliver said, “Very well. Remember the Bellairs’ are coming to -dinner on New Year’s Day. It will make rather a large party, but we can -manage all right.” - -“Your turn, mother,” said Daphne, who did not like dawdling. - -The Dean, who had been looking thoughtful, said, “Le Moine, did you say -one of your friends was called? No relation, I suppose, to that writer -Le Moine, whose play was censored not long ago?” - -“Yes, that’s her husband. But he’s a delightful person. And it was a -delightful play, too. Not a bit dull or vulgar or pompous, like some -censored plays. He only put in the parts they didn’t like just for fun, -to see whether it would be censored or not, and partly because someone -had betted him he couldn’t get censored if he tried.” - -The Dean looked as if he thought that silly. But he did not mean to talk -about censored plays, because of Daphne, who was young. So he only said, -“Playing with fire,” and changed the subject. “Is it raining outside, -Daffy?” he inquired with humorous intention, as his turn came round to -play. As no one asked him why he wanted to know, he told them. “Because, -if you don’t mind, I’m thinking of going out,” and he laid his hand on -the table. - -“Oh, I say, father! Two jokers! No wonder you’re out.” (This jargon of -an old-time but once popular game perhaps demands apology; anyhow no one -need try to understand it. _Tout passe, tout lasse_.... Even the Tango -Tea will all too soon be out of mode). - -The Dean rose from the table. “Now I must stop this frivolling. I’ve any -amount of work to get through.” - -“Don’t go on too long, Everard.” Mrs. Oliver was afraid his head would -ache. - -“Needs must, I’m afraid, when a certain person drives. The certain -person in this case being represented by poor old Taggert.” - -Poor old Taggert was connected with another Church paper, higher than -the _Guardian_, and he had been writing in this paper long challenges to -the Dean “to satisfactorily explain” what he had meant by certain -expressions used by him in his last letter on Revision. The Dean could -satisfactorily explain anything, and found it an agreeable exercise, but -one that took time and energy. - -“Frightful waste of time, _I_ call it,” said Daphne, when the door was -shut. “Because they never will agree, and they don’t seem to get any -further by talking. Why don’t they toss up or something, to see who’s -right? Or draw lots. Long one, revise it all, middle one, revise it as -father and his lot want, short one, let it alone, like the _Church -Times_ and Canon Jackson want.” - -“Don’t be silly, dear,” said her mother, absently. - -“Some day,” added Eddy, “you may be old enough to understand these -difficult things, dear. Till then, try and be seen and not heard.” - -“Anyhow,” said Daphne, “I go out.... I believe this is rather a footling -game, really. It doesn’t amuse one more than a week. I’d rather play -bridge, or hide and seek.” - -Christmas passed, as Christmas will pass, only give it time. They kept -it at the deanery much as they keep it at other deaneries, and, indeed, -in very many homes not deaneries. They did up parcels and ran short of -brown paper, and bought more string and many more stamps, and sent off -cards and cards, and received cards and cards and cards, and hurried to -send off more cards to make up the difference (but some only arrived on -Christmas Day, a mean trick, and had to wait to be returned till the new -year), and took round parcels, and at last rested, and Christmas Day -dawned. It was a bright frosty day, with ice, etcetera, and the Olivers -went skating in the afternoon with the Bellairs, round and round -oranges. Eddy taught Molly a new trick, or step, or whatever those who -skate call what they learn, and Daphne and the Bellairs boys flew about -hand-in-hand, graceful and charming to watch. In the night it snowed, -and next day they all tobogganed. - -“I haven’t seen Molly looking so well for weeks,” said Molly’s mother to -her father, though indeed Molly usually looked well. - -“Healthy weather,” said Colonel Bellairs, “and healthy exercise. I like -to see all those children playing together.” - -His wife liked it too, and beamed on them all at tea, which the Olivers -often came in to after the healthy exercise. - -Meanwhile Arnold Denison and Jane Dawn and Eileen Le Moine all wrote to -say they would come on the thirty-first, which they proceeded to do. -They came by three different trains, and Eddy spent the afternoon -meeting them, instead of skating with the Bellairs. First Arnold came, -from Cambridge, and twenty minutes later Jane, from Oxford, without her -bag, which she had mislaid at Rugby. Meanwhile Eddy got a long telegram -from Eileen to the effect that she had missed her train and was coming -by the next. He took Jane and Arnold home to tea. - -Daphne was still skating. The Dean and his wife were always charming to -guests. The Dean talked Cambridge to Arnold. He had been up with -Professor Denison, and many other people, and had always kept in touch -with Cambridge, as he remarked. Sometimes, while a canon of Ely, he had -preached the University Sermon. He did not wholly approve of the social -and theological, or non-theological, outlook of Professor Denison and -his family; but still, the Denisons were able and interesting and -respect-worthy people, if cranky. Arnold the Dean suspected of being -very cranky indeed; not the friend he would have chosen for Eddy in the -improbable hypothesis of his having had the selection of Eddy’s -friends. Certainly not the person he would have chosen for Eddy to share -rooms with, as was now their plan. But nothing of this appeared in his -courteous, if not very effusive, manner to his guest. - -To Jane he talked about her father, a distinguished Oxford scholar, and -meanwhile eyed her a little curiously, wondering why she looked somehow -different from the girls he was used to. His wife could have told him it -was because she had on a grey-blue dress, rather beautifully embroidered -on the yoke and cuffs, instead of a shirt and coat and skirt. She was -not surprised, being one of those people whose rather limited experience -has taught them that artists are often like that. She talked to Jane -about Welchester, and the Cathedral, and its windows, some of which were -good. Jane, with her small sweet voice and pretty manners and charming, -friendly smile, was bound to make a pleasant impression on anybody not -too greatly prejudiced by the grey-blue dress. And Mrs. Oliver was -artistic enough to see that the dress suited her, though she herself -preferred that girls should not make themselves look like early Italian -pictures of St. Ursula. It might be all right in Oxford or Cambridge -(one understands that this style is still, though with decreasing -frequency, occasionally to be met with in our older Universities), or no -doubt, at Letchworth and the Hampstead Garden City, and possibly beyond -Blackfriars Bridge (Mrs. Oliver was vague as to this, not knowing that -part of London well); but in Welchester, a midland cathedral country -town, it was unsuitable, and not done. Mrs. Oliver wondered whether Eddy -didn’t mind, but he didn’t seem to. Eddy had never minded the things -most boys mind in those ways; he had never, when at school, betrayed the -least anxiety concerning his parents’ clothes or manners when they had -visited him; probably he thought all clothes and all manners, like all -ideas, were very nice, in their different ways. - -But when Daphne came in, tweed-skirted, and clad in a blue golfer and -cap, and prettily flushed by the keen air to the colour of a pink shell, -her quick eyes took in every detail of Jane’s attire before she was -introduced, and her mother guessed a suppressed twinkle in her smile. -Mrs. Oliver hoped Daphne was going to be polite to these visitors. She -was afraid Daphne was in a rather perverse mood towards Eddy’s friends. -Denison, of course, she frankly disliked, and did not make much secret -of it. He was conceited, plain, his hair untidy, his collar low, and his -manners supercilious. Denison was well equipped for taking care of -himself; those who came to blows with him rarely came off best. He -behaved very well at tea, knowing, as Eddy had said, that it was a -Deanery. But he was annoying once. Someone had given Mrs. Oliver at -Christmas a certain book, containing many beautiful and tranquil -thoughts about this world, its inhabitants, its origin, and its goal, by -a writer who had produced, and would, no doubt, continue to produce, -very many such books. Many people read this writer constantly, and got -help therefrom, and often wrote and told him so; others did not read him -at all, not finding life long enough; others, again, read him sometimes -in an idle moment, to get a little diversion. Of these last was Arnold -Denison. When he put his tea-cup down on the table at his side, his eye -chanced on the beautiful book lying thereon, and he laughed a little. - -“Which one is that? Oh, _Garden Paths_. That’s the last but two, isn’t -it.” He picked it up and turned the leaves, and chuckled at a certain -passage, which he proceeded to read aloud. It had, unfortunately, or was -intended to have, a philosophical and more or less religious bearing -(the writer was a vague but zealous seeker after truth); also, more -unfortunately still, the Dean and his wife knew the author; in fact, he -had stayed with them often. Eddy would have warned Arnold of that had he -had time, but it was too late. He could only now say, “I call that very -interesting, and jolly well put.” - -The Dean said, genially, but with acerbity, “Ah, you mustn’t make game -of Phil Underwood here, you know; he’s a _persona grata_ with us. A dear -fellow. And not in the least spoilt by all his tremendous success. As -candid and unaffected as he was when we were at Cambridge together, five -and thirty years ago. And look at all he’s done since then. He’s walked -straight into the heart of the reading public--the more thoughtful and -discriminating part of it, that is, for of course he’s not any man’s -fare--not showy enough; he’s not one of your smart paradox-and-epigram-mongers. -He leads one by very quiet and delightful paths, right out of the noisy -world. A great rest and refreshment for busy men and women; we want more -like him in this hurrying age, when most people’s chief object seems to -be to see how much they can get done in how short a time.” - -“_He’s_ fairly good at that, you know,” suggested Arnold, innocently -turning to the title-page of the last but two, to find its date. - -Mrs. Oliver said, gently, but a little distantly, “I always feel it -rather a pity to make fun of a writer who has helped so many people so -very greatly as Philip Underwood has,” which was damping and final, and -the sort of unfair thing, Arnold felt, that shouldn’t be said in -conversation. That is the worst of people who aren’t clever; they -suddenly turn on you and score heavily, and you can’t get even. So he -said, bored, “Shall I come down with you to meet Eileen, Eddy?” and -Daphne thought he had rotten manners and had cheeked her parents. He and -Eddy went out together, to meet Eileen. - -It was characteristic of Jane that she had given no contribution to this -conversation, never having read any Philip Underwood, and only very -vaguely and remotely having heard of him. Jane was marvellously good at -concerning herself only with the first-rate; hence she never sneered at -the second or third-rate, for it had no existence for her. She was not -one of those artists who mock at the Royal Academy; she never saw most -of the pictures there exhibited, but only the few she wished to see, and -went on purpose to see. Neither did she jeer at even our most popular -writers of fiction, nor at Philip Underwood. Jane was very cloistered, -very chaste. Whatsoever things were lovely, she thought on these things, -and on no others. At the present moment she was thinking of the Deanery -hall, how beautifully it was shaped, and how good was the curve of the -oak stairs up from it, and how pleasing and worth drawing Daphne’s long, -irregular, delicately-tinted face, with the humorous, one-sided, -half-reluctant smile, and the golden waves of hair beneath the blue cap. -She wondered if Daphne would let her make a sketch. She would draw her -as some little vagabond, amused, sullen, elfish, half-tamed, wholly -spoilt, preferably in rags, and bare-limbed--Jane’s fingers itched to be -at work on her. - -Rather a silent girl, Mrs. Oliver decided, and said, “You must go over -the Cathedral to-morrow.” - -Jane agreed that she must, and Daphne hoped that Eddy would do that -business. For her, she was sick of showing people the Cathedral, and -conducting them to the Early English door and the Norman arches, and the -something else Lady-chapel, and all the rest of the tiresome things the -guide-book superfluously put it into people’s heads to inquire after. -One took aunts round.... But whenever Daphne could, she left it to the -Dean, who enjoyed it, and had, of course, very much more to say about -it, knowing not only every detail of its architecture and history, but -every detail of its needed repairs and pinnings-up, and general -improvements, and how long they would take to do, and how little money -was at present forthcoming to do them with. The Dean was as keen on his -Cathedral as on revision. Mrs. Oliver had the knowledge of it customary -with people of culture who live near cathedrals, and Eddy that and -something more, added by a great affection. The Cathedral for him had a -glamour and glory. - -The Dean began to tell Jane about it. - -“You are an artist, Eddy tells us,” he said, presently; “well, I think -certain bits of our Cathedral must be an inspiration to any artist. Do -you know Wilson Gavin’s studies of details of Ely? Very exquisite and -delicate work.” - -Jane thought so too. - -“Poor Gavin,” the Dean added, more gravely; “we used to see something of -him when he came down to Ely, five or six years ago. It’s an -extraordinary thing that he could do work like that, so marvellously -pure and delicate, and full, apparently of such reverent love of -beauty--and at the same time lead the life he has led since, and I -suppose is leading now.” - -Jane looked puzzled. - -The Dean said, “Ah, of course, you don’t know him. But one hears sad -stories....” - -“I know Mr. Gavin a little,” said Jane. “I always like him very much.” - -The Dean thought her either not nearly particular enough, or too -ignorant to be credible. She obviously either had never heard, had quite -forgotten, or didn’t mind, the sad stories. He hoped for the best, and -dropped the subject. He couldn’t well say straight out, before Miss Dawn -and Daphne, that he had heard that Mr. Gavin had eloped with someone -else’s wife. - -It was perhaps for the best that Eddy and Arnold and Eileen arrived at -this moment. - -At a glance the Olivers saw that Mrs. Le Moine was different from Miss -Dawn. She was charmingly dressed. She had a blue travelling-coat, grey -furs, deep blue eyes under black brows, and an engaging smile. Certainly -“rather beautiful,” as Eddy had said to Daphne, and of a charm that they -all felt, but especially the Dean. - -Mrs. Oliver, catching Eddy’s eye as he introduced her, saw that he was -proud of this one among his visitors. She knew the look, radiant, half -shy, the look of a nice child introducing an admired school friend to -his people, sure they will get on, thinking how jolly for both of them -to know each other. The less nice child has a different look, -mistrustful, nervous, anxious, lest his people should disgrace -themselves.... - -Mrs. Oliver gave Mrs. Le Moine tea. They all talked. Eileen had brought -in with her a periodical she had been reading in the train, which had in -it a poem by Billy Raymond. Arnold picked it up and read it, and said -he was sorry about it. Eddy then read it and said, “I rather like it. -Don’t you, Eileen? It’s very much Billy in a certain mood, of course.” - -Arnold said it was Billy reacting with such violence against -Masefield--a very sensible procedure within limits--that he had all but -landed himself in the impressionist preciosity of the early Edwardians. - -Eileen said, “It’s Billy when he’s been lunching with Cecil. He’s often -taken like that then.” - -The Dean said, “And who’s Cecil?” - -Eileen said, “My husband,” and the Dean and Mrs. Oliver weren’t sure if, -given one was living apart from one’s husband, it was quite nice to -mention him casually at tea like that; more particularly when he had -just written a censored play. - -The Dean, in order not to pursue the subject of Mr. Le Moine, held out -his hand for the _Blue Review_, and perused Billy’s production, which -was called “The Mussel Picker.” - -He laid it down presently and said, “I can’t say I gather any very -coherent thought from it.” - -Arnold said, “Quite. Billy hadn’t any just then. That is wholly obvious. -Billy sometimes has, but occasionally hasn’t, you know. Billy is at -times, though by no means always, a shallow young man.” - -“Shallow young men produce a good deal of our modern poetry, it seems to -me from my slight acquaintance with it,” said the Dean. “One misses the -thought in it that made the Victorian giants so fine.” - -As a good many of the shallow young producers of our modern poetry were -more or less intimately known to his three guests, Arnold suspected the -Dean of trying to get back on him for his aspersions on Philip -Underwood. He with difficulty restrained himself from saying, gently but -aloofly, _a la_ Mrs. Oliver, “I always think it rather a pity to -criticize writers who have helped so many people so very greatly as our -Georgian poets have,” and said instead, “But the point about this thing -of Billy’s is that it’s not modern in the least. It breathes of fifteen -years back--the time when people painted in words, and were all for -atmosphere. Surely whatever you say about the best modern people, you -can’t deny they’re full of thought--so full that sometimes they forget -the sound and everything else. Of course you mayn’t _like_ the thought, -that’s quite another thing; but you can’t miss it; it fairly jumps out -at you.... Did you read John Henderson’s thing in this month’s _English -Review_?” - -This was one of the periodicals not taken in at the Deanery, so the Dean -hadn’t read it. Nor did he want to enter into an argument on modern -poetry, with which he was less familiar than with the Victorian giants. - -Arnold, talking too much, as he often did when not talking too little, -said across the room to Daphne, “What do _you_ think of John Henderson, -Miss Oliver?” - -It amused him to provoke her, because she was a match for him in -rudeness, and drew him too by her attractive face and abrupt speech. She -wasn’t dull, though she might care nothing for John Henderson or any -other poet, and looked on and yawned when she was bored. - -“Never thought about him at all,” she said now. “Who is he?” though she -knew quite well. - -Arnold proceeded to tell her, with elaboration and diffuseness. - -“I can lend you his works, if you’d like,” he added. - -She said, “No, thanks,” and Mrs. Oliver said, “I’m afraid we don’t find -very much time for casual reading here, Mr. Denison,” meaning that she -didn’t think John Henderson proper for Daphne, because he was sometimes -coarse, and she suspected him of being free-thinking, though as a matter -of fact he was ardently and even passionately religious, in a way hardly -fit for deaneries. - -“_I_ don’t read John’s things, you know, Arnold,” put in Jane. “I don’t -like them much. He said I’d better not try, as he didn’t suppose I -should ever get to like them better.” - -“That’s John all over,” said Eileen. “He’s so nice and untouchy. Fancy -Cecil saying that--except in bitter sarcasm. John’s a dear, so he is. -Though he read worse last Tuesday at the Bookshop than I’ve ever heard -anyone. You’d think he had a plum in his mouth.” - -Obviously these young people were much interested in poets and poetry. -So Mrs. Oliver said, “On the last night of the year, the Dean usually -reads us some poetry, just before the clock strikes. Very often he reads -Tennyson’s ‘Ring out, wild bells.’ It is an old family custom of ours,” -she added, and they all said what a good one, and how nice it would be. -Then Mrs. Oliver told them that they weren’t to dress for dinner, -because there was evensong afterwards in the Cathedral, on account of -New Year’s Eve. - -“But you needn’t go unless you want to,” Daphne added, enviously. -Herself she had to go, whether she wanted to or not. - -“I’d like to,” Eileen said. - -“It’s a way of seeing the Cathedral, of course,” said Eddy. “It’s rather -beautiful by candlelight.” - -So they all settled to go, even Arnold, who thought that of all the ways -of seeing the Cathedral, that was the least good. However, he went, and -when they came back they settled down for a festive night, playing -coon-can and the pianola, and preparing punch, till half-past eleven, -when the Dean came in from his study with Tennyson, and read “Ring out, -wild bells.” At five minutes to twelve they began listening for the -clock to strike, and when it had struck and been duly counted, they -drank each other a happy new year in punch, except Jane, who disliked -whisky too much to drink it, and had lemonade instead. In short, they -formed one of the many happy homes of England who were seeing the old -year out in the same cheerful and friendly manner. Having done so, they -went to bed. - -“Eddy in the home is entirely a dear,” Eileen said to Jane, lingering a -moment by Jane’s fire before she went to her own. “He’s such--such a -good boy, isn’t he?” She leant on the words, with a touch of tenderness -and raillery. Then she added, “But, Jane, we shall have his parents -shocked before we go. It would be easily done. In fact, I’m not sure -we’ve not done it already, a little. Arnold is so reckless, and you so -ingenuous, and myself so ambiguous in position. I’ve a fear they think -us a little unconventional, no less, and are nervous about our being too -much with the pretty little sulky sister. But I expect she’ll see to -that herself; we bore her, do you know. And Arnold insists on annoying -her, which is tiresome of him.” - -“She looks rather sweet when she’s cross,” said Jane, regarding the -matter professionally. “I should like to draw her then. Eddy’s people -are very nice, only not very peaceful, somehow, do you think? I don’t -know why, but one feels a little tired after talking much to them; -perhaps it’s because of what you say, that they might easily be shocked; -and besides, one doesn’t quite always understand what they say. At -least, I don’t; but I’m stupid at understanding people, I know.” - -Jane sighed a little, and let her wavy brown hair fall in two smooth -strands on either side of her small pale face. The Deanery was full of -strange standards and codes and values, alien and unintelligible. Jane -didn’t know even what they were, though Eileen and Arnold, living in a -less rarefied, more in-the-world atmosphere, could have enlightened her -about many of them. It mattered in the Deanery what one’s father was; -quite kindly but quite definitely note was taken of that; Mrs. Oliver -valued birth and breeding, though she was not snobbish, and was quite -prepared to be kind and friendly to those without it. Also it mattered -how one dressed; whether one had on usual, tidy, and sufficiently -expensive clothes; whether, in fact, one displayed good taste in the -matter, and was neither cheap nor showy, but suitable to the hour and -occasion. These things do matter, it is very certain. Also it mattered -that one should be able to find one’s way about a Church of England -Prayer Book during a service, a task at which Jane and Eileen were both -incompetent. Jane had not been brought up to follow services in a book, -only to sit in college ante-chapels and listen to anthems; and Eileen, -reared by an increasingly anti-clerical father, had drifted fitfully in -and out of Roman Catholic churches as a child in Ireland, and had since -never attended any. Consequently they had helplessly fumbled with their -books at evening service. Arnold, who had received the sound Church -education (sublimely independent of personal fancies as to belief or -disbelief) of our English male youth at school and college, knew all -about it, and showed Jane how to find the Psalms, while Eddy performed -the same office for Eileen. Daphne looked on with cynical amusement, and -Mrs. Oliver with genuine shocked feeling. - -“Anyhow,” said Daphne to her mother afterwards, “I should think they’ll -agree with father that it wants revising.” - -Next day they all went tobogganing, and met the Bellairs family. Eddy -threw Molly and Eileen together, because he wanted them to make friends, -which Daphne resented, because she wanted to talk to Molly herself, and -Eileen made her feel shy. When she was alone with Molly she said, “What -do you think of Eddy’s friends?” - -“Mrs. Le Moine is very charming,” said Molly, an appreciative person. -“She’s so awfully pretty, isn’t she? And Miss Dawn seems rather sweet, -and Mr. Denison’s very clever, I should think.” - -Daphne sniffed. “He thinks so, too. I expect they all think they’re -jolly clever. But those two”--she indicated Eileen and Jane--“can’t find -their places in their Prayer Books without being shown. I don’t call -that very clever.” - -“How funny,” said Molly. - -Acrimony was added to Daphne’s view of Eileen by Claude Bellairs, who -looked at her as if he admired her. Claude as a rule looked at Daphne -herself like that; Daphne didn’t want him to, thinking it silly, but it -was rather much to have his admiration transferred to this Mrs. Le -Moine. Certainly anyone might have admired Eileen; Daphne grudgingly -admitted that, as she watched her. Eileen’s manner of accepting -attentions was as lazy and casual as Daphne’s own, and considerably less -provocative; she couldn’t be said to encourage them. Only there was a -charm about her, a drawing-power.... - -“_I_ don’t think it’s nice, a married person letting men hang round -her,” said Daphne, who was rather vulgar. - -Molly, who was refined, coloured all over her round, sensitive face. - -“Daffy! How can you? Of course it’s all right.” - -“Well, Claude would be flirting in no time if she let him.” - -“But of course she wouldn’t. How could she?” Molly was dreadfully -shocked. - -Daphne gave her cynical, one-sided smile. “Easily, I should think. Only -probably she doesn’t think him worth while.” - -“Daffy, I think it’s horrible to talk like that. I do wish you -wouldn’t.” - -“All right. Come on and have a go down the hill, then.” - -The Bellairs’ came to dinner that evening. Molly was a little subdued, -and with her usual flow of childish high spirits not quite so -spontaneous as usual. She sat between Eddy and the Dean, and was rather -quiet with both of them. The Dean took in Eileen, and on her other side -was Nevill Bellairs, who, having deduced in the afternoon that she was -partly Irish, very naturally mentioned the Home Rule Bill, which he had -been spending last session largely in voting against. Being Irish, Mrs. -Le Moine presumably felt strongly on this subject, which he introduced -with the complacency of one who had been fighting in her cause. She -listened to him with her half railing, inscrutable smile, until Eddy -said across the table, “Mrs. Le Moine’s a Home Ruler, Nevill; look out,” -and Nevill stopped abruptly in full flow and said, “You’re not!” and -pretended not to mind, and to be only disconcerted for himself, but was -really indignant with her for being such a thing, and a little with Eddy -for not having warned him. It dried up his best conversation, as one -couldn’t talk politics to a Home Ruler. He wondered was she a Papist, -too. So he talked about hunting in Ireland, and found she knew nothing -of hunting there or indeed anywhere. Then he tried London, but found -that the London she knew was different from his, except externally, and -you can’t talk for ever about streets and buildings, especially if you -do not frequent the same eating-places. From different eating-places the -world is viewed from different angles; few things are a more significant -test of a person’s point of view. - -Meanwhile the Dean was telling Jane about places of interest, such as -Roman camps, in the neighbourhood. The Dean, like many deans, talked -rather well. He thought Jane prettily attentive, and more educated than -most young women, and that it was a pity she wore such an old-fashioned -dress. He did not say so, but asked her if she had designed it from -Carpaccio’s St. Ursula, and she said no, from an angel playing the -timbrel by Jacopo Bellini in the Accademia. So after that they talked -about Venice, and he said he must show her his photographs of it after -dinner. “It must be a wonderful place for an artist,” he told her, and -she agreed, and then they compared notes and found that he had stayed at -the Hotel Europa, and had had a lovely view of the Giudecca and Santa -Maria Maggiore from the windows (“most exquisite on a grey day”), and -she had stayed in the flat of an artist friend, looking on to the Rio -delle Beccarie, which is a _rio_ of the poor. Like Eileen and Nevill, -they had eaten in different places; but, unlike London, Venice is a -coherent whole, not rings within rings, so they could talk, albeit with -reservations and a few cross purposes. The Dean liked talking about -pictures, and Torcello, and Ruskin, and St. Mark’s, and the other things -one talks about when one has been to Venice. Perhaps too he even wanted -a little to hear her talk about them, feeling interested in the -impressions of an artist. Jane was rather disappointingly simple and -practical on these subjects; artists, like other experts, are apt to -leave rhapsodies to the layman, and tacitly assume admiration of the -beauty that is dilated on by the unprofessional. They are baffling -people; the Dean remembered that about poor Wilson Gavin. - -While he thus held Jane’s attention, Eddy talked to Molly about -skating, a subject in which both were keenly interested, Daphne sparred -with Claude, and Arnold entertained Mrs. Oliver, whom he found a little -_difficile_ and rather the _grande dame_. Frankly, Mrs. Oliver did not -like Arnold, and he saw through her courtesy as easily as through -Daphne’s rudeness. She thought him conceited (which he was), irreverent -(which he was also), worldly (which he was not), and a bad influence -over Eddy (and whether he was that depended on what you meant by “bad”). - -On the whole it was rather an uncomfortable dinner, as dinners go. There -was a sense of misfit about it. There were just enough people at -cross-purposes to give a feeling of strain, a feeling felt most strongly -by Eddy, who had perceptions, and particularly wanted the evening to be -a success. Even Molly and he had somehow come up against something, a -rock below the cheerful, friendly stream of their intercourse, that -pulled him up, though he didn’t understand what it was. There was a -spiritual clash somewhere, between nearly every two of them. Between him -and Molly it was all her doing; he had never felt friendlier; it was she -who had put up a queer, vague wall. He could not see into her mind, so -he didn’t bother about it much but went on being cheerful and friendly. - -They were all happier after dinner, when playing the pianola in the hall -and dancing to it. - -But on the whole the evening was only a moderate success. - -The Bellairs’ told their parents afterwards that they didn’t much care -about the friends Eddy had staying. - -“_I_ believe they’re stuck up,” said Dick (the Guards), who hadn’t been -at dinner, but had met them tobogganing. “That man Denison’s for ever -trying to be clever. I can’t stand that; it’s such beastly bad form. -Don’t think he succeeds, either, if you ask me. I can’t see it’s -particularly clever to be always sneering at things one knows nothing -about. Can’t think why Eddy likes him. He’s not a bit keen on the things -Eddy’s keen on--hunting, or shooting, or games, or soldiering.” - -“There are lots like him at Oxford,” said Claude. “I know the type. -Balliol’s full of it. Awfully unwholesome, and a great bore to meet. -They write things, and admire each other’s. I suppose it’s the same at -Cambridge. Only I should have thought Eddy would have kept out of the -way of it.” - -Claude had been disgusted by what he considered Arnold’s rudeness to -Daphne. “I thought Mrs. Le Moine seemed rather nice, though,” he added. - -“Well, I must say,” Nevill said, “she was a little too much for me. -English Home Rulers are bad enough, but at least they know nothing about -it and are usually merely silly; but Irish ones are more than I can -stand. Eddy told me afterwards that her father was that fellow Conolly, -who runs the _Hibernian_--the most disloyal rag that ever throve in a -Dublin gutter. It does more harm than any other paper in Ireland, I -believe. What can you expect of his daughter, let alone a woman married -to a disreputable play-writer, and not even living with him? I rather -wonder Mrs. Oliver likes to have her in the house with Daphne.” - -“Miss--what d’you call her--Morning--seemed harmless, but a little off -it,” said Dick. “She doesn’t talk too much, anyhow, like Denison. Queer -things she wears, though. And she doesn’t know much about London, for a -person who lives there, I must say. Doesn’t seem to have seen any of the -plays. Rather vague, somehow, she struck me as being.” - -Claude groaned. “So would her father if you met him. A fearful old -dreamer. I coach with him in Political Science. He’s considered a great -swell; I was told I was lucky to get him; but I can’t make head or tail -of him or his books. His daughter has just his absent eye.” - -“Poor things,” said Mrs. Bellairs, sleepily. “And poor Mrs. Oliver and -the Dean. I wonder how long these unfortunate people are staying, and if -we ought to ask them over one day?” - -But none of her children appeared to think they ought. Even Molly, -always loyal, always hospitable, always generous, didn’t think so. For -stronger in Molly’s child-like soul than even her loyalty and her -hospitality, and her generosity, was her moral sense, and this was -questioning, shamefacedly, reluctantly, whether these friends of Eddy’s -were really “good.” - -So they didn’t ask them over. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -THE VISITORS GO. - - -Next morning Eileen got a letter. She read it before breakfast, turned -rather paler, and looked up at Eddy as if she was trying to bring her -mind back from a great distance. In her eyes was fear, and that look of -brooding, soft pity that he had learnt to associate with one only of -Eileen’s friends. - -She said, “Hugh’s ill,” frowning at him absently, and added, “I must go -to him, this morning. He’s alone,” and Eddy remembered a paragraph he -had seen in the _Morning Post_ about Lady Dorothy Datcherd and the -Riviera. Lady Dorothy never stayed with Datcherd when he was ill. -Periodically his lungs got much worse, and he had to lie up, and he -hated that. - -“Does he write himself?” Arnold asked. He was fond of Hugh Datcherd. - -“Yes--oh, he doesn’t say he’s ill, he never will, but I know it by his -writing--I must go by the next train, I’m afraid”; she remembered to -turn to Mrs. Oliver and speak apologetically. “I’m very sorry to be so -sudden.” - -“We are so sorry for the cause,” said Mrs. Oliver, courteously. “Is it -your brother?” (Surely it wouldn’t be her husband, in the -circumstances?) - -“It is not,” said Eileen, still abstracted. “It’s a friend. He’s alone, -and consumptive, and if he’s not looked after he destroys himself doing -quite mad things. His wife’s gone away.” - -Mrs. Oliver became a shade less sympathetic. It was a pity it was not a -brother, which would have been more natural. However, Mrs. Le Moine was, -of course, a married woman, though under curious circumstances. She -began to discuss trains, and the pony-carriage, and sandwiches. - -Eddy explained afterwards while Eileen was upstairs. - -“It’s Hugh Datcherd, a great friend of hers; poor chap, his lungs are -frightfully gone, I’m afraid. He’s an extraordinarily interesting and -capable man; runs an enormous settlement in North-East London, and has -any number of different social schemes all over the place. He edits -_Further_--do you ever see it, father?” - -“_Further?_ Yes, it’s been brought to my notice once or twice. It goes a -good way ‘further’ than even our poor heretical deans, doesn’t it?” - -It went in a quite different direction, Eddy thought. Our heretical -deans do not always go very far along the road which leads to social -betterment and slum-destroying; they are often too busy improving -theology to have much time to improve houses. - -“An able man, I daresay,” said the Dean. “Like all the Datcherds. Most -of them have been Parliamentary, of course. Two Datcherds were at -Cambridge with me--Roger and Stephen; this man’s uncles, I suppose; his -father would be before my time. They were both very brilliant fellows, -and fine speakers at the Union, and have become capable Parliamentary -speakers now. A family of hereditary Whigs; but this man’s the only out -and out Radical, I should say. A pity he’s so bitter against -Christianity.” - -“He’s not bitter,” said Eddy. “He’s very gentle. Only he disbelieves in -it as a means of progress.” - -“Surely,” said Mrs. Oliver, “he married one of Lord Ulverstone’s -daughters--Dorothy, wasn’t it.” (Lord Ulverstone and Mrs. Oliver’s -family were both of Westmorland, where there is strong clannish -feeling.) - -“He and Dorothy don’t seem to be hitting it off, do they,” put in -Daphne, and her mother said, “Daphne, dear,” and changed the subject. -Daphne ought not, by good rights, to have heard that about Hugh Datcherd -being ill and alone, and Mrs. Le Moine going to him. - -“She’s a trying woman, I fancy,” said Eddy, who did not mean to be -tactless, but had been absorbed in his own thoughts and had got left -behind when his mother started a new subject. “Hard, and selfish, and -extravagant, and thinks of nothing but amusing herself, and doesn’t care -a hang for any of Datcherd’s schemes, or for Datcherd himself, for that -matter. She just goes off and leaves him to be ill by himself. He nearly -died last year; he was awfully cut up, too, about their little girl -dying--she was the only child, and Datcherd was absolutely devoted to -her, and I believe her mother neglected her when she was ill, just as -she does Datcherd.” - -“These stories get exaggerated, of course,” said Mrs. Oliver, because -Lady Dorothy was one of the Westmorland Ulverstones, because Daphne was -listening, and because she suspected the source of the stories to be -Eileen Le Moine. - -“Oh, I’ve no doubt there’s her side of it, too, if one knew it,” -admitted Eddy, ready, as usual, to see everyone’s point of view. “It -would be a frightful bore being married to a man who was interested in -all the things you hated most, and gave his whole time and money and -energy to them. But anyhow, you see why his friends, and particularly -Eileen, who’s his greatest friend, feel responsible for him.” - -“A very sad state of things,” said Mrs. Oliver. - -“Anyhow,” said Daphne, “here’s the pony-trap.” - -Eileen came downstairs, hand-in-hand with Jane, and said goodbye to the -Dean, and Mrs. Oliver, and Daphne, and “Thank you so much for having -me,” and drove off with Eddy and Jane, still with that look of troubled -wistfulness in her face. - -She smiled faintly at Eddy from the train. - -“I’m sorry, Eddy. It’s a shame I have to go,” but her thoughts were not -for him, as he knew. - -Outside the station they met Arnold, and he and Jane walked off together -to see something in the Cathedral, while Eddy drove home. - -Jane gave a little pitiful sigh. “Poor dears,” she murmured. - -“H’m?” questioned Arnold, who was interested in the streets. - -“Poor Eileen,” Jane amplified; “poor Hugh.” - -“Oh, quite,” Arnold nodded. But, feeling more interested in ideas than -in people, he talked about Welchester. - -“The stuffiness of the place!” he commented, with energy of abuse. “The -stodginess. The canons and their wives. The--the enlightened culture of -the Deanery. The propriety. The correctness. The intelligence. The -cathedralism. The good breeding. How can Eddy bear it, Jane? Why doesn’t -he kick someone or something over and run?” - -“Eddy likes it,” said Jane. “He’s very fond of it. After all, it is -rather exquisite; look----” - -They had stopped at the end of Church Street, and looked along its -narrow length to the square that opened out before the splendid West -Front. Arnold screwed up his eyes at it, appreciatively. - -“_That’s_ all right. It’s the people I’m thinking of.” - -“But you know, Arnold, Eddy’s not exclusive like most people, like you -and me, and--and Mrs. Oliver, and those nice Bellairs’. He likes -everyone and everything. Things are delightful to him merely because -they exist.” - -Arnold groaned. “Whitman said that before you, the brute. If I thought -Eddy had anything in common with Walt, our friendship would end -forthwith.” - -“He has nothing whatever,” Jane reassured him, placidly. “Whitman hated -all sorts of things. Whitman’s more like you; he’d have hated -Welchester.” - -“Yes, I’m afraid that’s true. The cleanliness, the cant, the smug faces -of men and women in the street, the worshippers in cathedrals, the -keepers of Sabbaths, the respectable and the well-to-do, the Sunday hats -and black coats of the men, the panaches and tight skirts of the women, -the tea-fights, the well-read deans and their lady-like wives--what have -I to do with these or these with me? All, all of them I loathe; away -with them, I will not have them near me any more. _Allons, camerado_, I -will take to the open road beneath the stars.... What a pity he would -have said that; but I can’t alter my opinion, even for him.... How at -home dear old Phil Underwood would be here, wouldn’t he. How he must -enjoy his visits to the Deanery, where he’s a _persona grata_. And how -he must bore the young sister. _She’s_ all right, you know, Jane. I -rather like her. And she hates me. She’s quite genuine, and free from -cant; just as worldly as they make ’em, and never pretends to be -anything else. Besides, she’s all alive; rather like a young wild -animal. It’s queer she and Eddy being brother and sister, she so decided -and fixed in all her opinions and rejections, and he so impressionable. -Oh, another thing--I have an unhappy feeling that Eddy is going, -eventually, to marry that little yellow-eyed girl--Miss Bellairs. -Somehow I feel it.” - -Jane said, “Nonsense,” and laughed. “She’s not a bit the sort.” - -“Of course she’s not. But to Eddy, as you observed, all sorts are -acceptable. She’s one sort, you’ll admit. And one he’s attached to--wind -and weather and jolly adventures and old companionship, she stands for -to him. Not a subtle appeal, but still, an appeal. They’re fond of each -other, and it will turn to that, you’ll see. Eddy never says, “That’s -not the sort of thing, or the sort of person, for me.” Because they all -are. Look at the way he swallowed those parsons down in his slum. -Swallowed them--why, he loves them. Look at the way he accepts -Welchester, stodginess and all, and likes it. He was the same at -Cambridge; nothing was outside the range for him; he never drew the -line. I’m really not particular”--Jane laughed at him again--“but I tell -you he consorted sometimes with the most utterly utter, and didn’t seem -to mind. Kept very bad company indeed on occasion; company the Dean -wouldn’t at all have approved of, I’m sure. Many times I’ve had to step -in and try in vain to haul him by force out of some select set. Nuts, -smugs, pious men, betting _roués_, beefy hulks--all were grist to his -mill. And still it’s the same. Miss Bellairs, no doubt, is a very nice -girl, quite genuine and natural, and rather like a jolly kitten, which -is always attractive. But she’s rigid within; she won’t mix with the -people Eddy will want to mix with. She’s not comprehensive. She wouldn’t -like us much, for instance; she’d think us rather queer and shady -beings, not what she’s used to or understands. We should worry and -puzzle her. She’s gay and sweet and unselfish, and good, sweet maid, and -lets who will be clever. Lets them, but doesn’t want to have much to do -with them. She’ll shut us all out, and try to shut Eddy in with her. She -won’t succeed, because he’ll go on wanting a little bit of all there is, -and so they’ll both be miserable. Her share of the world, you see--all -the share she asks for--is homogeneous; his is heterogeneous, a sort of -gypsy stew with everything in it. You may say that he’s greedy for mixed -fare, while she has a simple and fastidious appetite. There are the -materials for another unhappy marriage ready provided.” - -Jane was looking at the Prior’s Door with her head on one side. She -smiled at it peacefully. - -“Really, Arnold----” - -“Oh, I know. You’re going to say, what reason have I for supposing that -Eddy has ever thought of this young girl in that way, as they say in -fiction. I don’t say he has yet. But he will. Propinquity will do it, -and common tastes, and old affection. You’ll see, Jane. I’m not often -wrong about these unfortunate affairs. I dislike them so much that it -gives me an instinct.” - -Jane shook her head. “I think Welchester is affecting you for bad, -Arnold. That, you know, is what the people who annoy you so much here -would do, I expect--look at all affection and friendship like that.” - -“That’s true.” Arnold looked at her in surprise. “But I shouldn’t have -expected you to know it. You are improving in perspicacity, Jane; it’s -the first time I have known you aware of the vulgarity about you.” - -Jane looked a little proud of herself, as she only did when she had -displayed a piece of worldly knowledge. She did not say that she had -obtained her knowledge from Mrs. Oliver and the Dean, who, watching Eddy -and Eileen, had too obviously done so with troubled eyes, so that she -longed to comfort them with explanations they would never understand. - -It was certain that they were relieved that Eileen had gone, though the -reason of her going had placed her in a more dubious light. Also, she -forgot, unfortunately, to write her bread and butter letter. “I suppose -she can’t spare the time from Hugh,” said Daphne. But she wrote to Jane, -telling her that Hugh was laid up with hemorrhage, and had been ordered -to go away directly he was fit. “They say Davos, but he won’t. I don’t -know where it will be.” Jane, whose worldly shrewdness after all had -narrow limits, repeated this to Eddy in his mother’s presence. - -“Has his wife got back yet?” Mrs. Oliver inquired gravely, and Jane -shook her head. “Oh no. She won’t. She’s spending the winter on the -Riviera.” - -“I should think Mr. Datcherd too had better spend the winter on the -Riviera,” suggested Mrs. Oliver. - -“Isn’t it rather bad for consumption?” said Eddy, shirking issues other -than hygienic. - -“I believe,” said Jane, not shirking them, “his wife isn’t coming back -to him at all again. She’s tired of him, I’m afraid. I daresay it’s a -good thing; she is very irritating and difficult.” - -Mrs. Oliver changed the subject. These seemed to her what women in her -district would have called strange goings on. She commented on them to -the Dean, who, more tolerant, said, “One must allow some licence to -genius, I suppose.” Perhaps: but the question was, how much. Genius -might alter manners--(for the worse, Mrs. Oliver thought)--but it -shouldn’t be allowed to alter morals. - -“Anyhow,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I am rather troubled that Eddy should be so -intimate with these people.” - -“Eddy is a steady-headed boy,” said the Dean. “He knows where to draw -the line.” Which is what parents often think of their children, with how -little warrant! Drawing the line was precisely the art which, Arnold -complained, Eddy had not learnt at all. - -Jane and Arnold stayed three days more at the Deanery. Jane drew details -of the Cathedral and studies of Daphne. The Dean thought, as he had -often thought before, that artists were interesting, child-like, but -rather baffling people, incredibly innocent, or else incredibly apt to -accept moral evil with indifference; also that, though, he feared, quite -outside the Church, and what he considered to be pagan in outlook, she -displayed, like poor Wilson Gavin, a very delicate appreciation of -ecclesiastical architecture and religious art. - -Mrs. Oliver thought her more unconventional and lacking in knowledge of -the world than any girl had a right to be. - -Daphne and the Bellairs family thought her a harmless crank, who took -off her hat in the road. - -The Bellairs’ supposed she must Want a Vote, till she announced her -indifference on that subject, which disgusted Daphne, an ardent and -potentially militant suffragist, and disappointed her mother, a calm but -earnest member of the National Union for Women’s Suffrage, who went to -meetings Daphne was not allowed at. Jane--perhaps it was because of the -queer sexlessness which was part of her charm, perhaps because of being -an artist, and other-worldly--seemed to care little for women’s rights -or women’s wrongs. Mrs. Oliver noted that her social conscience was -unawakened, and thought her selfish. Artists were perhaps like -that--wrapped up in their own joy of the lovely world, so that they -never turned and looked into the shadows. Eddy, a keen suffragist -himself, said it was because Jane had never lived among the very poor. - -“She should use her power of vision,” said the Dean. “She’s got plenty.” - -“She’s one-windowed,” Eddy explained. “She only looks out on to the -beautiful things; she has a blank wall between her and the ugly.” - -“In plain words, a selfish young woman,” said Mrs. Oliver, but to -herself. - -So much for Jane. Arnold was more severely condemned. The more they all -saw of him, the less they liked him, and the more supercilious he grew. -Even at times he stopped remembering it was a Deanery, though he really -tried to do this. But the atmosphere did annoy him. - -“Mr. Denison has really very unfortunate ways of expressing himself at -times,” said Mrs. Oliver, who had too, Arnold thought. - -“Oh, he means well,” said Eddy apologetic. “You mustn’t mind him. He’s -got corns, and if anyone steps on them he turns nasty. He’s always like -that.” - -“In fact, a conceited pig,” said Daphne, not to herself. - -Personally Daphne thought the best of the three was Mrs. Le Moine, who -anyhow dressed well and could dance, though her habits might be queer. -Better queer habits than queer clothes, any day, thought Daphne, -innately a pagan, with the artist’s eye and the materialist’s soul. - -Anyhow, Jane and Arnold departed on Monday. From the point of view of -Mrs. Oliver and the Dean, it might have been better had it been -Saturday, as their ideas of how to spend Sunday had been revealed as -unfitting a Deanery. The Olivers were not in the least sabbatarian, they -were much too wide-minded for that, but they thought their visitors -should go to church once during the day. Perhaps Jane had been -discouraged by her experiences with the Prayer Book on New Year’s Eve. -Perhaps it never occurred to her to go. Anyhow in the morning she stayed -at home and drew, and in the evening wandered into the Cathedral during -the collects, stayed for the anthem, and wandered out, peaceful and -content, with no suspicion of having done the wrong or unusual thing. -Arnold lay in the hall all the morning and smoked and read _The New -Machiavelli_, which was one of the books not liked at the Deanery. -(Arnold, by the way, didn’t like it much either, but dipped in and out -of it, grunting when bored.) In consequence (not in consequence of _The -New Machiavelli_, which she would have found dull, but of being obliged -herself to go to church), Daphne was cross and envious, the Dean and his -wife slightly disapproving, and Eddy sorry about the misunderstanding. - -On the whole, the visit had not been the success Eddy had wished for. He -felt that. In spite of some honest endeavour on both sides, the hosts -and guests had not fitted into each other. - -Coming back into Welchester from a walk, and seeing its streets full of -peace and blue winter twilight and starred with yellow lamps, Eddy -thought it queer that there should be disharmonies in such a place. It -had peace, and a wistful, ordered beauty, and dignity, and grace.... - -They were singing in the Cathedral, and lights glowed redly through the -stained windows. Strangely the place transcended all factions, all -barriers, proving them illusions in the still light of the Real. Eddy, -beneath all his ineffectualities, his futilities of life and thought, -had a very keen sense of unity, of the coherence of all beauty and good; -in a sense he did really transcend the barriers recognised by less -shallow people. With a welcoming leap his heart went out to embrace all -beauty, all truth. Surely one could afford to miss no aspect of it -through blindness. Open-eyed he looked into the blue night of lamps and -shadows and men and women, and beyond it to the stars and the sickle of -the moon, and all of it crowded into his vision, and he caught his -breath a little and smiled, because it was so good and so much. - -When he got home he saw his mother sitting in the hall, reading the -_Times_. Moved by love and liking, he put his arm round her shoulders -and bent over her and kissed her. The grace, the breeding, the -culture--she was surely part of it all, and should make, like the -Cathedral, for harmony. Arnold had found Mrs. Oliver commonplace. Eddy -found her admirable. Jane had not found her at all. There was the -difference between them. Undoubtedly Eddy’s, whether the most truthful -way or not, was the least wasteful. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -THE CLUB. - - -Soon after Eddy’s return to London, Eileen Le Moine wrote and asked him -to meet her at lunch at a restaurant in Old Compton Street. It was a -rather more select restaurant than they and their friends usually -frequented in Soho, so Eddy divined that she wanted to speak to him -alone and uninterrupted. She arrived late, as always, and pale, and a -little abstracted, as if she were tired in mind or body, but her smile -flashed out at him, radiant and kind. Direct and to the point, as usual, -she began at once, as they began to eat risotto, “I wonder would you do -something for Hugh?” - -Eddy said, “I expect so,” and added, “I hope he’s much better?” - -“He is not,” she told him. “The doctor says he must go away--out of -England--for quite a month, and have no bother or work at all. It’s -partly nerves, you see, and over-work. Someone will have to go with him, -to look after him, but they’ve not settled who yet. He’ll probably go to -Greece, and walk about.... Anyhow he’s to be away somewhere.... And he’s -been destroying himself with worry because he must leave his work--the -settlement and everything--and he’s afraid it will go to pieces. You -know he has the Club House open every evening for the boys and young -men, and goes down there himself several nights a week. What we thought -was that perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking charge, being generally -responsible, in fact. There are several helpers, of course, but Hugh -wants someone to see after it and get people to give lectures and keep -the thing going. We thought you’d perhaps have the time, and we knew you -had the experience and could do it. It’s very important to have someone -at the top that they like; it just makes all the difference. And Hugh -thinks it so hopeful that they turned you out of St. Gregory’s; he -doesn’t entirely approve of St. Gregory’s, as you know. Now will you?” - -Eddy, after due consideration, said he would do the best he could. - -“I shall be very inept, you know. Will it matter much? I suppose the men -down there--Pollard and the rest--will see me through. And you’ll be -coming down sometimes, perhaps.” - -She said “I may,” then looked at him for a moment speculatively, and -added, “But I may not. I might be away, with Hugh.” - -“Oh,” said Eddy. - -“If no one else satisfactory can go with him,” she said. “He must have -the right person. Someone who, besides looking after him, will make him -like living and travelling and seeing things. That’s very important, the -doctor says. He is such a terribly depressed person, poor Hugh. I can -brighten him up. So I rather expect I will go, and walk about Greece -with him. We would both like it, of course.” - -“Of course,” said Eddy, his chin on his hand, looking out of the window -at the orange trees that grew in tubs by the door. - -“And, lest we should have people shocked,” added Eileen, “Bridget’s -coming too. Not that we mind people with that sort of horrible mind -being shocked--but it wouldn’t do to spoil Hugh’s work by it, and it -might. Hugh, of course, doesn’t want things said about me, either. -People are so stupid. I wonder will the time ever come when two friends -can go about together the way no harm will be said. Bridget thinks -never. But after all, if no one’s prepared to set an example of -common-sense, how are we to move on ever out of all this horrid, -improper tangle and muddle? Jane, of course, says, what does it matter, -no one who counts would mind; but then for Jane so few people count. -Jane would do it herself to-morrow, and never even suspect that anyone -was shocked. But one can’t have people saying things about Hugh, and he -running clubs and settlements and things; it would destroy him and them; -he’s one of the people who’ve got to be careful; which is a bore, but -can’t be helped.” - -“No, it can’t be helped,” Eddy agreed. “One doesn’t want people to be -hurt or shocked, even apart from clubs and things; and so many even of -the nicest people would be.” - -There she differed from him. “Not the nicest. The less nice. The -foolish, the coarse-minded, the shut-in, the--the tiresome.” - -Eddy smiled disagreement, and she remembered that they would be shocked -at the Deanery, doubtless. - -“Ah well,” she said, “have it your own way. The nicest, then, as well as -the least nice, because none of them know any better, poor dears. For -that matter, Bridget said she’d be shocked herself if we went alone. -Bridget has moods, you know, when she prides herself on being -proper--the British female guarding the conventions. She’s in one of -them now.... Well, go and see Hugh to-morrow, will you, and talk about -the Settlement. He’ll have a lot to say, but don’t have him excited. -It’s wonderful what a trust he has in you, Eddy, since you left St. -Gregory’s.” - -“An inadequate reason,” said Eddy, “but leading to a very proper -conclusion. Yes, I’ll go and see him, then.” - -He did so, next day. He found Datcherd at the writing-table in his -library. It was a large and beautiful library in a large and beautiful -house. The Datcherds were rich (or would have been had not Datcherd -spent much too much money on building houses for the poor, and Lady -Dorothy Datcherd rather too much on cards and clothes and other -luxuries), and there was about their belongings that air of caste, of -inherited culture, of transmitted intelligence and recognition of social -and political responsibilities, that is perhaps only to be found in -families with a political tradition of several generations. Datcherd -wasn’t a clever literary free-lance; he was a hereditary Whig; that was -why he couldn’t be detached, why, about his breaking with custom and -convention, there would always be a wrench and strain, a bitterness of -hostility, instead of the light ease of Eileen Le Moine’s set, that -could gently mock at the heavy-handed world because it had never been -under its dominance, never conceived anything but freedom. That, and -because of their finer sense of responsibility, is why it is aristocrats -who will always make the best social revolutionaries. They know that -life is real, life is earnest; they are bound up with the established -status by innumerable ties, which either to keep or to break means -purpose. They are, in fact, heavily involved, all round; they cannot -escape their liabilities; they are the grown-up people in a -light-hearted world of children. Surely, then, they should have more of -the reins in their hands, less jerking of them from below.... Such, at -least, were Eddy’s reflections in Datcherd’s library, while he waited -for Datcherd to finish a letter and thought how ill he looked. - -Their ensuing conversation need not be detailed. Datcherd told Eddy -about arranging lectures at the Club House whenever he could, about the -reading-room, the gymnasium, the billiard-room, the woodwork, and the -other diversions and educational enterprises which flourish in such -institutions. Eddy was familiar with them already, having sometimes been -down to the Club House. It was in its main purpose educational. To it -came youths between the ages of fifteen and five and twenty, and gave -their evenings to acquiring instruction in political economy, sociology, -history, art, physical exercises, science, and other branches of -learning. They had regular instructors; and besides these, irregular -lecturers came down once or twice a week, friends of Datcherd’s, -politicians, social workers, writers, anyone who would come and was -considered by Datcherd suitable. The Fabian Society, it seemed, throve -still among the Club members, and was given occasional indulgences such -as Mr. Shaw or Mr. Sidney Webb, and lesser treats frequently. They had -debates, and other habits such as will be readily imagined. Having -indicated these, Datcherd proceeded to tell Eddy something about his -assistant workers, in what ways each needed firm or tender handling. - -While they were talking, Billy Raymond came in, to tell Datcherd about a -new poet he had found, who wrote verse that seemed suitable for -_Further_. Billy Raymond, a generous and appreciative person, was given -to finding new poets, usually in cellars, attics, or workmen’s flats. It -was commonly said that he less found them than made them, by some -transmuting magic of his own touch. Anyhow they quite often produced -poetry, for longer or shorter periods. This latest one was a Socialist -in conviction and expression; hence his suitability for _Further_. Eddy -wasn’t sure that they ought to talk of _Further_; it obviously had Hugh -excited. - -He and Billy Raymond came away together, which rather pleased Eddy, as -he liked Billy better than most people of his acquaintance, which was -saying much. There was a breadth about Billy, a large and gentle -tolerance, a courtesy towards all sorts and conditions of men and views, -that made him restful, as compared, for instance, with the intolerant -Arnold Denison. Perhaps the difference was partly that Billy was a poet, -with the artist’s vision, which takes in, and Arnold only a critic, -whose function it is to select and exclude. Billy, in short, was a -producer, and Arnold a publisher; and publishers have to be for ever -saying that things won’t do, aren’t good enough. If they can’t say that, -they are poor publishers indeed. Billy, in Eddy’s view, approached more -nearly than most people to that synthesis which, Eddy believed, unites -all factions and all sections of truth. - -Billy said, “Poor dear Hugh. I am extraordinarily sorry for him. I am -glad you are going to help in the Settlement. He hates leaving it so -much. I’m sure I couldn’t worry about my work or anything else if I was -going to walk about Greece for a month; but he’s so--so ascetic. I think -I respect Datcherd more than almost anyone; he’s so absolutely -single-minded. He won’t enjoy Greece a bit, I believe, because of all -the people in slums who can’t be there, and wouldn’t if they could. It -will seem to him wicked waste of money. Waste, you know! My word!” - -“Perhaps,” said Eddy, “he’ll learn how to enjoy life more now his wife -has left him. She must have been a weight on his mind.” - -“Oh, well,” said Billy, “I don’t know. Perhaps so.... One never really -felt that she quite existed, and I daresay he didn’t either, so I don’t -suppose her being gone will make so very much difference. She was a sort -of unreal thing--a shadow. I always got on with her pretty well; in -fact, I rather liked her in a way; but I never felt she was actually -there.” - -“She’d be there to Datcherd, though,” Eddy said, feeling that Billy’s -wisdom hardly embraced the peculiar circumstances of married life, and -Billy, never much interested in personal relations, said, “Perhaps.” - -They were in Kensington, and Billy went to call on his grandmother, who -lived in Gordon Place, and to whom he went frequently to play backgammon -and relate the news. Billy was a very affectionate and dutiful young -man, and also nearly as fond of backgammon as his grandmother was. With -his grandmother lived an aunt, who didn’t care for his poetry much, and -Billy was very fond of her too. He sometimes went with his grandmother -to St. Mary Abbot’s Church, to help her to see weddings (which she -preferred even to backgammon), or attend services. She was proud of -Billy, but, for poets to read, preferred Scott, Keble, or Doctor Watts. -She admitted herself behind modern times, but loved to see and hear what -young people were doing, though it usually seemed rather silly. To her -Billy went this afternoon, and Eddy meanwhile called on Mrs. Le Moine -and Miss Hogan in Campden Hill Road. He found Miss Hogan in, just -returned from a picture-show, and she gave him tea and conversation. - -“Of course you’ve heard all about our intentions. Actually we’re off on -Thursday.... Last time Eileen went abroad, the people she was with took -a maniac by mistake; so very uncomfortable. I quite thought after that -she had decided that travel was not for her. However, it seems not. You -know--I’m sure she told you--she was for going just he and she, _tout -simple_. Most improper, of course, not to say unwholesome. They meant no -harm, dear children, but who would believe that, and even so, what are -the _convenances_ for but to be observed? I put it before Eileen in my -most banal and _borné_ manner, but, needless to say, how fruitless! So -at last I had to offer to go too. Of course from kindness she had to -accept that, though it won’t be at all the same, particularly not to -Hugh. Anyhow there we are, and we’re off on Thursday. Hugh will be very -much upset by the Channel; I believe he always is; no constitution -whatever, poor creature. Also I believe he is of those with whom it -lasts on between Calais and Paris--a most unhappy class, but to be -avoided as travelling companions. I know too well, because of an aunt of -mine.... Well, anyhow we’re going to take the train to Trieste, and then -a ship to Kalamata, and then take to our feet and walk across Greece. -Hitherto I have only done Greece on the Dunnottar Castle, in the care of -Sir Henry Lunn, which, if less thrilling, is safer, owing to the wild -dogs that tear the pedestrian on the Greek hills, one is given to -understand. I only hope we may be preserved.... And meanwhile you’re -going to run those wonderful clubs of Hugh’s. I wonder if you’ll do it -at all as he would wish! It is beautiful to see how he trusts you--why, -I can’t imagine. In his place I wouldn’t; I would rather hand over my -clubs to some unlettered subordinate after my own heart and bred in my -own faith. As for you, you have so many faiths that Hugh’s will be -swamped in the crowd. But you feel confident that you will do it well? -That is good, and the main qualification for success.” - -Thus Miss Hogan babbled on, partly because she always did, partly -because the young man looked rather strained, and she was afraid if she -paused that he might say how sad he was at Eileen’s going, and she -believed these things better unexpressed. He wasn’t the only young man -who was fond of Eileen, and Miss Hogan had her own ideas as to how to -deal with such emotions. She didn’t believe it went deep with Eddy, or -that he would admit to himself any emotion at all beyond friendship, -owing to his own views as to what was right, not to speak of what was -sensible; and no doubt if left to himself for a month or so, he would -manage to recover entirely. It would be so obviously silly, as well as -wrong, to fall in love with Eileen Le Moine, and Bridget did not believe -Eddy, in spite of some confusion in his mental outlook, to be really -silly. - -She directed the conversation on to the picture-show she had just been -to, and that reminded her of Sally Peters. - -“Did you hear what the stupid child’s done? Joined the Wild Women, and -jabbed her umbrella into a lot of Post Impressionists in the Grafton -Galleries. Of course they caught her at it--the clumsiest child!--and -took her up on the spot, and she’s coming up for trial to-morrow with -three other lunatics, old enough to know better than to lead an ignorant -baby like that into mischief. I expect she’ll get a month, and serve her -right. I suppose she’ll go on hunger-strike; but she’s so plump that it -will probably affect her health not unfavourably. I don’t know who got -hold of her; doubtless some mad and bad creatures who saw she had no -more sense than a little owl, and set her blundering into shop-windows -and picture-glasses like a young blue-bottle.... By the way, though you -are, I know, so many things, I feel sure you draw the line at the -militants.” - -Eddy said he thought he saw their point of view. - -“Point of view! They’ve not one,” Miss Hogan cried. “I suppose, like -other decent people, you want women to have votes! Well, you must grant -they’ve spoilt any chance of _that_, anyhow--smashed up the whole -suffrage campaign with their horrible jabbing umbrellas and absurd -little bombs.” - -Eddy granted that. “They’ve smashed the suffrage, for the present, yes. -Poor things.” He reflected for a moment on these unfortunate persons, -and added, “But I do see what they mean, all the same. They smash and -spoil and hurt things and people and causes, because they are stupid -with anger; but they’ve got things to be angry about, after all. Oh, I -admit they’re very, very stupid and inartistic, and hopelessly -unaesthetic and British and unimaginative and cruel and without any -humour at all--but I do see what they mean, in a way.” - -“Well, don’t explain it to me, then, because I’ve heard it at first-hand -far too often lately.” - -Eddy went round to the rooms in Old Compton Street which he shared with -Arnold Denison. Arnold had chosen Soho for residence partly because he -liked it, partly to improve his knowledge of languages, and partly to -study the taste of the neighbourhood in literature, as it was there that -he intended, when he had more leisure, to start a bookshop. Eddy, too, -liked it. (This is a superfluous observation, because anybody would.) In -fact, he liked his life in general just now. He liked reviewing for the -_Daily Post_ and writing for himself (himself _via_ the editors of -various magazines who met with his productions on their circular route -and pushed them on again). He liked getting review copies of books to -keep; his taste was catholic and omnivorous, and boggled at nothing. -With joy he perused everything, even novels which had won prizes in -novel competitions, popular discursive works called “About the Place,” -and books of verse (to do them justice, not even popular) called -“Pipings,” and such. He wrote appreciative reviews of all of them, -because he appreciated them all. It may fairly be said that he saw each -as its producer saw it, which may or may not be what a reviewer should -try to do, but is anyhow grateful and comforting to the reviewed. -Arnold, who did not do this, in vain protested that he would lose his -job soon. “No literary editor will stand such indiscriminate fulsomeness -for long.... It’s a dispensation of providence that you didn’t come and -read for us, as I once mistakenly wished. You would, so far as your -advice carried any weight, have dragged us down into the gutter. Have -you no sense of values or of decency? Can you really like these florid -effusions of base minds?” He was reading through Eddy’s last review, -which was of a book of verse by a lady gifted with emotional tendencies -and an admiration for landscape. Arnold shook his head and laughed as he -put the review down. - -“The queer thing about it is that it’s not a bad review, in spite of -everything you say in appreciation of the lunatic who wrote the book. -That’s what I can’t understand; how you can be so intelligent and yet -so idiotic. You’ve given the book exactly, in a few phrases--no one -could possibly mistake its nature--and then you make several quite true, -not to say brilliant remarks about it--and then you go on and say how -good it is.... Well, I shall be interested to see how long they keep you -on.” - -“They like me,” Eddy assured him, complacently. “They think I write -well. The authors like me, too. Many a heartfelt letter of thanks do I -get from those whom there are few to praise and fewer still to love. As -you may have noticed, they strew the breakfast table. Is it _comme il -faut_ for me to answer? I do--I mean, I did, both times--because it -seemed politer, but it was perhaps a mistake, because the correspondence -between me and one of them has not ceased yet, and possibly never will, -since neither of us likes to end it. How involving life is!” - -Meanwhile he went to the Club House by the Lea most evenings. That, too, -he liked. He had a gift which Datcherd had detected in him, the gift of -getting on well with all sorts of people, irrespective of their incomes, -breeding, social status, intelligence, or respectability. He did not, -like Arnold, rule out the unintelligent, the respectable, the -commonplace; nor, like Datcherd, the orthodoxly religious; nor, as Jane -did, without knowing it, the vulgar; nor, like many delightful and -companionable and well-bred people, the uneducated, those whom we, -comprehensively and rightly, call the poor--rightly, because, though -poverty may seem the merest superficial and insignificant attribute of -the completed product, it is also the original, fundamental cause of all -the severing differences. Molly Bellairs thought Eddy would have made a -splendid clergyman, a better one than his father, who was unlimitedly -kind, but ill at ease, and talked above poor people’s heads. Eddy, with -less grip of theological problems, had a surer hold of points of view, -and apprehended the least witty of jokes, the least pathetic of -quarrels, the least picturesque of emotions. Hence he was popular. - -He found that the sort of lectures Datcherd’s clubs were used to expect -were largely on subjects like the Minimum Wage, Capitalism versus -Industrialism, Organised Labour, the Eight Hours Day, Poor Law Reform, -the Endowment of Mothers, Co-partnership, and such; all very interesting -and profitable if well treated. So Eddy wrote to Bob Traherne, the -second curate at St. Gregory’s, to ask him to give one. Traherne replied -that he would, if Eddy liked, give a course of six. He proceeded to do -so, and as he was a good, concise, and pungent speaker, drew large -audiences and was immensely popular. At the end of his lecture he sold -penny tracts by Church Socialists; really sold them, in large numbers. -After his third lecture, which was on the Minimum Wage, he said he would -be glad to receive the names of any persons who would like to join the -Church Socialist League, the most effective society he knew of for -furthering these objects. He received seven forthwith, and six more -after the next. - -Protests reached Eddy from a disturbed secretary, a pale, red-haired -young man, loyal to Datcherd’s spirit. - -“It’s not what Mr. Datcherd would like, Mr. Oliver.” - -Eddy said, “Why on earth shouldn’t he? He likes the men to be -Socialists, doesn’t he?” - -“Not that sort, he doesn’t. At least, he wouldn’t. He likes them to -think for themselves, not to be tied up with the Church.” - -“Well, they are thinking for themselves. He wouldn’t like them to be -tied up to his beliefs either, surely. I feel sure it’s all right, -Pollard. Anyhow, I can’t stop them joining the League if they want to, -can I?” - -“We ought to stop the Reverend Traherne that’s where it is. He’d talk -the head off an elephant. He gets a hold of them, and abuses it. It -isn’t right, and it isn’t fair, nor what Mr. Datcherd would like in the -Club.” - -“Nonsense,” said Eddy. “Mr. Datcherd would be delighted. Mr. Traherne’s -a first-rate lecturer, you know; they learn more from him than they do -from all the Socialist literature they get out of the library.” - -Worse than this, several young men who despised church-going, quite -suddenly took to it, bicycling over to the Borough to hear the Reverend -Traherne preach. Datcherd had no objection to anyone going to church if -from conviction, but this sort of unbalanced, unreasoning yielding to a -personal influence he would certainly consider degrading and unworthy of -a thinking citizen. Be a man’s convictions what they might, Datcherd -held, let them _be_ convictions, based on reason and principle, not -incoherent impulses and chance emotions. It was almost certain that he -would not have approved of Traherne’s influence over his clubs. - -Still less, Pollard thought, would he have approved of Captain -Greville’s. Captain Greville was a retired captain, who needs no -description here. His mission in life was to talk about the National -Service League. Eddy, who, it may be remembered, belonged among other -leagues to this, met him somewhere, and requested him to come and -address the club on the subject one evening. He did so. He made a very -good speech, for thirty-five minutes, which is exactly the right length -for this topic. (Some people err, and speak too long, on this as on many -other subjects, and miss their goal in consequence.) Captain Greville -said, How delightful to strengthen the national fibre and the sense of -civic duty by bringing all men into relation with national ideas through -personal training during youth; to strengthen the national health by -sound physical development and discipline, etcetera; to bring to bear -upon the most important business with which a nation can have to deal, -namely, National Defence, the knowledge, the interest, and the criticism -of the national mind; to safeguard the nation against war by showing -that we are prepared for it, and ensure that, should war break out, -peace may be speedily re-established; in short, to Organize our Man -Power; further, not to be shot in time of invasion for carrying a gun -unlawfully, which is a frequent incident (sensation). He said a good -deal more, which need not be specified, as it is doubtless familiar to -many, and would be unwelcome to others. At the end he said, “Are you -Democrats? Then join the League, which advocates the only democratic -system of defence. Are you Socialists?” (this was generous, because he -disliked Socialists very much) “Then join the League, which aims at a -reform strictly in accordance with the principles of co-operative -socialism; in fact, many people base their opposition to it on the -grounds that it is too socialistic. Finally (he observed), what we want -is not a standing army, and not a war--God forbid--but men capable of -fighting _like_ men in defence of their wives, their children, and their -homes.” - -The Club apparently realised suddenly that this was what they did want, -and crowded up to sign cards and receive buttons inscribed with the -inspiring motto: “The Path of Duty is the Path of Safety.” In short, -quite a third of the young men became adherents of the League, -encouraged thereto by Eddy, and congratulated by the enthusiastic -captain. They were invited to ask questions, so they did. They asked, -What about employers chucking a man for good because he had to be away -for his four months camp? Answer: This would not happen; force would be -exerted over the employer. (Some scepticism, but a general sentiment of -approval for this, as for something which would indeed be grand if it -could be worked, and which might in itself be worth joining the League -for, merely to score off the employer.) Further answer: The late Sir -Joseph Whitworth said, “The labour of a man who has gone through a -course of military drill is worth eighteen-pence a week more than that -of one untrained, as through the training received in military drill men -learn ready obedience, attention, and combination, all of which are so -necessary in work.” Question: Would they get it? Answer: Get what? -Question: The eighteen-pence. Answer: In justice they certainly should. -Question: Would employers be forced to give it them? Answer: All these -details are left to be worked out later in the Bill. Conclusion: The -Bill would not be popular among employers. Further conclusion: Let us -join it. Which they did. - -Before he departed, Captain Greville said that he was very pleased with -the encouraging results of the evening, and he hoped that as many as -would be interested would come and see a cinematograph display he was -giving in Hackney next week, called “In Time of Invasion.” From that he -would venture to say they would learn something of the horrors of -unprepared attack. The Club went to that. It was a splendid show, well -worth threepence. It abounded in men being found unlawfully with guns -and being shot like rabbits; in untrained and incompetent soldiers -fleeing from the foe; abandoned mothers defending their cottage homes to -the last against a brutal soldiery; corpses of children tossed on pikes -to make a Prussian holiday; Boy Scouts and Girl Guides, the one saving -element in the terrible display of national incompetence, performing -marvellous feats of skill and heroism, and dying like flies in discharge -of their duties. Afterwards there was a very different series to -illustrate the Invasion as it would be had the National Service Act been -passed. “The Invaders realise their Mistake,” was inscribed on the -preliminary curtain. Well-trained, efficient, and courageous young men -then sallied into the field, proud in the possession of fire-arms they -had a right to, calm in their perfect training, temerity, and -discipline, presenting an unflinching and impregnable front to the -cowering foe, who retreated in broken disorder, realising their mistake -(cheers). Then on the Finis curtain blazed out the grand moral of it -all: “The Path of Duty is the Path of Safety. Keep your homes inviolate -by learning to Defend them.” (Renewed cheers, and “God Save the King”). - -A very fine show, to which, it may be added, Mr. Sidney Pollard, the -Club Secretary, did not go. - -It was soon after this that Captain Greville, having been much -pleased--very pleased, as he said--by the Lea-side Club, presented its -library with a complete set of Kipling. Kipling, since the Kipling -period was some years past, was not well known by the Club; appearing -among them suddenly, on the top of the Cinema, he made something of a -furore. If Mr. Datcherd would get _him_ to write poetry for _Further_, -now, instead of Mr. Henderson and Mr. Raymond, and all the people he did -get, that would be something like. Finding Kipling so popular, and -yielding to a request, Eddy, who read rather well, gave some Kipling -readings, which were much enjoyed by a crowded audience. - -“Might as well take them to a music hall at once,” complained Mr. -Pollard. - -“Would they like it? I will,” returned Eddy, and did so, paying for a -dozen boys at the Empire. - -It must not be supposed that Eddy neglected, in the cult of a manly -patriotism, the other aspects of life. On the contrary, he induced Billy -Raymond, a good-natured person, to give a lecture on the Drama, and -after it, took a party to the Savoy Theatre, to see Granville Barker’s -Shakespeare, which bored them a good deal. Then he got Jane to give an -address on drawings, and, to illustrate it, took some rather apathetic -youths to see Jane’s own exhibition. Also he conducted a party to where -Mr. Roger Fry was speaking on Post-Impressionism, and then, when they -had thoroughly grasped it, to the gallery where it was just then being -exemplified. First he told them that they could laugh at the pictures if -they choose, of course, but that was an exceedingly stupid way of -looking at them; so they actually did not, such was his influence over -them at this time. Instead, when he pointed out to them the beauties of -Matisse, they pretended to agree with him, and listened tolerant, if -bored, while he had an intelligent discussion with an artist friend whom -he met. - -All this is to say that Eddy had his young men well in hand--better in -hand than Datcherd, who was less cordial and hail-fellow-well-met with -them, had ever had them. It was great fun. Influencing people in a mass -always is; it feels rather like driving a large and powerful car, which -is sent swerving to right or left by a small turn of the wrist. Probably -actors feel like this when acting, only more so; perhaps speakers feel -like this when speaking. Doing what you like with people, the most -interesting and absorbing of the plastic materials ready to the -hand--that is better than working with clay, paints, or words. Not that -Eddy was consciously aware of what he was doing in that way; only about -each fresh thing as it turned up he was desirous to make these lads that -he liked feel keen and appreciative, as he felt himself; and he was -delighted that they did so, showing themselves thereby so sane, -sensible, and intelligent. He had found them keen enough on some -important things--industrial questions, certain aspects of Socialism, -the Radical Party in politics; it was for him to make them equally keen -on other things, hitherto apparently rather overlooked by them. One of -these things was the Church; here his success was only partial, but -distinctly encouraging. Another was the good in Toryism, which they were -a little blind to. To open their eyes, he had a really intelligent -Conservative friend of his to address them on four successive Tuesdays -on politics. He did not want in the least to change their politics--what -can be better than to be a Radical?--(this was as well, because it would -have been a task outside even his sphere of influence)--but certainly -they should see both sides. So both sides were set before them; and the -result was certainly that they looked much less intolerantly than before -upon the wrong side, because Mr. Oliver, who was a first-rater, gave it -his countenance, as he had to Matisse and that tedious thing at the -Savoy. Matisse, Shakespeare, Tariff Reform, they all seemed silly, but -there, they pleased a good chap and a pleasant friend, who could also -appreciate Harry Lauder, old Victor Grayson, Kipling, and the Minimum -Wage. - -Such were the interests of a varied and crowded life on club nights by -the Lea. Distraught by them, Mr. Sidney Pollard wrote to his master in -Greece--(address, Poste-Restante, Athens, where eventually his -wanderings would lead him and he would call for letters)--to say that -all was going to sixes and sevens, and here was a Tariff Reformer let -loose on the Club on Tuesday evenings, and a parson to rot about his -fancy Socialism on Wednesdays, and another parson holding a mission -service in the street last Sunday afternoon, not even about -Socialism--(this was Father Dempsey)--and half the club hanging about -him and asking him posers, which is always the beginning of the end, -because any parson, having been bred to it, can answer posers so much -more posingly than anyone can ask them; and some captain or other -talking that blanked nonsense about National Service, and giving round -his silly buttons as if they were chocolate drops at a school-feast, and -leading them on to go to an idiot Moving Picture Show, calculated to -turn them all into Jingoes of the deepest dye; and some Blue Water -maniac gassing about Dreadnoughts, so that “We want eight and we won’t -wait” was sung by the school-children in the streets instead of “Every -nice girl loves a sailor,” which may mean, emotionally, much the same, -but is politically offensive. Further, Mr. Oliver had been giving -Kipling readings, and half the lads were Kipling-mad, and fought to get -Barrack-room Ballads out of the library. Finally, “Mr. Oliver may mean -no harm, but he is doing a lot,” said Mr. Pollard. “If he goes on here, -the tone of the Club will be spoilt, he is personally popular, owing to -being a friend to all in his manner and having pleasant ways, and that -is the worst sort. If you are not coming home yourself soon, perhaps you -will make some change by writing, and tell Mr. Oliver if you approve of -above things or not. I have thought it right to let you know all, and -you will act according as you think. I very much trust your health is -on the mend, you are badly missed here.” - -Datcherd got that letter at last, but not just yet, for he was then -walking inland across the Plain of Thessaly between Volo and Tempe. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -DATCHERD’S RETURN. - - -On the last day of April, Eddy procured an Irish Nationalist to address -the Club on Home Rule. He was a hot-tempered person, and despised -English people and said so; which was foolish in a speaker, and rather -discounted his other remarks, because the Club young men preferred to be -liked, even by those who made speeches to them. His cause, put no doubt -over-vehemently, was on the whole approved of by the Club, Radically -inclined as it in the main was; but it is a noticeable fact that this -particular subject is apt to fall dead on English working-class -audiences, who have, presumably, a deeply-rooted feeling that it does -not seriously affect them either way. Anyhow, this Nationalist hardly -evoked the sympathy he deserved in the Club. Also they were inclined to -be amused at his accent, which was unmodified Wexford. Probably Eddy -appreciated him and his arguments more than anyone else did. - -So, when on the second day of May Eddy introduced an Orangeman to speak -on the same subject from another point of view, the audience was -inclined to receive him favourably. The Orangeman was young, much -younger than the Nationalist, and equally Irish, though from another -region, both geographically and socially. His accent, what he had of it, -is best described as polite North of Ireland, and he had been at -Cambridge with Eddy. Though capable of fierceness, and with an -Ulster-will-fight look in the eye, the fierceness was directed rather -against his disloyal compatriots than against his audience, which was -more satisfactory to the audience. And whenever he liked he could make -them laugh, which was more satisfactory still. From his face you might, -before he spoke, guess him to be a Nationalist, so essentially and -indubitably south-west Irish was the look of it. To avert so distressing -an error he did speak, as a rule, quite a lot. - -He spoke this evening with energy, lucidity, humour, and vehemence, and -the Club listened appreciatively. Gradually he worked them up from -personal approval of himself to partial approval of, or at least -sympathy with, his cause. He went into the financial question with an -imposing production of figures. He began several times, “The -Nationalists will tell you,” and then proceeded to repeat precisely what -the Nationalist the other night _had_ told them, only to knock it down -with an argument that was sometimes conclusive, often would just do, and -occasionally just wouldn’t; and the Club cheered the first sort, -accepted the second as ingenious, and said “Oh,” good-humouredly, to -the third. Altogether it was an excellent speech, full of profound -conviction, with some incontrovertible sense, and a smattering of -intelligent nonsense. Not a word was dull, and not a word was unkind to -the Pope of Rome or his adherents, as is usual, and perhaps essential, -in such speeches when produced in Ireland, and necessitates their -careful expurgating before they are delivered to English audiences, who -have a tolerant, if supercilious, feeling towards that misguided Church. -The young man spoke for half an hour, and held his audience. He held -them even when he said, drawing to the end, “I wonder do any of you here -know anything at all about Ireland and Irish politics, or do you get it -all second-hand from the English Radical papers? Do you know at all what -you’re talking about? Bad government, incompetent economy, partiality, -prejudice, injustice, tyranny--that’s what the English Radicals want to -hand us over to. And that is what they will not hand us over to, because -we in Ulster, the most truly and nationally Irish part of Ireland, have -signed this.” He produced from his breast-pocket the Covenant, and held -it up before them, so that they all saw the Red Hand that blazed out on -it. He read it through to them, and sat down. Cheers broke out, stamping -of feet, clapping of hands; it was the most enthusiastic reception a -speaker had ever had at the Club. - -Someone began singing “Rule Britannia,” as the nearest expression that -occurred to him of the patriotic and anti-disruptive sentiments that -filled him, and it was taken up and shouted all over the room. It was as -if the insidious influence of Kipling, the National Service League, the -Invasion Pictures, the Primrose League, and the Blue Water School, which -had been eating with gradual corruption into the sound heart of the -Club, was breaking out at last, under the finishing poison of Orangeism, -into an eruption which could only be eased by song and shout. So they -sang and shouted, some from enthusiasm, some for fun, and Eddy said to -his friend the speaker, “You’ve fairly fetched them this time,” and -looked smiling over the jubilant crowd, from the front chairs to the -back, and, at the back of all, met the eyes of Datcherd. He stood -leaning against the door, unjubilant, songless, morose, his hands in his -pockets, a cynical smile faintly touching his lips. At his side was -Sidney Pollard, with very bright eyes in a white face, and a “There, you -see for yourself” air about him. - -Eddy hadn’t known Datcherd was coming down to the Club to-night, though -he knew he had arrived in England, three weeks before he had planned. -Seeing him, he rose to his feet and smiled, and the audience, following -his eyes, turned round and saw their returned president and master. Upon -that they cheered again, louder if possible than before. Datcherd’s -acknowledgment was of the faintest. He stood there for a moment longer, -then turned and left the room. - -The meeting ended, after the usual courtesies and votes of thanks, and -Eddy took his friend away. - -“You must come and be introduced to Datcherd,” he said. “I wonder where -he’s got to.” - -His friend looked doubtful. “He could have come and spoken to me in the -room if he’d wanted. Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps he’d be tired after his -journey. He didn’t look extraordinarily cheery, somehow. I think I’ll -not bother him.” - -“Oh, he’s all right. He only looked like a Home Ruler listening to -Orange cheering. I expect they don’t, as a rule, look very radiant, do -they?” - -“They do not. But you don’t mean he’d mind my coming to speak, surely? -Because, if he does, I ought never to have come. You told me they had -lectures from all sorts of people on all sorts of things.” - -“So they do. No, of course he wouldn’t mind. But that’s the way he’s -bound to look in public, as a manifesto, don’t you see. Like a clergyman -listening to a Nonconformist preacher. He has to assert his principles.” - -“But a Church clergyman probably wouldn’t get a Nonconformist to preach -in his church. They don’t, I believe, as a rule.” - -Eddy was forced to admit that, unfortunately, they didn’t. - -His friend, a person of good manners, was a little cross. “We’ve had him -offended now, and I don’t blame him. You should have told me. I should -never have come. It’s such rustic manners, to break into a person’s Club -and preach things he hates. I could tell he hated it, by the look in his -eye. He kept the other end of the room, the way he wouldn’t break out at -me and say anything ferocious. No, I’m not coming to look for him; I -wouldn’t dare look him in the face; you can go by yourself. You’ve -fairly let me in, Oliver. I hate being rude to the wrong side, it gives -them such an advantage. They’re rude enough to us, as a rule, to do for -the two. _I_ don’t want to have anything to do with his little Radical -Club; if he wants to keep it to himself and his Radical friends, he’s -welcome.” - -“You’re talking nonsense,” Eddy said. “Did it behave like a Radical club -to-night?” - -“It did not. Which is exactly why Datcherd has every reason to be -annoyed. Well, you can tell him from me that it was no one’s fault but -your own. Good-night.” - -He departed, more in anger than in sorrow--(it had really been rather -fun to-night, though rude)--and Eddy went to find Datcherd. - -But he didn’t find Datcherd. He was told that Datcherd had left the Club -and gone home. His friend’s remark came back to him. “He kept the other -end of the room, the way he wouldn’t break out at me and say anything -ferocious.” Was that what Datcherd was doing to him, or was he tired -after his journey? Eddy hoped for the best, but felt forebodings. -Datcherd certainly had not looked cordial or cheerful. The way he had -looked had disappointed and rather hurt the Club. They felt that another -expression, after three months absence, would have been more suitable. -After all, for pleasantness of demeanour, Mr. Datcherd, even at the best -of times (which this, it seemed, hardly was) wasn’t a patch on Mr. -Oliver. - -These events occurred on a Friday evening. It so happened that Eddy was -going out of town next morning for a Cambridge week-end, so he would not -see Datcherd till Monday evening. He and Arnold spent the week-end at -Arnold’s home. Whenever Eddy visited the Denisons he was struck afresh -by the extreme and rarefied refinement of their atmosphere; they (except -Arnold, who had been coarsened, like himself, by contact with the world) -were academic in the best sense; theoretical, philosophical, idealistic, -serenely sure of truth, making up in breeding what, possibly, they a -little lacked (at least Mrs. Denison and her daughter lacked) in humour; -never swerving from the political, religious, and economic position they -had taken up once and for all. A trifle impenetrable and closed to new -issues, they were; the sort of Liberal one felt would never, however -changed the circumstances, become Conservative. A valuable type, -representing breeding and conscience in a rough-and-tumble world; if -Christian and Anglican, it often belongs to the Christian Social Union; -if not, like the Denisons, it will surely belong to some other -well-intentioned and high-principled society for bettering the poor. -They are, in brief, gentlemen and ladies. Life in the country is too -sleepy for them and their progressive ideas; London is quite too wide -awake; so they flourish like exquisite flowers in our older Universities -and in Manchester, and visit Greece and Italy in the vacations. - -Eddy found it peaceful to be with the Denisons. To come back to London -on Monday morning was a little disturbing. He could not help a slight -feeling of anxiety about his meeting with Datcherd. Perhaps it was just -as well, he thought, to have given Datcherd two days to recover from the -shock of the Unionist meeting. He hoped that Datcherd, when he met him, -would look less like a Home Ruler listening to Orange cheering (a very -unpleasant expression of countenance) than he had on Friday evening. -Thinking that he might as well find out about this as soon as possible, -he called at Datcherd’s house that afternoon. - -Datcherd was in his library, as usual, writing. He got up and shook -hands with Eddy, and said, “I was coming round to see you,” which -relieved Eddy. But he spoke rather gravely, and added, “There are some -things I want to talk to you about,” and sat down and nursed his gaunt -knee in his thin hands and gnawed his lips. - -Eddy asked him if he was much better, thinking he didn’t look it, and if -he had had a good time. Datcherd scarcely answered; he was one of those -people who only think of one thing at once, and he was thinking just -now of something other than his health or his good time. - -He said, after a moment’s silence, “It’s been extremely kind of you to -manage the Club all this time.” - -Eddy, with a wan smile, said apologetically, “You know, we really did -have a Home Ruler to speak on Wednesday.” - -Datcherd relaxed a little, and smiled in his turn. - -“I know. In fact, I gather that there are very few representatives of -any causes whatever whom you have _not_ had to speak.” - -“I see,” said Eddy, “that Pollard has told you all.” - -“Pollard has told me some things. And you must remember that I spent -both Saturday and Sunday evenings at the Club.” - -“What,” inquired Eddy hopefully, “did you think of it?” - -Datcherd was silent for a moment. Perhaps he was remembering again how -kind it had been of Eddy to manage the Club all this time. When he -spoke, it was with admirable moderation. - -“It hardly,” he said, “seems quite on the lines I left it on. I was a -little surprised, I must own. We had a very small Club on Sunday night, -because a lot of them had gone off to some service in church. That -surprised me rather. They never used to do that. Of course I don’t mind, -but----” - -“That’s Traherne,” said Eddy. “He got a tremendous hold on some of them -when he came down to speak. He’s always popular, you know, with men and -lads.” - -“I daresay. What made you get him?” - -“Oh, to speak about rents and wages and things. He’s very good. They -liked him.” - -“That is apparent. He’s dragged some of them into the Church Socialist -League, and more to church after him. Well, it’s their own business, of -course; if they like the sort of thing, I’ve no objection. They’ll get -tired of it soon, I expect.... But, if you’ll excuse my asking, why on -earth have you been corrupting their minds with lectures on Tariff -Reform, National Service, Ulsterism and Dreadnoughts? Didn’t you realise -that one can’t let in that sort of influence without endangering the -sanity of a set of half-educated lads? I left them reading Mill; I find -them reading Kipling. Upon my word, anyone would think you belonged to -the Primrose League, from the way you’ve been going on.” - -“I do,” said Eddy simply. - -Datcherd stared at him, utterly taken aback. - -“You _what_?” - -“I belong to the Primrose League,” Eddy repeated. “Why shouldn’t I?” - -Datcherd pulled his startled wits together, and laughed shortly. - -“I beg your pardon. The mistake, I suppose, was mine. I had somehow got -it into my head that you were a Fabian.” - -“So I am,” said Eddy, patiently explaining. “All those old things, you -know. And most of the new ones as well. I’m sorry if you didn’t know; I -suppose I ought to have mentioned it, but I never thought about it. Does -it matter?” - -Datcherd was gazing at him with grave, startled eyes, as at a maniac. - -“Matter? Well, I don’t know. Yes, I suppose it would have mattered, from -my point of view, if I’d known. Because it just means that you’ve been -playing when I thought you were in earnest; that, whereas I supposed you -took your convictions and mine seriously and meant to act on them, -really they’re just a game to you. You take no cause seriously, I -suppose.” - -“I take all causes seriously,” Eddy corrected him quickly. He got up, -and walked about the room, his hands deep in his pockets, frowning a -little because life was so serious. - -“You see,” he explained, stopping in front of Datcherd and frowning down -on him, “truth is so pervasive; it gets everywhere; leaks into -everything. Like cod-liver oil spilt in a trunk of clothes; everything’s -saturated with it. (Is that a nasty comparison? I thought of it because -it happened to me the other day.) The clothes are all different from -each other, but the cod-liver oil is in all of them for ever and ever. -Truth is like that--pervasive. Isn’t it?” - -“No,” said Datcherd, with vehemence. “No. Truth is _not_ like that. If -it were, it would mean that one thing was no better and no worse than -another; that all progress, moral and otherwise, was illusive. We should -all become fatalists, torpid, uncaring, dead, sitting with our hands -before us and drifting with the tide. There’d be an end of all fight, -all improvement, all life. But truth is _not_ like that. One thing _is_ -better than another, and always will be. Democracy _is_ a better aim -than oligarchy; freedom _is_ better than tyranny; work _is_ better than -idleness. And, because it fights, however slowly and hesitatingly, on -the side of those better things, Liberalism is better than Toryism, the -League of Young Liberals a better thing to encourage among the young men -of the country than the Primrose League. You say truth is everywhere. -Frankly, I look at the Primrose League, and all your Tory Associations, -and I can’t find it. I see only a monumental tissue of lies. Lying to -the people for their good--that’s what all honest Tories would admit -they do. Lying to them for their harm--that’s what we say they do. -Truth! It isn’t named among them. They’ve not got minds that can know -truth when they see it. It’s not their fault. They’re mostly good men -warped by a bad creed. And you say one creed is as good as another.” - -“I say there’s truth in all of them,” said Eddy. “Can’t you see the -truth in Toryism? I can, so clearly. It’s all so hackneyed, so often -repeated, but it’s true in spite of that. Isn’t there truth in -government by the best for the others? If that isn’t good what is? If -it’s not true that one man’s more fitted by nature and training to -manage difficult political affairs than another, nothing’s true. And -it’s true that he can do it best without a mass of ignorant, -uninstructed, sentimental people for ever jerking at the reins. Put the -best on top--that’s the gist of Toryism.” Datcherd was looking at him -cynically. - -“And yet--you belong to the Young Liberals’ League.” - -“Of course I do. Do you want me to enlarge on the gist and the beauties -of Liberalism too? I could, only I won’t, because you’ve just done so -yourself. All that you’ve said about its making for freedom and -enlightenment is profoundly true, and is why I am a Liberal. I insist on -my right to be both. I am both. I hope I shall always be both.” - -Datcherd said, after a thoughtful moment, “I wish we had had this -conversation three months ago. We didn’t; I was reckless and hasty, and -so we’ve made this mess of things.” - -“_Is_ it a mess?” asked Eddy. “I’m sorry if so. It hasn’t struck me in -that light all this time.” - -“Don’t think me ungrateful, Oliver,” said Datcherd, quickly. “I’m not. -Looking at things as you do, I suppose it was natural that you should -have done as you have. Perhaps you might have let me a little more into -your views beforehand than you did--but never mind that now. The fact -that matters is that I find the Club in a state of mental confusion that -I never expected, and it will take some time to settle it again, if we -ever do. We want, as you know, to make the Club the nucleus of a sound -Radical constituency. Well, upon my word, if there was an election now, -I couldn’t say which way some of them would vote. You may answer that it -doesn’t matter, as so few are voters yet; but it does. It’s what I call -a mess; and a silly mess, too. They’ve been playing the fool with things -they ought to be keen enough about to take in deadly earnest. That’s -your doing. You seem to have become pretty popular, I must say; which is -just the mischief of it. All I can do now is to try and straighten -things out by degrees.” - -“You’d rather I didn’t come and help any more, I suppose,” said Eddy. - -“To be quite frank, I would. In fact, I wouldn’t have you at any price. -You don’t mind my speaking plainly? The mistake’s been mine; but it -_has_ been a pretty idiotic mistake, and we mustn’t have any more of -it.... I ought never to have gone away. I shan’t again, whatever any -fools of doctors say.” - -Eddy held out his hand. “Goodbye. I’m really very sorry, Datcherd. I -suppose I ought to have guessed what you would feel about all this.” - -“Honestly, I think you ought. But thank you very much, all the same, for -all the trouble you’ve taken.... You’re doing some reviewing work now, -aren’t you?” His tone implied that Eddy had better go on doing reviewing -work, and desist from doing anything else. - -Eddy left the house. He was sorry, and rather angry, and badly -disappointed. He had been keen on the Club; he had hoped to go on -helping with it. It seemed that he was not considered fit by anyone to -have anything to do with clubs and such philanthropic enterprises. First -the Vicar of St. Gregory’s had turned him out because he had too many -interests besides (Datcherd being one), and now Datcherd turned him out -because he had tried to give the Club too many interests (the cause the -vicar stood for being one). Nowhere did he seem to be wanted. He was a -failure and an outcast. Besides which, Datcherd thought he had behaved -dishonourably. Perhaps he had. Here he saw Datcherd’s point of view. -Even his friend the Ulsterman had obviously had the same thought about -that. Eddy ruefully admitted that he had been an idiot not to know just -how Datcherd would feel. But he was angry with Datcherd for feeling like -that. Datcherd was narrow, opinionated, and unfair. So many people are, -in an unfair world. - -He went home and told Arnold, who said, “Of course. I can’t think why -you didn’t know how it would be. I always told you you were being -absurd, with your Blue Water lunatics, and your Food Tax ante-diluvians, -and your conscription captains. (No, don’t tell me about it’s not being -conscription; now is not the moment. You are down, and it is for me to -talk.) You had better try your hand at no more good works, but stick to -earning an honest livelihood, as long as they will give you any money -for what you do. I daresay from a rumour I heard from Innes to-day, that -it won’t be long. I believe the _Daily Post_ are contemplating a -reduction in their literary staff, and they will very probably begin -with you, unless you learn to restrain your redundant appreciations a -little. No paper could bear up under that weight of indiscriminate -enthusiasm for long.” - -“Hulbert told me I was to criticize more severely,” said Eddy. “So I try -to now. It’s difficult, when I like a thing, to be severe about it. I -wonder if one ought.” - -But he was really wondering more what Eileen Le Moine thought and would -say about his difference with Datcherd. - -He didn’t discover this for a week. He called at 3, Campden Hill Road, -and found both its occupants out. They did not write, as he had half -expected, to ask him to come again, or to meet them anywhere. At last he -met Eileen alone, coming out of an exhibition of Max Beerbohm cartoons. -He had been going in, but he turned back on seeing her. She looked -somehow altered, and grave, and she was more beautiful even than he had -known, but tired, and with shadowed eyes of fire and softness; to him -she seemed, vaguely, less of a child, and more of a woman. Perhaps it -was Greece.... Somehow Greece, and all the worlds old and new, and all -the seas, seemed between them as she looked at him with hardening eyes. -An observer would have said from that look that she didn’t like him; -yet she had always liked him a good deal. A capricious person she was; -all her friends knew that. - -He turned back from the entrance door to walk with her, though she said, -“Aren’t you going in?” - -“No,” he said. “I’ve seen them once already. I’d rather see you now, if -you don’t mind. I suppose you’re going somewhere? You wouldn’t come and -have tea with me first?” - -She hesitated a moment, as if wondering whether she would, then said, -“No; I’m going to tea with Billy’s grandmother; she wants to hear about -Greece. Then Billy and I are taking Jane to the Academy, to broaden her -mind. She’s never seen it yet, and it’s time her education was -completed.” - -She said it coldly, even the little familiar mockery of Jane and the -Academy, and Eddy knew that she was angry with him. That he did not -like, and he said quickly, “May I go with you as far as Gordon Place?” -(which was where Billy’s grandmother lived), and she answered with -childish sullenness, “If we’re going the one way at the one time I -suppose we will be together,” and said no more till he broke the silence -as they crossed Leicester Square in the sunshine with, “Please, is -anything the matter, Eileen?” - -She turned and looked at him, her face hard in the shadow of the -sweeping hat-brim, and flung back ironically, “It is not. Of course not; -how would it be?” - -Eddy made a gesture of despair with his hands. - -“You’re angry too. I knew it. You’re all angry, because I had Tariff -Reformers and Orangemen to lecture to the Club.” - -“D’you tell me so?” She still spoke in uncomfortable irony. “I expect -you hoped we would be grateful and delighted at being dragged back from -Greece just when Hugh was beginning to be better, and to enjoy things, -by a letter from that miserable Pollard all about the way you had the -Club spoilt. Why, we hadn’t been to Olympia yet. We were just going -there when Hugh insisted on calling for letters at Athens and got this. -Letters indeed! Bridget and I didn’t ask were there any for us; but Hugh -always will. And of course, when he’d read it nothing would hold him; he -must tear off home by the next train and arrive in London three weeks -sooner than we’d planned. Now why, if you felt you had to go to spoil -Hugh’s club, couldn’t you have had Pollard strangled first, the way he -wouldn’t be writing letters?” - -“I wish I had,” said Eddy, with bitter fervour. “I was a fool.” - -“And worse than that, so you were,” said Eileen, unsparingly. “You were -unprincipled, and then so wanting foresight that you wrecked your own -schemes. Three weeks more, and you might have had twenty-one more -captains and clergymen and young men from Ulster to complete the -education of Hugh’s young Liberals. As it is, Hugh thinks you’ve not -done them much harm, though you did your best, and he’s slaving away to -put sense into them again. The good of Greece is all gone from him -already; worry was just what he wasn’t to do, and you’ve made him do it. -He’s living already again at top speed, and over-working, and being sad -because it’s all in such a silly mess. Hugh cares for his work more than -for anything in the world,” her voice softened to the protective cadence -familiar to Eddy, “and you’ve hurt him in it. No one should hurt Hugh in -his work, even a little. Didn’t you know that?” - -She looked at him now with eyes less hostile but more sad, as if her -thoughts had left him and wandered to some other application of this -principle. Indeed, as she said it, it had the effect of a creed, a -statement of a governing principle of life, that must somehow be -preserved intact while all else broke. - -“Could I have known it would have hurt him--a few lectures?” Eddy -protested against the unfairness of it, losing his temper a little. “You -all talk as if Datcherd was the mistress of a girls’ school, who is -expected to protect her pupils from the contamination of degrading -influences and finds they have been reading Nietsche or _Tom Jones_.” - -It was a mistake to say that. He might have known it. Eileen flushed -pink with a new rush of anger. - -“Is that so? Is that the way we speak of Hugh? I’ll tell him you said -so. No, I wouldn’t trouble his ears with anything so paltry. I wonder do -you know the way he speaks of you? He thinks you must be weak in the -head, and he makes excuses for you, so he does; he never says an unkind -word against you, only how you ought to be locked up and not let loose -like ordinary people, and how he ought to have known you were like that -and explained to you in so many words beforehand the principles he -wanted maintained. As if he hadn’t been too ill to explain anything, and -as if any baby wouldn’t have known, and as if any honourable person -wouldn’t have taken particular care, just when he was ill and away, to -run things just the way he would like. And after that you call him a -girls’ school mistress....” - -“On the contrary,” said Eddy, crossly, “I said he wasn’t. You are -horribly unfair. Is it any use continuing this conversation?” - -“It is not. Nor any other.” - -So, in her excitement, she got into a bus that was not going to Billy’s -grandmother, and he swallowed his pride and told her so, but she would -not swallow hers and listen to him, but climbed on to the top, and was -carried down Piccadilly, and would have to change at Hyde Park Corner. - -Eileen was singularly poor at buses, Eddy reflected bitterly. He walked -down to the Embankment, too crushed and unhappy to go home and risk -meeting Arnold. He had been rude and ill-tempered to Eileen, and sneered -at Datcherd to her, and she had been rude and ill-tempered to him, and -would never forgive him, because it had been about Datcherd, her friend, -loyalty to whom was the mainspring of her life. All her other friends -might go by the board, if Datcherd but prospered. How much she cared, -Eddy reflected, his anger fast fading into a pity and regret that hurt. -For all her bitter words to him had that basis--a poignant caring for -Datcherd, with his wrecked health, and his wrecked home, and his -hopeless, unsatisfied love for her--a love which would never be -satisfied, because he had principles which forbade it, and she had a -love for him which would always preserve his principles and his life’s -work intact. And they were growing to care so much--Eddy had seen that -in Eileen’s face when first he met her at the Leicester Galleries--with -such intensity, such absorbing flame, that it hurt and burnt.... Eddy -did not want to watch it. - -But one thing it had done for him; it had killed in him the last -vestiges of that absurd emotion he had had for her, an emotion which had -always been so hopeless, and for that very reason had never become, and -never would become, love. - -But he wanted to be friends. However much she had been the aggressor in -the quarrel, however unfair, and unjust, and unkind she had been, still -he was minded to write and say he was sorry, and would she please come -to lunch and go on being friends. - -He turned into Soho Square, and went back to his rooms. There he found a -letter from his editor telling him that his services on the _Daily Post_ -would not be required after the end of May. It was not unexpected. The -_Post_ was economising in its literary staff, and starting on him. It -was very natural, even inevitable, that they should; for his reviewing -lacked discrimination, and his interest in the Club had often made him -careless about his own job. He threw the letter at Arnold, who had just -come in. - -Arnold said, “I feared as much.” - -“What now, I wonder?” said Eddy, not caring particularly. - -Arnold looked at him thoughtfully. - -“Really, it’s very difficult. I don’t know.... You do so muddle things -up, don’t you? I wish you’d learn to do only one job at once and stick -to it.” - -Eddy said bitterly, “It won’t stick to me, unfortunately.” - -Arnold said, “If Uncle Wilfred would have you, would you come to us?” - -Eddy supposed he would. Only probably Uncle Wilfred wouldn’t have him. -Later in the evening he got a telegram to say that his father had had a -stroke, and could he come home at once. He caught a train at half-past -eight, and was at Welchester by ten. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -THE COUNTRY. - - -The Dean was paralysed up the right side, his wife agitated and anxious, -his daughter cross. - -“It’s absurd,” said Daphne to Eddy, the morning after his arrival. -“Father’s no more sense than a baby. He insists on bothering about some -article he hasn’t finished for the _Church Quarterly_ on the Synoptic -Problem. As if one more like that mattered! The magazines are too full -of them already.” - -But the Dean made it obvious to Eddy that it did matter, and induced him -to find and decipher his rough notes for the end of the article, and -write them out in proper form. He was so much better after an afternoon -of that that the doctor said to Eddy, “How long can you stop at home?” - -“As long as I can be any use. I have just given up one job and haven’t -begun another yet, so at present I am free.” - -“The longer you stay the better, both for your father and your mother,” -the doctor said. “You can take a lot of strain off Mrs. Oliver. Miss -Daphne’s very young--too young for much sick-nursing, I fancy; and the -nurse can only do what nurses can do. He wants companionship, and -someone who can do for him the sort of job you’ve been doing to-day.” - -So Eddy wrote to Arnold that he didn’t know when he would be coming back -to London. Arnold replied that whenever he did he could come into his -uncle’s publishing house. He added in a postscript that he had met -Eileen and Datcherd at the Moulin d’Or, and Eileen had said, “Give Eddy -my love, and say I’m sorry. Don’t forget.” Sorry about his father, -Arnold understood, of course; but Eddy believed that more was meant by -it than that, and that Eileen was throwing him across space her -characteristically sweet and casual amends for her bitter words. - -He went on with the Synoptic Problem. The Dean’s notes were lucid and -coherent, like all his work. It seemed to Eddy an interesting article, -and the Dean smiled faintly when he said so. Eddy was appreciative and -intelligent, if not learned or profound. The Dean had been afraid for a -time that he was going to turn into a cleric of that active sort which -is so absorbed in practical energies that it does not give due value to -thoughtful theology. The Dean had reason to fear that too many High -Church clergy were like this. But he had hopes now that Eddy, if in the -end he did take Orders, might be of those who think out the faith that -is in them, and tackle the problem of the Fourth Gospel. Perhaps he had -had to, while managing Datcherd’s free-thinking club. - -“Are you still helping Datcherd?” the Dean asked, in the slow, hindered -speech that was all he could use now. - -“No. Datcherd has done with me. I managed things badly there, from his -point of view. I wasn’t exclusive enough for him,” and Eddy, to amuse -his father, told the story of that fiasco. - -Daphne said, “Serve you right for getting an anti-suffragist to speak. -How could you? They’re always so deadly silly, and so dull. Worse, -almost, than the other side, though that’s saying a lot. I do think, -Tedders, you deserved to be chucked out.” - -Daphne had blossomed into a militant. Mrs. Oliver had been telling Eddy -about that the day before. Mrs. Oliver herself belonged to the -respectable National Union for Women’s Suffrage, the pure and reformed -branch of it in Welchester established, non-militant, non-party, -non-exciting. Daphne, and a few other bright and ardent young spirits, -had joined the W.S.P.U., and had been endeavouring to militate in -Welchester. Daphne had dropped some Jeye’s disinfectant fluid, which is -sticky and brown, into the pillar-box at the corner of the Close, and -made disagreeable thereby a letter to herself from a neighbour asking -her to tennis, and a letter to the Dean from a canon fixing the date -(which was indecipherable) of a committee meeting. - -Daphne looked critically at breakfast next day at these two results of -her tactics, and called them “Jolly fine.” - -“Disgusting,” said the Dean. “I didn’t know we had these wild women in -Welchester. Who on earth can it have been?” - -“Me,” said Daphne. “Alone I did it.” - -Scene: the Dean horrified, stern, and ashamed; Mrs. Oliver shocked and -repressive; Daphne sulky and defiant, and refusing to promise not to do -it again. - -“We’ve joined the militants, several of us,” she said. - -“Who?” inquired her mother. “I’m sure Molly hasn’t.” - -“No, Molly hasn’t,” said Daphne, with disgust. “All the Bellairs’ are -too frightfully well-bred to fight for what they ought to have. They’re -antis, all of them. Nevill approves of forcible feeding.” - -“So does anyone, of course,” said the Dean. “Prisoners can’t be allowed -to die on our hands just because they are criminally insane. Once for -all, Daphne, I will not have a repetition of this disgusting episode. -Other people’s daughters can make fools of themselves if they like, but -mine isn’t going to. Is that quite clear?” - -Daphne muttered something and looked rebellious; but the Dean did not -think she would flatly disobey him. She did not, in fact, repeat the -disgusting episode of the Jeye, but she was found a few evenings later -trying to set fire to a workmen’s shelter after dark, and arrested. She -was naturally anxious to go to prison, to complete her experiences, but -she was given the option of a fine (which the Dean insisted, in spite of -her protests, on paying), and bound over not to do it again. The Dean -said after that that he was ashamed to look his neighbours in the face, -and very shortly he had a stroke. Daphne decided reluctantly that -militant methods must be in abeyance till he was recovered, and more fit -to face shocks. To relieve herself, she engaged in a violent quarrel -with Nevill Bellairs, who was home for Whitsuntide and ventured to -remonstrate with her on her proceedings. They parted in sorrow and -anger, and Daphne came home very cross, and abused Nevill to Eddy as a -stick-in-the-mud. - -“But it _is_ silly to burn and spoil things,” said Eddy. “Very few -things are silly, I think, but that is, because it’s not the way to get -anything. You’re merely putting things back; you’re reactionaries. All -the sane suffragists hate you, you know.” - -Daphne was not roused to say anything about peaceful methods having -failed, and the time having come for violence, or any of the other -things that are natural and usual to say in the circumstances; she was -sullenly silent, and Eddy, glancing at her in surprise, saw her sombre -and angry. - -Wondering a little, he put it down to her disagreement with Nevill. -Perhaps she really felt that badly. Certainly she and Nevill had been -great friends during the last year. It was a pity they should quarrel -over a difference of opinion; anything in the world, to Eddy, seemed a -more reasonable cause of alienation. He looked at his young sister with -a new respect, however; after all, it was rather respectable to care as -much as that for a point of view. - -Molly Bellairs threw more light on the business next day when Eddy went -to tennis there (Daphne had refused to go). - -“Poor Daffy,” Molly said to Eddy when they were sitting out. “She’s -frightfully cross with Nevill for being anti-suffragist, and telling her -she’s silly to militate. And he’s cross with her. She told him, I -believe, that she wasn’t going to be friends with him any more till he -changed. And he never does change about anything, and she doesn’t -either, so there they are. It’s _such_ a pity, because they’re really so -awfully fond of each other. Nevill’s miserable. Look at him.” - -Eddy looked, and saw Nevill, morose and graceful in flannels, smashing -double faults into the net. - -“He always does that when he’s out of temper,” Molly explained. - -“Why does he care so much?” Eddy asked, with brotherly curiosity. “Do -you mean he’s _really_ fond of Daffy? Fonder, I mean, than the rest of -you are?” - -“Quite differently.” Molly became motherly and wise. “Haven’t you seen -it? It’s been coming on for quite a year. _I_ believe, Eddy, they’d be -_engaged_ by now if it wasn’t for this.” - -“Oh, would they?” Eddy was interested. “But would they be such donkeys -as to let this get in the way, if they want to be engaged? I thought -Daffy had more sense.” - -Molly shook her head. “They think each other so wrong, you see, and -they’ve got cross about it.... Well, I don’t know. I suppose they’re -right, if they really do feel it’s a question of right and wrong. You -can’t go on being friends with a person, let alone get engaged to them, -if you feel they’re behaving frightfully wrongly. You see, Daffy thinks -it immoral of Nevill to be on the anti side in Parliament, and to -approve of what she calls organised bullying, and he thinks it immoral -of her to be a militant. _I_ think Daffy’s wrong, of course, but I can -quite see that she couldn’t get engaged to Nevill feeling as she does.” - -“Why,” Eddy pondered, “can’t they each see the other’s point of -view,--the good in it, not the bad? It’s so absurd to quarrel about the -respective merits of different principles, when all are so excellent.” - -“They’re not,” said Molly, rather sharply. “That’s so like you, Eddy, -and it’s nonsense. What else should one quarrel about? What _I_ think is -absurd is to quarrel about personal things, like some people do.” - -“It’s absurd to quarrel at all,” said Eddy, and there they left it, and -went to play tennis. - -Before he went home, Colonel Bellairs proposed a scheme to him. His -youngest boy, Bob, having been ill, had been ordered to spend the summer -at home, and was not to go back to Eton till September. Meanwhile he -wanted to keep up with his work, and they had been looking out for a -tutor for him, some intelligent young public-school man who would know -what he ought to be learning. As Eddy intended to be at home for the -present, would he take up this job? The Colonel proposed a generous -payment, and Eddy thought it an excellent plan. He went home engaged for -the job, and started it next morning. Bob, who was sixteen, was, like -all the Bellairs’, neither clever nor stupid; his gifts were practical -rather than literary, but he had a fairly serviceable head. Eddy found -that he rather liked teaching. He had a certain power of transmitting -his own interest in things to other people that was useful. - -As the Dean got better, Eddy sometimes stayed on at the Hall after work -hours, and played tennis or bumble-puppy with Molly and Bob before -lunch, or helped Molly to feed the rabbits, or wash one of the dogs. -There was a pleasant coherence and unity about these occupations, and -about Molly and Bob, which Eddy liked. Meanwhile he acted as amanuensis -and secretary to his father, and was useful and agreeable in the home. - -Coherence and unity; these qualities seemed in the main sadly lacking in -Welchester, as in other places. It was--country life is, life in -Cathedral or any other cities is--a chaos of warring elements, -disturbing to the onlooker. There are no communities now, village or -other. In Welchester, and in the country round about it, there was the -continuous strain of opposing interests. You saw it on the main road -into Welchester, where villas and villa people ousted cottages and small -farmers; ousted them, and made a different demand on life, set up a -different, opposing standard. Then, in the heart of the town, was the -Cathedral, standing on a hill and for a set of interests quite different -again, and round about it were the canons’ houses of old brick, and the -Deanery, and they were imposing on life standards of a certain dignity -and beauty and tradition and order, not in the least accepted either by -the slum-yards behind Church Street, or by Beulah, the smug tabernacle -just outside the Close. And the Cathedral society, the canons and their -families, the lawyers, doctors, and unemployed gentry, kept themselves -apart with satisfied gentility from the townspeople, the keepers of -shops, the dentists, the auctioneers. Sentiment and opinion in -Welchester was, in short, disintegrated, rent, at odds within itself. It -returned a Conservative member, but only by a small majority; the large -minority held itself neglected, unrepresented. - -Out in the rolling green country beyond the town gates, the same -unwholesome strife saddened field and lane and park. Land-owners, great -and small, fought to the last ditch, the last ungenerous notice-board, -with land-traversers; squires and keepers disagreed bitterly with -poachers; tenant farmers saw life from an opposite angle to that of -labourers; the parson differed from the minister, and often, alas, from -his flock. It was as if all these warring elements, which might, from a -common vantage-ground, have together conducted the exploration into the -promised land, were staying at home disputing with one another as to the -nature of that land. Some good, some better state of things, was in most -of their minds to seek; but their paths of approach, all divergent, -seemed to run weakly into waste places for want of a common energy. It -was a saddening sight. The great heterogeneous unity conceived by -civilised idealists seemed inaccessibly remote. - -Eddy this summer took to writing articles for the _Vineyard_ about the -breaches in country life and how to heal them. The breach, for instance, -between tenant-farmer and labourer; that was much on his mind. But, when -he had written and written, and suggested and suggested, like many -before him and since, the breach was no nearer being healed. He formed -in his mind at this time a scheme for a new paper which he would like to -start some day if anyone would back it, and if Denison’s firm would -publish it. And, after all, so many new papers are backed, but how -inadequately, and started, and published, and flash like meteors across -the sky, and plunge fizzling into the sea of oblivion to perish -miserably--so why not this? He thought he would like it to be called -_Unity_, and to have that for its glorious aim. All papers have aims -beforehand (one may find them set forth in many a prospectus); how soon, -alas, in many cases to be disregarded or abandoned in response to the -exigencies of circumstance and demand. But the aim of _Unity_ should -persist, and, if heaven was kind, reach its mark. - -Pondering on this scheme, Eddy could watch chaos with more tolerant -eyes, since nothing is so intolerable if one is thinking of doing -something, even a very little, to try and alleviate it. He carried on a -correspondence with Arnold about it. Arnold said he didn’t for a moment -suppose his Uncle Wilfred would be so misguided as to have anything to -do with such a scheme, but he might, of course. The great dodge with a -new paper, was, Arnold said, the co-operative system; you collect a -staff of eager contributors who will undertake to write for so many -months without pay, and not want to get their own back again till after -the thing is coining money, and then they share what profits there are, -if any. If they could collect a few useful people for this purpose, such -as Billy Raymond, and Datcherd, and Cecil Le Moine (only probably Cecil -was too selfish), and John Henderson, and Margaret Clinton (a novelist -friend of Arnold’s), and various other intelligent men and women, the -thing might be worked. And Bob Traherne and Dean Oliver, to represent -two different Church standpoints, Eddy added to the list, and a field -labourer he knew who would talk about small holdings, and a Conservative -or two (Conservatives were conspicuously lacking in Arnold’s list). -Encouraged by Arnold’s reception of the idea, Eddy replied by sketching -his scheme for _Unity_ more elaborately. Arnold answered, “If we get all -or any of the people we’ve thought of to write for it, _Unity_ will go -its own way, regardless of schemes beforehand.... Have your Tories and -parsons in if you must, only don’t be surprised if they sink it.... The -chief thing to mind about with a writer is, has he anything new to say? -I hate all that sentimental taking up and patting on the back of -ploughmen and navvies and tramps merely as such; it’s silly, inverted -snobbery. It doesn’t follow that a man has anything to say that’s worth -hearing merely because he says it ungrammatically. Get day labourers to -write about land-tenure if they have anything to say about it that’s -more enlightening than what you or I would say; but not unless; because -they won’t put it so well, by a long way. If ever I have anything to do -with a paper, I shall see that it avoids sentimentality so far as is -consistent with just enough popularity to live by.” - -It was still all in the air, of course, but Eddy felt cheered by the -definite treatment Arnold was giving to his idea. - -About the middle of June Arnold wrote that Datcherd had hopelessly -broken down at last, and there seemed no chance for him, and he had -given up everything and gone down to a cottage in Devonshire, probably -to die there. - -“Eileen has gone with him,” Arnold added, in graver vein than usual. “I -suppose she wants to look after him, and they both want not to waste -the time that’s left.... Of course, many people will be horrified, and -think the worst. Personally, I think it a pity she should do it, because -it means, for her, giving up a great deal, now and afterwards, though -for him nothing now but a principle. The breaking of the principle is -surprising in him, and really, if one comes to think of it, pretty sad, -and a sign of how he’s broken up altogether. Because he has always held -these things uncivilised and wrong, and said so. I suppose he’s too weak -in body to say so any more, or to stand against his need and hers any -longer. I think it a bad mistake, and I wish they wouldn’t do it. -Besides, she’s too fine, and has too much to give, to throw it all at -one dying man, as she’s doing. What’s it been in Datcherd all along -that’s so held her--he so sickly and wrecked and morose, she so -brilliant and alive and young and full of genius and joy? Of course he’s -brilliant too, in his own way, and lovable, and interesting; but a -failure for all that, and an unhappy failure, and now at the last a -failure even as to his own principles of life. I suppose it has been -always just that that has held her; his failure and need. These things -are dark; but anyhow there it is; one never saw two people care for each -other more or need each other more.... She was afraid of hurting his -work by coming to him before; but the time for thinking of that is past, -and I suppose she will stay with him now till the end, and it will be -their one happy time. You know I think these things mostly a mistake, -and these absorbing emotions uncivilised, and nearly all alliances -ill-assorted, and this one will be condemned. But much she’ll care for -that when it is all over and he has gone. What will happen to her then I -can’t guess; she won’t care much for anything any of us can do to help, -for a long time. It is a pity. But such is life, a series of futile -wreckages.” He went on to other topics. Eddy didn’t read the rest just -then, but went out for a long and violent walk across country with his -incredibly mongrel dog. - -Confusion, with its many faces, its shouting of innumerable voices, -overlay the green June country. For him in that hour the voice of pity -and love rose dominant, drowning the other voices, that questioned and -wondered and denied, as the cuckoos from every tree questioned and -commented on life in their strange, late note. Love and pity; pity and -love; mightn’t these two resolve all discord at last? Arnold’s point of -view, that of the civilised person of sense, he saw and shared; Eileen’s -and Datcherd’s he saw and felt; his own mother’s, and the Bellairs’, and -that of those like-minded with them, he saw and appreciated; all were -surely right, yet they did not make for harmony. - -Meanwhile, a background to discord, the woods were green and the hedges -starred pink with wild roses and the cow-parsley a white foam in the -ditches, and the clouds shreds of white fleece in the blue above, and -cows knee-deep in cool pools beneath spreading trees, and, behind the -jubilance of larks and the other jocund little fowls, cried the -perpetual questioning of the unanswered grey bird.... - -In the course of July, Eddy became engaged to Molly Bellairs, an event -which, with all its preliminary and attendant circumstances, requires -and will receive little treatment here. Proposals and their attendant -emotions, though more interesting even than most things to those -principally concerned, are doubtless so familiar to all as to be readily -imagined, and can occupy no place in these pages. The fact emerges that -Eddy and Molly, after the usual preliminaries, _did_ become engaged. It -must not be surmised that their emotions, because passed lightly over, -were not of the customary and suitable fervour; in point of fact, both -were very much in love. Both their families were pleased. The marriage, -of course, was not to occur till Eddy was settled definitely into a -promising profession, but that he hoped to be in the autumn, if he -entered the Denisons’ publishing firm and at the same time practised -journalism. - -“You should get settled with something permanent, my boy,” said the -Dean, who was by now well enough to talk like that. “I don’t like this -taking things up and dropping them.” - -“They drop me,” Eddy explained, much as he had to Arnold once, but the -Dean did not like him to put it like that, as anyone would rather his -son dropped than was dropped. - -“You know you can do well if you like,” he said, being fairly started -in that vein. “You did well at school and Cambridge, and you can do well -now. And now that you’re going to be married, you must give up feeling -your way and occupying yourself with jobs that aren’t your regular -career, and get your teeth into something definite. It wouldn’t be fair -to Molly to play about with odd jobs, even useful and valuable ones, as -you have been doing. You wouldn’t think of schoolmastering at all, I -suppose? With your degree you could easily get a good place.” The Dean -hankered after a scholastic career for his son; besides, schoolmasters -so often end in Orders. But Eddy said he thought he would prefer -publishing or journalism, though it didn’t pay so well at first. He told -the Dean about the proposed paper and the co-operative system, which was -sure to work so well. - -The Dean said, “I haven’t any faith in all these new papers, whatever -the system. Even the best die. Look at the _Pilot_. And the _Tribune_.” - -Eddy looked back across the ages at the _Pilot_ and the _Tribune_, whose -deaths he just remembered. - -“There’ve been plenty died since those,” he remarked. “Those whom the -gods love, etcetera. But lots have lived, too. If you come to that, look -at the _Times_, the _Spectator_, and the _Daily Mirror_. They were new -once. So was the _English Review_; so was _Poetry and Drama_; so was the -_New Statesman_; so was the _Blue Review_. They’re alive yet. Then why -not _Unity_? Even if it has a short life, it may be a merry one.” - -“To heal divisions,” mused the Dean. “A good aim, of course. Though -probably a hopeless one. One makes it one’s task, you know, to throw -bridges, as far as one can, between the Church and the agnostics, and -the Church and dissent. And look at the result. A friendly act of -conciliation on the part of one of our bishops calls forth torrents of -bitter abuse in the columns of our Church papers. The High Church party -is so unmanageable: it’s stiff: it stands out for differences: it won’t -be brought in. How can we ever progress towards unity if the extreme -left remains in that state of wilful obscurantism and unchristian -intolerance?... Of course, mind, there are limits; one would fight very -strongly against disestablishment or disendowment; but the ritualists -seem to be out for quarrels over trifles.” He added, because Eddy had -worked in St. Gregory’s, “Of course, individually, there are numberless -excellent High Churchmen; one doesn’t want to run down their work. But -they’ll never stand for unity.” - -“Quite,” said Eddy, meditating on unity. “That’s exactly what Finch and -the rest say about the Broad Church party, you know. And it’s what -dissenters say about Church people, and Church people about dissenters. -The fact is, so few parties do stand for unity. They nearly all stand -for faction.” - -“I don’t think we Broad Churchmen stand for faction,” said the Dean, and -Eddy replied that nor did the High Churchmen think they did, nor -dissenters either. They all thought they were aiming at unity, but it -was the sort of unity attained by the survivor of the _Nancy_ brig, or -the tiger of Riga, that was the ideal of most parties; it was doubtless -also the ideal of a boa-constrictor. Mrs. Oliver, who had come into the -room and wasn’t sure it was in good taste to introduce light verse and -boa-constrictors into religious discussions, said, “You seem to be -talking a great deal of nonsense, dear boy. Everard, have you had your -drops yet?” - -In such fruitful family discourse they wiled away the Dean’s -convalescence. - -Meanwhile Molly, jolly and young and alive, with her brown hair curling -in the sun, and her happy infectious laugh and her bright, eager, amber -eyes full of friendly mirth, was a sheer joy. If she too “stood for” -anything beyond herself, it was for youth and mirth and jollity and -country life in the open; all sweet things. Eddy and she liked each -other rather more each day. They made a plan for Molly to spend a month -or so in the autumn with her aunt that lived in Hyde Park Terrace, so -that she and Eddy should be near each other. - -“They’re darlings,” said Molly, of her uncle and aunt and cousins. “So -jolly and hospitable. You’ll love them.” - -“I’m sure I shall. And will they love me?” inquired Eddy, for this -seemed even more important. - -Molly said of course they would. - -“Do they love most people?” Eddy pursued his investigations. - -Molly considered that. “Well ... most ... that’s a lot, isn’t it. No, -Aunt Vyvian doesn’t do that, I should think. Uncle Jimmy more. He’s a -sailor, you know; a captain, retired. He seems awfully young, always; -much younger than me.... One thing about Aunt Vyvian is, I should think -you’d know it pretty quick if she didn’t like you.” - -“She’d say so, would she?” - -“She’d snub you. She’s rather snippy sometimes, even to me and people -she’s fond of. Only one gets used to it, and it doesn’t mean anything -except that she likes to amuse herself. But she’s frightfully -particular, and if she didn’t like you she wouldn’t have anything to do -with you.” - -“I see. Then it’s most important that she should. What can I do about -it?” - -“Oh, just be pleasant, and make yourself as entertaining as you can, and -pretend to be fairly sensible and intelligent.... She wouldn’t like it -if she thought you were, well, a socialist, or an anarchist, or a person -who was trying to do something and couldn’t, like people who try and get -plays taken; or if I was a suffragette. She thinks people _oughtn’t_ to -be like that, because they don’t get on. And, too, she likes very much -to be amused. _You’ll_ be all right, of course.” - -“Sure to be. I’m such a worldly success. Well, I shall haunt her -doorstep whether she likes me or not.” - -“If she dared not to,” said Molly indignantly, “I should walk straight -out of her house and never go into it again, and make Nevill take me -into his rooms instead. I should jolly well think she _would_ like -you!” - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -HYDE PARK TERRACE. - - -Fortunately Mrs. Crawford did like Eddy (he presumed, therefore, that -she did not know he was a socialist and a suffragist, and had tried to -do many things he couldn’t), so Molly did not have to walk out of the -house. He liked her too, and went to her house very frequently. She was -pretty and clever and frankly worldly, and had a sweet trailing voice, a -graceful figure, and two daughters just out, one of whom was engaged -already to a young man in the Foreign Office. - -She told Molly, “I like your young man, dear; he has pleasant manners, -and seems to appreciate me,” and asked him to come to the house as often -as he could. Eddy did so. He came to lunch and dinner, and met pleasant, -polite, well-dressed people. (You had to be rather well-dressed at the -Crawfords’: they expected it, as so many others do, with what varying -degrees of fulfilment!) It is, of course, as may before have been -remarked in these pages, exceedingly important to dress well. Eddy knew -this, having been well brought up, and did dress as well as accorded -with his station and his duties. He quite saw the beauty of the idea, as -of the other ideas presented to him. He also, however, saw the merits of -the opposite idea held by some of his friends, that clothes are things -not worth time, money, or trouble, and fashion an irrelevant absurdity. -He always assented sincerely to Arnold when he delivered himself on this -subject, and with equal sincerity to the tacit recognition of high -standards that he met at the Crawfords’ and elsewhere. - -He also met at the Crawfords’ their nephew Nevill Bellairs, who was now -parliamentary secretary to an eminent member, and more than ever -admirable in his certainty about what was right and what wrong. The -Crawfords too were certain about that. To hear Nevill on Why Women -should Not Vote was to feel that he and Daphne must be for ever -sundered, and, in fact, were best apart. Eddy came to that melancholy -conclusion, though he divined that their mutual and unhappy love still -flourished. - -“You’re unfashionable, Nevill,” his aunt admonished him. “You should try -and not be that more than you can help.” - -Captain Crawford, a simple, engaging, and extraordinarily youthful -sailor man of forty-six, said, “Don’t be brow-beaten, Nevill; I’m with -you,” for that was the sort of man he was; and the young man from the -Foreign Office said how a little while ago he had approved of a limited -women’s suffrage, but since the militants, etc., etc., and everyone he -knew was saying the same. - -“I am sure they are,” Mrs. Crawford murmured to Eddy. “What a pity it -does not seem to him a sufficient reason for abstaining from the remark -himself. I do so dislike the subject of the suffrage; it makes everyone -so exceedingly banal and obvious. I never make any remarks about it -myself, for I have a deep fear that if I did so they might not be more -original than that.” - -“Mine certainly wouldn’t,” Eddy agreed. “Militant suffragism is like the -weather, a safety-valve for all our worst commonplaces. Only it’s unlike -the weather in being a little dull in itself, whereas the weather is an -agitatingly interesting subject, as a rule inadequately handled.... You -know, I’ve no objection to commonplace remarks myself, I rather like -them. That’s why I make them so often, I suppose.” - -“I think you have no objection to any kind of remarks,” Mrs. Crawford -commented. “You are fortunate.” - -Nevill said from across the room, “How’s the paper getting on, Eddy? Is -the first number launched yet?” - -“Not yet. Only the dummy. I have a copy of the dummy here; look at it. -We have filled it with the opinions of eminent persons on the great need -that exists for our paper. We wrote to many. Some didn’t answer. I -suppose they were not aware of this great need, which is recognised so -clearly by others. The strange thing is that _Unity_ has never been -started before, considering how badly it is obviously wanted. We have -here encouraging words from politicians, authors, philanthropists, a -bishop, an eminent rationalist, a fellow of All Souls, a landlord, a -labour member, and many others. The bishop says, ‘I am greatly -interested in the prospectus you have sent me of your proposed new -paper. Without committing myself to agreement with every detail, I may -say that the lines on which it is proposed to conduct _Unity_ promise a -very useful and attractive paper, and one which should meet a genuine -need and touch an extensive circle.’ The labour member says, ‘Your new -paper is much needed, and with such fine ideals should be of great -service to all.’ The landlord says, ‘Your articles dealing with country -matters should meet a long-felt demand, and make for good feeling -between landlords, tenants and labourers.’ The rationalist says, -‘Precisely what we want.’ The Liberal politician says, ‘I heartily wish -all success to _Unity_. A good new paper on those lines cannot fail to -be of inestimable service.’ The Unionist says, ‘A capital paper, with -excellent ideals.’ The philanthropist says, ‘I hope it will wage -relentless war against the miserable internal squabbles which retard our -social efforts.’ Here’s a more tepid one--he’s an author. He only says, -‘There may be scope for such a paper, amid the ever-increasing throng of -new journalistic enterprises. Anyhow there is no harm in trying.’ A -little damping, he was. Denison was against putting it in, but I think -it so rude, when you’ve asked a man for a word of encouragement, and he -gives it you according to his means, not to use it. Of course we had to -draw the line somewhere. Shore merely said, ‘It’s a free country. You -can hang yourselves if you like.’ We didn’t put in that. But on the -whole people are obviously pining for the paper, aren’t they. Of course -they all think we’re going to support their particular pet party and -project. And so we are. That is why I think we shall sell so well--touch -so extensive a circle, as the bishop puts it.” - -“As long as you help to knock another plank from beneath the feet of -this beggarly government, I’ll back you through thick and thin,” said -Captain Crawford. - -“Are you going on the Down-with-the-Jews tack?” Nevill asked. “That’s -been overdone, I think; it’s such beastly bad form.” - -“All the same,” murmured Captain Crawford, “I don’t care about the -Hebrew.” - -“We’re not,” said Eddy, “going on a down-with-anybody tack. Our _métier_ -is to encourage the good, not to discourage anyone. That, as I remarked -before, is why we shall sell so extremely well.” - -Mrs. Crawford said, “Humph. It sounds to me a trifle savourless. A -little abuse hasn’t usually been found, I believe, to reduce the sales -of a paper appreciably. We most of us like to see our enemies hauled -over the coals; or, failing our enemies, some innocuous and eminent -member of an unpopular and over-intelligent race. In short, we like to -see a fine hot quarrel going on. If _Unity_ isn’t going to quarrel with -anyone, I shall certainly not subscribe.” - -“You shall have it gratis,” said Eddy. “It is obviously, as the eminent -rationalist puts it, precisely what you need.” - -Nevill said, “By the way, what’s happening to that Radical paper of poor -Hugh Datcherd’s? Is it dead?” - -“Yes. It couldn’t have survived Datcherd; no one else could possibly -take it on. Besides, he financed it entirely himself; it never anything -near paid its way, of course. It’s a pity; it was interesting.” - -“Like it’s owner,” Mrs. Crawford remarked. “He too, one gathers, was a -pity, though no doubt an interesting one. The one failure in a -distinguished family.” - -“I should call all the Datcherds a pity, if you ask me,” said Nevill. -“They’re wrong-headed Radicals. All agnostics, too, and more or less -anti-church.” - -“All the same,” said his aunt, “they’re not failures, mostly. They -achieve success; even renown. They occasionally become cabinet -ministers. I ask no more of a family than that. You may be as -wrong-headed, radical, and anti-church as you please, Nevill, if you -attain to being a cabinet minister. Of course they have disadvantages, -such as England expecting them not to invest their money as they would -prefer, and so on; but on the whole an enviable career. Better even -than running a paper which meets a long-felt demand.” - -“But the paper’s much more fun,” Molly put in, and her aunt returned, -“My dear child, we are not put into this troubled world to have fun, -though I have noticed that you labour under that delusion.” - -The young man from the Foreign Office said, “It’s not a delusion that -can survive in my profession, anyhow. I must be getting back, I’m -afraid,” and they all went away to do something else. Eddy arranged to -meet Molly and her aunt at tea-time, and take them to Jane Dawn’s -studio; he had asked her if he might bring them to see her drawings. - -They met at Mrs. Crawford’s club, and drove to Blackfriars’ Road. - -“_Where_?” inquired Mrs. Crawford, after Eddy’s order to the driver. - -“Pleasance Court, Blackfriars’ Road,” Eddy repeated. - -“Oh! I somehow had an idea it was Chelsea. That’s where one often finds -studios; but, after all, there must be many others, if one comes to -think of it.” - -“Perhaps Jane can’t afford Chelsea. She’s not poor, but she spends her -money like a child. She takes after her father, who is extravagant, like -so many professors.” - -“Chelsea’s supposed to be cheap, my dear boy. That’s why it’s full of -struggling young artists.” - -“I daresay Pleasance Court is cheaper. Besides, it’s pleasant. They like -it.” - -“They?” - -“Jane and her friend Miss Peters, who shares rooms with her. Rather a -jolly sort of girl; though----” On second thoughts Eddy refrained from -mentioning that Sally Peters was a militant and had been in prison; he -remembered that Mrs. Crawford found the subject tedious. - -But militancy will out, as must have been noticed by many. Before the -visitors had been there ten minutes, Sally referred to the recent -destruction of the property of a distinguished widowed lady in such -laudatory terms that Mrs. Crawford discerned her in a minute, raised a -disapproving lorgnette at her, murmured, “They devour widows’ houses, -and for a pretence make long speeches,” and turned her back on her. -Jolly sorts of girls who were also criminal lunatics were not suffered -in the sphere of her acquaintance. - -Jane’s drawings were obviously charming; also they were the drawings of -an artist, not of a young lady of talent. Mrs. Crawford, who knew the -difference, perceived that, and gave them the tribute she always ceded -to success. She thought she would ask Jane to lunch one day, without, of -course, the blue-eyed child who devoured widows’ houses. She did so -presently. - -Jane said, “Thank you so much, but I’m afraid I can’t,” and knitted her -large forehead a little, in her apologetic way, so obviously trying to -think of a suitable reason why she couldn’t, that Mrs. Crawford came to -her rescue with “Perhaps you’re too busy,” which was gratefully -accepted. - -“I am rather busy just now.” Jane was very polite, very deprecating, but -inwardly she reproached Eddy for letting in on her strange ladies who -asked her to lunch. - -That no one ought to be too busy for social engagements, was what Mrs. -Crawford thought, and she turned a little crisper and cooler in manner. -Molly was standing before a small drawing in a corner--a drawing of a -girl, bare-legged, childish, half elfin, lying among sedges by a stream, -one leg up to the knee in water, and one arm up to the elbow. Admirably -the suggestion had been caught of a small wild thing, a little -half-sulky animal. Molly laughed at it. - -“That’s Daffy, of course. It’s not like her--and yet it _is_ her. A sort -of inside look it’s got of her; hasn’t it, Eddy? I suppose it looks -different because Daffy’s always so neat and tailor-made, and never -_would_ be like that. It’s a different Daffy, but it is Daffy.” - -“Your pretty little sister, isn’t it, Eddy,” said Mrs. Crawford, who had -met Daphne at Welchester. “Yes, that’s clever. ‘Undine,’ you call it. -Why? Has she no soul?” - -Jane smiled and retired from this question. She seldom explained why her -pictures were so called; they just were. - -Molly was not looking at Undine. Her glance had fallen on a drawing -near it. It was another drawing of a girl; a very beautiful girl, -playing a violin. It was called “Life.” No one would have asked why -about this; the lightly poised figure, the glowing eyes under their -shadowing black brows, the fiddle tucked away under the round chin, and -the dimples tucked away in the round cheeks, the fine supple hands, -expressed the very spirit of life, all its joy and brilliance and genius -and fire, and all its potential tragedy. Molly looked at it without -comment, as she might have looked at a picture of some friend of the -artist’s who had died a sad death. She knew that Eileen Le Moine had -died, from her point of view; she knew that she had spent the last -months of Hugh Datcherd’s life with him, for Eddy had told her. She had -said to Eddy that this was dreadful and wicked. Eddy had said, “They -don’t think it is, you see.” Molly had said that what they thought made -no difference to right and wrong; Eddy had replied that it made all the -difference in the world. She had finally turned on him with, “But _you_ -think it dreadful, Eddy?” and he had, to her dismay, shaken his head. - -“Not as they’re doing it, I don’t. It’s all right. You’d know it was all -right if you knew them, Molly. It’s been, all along, the most faithful, -loyal, fine, simple, sad thing in the world, their love. They’ve held -out against it just so long as to give in would have hurt anyone but -themselves; now it won’t, and she’s giving herself to him that he may -die in peace. Don’t judge them, Molly.” - -But she had judged them so uncompromisingly, so unyieldingly, that she -had never referred to the subject again, for fear it should come between -Eddy and her. A difference of principle was the one thing Molly could -not bear. To her this thing, whatever its excuse, was wrong, against the -laws of the Christian Church, in fine, wicked. And it was Eddy’s friends -who had done it, and he didn’t want her to judge them; she must say -nothing, therefore. Molly’s ways were ways of peace. - -Mrs. Crawford peered through her lorgnette at the drawing. “What’s that -delicious thing? ‘Life.’ Quite; just that. That is really utterly -charming. Who’s the original? Why, it’s-----” She stopped suddenly. - -“It’s Mrs. Le Moine, the violinist,” said Jane. - -“She’s a great friend of ours,” Sally interpolated, in childish pride, -from behind. “I expect you’ve heard her play, haven’t you?” - -Mrs. Crawford had. She recognised the genius of the picture, which had -so exquisitely caught and imprisoned the genius of the subject. - -“Of course; who hasn’t? A marvellous player. And a marvellous picture.” - -“It’s Eileen all over,” said Eddy, who knew it of old. - -“Hugh bought it, you know,” said Jane. “And when he died Eileen sent it -back to me. I thought perhaps you and Eddy,” she turned to Molly, “might -care to have it for a wedding-present, with ‘Undine.’ ” - -Molly thanked her shyly, flushing a little. She would have preferred to -refuse ‘Life,’ but her never-failing courtesy and tenderness for -people’s feelings drove her to smile and accept. - -It was then that someone knocked on the studio door. Sally went to open -it; cried, “Oh, Eileen,” and drew her in, an arm about her waist. - -She was not very like Jane’s drawing of her just now. The tragic -elements of Life had conquered and beaten down its brilliance and joy; -the rounded white cheeks were thin, and showed, instead of dimples, the -fine structure of the face and jaw; the great deep blue eyes brooded -sombrely under sad brows; she drooped a little as she stood. It was as -if something had been quenched in her, and left her as a dead fire. The -old flashing smile had left only the wan, strange ghost of itself. If -Jane had drawn her now, or any time since the middle of August, she -would rather have called the drawing “Wreckage.” To Eddy and all her -friends she and her wrecked joy, her quenched vividness, stabbed at a -pity beyond tears. - -Molly looked at her for a moment, and turned rosy red all over her -wholesome little tanned face, and bent over a picture near her. - -Mrs. Crawford looked at her, through her, above her, and said to Jane, -“Thank you so much for a delightful afternoon. We really must go now.” - -Jane said, slipping a hand into Eileen’s, “Oh, but you’ll have tea, -won’t you? I’m so sorry; we ought to have had it earlier.... Do you -know Mrs. Le Moine? Mrs. Crawford; and _you_ know each other, of -course,” she connected Eileen and Molly with a smile, and Molly put out -a timid hand. - -Mrs. Crawford’s bow was so slight that it might have been not a bow at -all. “Thank you, but I’m afraid we mustn’t stop. We have enjoyed your -delightful drawings exceedingly. Goodbye.” - -“Must you both go?” said Eddy to Molly. “Can’t you stop and have tea and -go home with me afterwards?” - -“I’m afraid not,” Molly murmured, still rosy. - -“Are you coming with us, Eddy?” asked Molly’s aunt, in her sweet, -sub-acid voice. “No? Goodbye then. Oh, don’t trouble, please, Miss Dawn; -Eddy will show us out.” Her faint bow comprehended the company. - -Eddy came with them to their carriage. - -“I’m sorry you won’t stop,” he said. - -Mrs. Crawford’s fine eyebrows rose a little. - -“You could hardly expect me to stop, still less to let Molly stop, in -company with a lady of Mrs. Le Moine’s reputation. She has elected to -become, as you of course are aware, one of the persons whose -acquaintance must be dispensed with by all but the unfastidious. You are -not going to dispense with it, I perceive? Very well; but you must allow -Molly and me to take the ordinary course of the world in such matters. -Goodbye.” - -Eddy, red as if her words had been a whip in his face, turned back into -the house and shut the door rather violently behind him, as if by the -gesture he would shut out all the harsh, coarse judgments of the -undiscriminating world. He climbed the stairs to the studio, and found -them having tea and discussing pictures, from their own several points -of view, not the world’s. It was a rest. - -Mrs. Crawford, as they drove over the jolting surface of Blackfriars’ -Road, said, “Very odd friends your young man has, darling. And what a -very unpleasant region they live in. It is just as well for the sake of -the carriage wheels that we shall never have to go there again. We -can’t, of course, if we are liable to meet people of no reputation -there. I’m sure you know nothing about things like that, but I’m sorry -to say that Mrs. Le Moine has done things she ought not to have done. -One may continue to admire her music, as one may admire the acting of -those who lead such unfortunate lives on the stage; but one can’t meet -her. Eddy ought to know that. Of course it’s different for him. Men may -meet anyone; in fact, I believe they do; and no one thinks the worse of -them. But I can’t; still less, of course, you. I don’t suppose your dear -mother would like me to tell you about her, so I won’t.” - -“I know,” said Molly, blushing again and feeling she oughtn’t to. “Eddy -told me. He’s a great friend of hers, you see.” - -“Oh, indeed. Well, girls know everything now-a-days, of course. In fact, -everyone knows this; both she and Hugh Datcherd were such well-known -people. I don’t say it was so very dreadfully wrong, what they did; and -of course Dorothy Datcherd left Hugh in the lurch first--but you -wouldn’t have heard of that, no--only it does put Mrs. Le Moine beyond -the pale. And, in fact, it is dreadfully wrong to fly in the face of -everybody’s principles and social codes; of course it is.” - -Molly cared nothing for everyone’s principles and social codes; but she -knew it was dreadfully wrong, what they had done. She couldn’t even -reason it out; couldn’t formulate the real reason why it was wrong; -couldn’t see that it was because it was giving rein to individual desire -at the expense of the violation of a system which on the whole, however -roughly and crudely, made for civilisation, virtue, and intellectual and -moral progress; that it was, in short, a step backwards into savagery, a -giving up of ground gained. Arnold Denison, more clear-sighted, saw -that; Molly, with only her childlike, unphilosophical, but intensely -vivid recognition of right and wrong to help her, merely knew it was -wrong. From three widely different standpoints those three, Molly, -Arnold Denison, Mrs. Crawford, joined in that recognition. Against them -stood Eddy, who saw only the right in it, and the stabbing, wounding -pity of it.... - -“It is extremely fortunate,” said Mrs. Crawford, “that that young woman -Miss Dawn refused to come to lunch. I daresay she knew she wasn’t fit -for lunch, with such people straying in and out of her rooms and she -holding their hands. I give her credit so far. As for the plump fair -child, she is obviously one of those vulgarians I insist on not hearing -mentioned. Very strange friends, darling, your....” - -“I’m sure nearly all Eddy’s friends are very nice,” Molly broke in. -“Miss Dawn was staying at the Deanery at Christmas, you know. I’m sure -she’s nice, and she draws beautifully. And I expect Miss Peters is nice -too; she’s so friendly and jolly, and has such pretty hair and eyes. -And....” - -“You can stop there, dearest. If you are proceeding to say that you are -sure Mrs. Le Moine is nice too, you can spare yourself the trouble.” - -“I wasn’t,” said Molly unhappily, and lifted her shamed, honest, amber -eyes to her aunt’s face. “Of course ... I know ... she can’t be.” - -Her aunt gave her a soothing pat on the shoulder. “Very well, pet: don’t -worry about it. I’m afraid you will find that there are a large number -of people in the world, and only too many of them aren’t at all nice. -Shockingly sad, of course; but if one took them all to heart one would -sink into an early grave. The worst of this really is that we have lost -our tea. We might drop in on the Tommy Durnfords; it’s their day, -surely.... When shall you see Eddy next, by the way?” - -“I think doesn’t he come to dinner to-morrow?” - -“So he does. Well, he and I must have a good talk.” - -Molly looked at her doubtfully. “Aunt Vyvian, I don’t think so. Truly I -don’t.” - -“Well, I do, my dear. I’m responsible to your parents for you, and your -young man’s got to be careful of you, and I shall tell him so.” - -She told him so in the drawing-room after dinner next evening. She sat -out from bridge on purpose to tell him. She said, “I was surprised and -shocked yesterday afternoon, Eddy, as no doubt you gathered.” - -Eddy admitted that he had gathered that. “Do you mind if I say that I -was too, a little?” he added. “Is that rude? I hope not.” - -“Not in the least. I’ve no doubt you were shocked; but I don’t think -really that you can have been much surprised, you know. Did you honestly -expect me and Molly to stay and have tea with Mrs. Le Moine? She’s not a -person whom Molly ought to know. She’s stepped deliberately outside the -social pale, and must stay there. Seriously, Eddy, you mustn’t bring her -and Molly together.” - -“Seriously,” said Eddy, “I mean to. I want Molly to know and care for -all my friends. Of course she’ll find in lots of them things she -wouldn’t agree with; but that’s no barrier. I can’t shut her out, don’t -you see? I know all these people so awfully well, and see so much of -them; of course she must know them too. As for Mrs. Le Moine, she’s one -of the finest people I know; I should think anyone would be proud to -know her. Surely one can’t be rigid about things?” - -“One can,” Mrs. Crawford asserted. “One can, and one is. One draws one’s -line. Or rather the world draws it for one. Those who choose to step -outside it must remain outside it.” - -Eddy said softly, “Bother the world!” - -“I’m not going,” she returned, “to do any such thing. I belong to the -world, and am much attached to it. And about this sort of thing it -happens to be entirely right. I abide by its decrees, and so must Molly, -and so must you.” - -“I had hoped,” he said, “that you, as well as Molly, would make friends -with Eileen. She needs friendship rather. She’s hurt and broken; you -must have seen that yesterday.” - -“Indeed, I hardly looked. But I’ve no doubt she would be. I’m sorry for -your unfortunate friend, Eddy, but I really can’t know her. You didn’t -surely expect me to ask her here, to meet Chrissie and Dulcie and my -innocent Jimmy, did you? What will you think of next? Well, well, I’m -going to play bridge now, and you can go and talk to Molly. Only don’t -try and persuade her to meet your scandalous friends, because I shall -not allow her to, and she has no desire to if I did. Molly, I am pleased -to say, is a very right-minded and well-conducted girl.” - -Eddy discovered that this was so. Molly evinced no desire to meet Eileen -Le Moine. She said “Aunt Vyvian doesn’t want me to.” - -“But,” Eddy expostulated, “she’s constantly with the rest--Jane and -Sally, and Denison, and Billy Raymond, and Cecil Le Moine, and all that -set--you can’t help meeting her sometimes.” - -“I needn’t meet any of them much, really,” said Molly. - -Eddy disagreed. “Of course you need. They’re some of my greatest -friends. They’ve got to be your friends too. When we’re married they’ll -come and see us constantly, I hope, and we shall go and see them. We -shall always be meeting. I awfully want you to get to know them quickly. -They’re such good sorts, Molly; you’ll like them all, and they’ll love -you.” - -There was an odd doubtful look in Molly’s eyes. - -“Eddy,” she said after a moment, painfully blushing, “I’m awfully sorry, -and it sounds priggish and silly--but I _can’t_ like people when I think -they don’t feel rightly about right and wrong. I suppose I’m made like -that. I’m sorry.” - -“You precious infant.” He smiled at her distressed face. “You’re made as -I prefer. But you see, they _do_ feel rightly about things; they really -do, Molly.” - -“Then,” her shamed, averted eyes seemed to say, “why don’t they act -rightly?” - -“Just try,” he besought her, “to understand their points of -view--everyone’s point of view. Or rather, don’t bother about points of -view; just know the people, and you won’t be able to help caring for -them. People are like that--so much more alive and important than what -they think or do, that none of that seems to matter. Oh, don’t put up -barriers, Molly. Do love my friends. I want you to. I’ll love all yours; -I will indeed, whatever dreadful things they’ve done or are doing. I’ll -love them even if they burn widows’ houses, or paint problem pictures -for the Academy, or write prize novels, or won’t take in _Unity_. I’ll -love them through everything. Won’t you love mine a little, too?” - -She laughed back at him, unsteadily. - -“Idiot, of course I will. I will indeed. I’ll love them nearly all. Only -I can’t love things I hate, Eddy. Don’t ask me to do that, because I -can’t.” - -“But you mustn’t hate, Molly. Why hate? It isn’t what things are there -for, to be hated. Look here. Here are you and I set down in the middle -of all this jolly, splendid, exciting jumble of things, just like a -toy-shop, and we can go round looking at everything, touching -everything, tasting everything (I used always to try to taste tarts and -things in shops, didn’t you?) Well isn’t it all jolly and nice, and -don’t you like it? And here you sit and talk of hating!” - -Molly was looking at him with her merry eyes unusually serious. - -“But Eddy--you’re just pretending when you talk of hating nothing. You -know you hate some things yourself; there are some things everyone must -hate. You know you do.” - -“Do I?” Eddy considered it. “Why, yes, I suppose so; some things. But -very few.” - -“There’s good,” said Molly, with a gesture of one hand, “and there’s -bad....” she swept the other. “They’re quite separate, and they’re -fighting.” - -Eddy observed that she was a Manichean Dualist. - -“Don’t know what that is. But it seems to mean an ordinary sensible -person, so I hope I am. Aren’t you?” - -“I think not. Not to your extent, anyhow. But I quite see your point of -view. Now will you see mine? And Eileen’s? And all the others? Anyhow, -will you think it over, so that by the time we’re married you’ll be -ready to be friends?” - -Molly shook her head. - -“It’s no use, Eddy. Don’t let’s talk about it any more. Come and play -coon-can; I do like it such a lot better than bridge; it’s so much -sillier.” - -“I like them all,” said Eddy. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -MOLLY. - - -Eddy next Sunday collected a party to row up to Kew. They were Jane -Dawn, Bridget Hogan, Billy Raymond, Arnold Denison, Molly and himself, -and they embarked in a boat at Crabtree Lane at two o’clock, and all -took turns of rowing except Bridget, who, as has been observed before, -was a lily of the field, and insisted on remaining so. She, Molly, and -Eddy may be called the respectable-looking members of the party; Jane, -Arnold, and Billy were sublimely untidy, which Eddy knew was a pity, -because of Molly, who was always a daintily arrayed, fastidiously neat -child. But it did not really matter. They were all very happy. The -others made a pet and plaything of Molly, whose infectious, -whole-hearted chuckle and naïve high spirits pleased them. She and Eddy -decided to live in a river-side house, and made selections as they rowed -by. - -“You’d be better off in Soho,” said Arnold. - -“Eddy would be nearer his business, and nearer the shop we’re going to -start presently. Besides, it’s more select. You can’t avoid the -respectable resident, up the river.” - -“The cheery non-resident, too, which is worse,” added Miss Hogan. “Like -us. The river on a holiday is unthinkable. We were on it all Good Friday -last year, which seems silly, but I suppose we must have had some wise -purpose. Why was it, Billy? Do you remember? You came, didn’t you? And -you, Jane. And Eileen and Cecil, I think. Anyhow never again. Oh yes, -and we took some poor starved poet of Billy’s--a most unfortunate -creature, who proved, didn’t he, to be unable even to write poetry. Or, -indeed, to sit still in a boat. One or two very narrow shaves we had I -remember. He’s gone into Peter Robinson’s since, I believe, as walker. -So much nicer for him in every way. I saw him there last Tuesday. I gave -him a friendly smile and asked how he was, but I think he had forgotten -his past life, or else he had understood me to be asking the way to the -stocking department, for he only replied, “Hose, madam?” Then I -remembered that that was partly why he had failed to be a poet, because -he would call stockings hose, and use similar unhealthy synonyms. So I -concluded with pleasure that he had really found his vocation, the one -career where such synonyms are suitable, and, in fact, necessary.” - -“He’s a very nice person, Nichols,” Billy said; “he still writes a -little, but I don’t think he’ll ever get anything taken. He can’t get -rid of the idea that he’s got to be elegant. It’s a pity, because he’s -really got a little to say.” - -“Yes; quite a little, isn’t it. Poor dear.” - -Eddy asked hopefully, “Would he do us an article for _Unity_ from the -shop walker’s point of view, about shop life, and the relations between -customers and shop people?” - -Billy shook his head. “I’m sure he wouldn’t. He’d want to write you a -poem about something quite different instead. He hates the shop, and he -won’t write prose; he finds it too homely. And if he did, it would be -horrible stuff, full of commencing, and hose, and words like that.” - -“And corsets, and the next pleasure, and kindly walk this way. It might -be rather delightful really. I should try to get him to, Eddy.” - -“I think I will. We rather want the shopman’s point of view, and it’s -not easy to get.” - -They were passing Chiswick Mall. Molly saw there the house she -preferred. - -“Look, Eddy. That one with wistaria over it, and the balcony. What’s it -called? The Osiers. What a nice name. Do let’s stop and find out if we -can have it.” - -“Well, someone obviously lives there; in fact, I see someone on the -balcony. He might think it odd of us, do you think?” - -“But perhaps he’s leaving. Or perhaps he’d as soon live somewhere else, -if we found a nice place for him. I wonder who it is?” - -“I don’t know. We might find out who his doctor is, and get him to tell -him it’s damp and unhealthy. It looks fairly old.” - -“And they say those osier beds are most unwholesome,” Bridget added. - -“It’s heavenly. And look, there’s a heron.... Can’t we land on the -island?” - -“No. Bridget says it’s unwholesome.” - -So they didn’t, but went on to Kew. There they landed and went to look -for the badger in the gardens. They did not find him. One never does. -But they had tea. Then they rowed down again to Crabtree Lane, and their -ways diverged. - -Eddy went home with Molly. She said, “It’s been lovely, Eddy,” and he -said “Hasn’t it.” He was pleased, because Molly and the others had got -on so well and made such a happy party. He said, “When we’re at the -Osiers we’ll often do that.” - -She said “Yes,” thoughtfully, and he saw that something was on her mind. - -“And when Daffy and Nevill have stopped quarrelling,” added Eddy, “we’ll -have them established somewhere near by, and they shall come on the -river too. We must fix that up somehow.” - -Molly said “Yes,” again, and he asked, “And what’s the matter now?” and -touched a little pucker on her forehead with his finger. She smiled. - -“I was only thinking, Eddy.... It was something Miss Hogan said, about -spending Good Friday on the river. Do you think they really did?” - -He laughed a little at her wide, questioning eyes and serious face. - -“I suppose so. But Bridget said ‘Never again’--didn’t you hear?” - -“Oh yes. But that was only because of the crowd.... Of course it may be -all right--but I just wished she hadn’t said it, rather. It sounded as -if they didn’t care much, somehow. I’m sure they do, but....” - -“I’m sure they don’t,” Eddy said. “Bridget isn’t what you would call a -Churchwoman, you see. Nor are Jane, or Arnold, or Billy. They see things -differently, that’s all.” - -“But--they’re not dissenters, are they?” - -Eddy laughed. “No. That’s the last thing any of them are.” - -Molly’s wide gaze became startled. - -“Do you mean--they’re heathens? Oh, how dreadfully sad, Eddy. Can’t you -... can’t you help them somehow? Couldn’t you ask some clergyman you -know to meet them?” - -Eddy chuckled again. “I’m glad I’m engaged to you, Molly. You please me. -But I’m afraid the clergyman would be no more likely to convert them -than they him.” - -Molly remembered something Daphne had once told her about Miss Dawn and -Mrs. Le Moine and the prayer book. “It’s so dreadfully sad,” she -repeated. There was a little silence. The revelation was working in -Molly’s mind. She turned it over and over. - -“Eddy.” - -“Molly?” - -“Don’t you find it matters? In being friends, I mean?” - -“What? Oh, that. No, not a bit. How should it matter, that I happen to -believe certain things they don’t? How could it?” - -“It would to me.” Molly spoke with conviction. “I might try, but I know -I couldn’t really be friends--not close friends--with an unbeliever.” - -“Oh yes, you could. You’d get over all that, once you knew them. It -doesn’t stick out of them, what they don’t believe; it very seldom turns -up. Besides theirs is such an ordinary, and such a comprehensible and -natural point of view. Have you always believed what you do now about -such things?” - -“Why, of course. Haven’t you?” - -“Oh dear no. For quite a long time I didn’t. After all, it’s pretty -difficult.... And particularly at my home I think it was a little -difficult--for me, anyhow. I suppose I wanted more of the Catholic -Church standpoint. I didn’t come across that much till Cambridge; then -suddenly I caught on to the point of view, and saw how fine it was.” - -“It’s more than fine,” said Molly. “It’s true.” - -“Rather, of course it is. So are all fine things. If once all these -people who don’t believe saw the fineness of it, they’d see it must be -true. Meanwhile, I don’t see that the fact that one believes one’s -friends to be missing something they might have is any sort of reason -for not being friends. Is it now? Billy might as well say he couldn’t be -friends with you because you said you didn’t care about Masefield. You -miss something he’s got; that’s all the difference it makes, in either -case.” - -“Masefield isn’t so important as----” Molly left a shy hiatus. - -“No; of course; but, it’s the same principle.... Well, anyhow you like -them, don’t you?” said Eddy shifting his ground. - -“Oh, yes, I do. But I expect they think me a duffer. I don’t know -anything about their things, you see. They’re awfully nice to me.” - -“That seems odd, certainly. And they may come and visit us at the -Osiers, mayn’t they?” - -“Of course. And we’ll all have tea on the balcony there. Oh, do let’s -begin turning out the people that live there at once.” - -Meanwhile Jane and Arnold and Billy, walking along the embankment, when -they had discussed the colour of the water, the prospects of the -weather, the number of cats on the wall, and other interesting subjects, -commented on Molly. Jane said, “She’s a little sweetmeat. I love her -yellow eyes and her rough curly hair. She’s like a spaniel puppy we’ve -got at home.” - -Billy said, “She’s quite nice to talk to, too. I like her laugh.” - -Arnold said, maliciously, “She’ll never read your poetry, Billy. She -probably only reads Tennyson’s and Scott’s and the _Anthology of -Nineteenth Century Verse_.” - -“Well,” said Billy, placidly, “I’m in that. If she knows that, she -knows all the best twentieth century poets. You seem to be rather -acrimonious about her. Hadn’t she read your ‘Latter Day Leavings,’ or -what?” - -“I’m sure I trust not. She’d hate them.... It’s all very well, and I’ve -no doubt she’s a very nice little girl--but what does Eddy want with -marrying her? Or, indeed, anyone else? He’s not old enough to settle -down. And marrying that spaniel-child will mean settling down in a -sense.” - -“Oh, I don’t know. She’s got plenty of fun, and can play all right.” - -Arnold shook his head over her. “All the same, she’s on the side of -darkness and the conventions. She mayn’t know it yet, being still half a -child, and in the playing puppy stage, but give her ten years and you’ll -see. She’ll become proper. Even now, she’s not sure we’re quite nice or -very good. I spotted that.... Don’t you remember, Jane, what I said to -you at Welchester about it? With my never-failing perspicacity, I -foresaw the turn events would take, and I foresaw also exactly how she -would affect Eddy. You will no doubt recollect what I said (I hope you -always do); therefore I won’t repeat it now, even for Billy’s sake. But -I may tell you, Billy, that I prophesied the worst. I still prophesy -it.” - -“You’re too frightfully particular to live, Arnold,” Billy told him. -“She’s a very good sort and a very pleasant person. Rather like a brook -in sunlight, I thought her; her eyes are that colour, and her hair and -dress are the shadowed parts, and her laugh is like the water chuckling -over a stone. I like her.” - -“Oh, heavens,” Arnold groaned. “Of course you do. You and Jane are -hopeless. You may _like_ brooks in sunlight or puppies or anything else -in the universe--but you don’t want to go and _marry_ them because of -that.” - -“I don’t,” Billy admitted, peacefully. “But many people do. Eddy -obviously is one of them. And I should say it’s quite a good thing for -him to do.” - -“Of course it is,” said Jane, who was more interested at the moment in -the effect of the evening mist on the river. - -“Perhaps they’ll think better of it and break it off before the -wedding-day,” Arnold gloomily suggested. “There’s always that hope.... I -see no place for this thing called love in a reasonable life. It will -smash up Eddy, as it’s smashed up Eileen. I hate the thing.” - -“Eileen’s a little better lately,” said Jane presently. “She’s going to -play at Lovinski’s concert next week.” - -“She’s rather worse really,” said Billy, a singularly clear-sighted -person; and they left it at that. - -Billy was very likely right. At that moment Eileen was lying on the -floor of her room, her head on her flung-out arms, tearless and still, -muttering a name over and over, through clenched teeth. The passage of -time took her further from him, slow hour by slow hour; took her out -into cold, lonely seas of pain, to drown uncomforted. She was not rather -better. - -She would spend long mornings or evenings in the fields and lanes by the -Lea, walking or sitting, silent and alone. She never went to the -disorganised, lifeless remnant of Datcherd’s settlement; only she would -travel by the tram up Shoreditch and Mare Street to the north east, and -walk along the narrow path by the Lea-side wharf cottages, little and -old and jumbled, and so over the river on to Leyton Marsh, where sheep -crop the grass. Here she and Datcherd had often walked, after an evening -at the Club, and here she now wandered alone. These regions have a -queer, perhaps morbid, peace; they brood, as it were, on the fringe of -the huge world of London; they divide it, too, from that other stranger, -sadder world beyond the Lea, Walthamstow and its endless drab slums. - -Here, in the November twilight on Leyton Marsh, Eddy found her once. He -himself was bicycling back from Walthamstow, where he had been to see -one of his Club friends (he had made many) who lived there. Eileen was -leaning on a stile at the end of one of the footpaths that thread this -strange borderland. They met face to face; and she looked at him as if -she did not see him, as if she was expecting someone not him. He got off -his bicycle, and said “Eileen.” - -She looked at him dully, and said, “I’m waiting for Hugh.” - -He gently took her hand. “You’re cold. Come home with me.” - -Her dazed eyes upon his face slowly took perception and meaning, and -with them pain rushed in. She shuddered horribly, and caught away her -hand. - -“Oh ... I was waiting ... but it’s no use ... I suppose I’m going -mad....” - -“No. You’re only tired and unstrung. Come home now, won’t you. Indeed -you mustn’t stay.” - -The mists were white and chilly about them; it was a strange phantom -world, set between the million-eyed monster to the west, and the -smaller, sprawling, infinitely sad monster to the east. - -She flung out her arms to the red-eyed city, and moaned, “Hugh, Hugh, -Hugh,” till she choked and cried. - -Eddy bit his own lips to steady them. “Eileen--dear Eileen--come home. -He’d want you to.” - -She returned, through sobs that rent her. “He wants nothing any more. He -always wanted things, and never got them; and now he’s dead, the way he -can’t even want. But I want him; I want him; I want him--oh, Hugh!” - -So seldom she cried, so strung up and tense had she long been, even to -the verge of mental delusion, that now that a breaking-point had come, -she broke utterly, and cried and cried, and could not stop. - -He stood by her, saying nothing, waiting till he could be of use. At -last from very weariness she quieted, and stood very still, her head -bowed on her arms that were flung across the stile. - -He said then, “Dear, you will come now, won’t you,” and apathetically -she lifted her head, and her dim, wet, distorted face was strange in the -mist-swathed moonlight. - -Together they took the little path back over the grass-grown marsh, -where phantom sheep coughed in the fog, and so across the foot-bridge to -the London side of the Lea, and the little wharfside cottages, and up on -to the Lea Bridge Road, and into Mare Street, and there, by unusual good -fortune there strayed a taxi, a rare phenomenon north of Shoreditch, and -Eddy put Eileen and himself and his bicycle in it and on it, and so they -came back out of the wilds of the east, by Liverpool Street and the -city, across London to Campden Hill Road in the further west. And all -the way Eileen leant back exhausted and very still, only shuddering from -time to time, as one does after a fit of crying or of sickness. But by -the end of the journey she was a little restored. Listlessly she touched -Eddy’s hand with her cold one. - -“Eddy, you are a dear. You’ve been good to me, and I such a great fool. -I’m sorry. It isn’t often I am.... But I think if you hadn’t come -to-night I would have gone mad, no less. I was on the way there, I -believe. Thank you for saving me. And now you’ll come in and have -something, won’t you.” - -He would not come in. He should before this have been at Mrs. Crawford’s -for dinner. He waited to see her in, then hurried back to Soho to -dress. His last sight of her was as she turned to him in the doorway, -the light on her pale, tear-marred face, trying to smile to cheer him. -That was a good sign, he believed, that she could think even momentarily -of anyone but herself and the other who filled her being. - -Heavy-hearted for pity and regret, he drove back to his rooms and -hurriedly dressed, and arrived in Hyde Park Terrace desperately late, a -thing Mrs. Crawford found it hard to forgive. In fact, she did not try -to forgive it. She said, “Oh, we had quite given up hope. Hardwick, some -soup for Mr. Oliver.” - -Eddy said he would rather begin where they had got to. But he was not -allowed thus to evade his position, and had to hurry through four -courses before he caught them up. They were a small party, and he -apologised across the table to his hostess as he ate. - -“I’m frightfully sorry; simply abject. The fact is, I met a friend on -Leyton Marsh.” - -“On _what_?” - -“Leyton Marsh. Up in the north east, by the Lea, you know.” - -“I certainly don’t know. Is that where you usually take your evening -walks when dining in Kensington?” - -“Well, sometimes. It’s the way to Walthamstow, you see. I know some -people there.” - -“Really. You do, as the rationalist bishop told you, touch a very -extensive circle, certainly. And so you met one of them on this marsh, -and the pleasure of their society was such----” - -“She wasn’t well, and I took her back to where she lived. She lives in -Kensington, so it took ages; then I had to get back to Compton Street to -dress. Really, I’m awfully sorry.” - -Mrs. Crawford’s eyebrows conveyed attention to the sex of the friend; -then she resumed conversation with the barrister on her right. - -Molly said consolingly, “Don’t you mind, Eddy. She doesn’t really. She -only pretends to, for fun. She knows it wasn’t your fault. Of course you -had to take your friend home if she wasn’t well.” - -“I couldn’t have left her, as a matter of fact. She was frightfully -unhappy and unhinged.... It was Mrs. Le Moine.” He conquered a vague -reluctance and added this. He was not going to have the vestige of a -secret from Molly. - -She flushed quickly and said nothing, and he knew that he had hurt her. -Yet it was an unthinkable alternative to conceal the truth from her; -equally unthinkable not to do these things that hurt her. What then, -would be the solution? Simply he did not know. A change of attitude on -her part seemed to him the only possible one, and he had waited now long -for that in vain. To avert her sombreness and his, he began to talk -cheerfully to her about all manner of things, and she responded, but not -quite spontaneously. A shadow lay between them. - -So obvious was it that after dinner he told her so, in those words. - -She tried to smile. “Does it? How silly you are.” - -“You’d better tell me the worst, you know. You think it was ill-bred of -me to be late for dinner.” - -“What rubbish; I don’t. As if you could help it.” - -But he knew she thought he could have helped it. So they left it at -that, and the shadow remained. - -Eddy, it may have been mentioned, had the gift of sympathy largely -developed--the quality of his defect of impressionability. He had it -more than is customary. People found that he said and felt the most -consoling thing, and left unsaid the less. It was because he found -realisation easy. So people in trouble often came to him. Eileen Le -Moine, reaching out in her desperate need on the mist-bound marshes, -had, as it were, met the saving grasp of his hand. Half-consciously she -had let it draw her out of the deep waters where she was sinking, on to -the shores of sanity. She reached out to him again. He had cared for -Hugh; he cared for her; he understood how nothing in heaven and earth -now mattered; he did not try to give her interests; he simply gave her -his sorrow and understanding and his admiration of Hugh. So she claimed -it, as a drowning man clutches instinctively at the thing which will -best support him. And as she claimed he gave. He gave of his best. He -tried to make Molly give too, but she would not. - -There came a day when Bridget Hogan wrote and said that she had to go -out of town for Sunday, and didn’t want to leave Eileen alone in the -flat all day, and would Eddy come and see her there--come to lunch, -perhaps, and stay for the afternoon. - -“You are good for her; better than anyone else, I think,” Bridget wrote. -“She feels she can talk about Hugh to you, though to hardly anyone--not -even to me much. I am anxious about her just now. Please do come if you -can.” - -Eddy, who had been going to lunch and spend the afternoon at the -Crawfords’, made no question about it. He went to Molly and told her how -it was. She listened silently. The room was strange with fog and blurred -lights, and her small grave face was strange and pale too. - -Eddy said, “Molly, I wish you would come too, just this once. She would -love it; she would indeed.... Just this once, Molly, because she’s in -such trouble. Will you?” - -Molly shook her head, and he somehow knew it was because she did not -trust her voice. - -“Well, never mind, then, darling. I’ll go alone.” - -Still she did not speak. After a moment he rose to go. He took her cold -hands in his, and would have kissed her, but she pushed him back, still -wordless. So for a moment they stood, silent and strange and perplexed -in the blurred fog-bound room, hands locked in hands. - -Then Molly spoke, steady-voiced at last. - -“I want to say something, Eddy. I must, please.” - -“Do, sweetheart.” - -She looked at him, as if puzzled by herself and him and the world, -frowning a little, childishly. - -“We can’t go on, Eddy. I ... I can’t go on.” - -Cold stillness fell over him like a pall. The fog-shadows huddled up -closer round them. - -“What do you mean, Molly?” - -“Just that. I can’t do it.... We mustn’t be engaged any more.” - -“Oh, yes, we must. I must, you must. Molly, don’t talk such ghastly -nonsense. I won’t have it. Those aren’t things to be said between you -and me, even in fun.” - -“It’s not in fun. We mustn’t be engaged any more, because we don’t fit. -Because we make each other unhappy. Because, if we married, it would be -worse. No--listen now; it’s only this once and for all, and I must get -it all out; don’t make it more difficult than it need be, Eddy. It’s -because you have friends I can’t ever have; you care for people I must -always think bad; I shall never fit into your set.... The very fact of -your caring for them and not minding what they’ve done, proves we’re -miles apart really.” - -“We’re not miles apart.” Eddy’s hands on her shoulders drew her to him. -“We’re close together--like this. And all the rest of the world can go -and drown itself. Haven’t we each other, and isn’t it enough?” - -She pulled away, her two hands against his breast. - -“No, it isn’t enough. Not enough for either of us. Not for me, because I -can’t not mind that you think differently from me about things. And not -for you, because you want--you need to have--all the rest of the world -too. You don’t mean that about its drowning itself. If you did, you -wouldn’t be going to spend Sunday with----” - -“No, I suppose I shouldn’t. You’re right. The rest of the world mustn’t -drown itself, then; but it must stand well away from us and not get in -our way.” - -“And you don’t mean that, either,” said Molly, strangely clear-eyed. -“You’re not made to care only for one person--you need lots. And if we -were married, you’d either have them, or you’d be cramped and unhappy. -And you’d want the people I can’t understand or like. And you’d want me -to like them, and I couldn’t. And we should both be miserable.” - -“Oh, Molly, Molly, are we so silly as all that? Just trust life--just -live it--don’t let’s brood over it and map out all its difficulties -beforehand. Just trust it--and trust love--isn’t love good enough for a -pilot?--and we’ll take the plunge together.” - -She still held him away with her pressing hands, and whispered, “No, -love isn’t good enough. Not--not your love for me, Eddy.” - -“_Not?_” - -“No.” Quite suddenly she weakened and collapsed, and her hands fell -from him, and she hid her face in them and the tears came. - -“No--don’t touch me, or I can’t say it. I know you care ... but there -are so many ways of caring. There’s the way you care for me ... and the -way ... the way you’ve always cared for ... her....” - -Eddy stood and looked down at her as she crouched huddled in a chair, -and spoke gently. - -“There _are_ many ways of caring. Perhaps one cares for each of one’s -friends rather differently--I don’t know. But love is different from -them all. And I love you, Molly. I have loved no one else, ever, in that -sense.... I’m not going to pretend I don’t understand you. By ‘her’ I -believe you mean Eileen Le Moine. Now can you look me in the face and -say you think I care for Eileen Le Moine in--in that way? No, of course -you can’t. You know I don’t; what’s more, you know I never did. I have -always admired her, liked her, been fond of her, attracted to her. If -you asked why I have never fallen in love with her, I suppose I should -answer that it was, in the first instance, because she never gave me the -chance. She has always, since I knew her, been so manifestly given over, -heart and soul, to someone else. To fall in love with her would have -been absurd. Love needs just the element of potential reciprocity; at -least, for me it does. There was never that element with Eileen. So I -never--quite--fell in love with her. That perhaps was my reason before I -found I cared for you. After that, no reason was needed. I had found -the real thing.... And now you talk of taking it away from me. Molly, -say you don’t mean it; say so at once, please.” She had stopped crying, -and sat huddled in the big chair, with downbent, averted face. - -“But I do mean it, Eddy.” Her voice came small and uncertain through the -fog-choked air. “Truly I do. You see, the things I hate and can’t get -over are just nothing at all to you. We don’t feel the same about right -and wrong.... There’s religion, now. You want me, and you’d want me more -if we were married, to be friends with people who haven’t any, in the -sense I mean, and don’t want any. Well, I can’t. I’ve often told you. I -suppose I’m made that way. So there it is; it wouldn’t be happy a bit, -for either of us.... And then there are the wrong things people do, and -which you don’t mind. Perhaps I’m a prig, but anyhow we’re different, -and I do mind. I shall always mind. And I shouldn’t like to feel I was -getting in the way of your having the friends you liked, and we should -have to go separate ways, and though you could be friends with all my -friends--because you can with everyone--I couldn’t with all yours, and -we should hate it. You want so many more kinds of things and people than -I do; I suppose that’s it.” (Arnold Denison, who had once said, “Her -share of the world is homogeneous; his is heterogeneous,” would perhaps -have been surprised at her discernment, confirming his.) - -Eddy said, “I want you. Whatever else I want, I want you. If you want -me--if you did want me, as I thought you did--it would be enough. If you -don’t.... But you do, you must, you do.” - -And it was no argument. And she had reason and logic on her side, and he -nothing but the unreasoning reason of love. And so through the dim -afternoon they fought it out, and he came up against a will firmer than -his own, holding both their loves in check, a vision clearer than his -own, seeing life steadily and seeing it whole, till at last the vision -was drowned in tears, and she sobbed to him to go, because she would -talk no more. He went, vanquished and angry, out into the black, muffled -city, and groped his way to Soho, like a man who has been robbed of his -all and is full of bitterness but unbeaten, and means to get it back by -artifice or force. - -He went back next day, and the day after that, hammering desperately on -the shut door of her resolve. The third day she left London and went -home. He only saw Mrs. Crawford, who looked at him speculatively and -with an odd touch of pity, and said, “So it’s all over. Molly seems to -know her own mind. I dislike broken engagements exceedingly; they are so -noticeable, and give so much trouble. One would have thought that in all -the years you have known each other one of you might have discovered -your incompatibility before entering into rash compacts. But dear Molly -only sees a little at a time, and that extremely clearly. She tells me -you wouldn’t suit each other. Well, she may be right, and anyhow I -suppose she must be allowed to judge. But I am sorry.” - -She was kind; she hoped he would still come and see them; she talked, -and her voice was far away and irrelevant. He left her. He was like a -man who has been robbed of his all and knows he will never get it back, -by any artifice or any force. - -On Sunday he went to Eileen. It seemed about a month ago that he had -heard from Bridget asking him to do so. He found her listless and -heavy-eyed, and yawning from lack of sleep. Gently he led her to talk, -till Hugh Datcherd seemed to stand alive in the room, caressed by their -allusions. He told her of people who missed him; quoted what working-men -of the Settlement had said of him; discussed his work. She woke from -apathy. It was as if, among a world that, meaning kindness, bade her -forget, this one voice bade her remember, and remembered with her; as -if, among many voices that softened over his name as with pity for -sadness and failure, this one voice rang glorying in his success. Sheer -intuition had told Eddy that that was what she wanted, what she was sick -for--some recognition, some triumph for him whose gifts had seemed to be -broken and wasted, whose life had set in the greyness of unsuccess. As -far as one man could give her what she wanted, he gave it, with both -hands, and so she clung to him out of all the kind, uncomprehending -world. - -They talked far into the grey afternoon. And she grew better. She grew -so much better that she said to him suddenly, “You look tired to death, -do you know. What have you been doing to yourself?” - -With the question and her concerned eyes, the need came to him in his -turn for sympathy. - -“I’ve been doing nothing. Molly has. She has broken off our engagement.” - -“Do you say so?” She was startled, sorry, pitiful. She forgot her own -grief. “My dear--and I bothering you with my own things and never seeing -how it was with you! How good you’ve been to me, Eddy. I wonder is there -anyone else in the world would be so patient and so kind. Oh, but I’m -sorry.” - -She asked no questions, and he did not tell her much. But to talk of it -was good for both of them. She tried to give him back some of the -sympathy she had had of him; she was only partly successful, being still -half numbed and bound by her own sorrow; but the effort a little -loosened the bands. And part of him watched their loosening with -interest, as a doctor watches a patient’s first motions of returning -health, while the other part found relief in talking to her. It was a -strange, half selfish, half unselfish afternoon they both had, and a -little light crept in through the fogs that brooded about both of them. -Eileen said as he went, “It’s been dear of you to come like this.... I’m -going to spend next Sunday at Holmbury St. Mary. If you’re doing nothing -else, I wish you’d come there too, and we’ll spend the day tramping.” - -Her thought was to comfort both of them, and he accepted it gladly. The -thought came to him that there was no one now to mind how he spent his -Sundays. Molly would have minded. She would have thought it odd, not -proper, hardly right. Having lost her partly on this very account, he -threw himself with the more fervour into this mission of help and -healing to another and himself. His loss did not thus seem such utter -waste, the emptiness of the long days not so blank. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -_UNITY_. - - -The office of _Unity_ was a room on the top floor of the Denisons’ -publishing house. It looked out on Fleet Street, opposite Chancery Lane. -Sitting there, Eddy, when not otherwise engaged (he and Arnold were -joint editors of _Unity_) watched the rushing tide far below, the people -crowding by. There with the tide went the business men, the lawyers, the -newspaper people, who made thought and ensued it, the sellers and the -buyers. Each had his and her own interests, his and her own irons in the -fire. They wanted none of other people’s; often they resented other -people’s. Yet, looked at long enough ahead (one of the editors in his -trite way mused) all interests must be the same in the end. No state, -surely, could thrive, divided into factions, one faction spoiling -another. They must needs have a common aim, find a heterogeneous city of -peace. So _Unity_, gaily flinging down barriers, cheerily bestriding -walls, with one foot planted in each neighbouring and antagonistic -garden--_Unity_, so sympathetic with all causes, so ably written, so -versatile, must surely succeed. - -_Unity_ really was rather well written, rather interesting. New -magazines so often are. The co-operative contributors, being clever -people, and fresh-minded, usually found some new, unstaled aspect of the -topics they touched, and gave them life. The paper, except for a few -stories and poems and drawings, was frankly political and social in -trend; it dealt with current questions, not in the least impartially -(which is so dull), but taking alternate and very definite points of -view. Some of these articles were by the staff, others by specialists. -Not afraid to aim high, they endeavoured to get (in a few cases -succeeded, in most failed) articles by prominent supporters and -opponents of the views they handled; as, for example, Lord Hugh Cecil -and Dr. Clifford on Church Disestablishment; Mr. Harold Cox and Sir -William Robertson Nicholl on Referendums, Dr. Cunningham and Mr. -Strachey on Tariff Reform; Mr. Roger Fry and Sir William Richmond on -Art; Lord Robert Cecil and the Sidney Webbs on the Minimum Wage; the -Dean of Welchester and Mr. Hakluyt Egerton on Prayer Book Revision; Mr. -Conrad Noel and Mr. Victor Grayson on Socialism as Synonymous with -Christianity, an Employer, a Factory Hand, and Miss Constance Smith, on -the Inspection of Factories; Mrs. Fawcett and Miss Violet Markham on -Women as Political Creatures; Mr. J. M. Robertson and Monsignor R. H. -Benson on the Church as an Agent for Good; land-owners, farmers, -labourers, and Mr. F. E. Greene, on Land Tenure. (The farmers’ and -labourers’ articles were among the failures, and had to be editorially -supplied.) A paper’s reach must exceed its grasp, or what are -enterprising editors for? But _Unity_ did actually grasp some writers of -note, and some of unlettered ardour, and supplied, to fill the gaps in -these, contributors of a certain originality and vividness of outlook. -On the whole it was a readable production, as productions go. There were -several advertisements on the last page; most, of course, were of books -published by the Denisons, but there were also a few books published by -other people, and, one proud week, “Darn No More,” “Why Drop Ink,” and -“Dry Clean Your Dog.” “Dry Clean Your Dog” seemed to the editors -particularly promising; dogs, though led, indeed, by some literary -people about the book-shops of towns, suggest in the main a wider, more -breezy, less bookish class of reader; the advertisement called up a -pleasant picture of _Unity_ being perused in the country, perhaps even -as far away as Weybridge; lying on hall tables along with the _Field_ -and _Country Life_, while its readers obediently repaired to the kennels -with a dry shampoo.... It was an encouraging picture. For, though any -new journal can get taken in (for a time) by the bookier cliques of -cities, who read and write so much that they do not need to be very -careful, in either case, what it is, how few shall force a difficult -entrance into our fastidious country homes. - -The editors of _Unity_ could not, indeed, persuade themselves that they -had a large circulation in the country as yet. Arnold said from the -first, “We never shall have. That is very certain.” - -Eddy said, “Why?” He hoped they would have. It was his hope that _Unity_ -would circulate all round the English-speaking world. - -“Because we don’t stand for anything,” said Arnold, and Eddy returned, -“We stand for everything. We stand for Truth. We are of Use.” - -“We stand for a lot of lies, too,” Arnold pointed out, because he -thought it was lies to say that Tariff Reform and Referendums and -Democracies were good things, and that Everyone should Vote, and that -Plays should be Censored, and the Prayer Book Revised, and lots of other -things. Eddy, who knew that Arnold knew that he for his part thought -these things true, did not trouble to say so again. - -Arnold added, “Not, of course, that standing for lies is any check on -circulation; quite the contrary; but it’s dangerous to mix them up with -the truth; you confuse people’s minds. The fact that I do not approve of -any existing form of government or constitution of society, and that you -approve of all, makes us harmonious collaborators, but hardly gives us, -as an editorial body, enough insight into the mind of the average -potential reader, who as a rule prefers, quite definitely prefers, one -party or one state of things to another; has, in fact, no patience with -any other, and does not in the least wish to be told how admirable it -is. And if he does--if a country squire, for instance, really does want -to hear a eulogy of Free Trade--(there may be a few such squires, -possibly, hidden in the home counties; I doubt it, but there may)--well, -there is the _Spectator_ ready to his hand. The _Spectator_, which has -the incidental advantage of not disgusting him on the next page with ‘A -Word for a Free Drama,’ or ‘Socialism as Synonymous with Christianity.’ -If, on the other hand, as might conceivably happen, he desired to hear -the praises of Tariff Reform--well, there are the _Times_ and the -_Morning Post_, both organs that he knows and trusts. And if, by any -wild chance, in an undisciplined mood, he craved for an attack on the -censorship, or other insubordinate sentiments, he might find at any rate -a few to go on with in, say, the _English Review_. Or, if it is -Socialism he wants to hear about (and I never yet met the land-owner, -did you, who hadn’t Socialism on the brain; it’s a class obsession), -there is the _New Statesman_, so bright, thorough, and reliable. Or, if -he wants to learn the point of view and the grievances of his tenant -farmers or his agricultural labourers, without asking them, he can read -books on ‘The Tyranny of the Countryside,’ or take in the _Vineyard_. -Anyhow, where does _Unity_ come in? I don’t see it, I’m afraid. It would -be different if we were merely or mainly literary, but we’re frankly -political. To be political without being partisan is savourless, like an -egg without salt. It doesn’t go down. Liberals don’t like, while reading -a paper, to be hit in the eye by long articles headed ‘Toryism as the -only Basis.’ Unionists don’t care to open at a page inscribed ‘The Need -for Home Rule.’ Socialists object to being confronted by articles on -‘Liberty as an Ideal.’ No one wants to see exploited and held up for -admiration the ideals of others antagonistic to their own. You yourself -wouldn’t read an article--not a long article, anyhow--called ‘Party -Warfare as the Ideal.’ At least you might, because you’re that kind of -lunatic, but few would. That is why we shall not sell well, when people -have got over buying us because we’re new.” - -Eddy merely said, “We’re good. We’re interesting. Look at this drawing -of Jane’s; and this thing of Le Moine’s. They by themselves should sell -us, as mere art and literature. There are lots of people who’ll let us -have any politics we like if we give them things as good as that with -them.” - -But Arnold jeered at the idea of there being enough readers who cared -for good work to make a paper pay. “The majority care for bad, -unfortunately.” - -“Well, anyhow,” said Eddy, “the factory articles are making a stir among -employers. Here’s a letter that came this morning.” - -Arnold read it. - -“He thinks it’s his factory we meant, apparently. Rather annoyed, he -sounds. ‘Does not know if we purpose a series on the same subject’--nor -if so what’s going to get put into it, I suppose. I imagine he suspects -one of his own hands of being the author. It wasn’t, though, was it; it -was a jam man. And very temperate in tone it was; most unreasonable of -any employer to cavil at it. The remarks were quite general, too; mainly -to the effect that all factories were unwholesome, and all days too -long; statements that can hardly be disputed even by the proudest -employer. I expect he’s more afraid of what’s coming than of what’s come -already.” - -“Anyhow,” said Eddy, “_he’s_ coming. In about ten minutes, too. Shall I -see him, or you?” - -“Oh, you can. What does he want out of us?” - -“I suppose he wants to know who wrote the article, and if we purpose a -series. I shall tell him we do, and that I hope the next number of it -will be an article by him on the Grievances of Employers. We need one, -and it ought to sweeten him. Anyhow it will show him we’ve no prejudice -in the matter. He can say all workers are pampered and all days too -short, if he likes. I should think that would be him coming up now.” - -It was not him, but a sturdy and sweet-faced young man with an article -on the Irrelevance of the Churches to the World’s Moral Needs. The -editors, always positive, never negative, altered the title to the Case -for Secularism. It was to be set next to an article by a Church -Socialist on Christianity the Only Remedy. The sweet-faced young man -objected to this, but was over-ruled. In the middle of the discussion -came the factory owner, and Eddy was left alone to deal with him. After -that as many of the contributors as found it convenient met at lunch at -the Town’s End Tavern, as they generally did on Fridays, to discuss the -next week’s work. - -This was at the end of January, when _Unity_ had been running for two -months. The first two months of a weekly paper may be significant, but -are not conclusive. The third month is more so. Mr. Wilfred Denison, who -published _Unity_, found the third month conclusive enough for him. He -said so. At the Town’s End on a foggy Friday towards the end of -February, Arnold and Eddy announced at lunch that _Unity_ was going to -stop. No one was surprised. Most of these people were journalists, and -used to these catastrophic births and deaths, so radiant or so sad, and -often so abrupt. It is better when they are abrupt. Some die a long and -lingering death, with many recuperations, artificial galvanisations, -desperate recoveries, and relapses. The end is the same in either case; -better that it should come quickly. It was an expected moment in this -case, even to the day, for the contract with the contributors had been -that the paper should run on its preliminary trial trip for three -months, and then consider its position. - -Arnold, speaking for the publishers, announced the result of the -consideration. - -“It’s no good. We’ve got to stop. We’re not increasing. In fact, we’re -dwindling. Now that people’s first interest in a new thing is over, they -don’t buy us enough to pay our way.” - -“The advertisements are waning, certainly,” said someone. “They’re -nearly all books and author’s agencies and fountain pens now. That’s a -bad sign.” - -Arnold agreed. “We’re mainly bought now by intellectuals and -non-political people. As a political paper, we can’t grow fat on that; -there aren’t enough of them.... We’ve discussed whether we should change -our aim and become purely literary; but after all, that’s not what we’re -out for, and there are too many of such papers already. We’re -essentially political and practical, and if we’re to succeed as that, -we’ve got to be partisan too, there’s no doubt about it. Numbers of -people have told us they don’t understand our line, and want to know -precisely what we’re driving at politically. We reply we’re driving at a -union of parties, a throwing down of barriers. No one cares for that; -they think it silly, and so do I. So, probably, do most of us; perhaps -all of us except Oliver. Ned Jackson, for instance, was objecting the -other day to my anti-Union article on the Docks strike appearing side by -side with his own remarks of an opposite tendency. He, very naturally, -would like _Unity_ not merely to sing the praise of the Unions, but to -give no space to the other side. I quite understand it; I felt the same -myself. I extremely disliked his article; but the principles of the -paper compelled us to take it. Why, my own father dislikes his essays on -the Monistic Basis to be balanced by Professor Wedgewood’s on Dualism as -a Necessity of Thought. A philosophy, according to him, is either good -or bad, true or false. So, to most people, are all systems of thought -and principles of conduct. Very naturally, therefore, they prefer that -the papers they read should eschew evil as well as seeking good. And so, -since one can’t (fortunately) read everything, they read those which -seem to them to do so. I should myself, if I could find one which seemed -to me to do so, only I never have.... Well, I imagine that’s the sort of -reason _Unity’s_ failing; it’s too comprehensive.” - -“It’s too uneven on the literary and artistic side,” suggested a -contributor. “You can’t expect working-men, for instance, who may be -interested in the more practical side of the paper, to read it if it’s -liable to be weighted by Raymond’s verse, or Le Moine’s essays, or Miss -Dawn’s drawings. On the other hand, the clever people are occasionally -shocked by coming on verse and prose suitable for working men. I expect -it’s that; you can’t rely on it; it’s not all of a piece, even on its -literary side, like _Tit-Bits_, for instance. People like to know what -to expect.” - -Cecil Le Moine said wearily in his high sweet voice, “Considering how -few things do pay, I can’t imagine why any of you ever imagined _Unity_ -would pay. I said from the first ... but no one listened to me; they -never do. It’s not _Unity’s_ fault; it’s the fault of all the other -papers. There are hundreds too many already; millions too many. They -want thinning, like dandelions in a garden, and instead, like -dandelions, they spread like a disease. Something ought to be done about -it. I hate Acts of Parliament, but this is really a case for one. It is -surely Mr. McKenna’s business to see to it; but I suppose he is kept too -busy with all these vulgar disturbances. Anyhow, _we_ have done our best -now to stem the tide. There will be one paper less. Perhaps some of the -others will follow our example. Perhaps the _Record_ will. I met a woman -in the train yesterday (between Hammersmith and Turnham Green it was), -and I passed her my copy of _Unity_ to read. I thought she would like to -read my Dramatic Criticism, so it was folded back at that, but she -turned over the pages till she came to something about the Roman -Catholic Church, by some Monsignor; then she handed it back to me and -said she always took the _Record_. She obviously supposed _Unity_ to be -a Popish organ. I hunted through it for some Dissenting sentiments, and -found an article by a Welsh Calvinistic Methodist on Disestablishment, -but it was too late; she had got out. But there it is, you see; she -always took the _Record_. They all always take something. There are too -many.... Well, anyhow, can’t we all ask each other to dinner one night, -to wind ourselves up? A sort of funeral feast. Or ought the editors to -ask the rest of us? Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken.” - -“You should not,” Eddy said. “We were going to introduce that subject -later on.” - -The company, having arranged the date of the dinner, and of the final -business meeting, dispersed and got back to their several jobs. No one -minded particularly about _Unity’s_ death, except Eddy. They were so -used to that sort of thing, in the world of shifting fortunes in which -writers for papers move. - -But Eddy minded a good deal. For several months he had lived in and for -this paper; he had loved it extraordinarily. He had loved it for itself, -and for what, to him, it stood for. It had been his contribution to the -cause that seemed to him increasingly of enormous importance; -increasingly, as the failure of the world at large to appreciate it -flung him from failure to failure, wrested opportunities one by one out -of his grasp. People wouldn’t realise that they were all one; that, -surely, was the root difficulty of this distressed world. They would -think that one set of beliefs excluded another; they were blind, they -were rigid, they were mad. So they wouldn’t read _Unity_, surely a good -paper; so _Unity_ must perish for lack of being wanted, poor lonely -waif. Eddy rebelled against the sinking of the little ship he had -launched and loved; it might, it would, had it been given a chance, have -done good work. But its chance was over; he must find some other way. - -To cheer himself up when he left the office at six o’clock, he went -eastward, to see some friends he had in Stepney. But it did not cheer -him up, for they were miserable, and he could not comfort them. He found -a wife alone, waiting for her husband and sons, who were still out at -the docks where they worked, though they ought to have been back an hour -since. And they were blacklegs, and had refused to come out with the -strikers. The wife was white, and red-eyed. - -“They watch for them,” she whimpered. “They lay and wait for them, and -set on them, many to one, and do for them. There was someone ’eard a -Union man say he meant to do for my men one day. I begged my man to come -out, or anyhow to let the boys, but he wouldn’t, and he says the Union -men may go to ’ell for ’im. I know what’ll be the end. There was a man -drowned yesterday; they found ’im in the canal, ’is ’ands tied up; ’e -wouldn’t come out, and so they did for ’im, the devils. And it’s just -seven, and they stop at six.” - -“They’ve very likely stopped at the public for a bit on the way home,” -Eddy suggested gently, but she shook her head. - -“They’ve not bin stoppin’ anywhere since the strike began. Them as won’t -come out get no peace at the public.... The Union’s a cruel thing, that -it is, and my man and lads that never do no ’urt to nobody, they’ll lay -and wait for ’em till they can do for ’em.... There’s Mrs. Japhet, in -Jubilee Street; she’s lost her young man; they knocked ’im down and -kicked ’im to death on ’is way ’ome the other day. Of course ’e was a -Jew, too, which made ’im more rightly disliked as it were; but it were -because ’e wouldn’t come out they did it. And there was Mrs. Jim Turner; -they laid for ’er and bashed ’er ’ead in at the corner of Salmon Lane, -to spite Turner. And they’re so sly, the police can’t lay ’ands on -them, scarcely ever.... And it’s gone seven, and as dark as ’ats.” - -She opened the door and stood listening and crying. At the end of the -squalid street the trams jangled by along Commercial Road, bringing men -and women home from work. - -“They’ll be all right if they come by tram,” said Eddy. - -“There’s all up Jamaica Street to walk after they get out,” she wailed. - -Eddy went down the street and met them at the corner, a small man and -two big boys, slouching along the dark street, Fred Webb and his sons, -Sid and Perce. He had known them well last year at Datcherd’s club; they -were uncompromising individualists, and liberty was their watchword. -They loathed the Union like poison. - -Fred Webb said that there had been a bit of a row down at the docks, -which had kept them. “There was Ben Tillett speaking, stirring them up -all. They began hustling about a bit--but we got clear. The missus wants -me to come out, but I’m not having any.” - -“Come out with that lot!” Sid added, in a rather unsteady voice. “I’d -see them all damned first. _You_ wouldn’t say we ought to come out, Mr. -Oliver, would you?” - -Eddy said, “Well, not just now, of course. In a general way, I suppose -there’s some sense in it.” - -“Sense!” growled Webb. “Don’t you go talking to my boys like that, sir, -if you please. You’re not going to come out, Sid, so you needn’t think -about it. Good night, Mr. Oliver.” - -Eddy, dismissed, went to see another Docks family he knew, and heard how -the strike was being indefinitely dragged out and its success -jeopardised by the blacklegs, who thought only for themselves. - -“I hate a man not to have public spirit. The mean skunks. They’d let all -the rest go to the devil just to get their own few shillings regular -through the bad times.” - -“They’ve a right to judge for themselves, I suppose,” said Eddy, and -added a question as to the powers of the decent men to prevent -intimidation and violence. - -The man looked at him askance. - -“Ain’t no ’timidation or violence, as I know of. ‘Course they say so; -they’ll say anything. Whenever a man gets damaged in a private quarrel -they blame it on the Union chaps now. It’s their opportunity. Pack o’ -liars, they are. ‘Course a man may get hurt in a row sometimes; you -can’t help rows; but that’s six of one and ’alf a dozen of the other, -and it’s usually the blacklegs as begin it. We only picket them, quite -peaceful.... Judge for themselves, did you say? No, dang them; that’s -just what no man’s a right to do. It’s selfish; that’s what it is.... -I’ve no patience with these ’ere individualists.” - -Discovering that Eddy had, he shut up sullenly and suspiciously, and -ceased to regard him as a friend, so Eddy left him. On the whole, it -had not been a cheery evening. - -He told Arnold about it when he got home. - -“There’s such a frightful lot to be said on both sides,” he added. - -Arnold said, “There certainly is. A frightful lot. If one goes down to -the Docks any day one may hear a good deal of it being said; only that’s -nearly all on one side, and the wrong side.... I loathe the Unions and -their whole system; it’s revolting, the whole theory of the thing, quite -apart from the bullying and coercion.” - -“I should rather like,” said Eddy, “to go down to the Docks to-morrow -and hear the men speaking. Will you come?” - -“Well, I can’t answer for myself; I may murder someone; but I’ll come if -you’ll take the risk of that.” - -Eddy hadn’t known before that Arnold, the cynical and negligent, felt so -strongly about anything. He was rather interested. - -“You’ve got to _have_ Unions, surely you’d admit that,” he argued. This -began a discussion too familiar in outline to be retailed; the reasons -for Unions and against them are both exceedingly obvious, and may be -imagined as given. It lasted them till late at night. - -They went down to the Docks next day, about six o’clock in the evening. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -ARNOLD. - - -There was a crowd outside the Docks gates. Some, under the eyes of -vigilant policemen, were picketing the groups of workmen as they came -sullenly, nervously, defiantly, or indifferently out from the Docks. -Others were listening to a young man speaking from a cart. Arnold and -Eddy stopped to listen, too. It was poor stuff; not at all interesting. -But it was adapted to its object and its audience, and punctuated by -vehement applause. At the cheering, Arnold looked disgustedly on the -ground; no doubt he was ashamed of the human race. But Eddy thought, -“The man’s a fool, but he’s got hold of something sound. The man’s a -stupid man, but he’s got brains on his side, and strength, and -organisation; all the forces that make for civilisation. They’re crude, -they’re brutal, they’re revolting, these people, but they do look ahead, -and that’s civilisation.” The Tory-Socialist side of him thus -appreciated, while the Liberal-Individualist side applauded the -blacklegs coming up from work. The human side applauded them, too; they -were few among many, plucky men surrounded by murderous bullies, who -would as likely as not track some of them home and bash their heads in -on their own doorsteps, and perhaps their wives’ heads too. - -Eddy caught sight of Fred Webb and his two sons walking in a group, -surrounded by picketters. Suddenly the scene became a nightmare to him, -impossibly dreadful. Somehow he knew that people were going to hurt and -be hurt very soon. He looked at the few police, and wondered at the -helplessness or indifference of the law, that lets such things be, that -is powerless to guard citizens from assault and murder. - -He heard Arnold give a short laugh at his side, and recalled his -attention to what the man on the cart was saying. - -“The poor lunatic can’t even make sense and logic out of his own case,” -Arnold remarked. “I could do it better myself.” - -Eddy listened. It was indeed pathetically stupid, pointless, -sentimental. - -After another minute of it, Arnold said, “Since they’re so ready to -listen, why shouldn’t they listen to me for a change?” and scrambled up -on to a cart full of barrels and stood for a moment looking round. The -speaker went on speaking, but someone cried, “Here’s another chap with -something to say. Let ’im say it, mate; go on, young feller.” - -Arnold did go on. He had certainly got something to say, and he said it. -For a minute or two the caustic quality of his utterances was missed; -then it was slowly apprehended. Someone groaned, and someone else -shouted, “Chuck it. Pull him down.” - -Arnold had a knack of biting and disagreeable speech, and he was using -it. He was commenting on the weak points in the other man’s speech. But -if he had thought to persuade any, he was disillusioned. Like an -audience of old, they cried out with a loud voice, metaphorically -stopped their ears, and ran at him with one accord. Someone threw a -brick at him. The next moment hands dragged him down and hustled him -away. A voice Eddy recognised as Webb’s cried, “Fair play; let ’im -speak, can’t you. ’E was talking sense, which is more than most here -do.” - -The scuffling and hustling became excited and violent. It was becoming a -free fight. Blacklegs were surrounded threateningly by strikers; the -police drew nearer. Eddy pushed through shoving, angry men to get to -Arnold. They recognised him as Arnold’s companion, and hustled him -about. Arnold was using his fists. Eddy saw him hit a man on the mouth. -Someone kicked Eddy on the shin. He shot out his fist mechanically, and -hit the man in the face, and thought, “I must have hurt him a lot, what -a lot of right he’s got on his side,” before the blow was returned, -cutting his lip open. - -He saw Arnold disappear, borne down by an angry group; he pushed towards -him, jostling through the men in his way, who were confusedly giving now -before the mounted police. He could not reach Arnold; he lost sight of -where he was; he was carried back by the swaying crowd. He heard a -whimpering boy’s voice behind him, “Mr. Oliver, sir,” and looked round -into young Sid Webb’s sick, frightened face. - -“They’ve downed dad.... And I think they’ve done for him.... They kicked -him on the head.... They’re after me now----” - -Eddy said, “Stick near me,” and the next moment Sid gave an angry -squeal, because someone was twisting his arm back. Eddy turned round and -hit a man under the chin, sending him staggering back under the feet of -a plunging horse. The sight of the trampling hoofs so near the man’s -head turned Eddy sick; he swore and caught at the rein, and dragged the -horse sharply sideways. The policeman riding it brought down his -truncheon violently on his arm, which dropped nerveless and heavy at his -side. Hands caught at his knees from below; he was dragged suddenly to -the ground, and saw, looking up, the bleeding face of the man he had -knocked down close to his own. The next moment the man was up, trampling -him, pushing out of the way of the plunging horse. Eddy struggled to his -knees, tried to get up, and could not. He was beaten down by a writhing -forest of legs and heavy boots. He gave it up, and fell over on his side -into the slimy, trodden mud. Everything hurt desperately--other -people’s feet, his own arm, his face, his body. The forest smelt of mud -and human clothes, and suddenly became quite dark. - -Someone was lifting his head, and trying to make him drink brandy. He -opened his eyes and said, moving his cut lips stiffly and painfully, -“Their principles are right, but their methods are rotten.” Someone else -said, “He’s coming round,” and he came. - -He could breathe and see now, for the forest had gone. There were people -still, and gas-lamps, and stars, but all remote. There were policemen, -and he remembered how they had hurt him. It seemed, indeed, that -everyone had hurt him. All their principles were no doubt right; but all -their methods were certainly rotten. - -“I’m going to get up,” he said, and lay still. - -“Where do you live?” asked someone. “Perhaps he’d better be taken to -hospital.” - -Eddy said, “Oh, no. I live somewhere all right. Besides, I’m not hurt,” -but he could not talk well, because his mouth was so swollen. In another -moment he remembered where he did live. “22A, Old Compton Street, of -course.” That reminded him of Arnold. Things were coming back to him. - -“Where’s my friend?” he mumbled. “He was knocked down, too.” - -They said, “Don’t you worry about him; he’ll be looked after all right,” -and Eddy sat up and said, “I suppose you mean he’s dead,” quietly, and -with conviction. - -Since that was what they did mean, they hushed him and told him not to -worry, and he lay back in the mud and was quiet. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -EILEEN. - - -Eddy lay for some days in bed, battered and bruised, and slightly -broken. He was not seriously damaged; not irreparably like Arnold; -Arnold, who was beyond piecing together. - -Through the queer, dim, sad days and nights, Eddy’s weakened thoughts -were of Arnold; Arnold the cynical, the sceptical, the supercilious, the -scornful; Arnold, who had believed in nothing, and had yet been murdered -for believing in something, and saying so. Arnold had hated democratic -tyranny, and his hatred had given his words and his blows a force that -had recoiled on himself and killed him. Eddy’s blows on that chaotic, -surprising evening had lacked this energy; his own consciousness of -hating nothing had unnerved him; so he hadn’t died. He had merely been -buffeted about and knocked out of the way like so much rubbish by both -combatant sides in turn. He bore the scars of the strikers’ fists and -boots, and of the heavy truncheon of the law. Both sides had struck him -as an enemy, because he was not whole-heartedly for them. It was, -surely, an ironical epitome, a brief summing-up in terms of blows, of -the story of his life. What chaos, what confusion, what unheroic -shipwreck of plans and work and career dogged those who fought under -many colours! One died for believing in something; one didn’t die for -believing in everything; one lived on incoherently, from hand to mouth, -despised of all, accepted of none, fruitful of nothing. For these the -world has no use; the piteous, travailing world that needs all the -helpers, all the workers it can get. The dim shadows of his room through -the long, strange nights seemed to be walls pressing round, pressing in -closer and closer, pushed by the insistent weight of the unredressed -evil without. Here he saw himself lying, shut by the shadow walls into a -little secluded place, allowed to do nothing, because he was no use. The -evil without haunted his nightmares; it must have bitten more deeply -into his active waking moments than he had known. It seemed hideous to -lie and do nothing. And when he wanted to get up at once and go out and -do something to help, they would not let him. He was no use. He never -would be any use. - -More and more it seemed to him clear that the one way to be of use in -this odd world--of the oddity of the world he was becoming increasingly -convinced, comparing it with the many worlds he could more easily have -imagined--the one way, it seemed, to be of use was to take a definite -line and stick to it and reject all others; to be single-minded and -ardent, and exclusive; to be, in brief, a partisan, if necessary a -bigot. In procession there moved before him the fine, strong, ardent -people he had known, who had spent themselves for an idea, and for its -inherent negations, and he saw them all as martyrs; Eileen, living on -broken and dead because so utter had been her caring for one person that -no one else was any good; Molly, cutting two lives apart for a -difference of principle; Billy Raymond, Jane Dawn, all the company of -craftsmen and artists, fining words and lines to their utmost, -fastidiously rejecting, laying down insuperable barriers between good -and bad, so that never the twain should meet; priests and all moral -reformers, working against odds for these same barriers in a different -sphere; all workers, all artists, all healers of evil, all makers of -good; even Daphne and Nevill, parted for principles that could not join; -and Arnold, dead for a cause. Only the aimless drifters, the -ineptitudes, content to slope through the world on thoughts, were left -outside the workshop unused. - -In these dark hours of self-disgust, Eddy half thought of becoming a -novelist, that last resource of the spiritually destitute. For novels -are not life, that immeasurably important thing that has to be so -sternly approached; in novels one may take as many points of view as one -likes, all at the same time; instead of working for life, one may sit -and survey it from all angles simultaneously. It is only when one starts -walking on a road that one finds it excludes the other roads. Yes; -probably he would end a novelist. An ignoble, perhaps even a fatuous -career; but it is, after all, one way through this queer, shifting chaos -of unanswerable riddles. When solutions are proved unattainable, some -spend themselves and their all on a rough-and-ready shot at truth, on -doing what they can with the little they know; others give it up and -talk about it. It was as a refuge for such as these that the novelist’s -trade was presented to man, we will not speculate from whence or by -whom.... - -Breaking into these dark reflections came friends to see him, dropping -in one by one. The first was Professor Denison, the morning after the -accident. A telegram had brought him up from Cambridge, late last night. -Seeing his grey, stricken face, Eddy felt miserably disloyal, to have -come out of it alive. Dr. Denison patted him on the shoulder and said, -“Poor boy, poor boy. It is hard for you,” and it was Eddy who had tears -in his eyes. - -“I took him there,” he muttered; but Dr. Denison took no notice of that. - -Eddy said next, “He spoke so splendidly,” then remembered that Arnold -had spoken on the wrong side, and that that, too, must be bitter to his -father. - -Professor Denison made a queer, hopeless, deprecatory gesture with his -hands. - -“He was murdered by a cruel system,” he said, in his remote, toneless -voice. “Don’t think I blame those ignorant men who did him to death. -What killed him was the system that made those men what they are--the -cruel oppression, the economic grinding--what can you expect....” He -broke off, and turned helplessly away, remembering only that he had lost -his son. - -Every day as long as he stayed in London he came into Eddy’s room after -visiting Arnold’s, and sat with him, infinitely gentle, silent, and sad. - -Mrs. Oliver said, “Poor man, one’s too dreadfully sorry for him to -suggest it, but it’s not the best thing for you to have him, dear.” - -The other visitors who came were probably better for Eddy, but Mrs. -Oliver thought he had too many. All his friends seemed to come all day. - -And once Eileen Le Moine came, and that was not as it should be. Mrs. -Oliver, when the message was sent up, turned to Eddy doubtfully; but he -said at once, “Ask her if she’ll come up,” and she had to bear it. - -Mrs. Le Moine came in. Mrs. Oliver slightly touched her hand. For a -moment her look hung startled on the changed, dimmed brilliance she -scarcely recognised. Mrs. Le Moine, whatever her sins, had, it seemed, -been through desperate times since they had parted at Welchester -fourteen months ago. There was an absent look about her, as if she -scarcely took in Eddy’s mother. But for Eddy himself, stretched -shattered on the couch by the fire, her look was pitiful and soft. - -Mrs. Oliver’s eyes wavered from her to Eddy. Being a lady of kind -habits, she usually left Eddy alone with his friends for a little. In -this instance she was doubtful; but Eddy’s eyes, unconsciously wistful, -decided her, and she yielded. After all, a three-cornered interview -between them would have been a painful absurdity. If Eddy must have such -friends, he must have them to himself.... - -When they were alone, Eileen sat down by him, still a little absent and -thoughtful, though, bending compassionate eyes on him, she said softly, -of him and Arnold, “You poor boys....” Then she was broodingly silent, -and seemed to be casting about how to begin. - -Suddenly she pulled herself together. - -“We’ve not much time, have we? I must be quick. I’ve something I want to -say to you, Eddy.... Do you know Mrs. Crawford came to see me the other -day?” - -Eddy shook his head, languidly, moved only with a faint surprise at Mrs. -Crawford’s unexpectedness. - -Eileen went on, “I just wondered had she told you. But I thought perhaps -not.... I like her, Eddy. She was nice to me. I don’t know why, because -I supposed--but never mind. What she came for was to tell me some -things. Things I think I ought to have guessed for myself. I think I’ve -been very stupid and very selfish, and I complaining to you about my -troubles all this long while, and never thinking how it might be doing -you harm. I ought to have known why Molly broke your engagement.” - -“There were a number of reasons,” said Eddy. “She thought we didn’t -agree about things and couldn’t pull together.” - -Eileen shook her head. “She may have. But I think there was only one -reason that mattered very much. She didn’t approve of me, and didn’t -like it that you were my friend. And she was surely right. A man -shouldn’t have friends his wife can’t be friends with too; it spoils it -all. And of course she knew she couldn’t be friends with me; she thinks -me bad. Molly would find it impossible even if it wasn’t wrong, to be -friends with a bad person. So of course she had the engagement ended; -there was no other way.... And you never told me it was that.... You -should have told me, you foolish boy. Instead, you went on seeing me and -being good to me, and letting me talk about my own things, and--and -being just the one comfort I had, (for you have been that; it’s the way -you understand things, I suppose)--and I all the time spoiling your -life. When Mrs. Crawford told me how it was I was angry with you. You -had a right to have told me. And now I’ve come to tell _you_ something. -You’re to go to Molly and mend what’s broken, and tell her you and I -aren’t going to be friends any more. That will be the plain truth. We -are not. Not friends to matter, I mean. We won’t be seeing each other -alone and meeting the way we’ve been doing. If we meet it will be by -chance, and with other people; that won’t hurt.” - -Eddy, red-faced and indignant, said weakly, “It will hurt. It will hurt -me. Haven’t I lost enough friends, then, that I must lose you, too?” - -A queer little smile touched her lips. - -“You have not. Not enough friends yet. Eddy, what’s the best thing of -all in this world of good things? Don’t you and I both know it? Isn’t it -love, no less? And isn’t love good enough to pay a price for? And if the -price must be paid in coin you value--in friendship, and in some other -good things--still, isn’t it worth it? Ah, you know, and I know, that it -is!” - -The firelight, flickering across her white face, lit it swiftly to -passion. She, who had paid so heavy a price herself, was saying what she -knew. - -“So you’ll pay it, Eddy. You’ll pay it. You’ll have to pay more than you -know, before you’ve done with love. I wonder will you have to pay your -very soul away? Many people have to do that; pay away their own inmost -selves, the things in them they care for most, their secret dreams. ‘I -have laid my dreams under your feet. Tread softly, because you tread on -my dreams.’... It’s like that so often; and then she--or he--doesn’t -always tread softly; they may tread heavily, the way the dreams break -and die. Still, it’s worth it....” - -She fell into silence, brooding with bent head and locked hands. Then -she roused herself, and said cheerfully, “You may say just what you -like, Eddy, but I’m not going to spoil your life any more. That’s gone -on too long already. If it was only by way of saying thank you, I would -stop it now. For you’ve been a lot of use to me, you know. I don’t think -I could easily tell you how much. I’m not going to try; only I _am_ -going to do what I can to help you patch up your affairs that you’ve -muddled so. So you go to Molly directly you get home, and make her -marry you. And you’ll pay the price she asks, and you’ll go on, both of -you, paying it and paying it, more and more of it, as long as you both -live.” - -“She won’t have me,” said Eddy. “No one would have me, I should think. -Why should they? I’m nothing. Everyone else is something; but I’m -nothing. I can do nothing, and be nothing. I am a mere muddle. Why -should Molly, who is straight and simple and direct, marry a muddle?” - -“Because,” said Eileen, “she cares for it. And she’ll probably -straighten it out a bit; that’s what I mean, partly, by the price ... -you’ll have to become straight and simple and direct too, I wouldn’t -wonder, in the end. You may die a Tory country gentleman, no less, -saying, ‘To hell with these Socialist thieves’--no, that’s the horrid -language we use in Ireland alone isn’t it, but I wouldn’t wonder if the -English squires meant the same. Or you might become equally simple and -direct in another direction, and say, ‘Down with the landed tyrants,’ -only Molly wouldn’t like that so well. But it’ll be a wonder if you -don’t, once you’re married to Molly, have to throw overboard a few -creeds, as well as a few people. Anyhow, that’s not your business now. -What you’ve got to do now is to get your health again and go down to -Welchester and talk to Molly the way she’ll see reason.... And now I -must go. Your mother doesn’t care for me to be here, but I had to come -this once; it’s never again, you can tell her that.” - -Eddy sat up and frowned. “Don’t go on like that, Eileen. I’ve not the -least intention of having my friendships broken for me like this. If -Molly ever marries me--only she won’t--it will be to take my friends; -that is certain.” - -She shook her head and smiled down on him as she rose. - -“You’ll have to let your friends settle whether they want to be taken or -not, Eddy.... Dear, kind, absurd boy, that’s been so good to me, I’m -going now. Goodbye, and get well.” - -Her fingers lightly touched his forehead, and she left him; left him -alone in a world become poor and thin and ordinary, shorn of some -beauty, of certain dreams and laughter and surprises. - -Into it came his mother. - -“Is Mrs. Le Moine gone, then, dear?” - -“Yes,” he said. “She is gone.” - -So flatly he spoke, so apathetically, that she looked at him in anxiety. - -“She has tired you. You have been talking too much. Really, this mustn’t -happen again....” - -He moved restlessly over on to his side. - -“It won’t happen again, mother. Never again.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -CONVERSION. - - -On Midsummer Eve, which was the day before his marriage, Eddy had a -number of his friends to dinner at the Moulin d’Or. It had amused him to -ask a great many, and to select them from many different quarters and -sets, and to watch how they all got on together. For many of them were -not in the habit of meeting one another. The Vicar of St. Gregory’s, for -instance, did not, in the normal course of his days, as a rule come -across Billy Raymond, or Cecil Le Moine, with whom he was conversing -courteously across the table; Bob Traherne, his curate, seldom chatted -affably with Conservative young members of Parliament such as Nevill -Bellairs; Mrs. Crawford had long since irrevocably decided against -social intercourse with Eileen Le Moine, to whom she was talking this -evening as if she was rather pleased to have the opportunity; Bridget -Hogan was wont to avoid militant desirers of votes, but to-night she was -garrulously holding forth to a lady novelist of these habits who -resided in a garden city; Eddy’s friend, the young Irish Unionist, was -confronted and probably outraged by Blake Connolly, Eileen’s father, the -Nationalist editor of the _Hibernian_, a vehement-tongued, hot-tempered, -rather witty person, with deep blue eyes like Eileen’s, and a flexible, -persuasive voice. At the same table with Bob Traherne and Jane Dawn was -a beautiful young man in a soft frilly shirt, an evangelical young man -who at Cambridge had belonged to the C.I.C.C.U., and had preached in the -Market Place. If he had known enough about them, he would have thought -Jane Dawn’s attitude towards religion and life a pity, and Bob -Traherne’s a bad mistake. But on this harmonious occasion they all met -as friends. Even James Peters, sturdy and truthful, forbore to show -Cecil Le Moine that he did not like him. Even Hillier, though it was -pain and grief to him, kept silence from good words, and did not -denounce Eileen Le Moine. - -And Eddy, looking round the room at all of them, thought how well they -all got on for one evening, because they were wanting to, and because -one evening did not matter, and how they would not, many of them, get on -at all, and would not even want to, if they were put to a longer test. -And once again, at this, that he told himself was not the last, -gathering of the heterogeneous crowd of his friends together, he saw how -right they all were, in their different ways and yet at odds. He -remembered how someone had said, “The interesting quarrels of the world -are never between truth and falsehood, but between different truths.” -Ah, but must there be quarrels? More and more clearly he had come to see -lately that there must; that through the fighting of extremes something -is beaten out.... - -Someone thumped the table for silence, and Billy Raymond was on his -feet, proposing their host’s health and happiness. Billy was rather a -charming speaker, in his unselfconscious, unfluent, amused, quietly -allusive way, that was rather talk than speechifying. After him came -Nevill Bellairs, Eddy’s brother-in-law to be, who said the right things -in his pleasant, cordial, well-bred, young member’s manner. Then they -drank Eddy’s health, and after that Eddy got on to his feet to return -thanks. But all he said was “Thanks very much. It was very nice of all -of you to come. I hope you’ve all enjoyed this evening as much as I -have, and I hope we shall have many more like it in future, after....” -When he paused someone broke in with “He’s a jolly good fellow,” and -they shouted it till the passers by in the Soho streets took it up and -sang and whistled in chorus. That was the answer they unanimously gave -to the hope he had expressed. It was an answer so cheerful and so -friendly that it covered the fact that no one had echoed the hope, or -even admitted it as a possibility. After all, it was an absurd thing to -hope, for one dinner-party never is exactly like another; how should it -be, with so much of life and death between? - -When the singing and the cheering and the toasting was over, they all -sat on and talked and smoked till late. Eddy talked too. And under his -talking his perceptions were keenly working. The vivid, alive -personalities of all these people, these widely differing men and women, -boys and girls, struck sharply on his consciousness. There were vast -differences between them, yet in nearly all was a certain fine, vigorous -effectiveness, a power of achieving, getting something done. They all -had their weapons, and used them in the battles of the world. They all, -artists and philosophers, journalists and politicians, poets and -priests, workers among the poor, players among the rich, knew what they -would be at, where they thought they were going and how, and what they -were up against. They made their choices; they selected, preferred, -rejected ... hated.... The sharp, hard word brought him up. That was it; -they hated. They all, probably, hated something or other. Even the -tolerant, large-minded Billy, even the gentle Jane, hated what they -considered bad literature, bad art. They not only sought good, but -eschewed evil; if they had not realised the bad, the word “good” would -have been meaningless to them. - -With everyone in the room it was the same. Blake Connolly hated the -Union--that was why he could be the force for Nationalism that he was; -John Macleod, the Ulsterman, hated Nationalists and Papists--that was -why he spoke so well on platforms for the Union; Bob Traherne hated -capitalism--that was why he could fight so effectively for the economic -betterment that he believed in; Nevill Bellairs hated Liberalism--that -was why he got in at elections; the vicar of St. Gregory’s hated -disregard of moral laws--that was why he was a potent force for their -observance among his parishioners; Hillier hated agnosticism--that was -why he could tell his people without flinching that they would go to -hell if they didn’t belong to the Church; (he also, Eddy remembered, -hated some writers of plays--and that, no doubt, was why he looked at -Cecil Le Moine as he did;) Cecil Le Moine hated the commonplace and the -stupid--that was why he never lapsed into either in his plays; Mrs. -Crawford hated errors of breeding (such as discordant clothes, -elopements, incendiarism, and other vulgar violence)--that was why her -house was so select; Bridget Hogan hated being bored--that was why she -succeeded in finding life consistently amusing; James Peters hated men -of his own class without collars, men of any class without backbones, as -well as lies, unwholesomeness, and all morbid rot--that was probably why -his short, unsubtle, boyish sermons had a force, a driving-power, that -made them tell, and why the men and boys he worked and played with loved -him. - -And Arnold, who was not there but ought to have been, had hated many -things, and that was why he wasn’t there. - -Yes, they all hated something; they all rejected; all recognised without -shirking the implied negations in what they loved. That was how and why -they got things done, these vivid, living people. That was how and why -anyone ever got anything done, in this perplexing, unfinished, -rough-hewn world, with so much to do to it, and for it. An imperfect -world, of course; if it were not, hate and rejections would not be -necessary; a rough and ready, stupid muddle of a world, an incoherent, -astonishing chaos of contradictions--but, after all, the world one has -to live in and work in and fight in, using the weapons ready to hand. If -one does not use them, if one rejects them as too blunt, too rough and -ready, too inaccurate, for one’s fine sense of truth, one is left -weaponless, a non-combatant, a useless drifter from company to company, -cast out of all in turn.... Better than that, surely, is any absurdity -of party and creed, dogma and system. After all, when all is said in -their despite, it is these that do the work. - -Such were Eddy’s broken and detached reflections in the course of this -cheerful evening. The various pieces of counsel offered him by others -were to the same effect. Blake Connolly, who, meeting him to-night for -the first time, had taken a strong fancy to him, said confidentially and -regretfully, “I hear the bride’s a Tory; that’s a pity, now. Don’t let -her have you corrupted. You’ve some fine Liberal sentiments; I used to -read them in that queer paper of yours.” (He ignored the fine Unionist -sentiments he had also read in the queer paper.) “Don’t let them run to -waste. You should go on writing; you’ve a gift. Go on writing for the -right things, sticking up for the right side. Be practical; get -something done. As they used to say in the old days: - - ‘Take a business tour through Munster, - Shoot a landlord; be of use.’ ” - -“I will try,” said Eddy, modestly. “Though I don’t know that that is -exactly in my line at present ... I’m not sure what I’m going to do, but -I want to get some newspaper work.” - -“That’s right. Write, the way you’ll have public interest stirred up in -the right things. I know you’re of good dispositions from what Eily’s -told me of you. And why you want to go marrying a Tory passes me. But if -you must you must, and I wouldn’t for the world have you upset about it -now at the eleventh hour.” - -Then came Traherne, wanting him to help in a boys’ camp in September and -undertake a night a week with clubs in the winter; and the elegant -C.I.C.C.U. young man wanted him to promise his assistance to a -Prayer-and-Total-Abstinence mission in November; and Nevill Bellairs -wanted to introduce him to-morrow morning before the wedding to the -editor of the _Conservative_, who had vacancies on his staff. To all -these people who offered him fields for his energies he gave, not the -ready acceptance he would have given of old, but indefinite answers. - -“I can’t tell you yet. I don’t know. I’m going to think about it.” For -though he still knew that all of them were right, he knew also that he -was going to make a choice, a series of choices, and he didn’t know yet -what in each case he would choose. - -The party broke up at midnight. When the rest had dispersed, Eddy went -home with Billy to Chelsea. He had given up the rooms he had shared with -Arnold in Soho, and was staying with Billy till his marriage. They -walked to Chelsea by way of the Embankment. By the time they got to -Battersea Bridge (Billy lived at the river end of Beaufort Street) the -beginnings of the dawn were paling the river. They stood for a little -and watched it; watched London sprawling east and west in murmuring -sleep, vast and golden-eyed. - -“One must,” speculated Eddy aloud, after a long silence, “be content, -then, to shut one’s eyes to all of it--to all of everything--except one -little piece. One has got to be deaf and blind--a bigot, seeing only one -thing at once. That, it seems, is the only way to get to work in this -extraordinary world. One’s got to turn one’s back on nearly all truth. -One leaves it, I suppose, to the philosophers and artists and poets. -Truth is for them. Truth, Billy, is perhaps for you. But it’s not for -the common person like me. For us it is a choice between truth and life; -they’re not compatible. Well, one’s got to live; that seems certain.... -What do _you_ think?” - -“I’m not aware,” said Billy, drowsily watching the grey dream-city, “of -the incompatibility you mention.” - -“I didn’t suppose you were,” said Eddy. “Your business is to see and -record. You can look at all life at once--all of it you can manage, that -is. My job isn’t to see or talk, but (I am told) to ‘take a business -tour through Munster, shoot a landlord, be of use.’ ... Well, I suppose -truth can look after itself without my help; that’s one comfort. The -synthesis is there all right, even if we all say it isn’t.... After -to-night I am going to talk, not of Truth but of _the_ Truth; my own -particular brand of it.” - -Billy looked sceptical. “And which is your own particular brand?” - -“I’m not sure yet. But I’m going to find out before morning. I must know -before to-morrow. Molly must have a bigot to marry.” - -“I take it your marriage is upsetting your mental balance,” said Billy -tranquilly, with the common sense of the poet. “You’d better go to bed.” - -Eddy laughed. “Upsetting my balance! Well, it reasonably might. What -should, if not marriage? After all, it has its importance. Come in, -Billy, and while you sleep I will decide on my future opinions. It will -be much more exciting than choosing a new suit of clothes, because I’m -going to wear them for always.” - -Billy murmured some poetry as they turned up Beaufort Street. - - “The brute, untroubled by gifts of soul, - Sees life single and sees it whole. - Man, the better of brutes by wit, - Sees life double and sees it split.” - -“I don’t see,” he added, “that it can matter very much what opinions one -has, if any, about party politics, for instance.” - -Eddy said, “No, you wouldn’t see it, of course, because you’re a poet. -I’m not.” - -“You’d better become one,” said Billy, “if it would solve your -difficulties. It’s very little trouble indeed really, you know. Anyone -can be a poet; in fact, practically all Cambridge people are, except -you; I can’t imagine why you’re not. It’s really rather a refreshing -change; only I should think it often leads people to mistake you for an -Oxford man, which must be rather distressing for you. Now I’m going to -bed. Hadn’t you better, too?” - -But Eddy had something to do before he went to bed. By the grey light -that came through the open window of the sitting-room, he found a pack -of cards, and sat down to decide his opinions. First he wrote a list of -all the societies he belonged to; they filled a sheet of note-paper. -Then he went through them, coupling each two which, he had discovered, -struck the ordinary person as incompatible; then, if he had no -preference for either of the two, he cut. He cut, for instance, between -the League of Young Liberals and the Primrose League. The Young Liberals -had it. - -“Molly will be a little disappointed in me,” he murmured, and crossed -off the Primrose League from his list. “And I expect it would be -generally thought that I ought to cross off the Tariff Reform League, -too.” He did so, then proceeded to weigh the Young Liberals against all -the Socialist societies he belonged to (such as the Anti-sweating -League, the National Service League, the Eugenics Society, and many -others), for even he could see that these two ways of thought did not go -well together. He might possibly have been a Socialist and a Primrose -Leaguer, but he could not, as the world looks at such things, be a -Socialist and a Liberal. He chose to be a Socialist, believing that that -was the way, at the moment, to get most done. - -“Very good,” he commented, writing it down. “A bigoted Socialist. That -will have the advantage that Traherne will let me help with the clubs. -Now for the Church.” - -The Church question also he decided without recourse to chance. As he -meant to continue to belong to the Church of England, he crossed off -from the list the Free Thought League and the Theosophist Society. It -remained that he should choose between the various Church societies he -belonged to, such as the Church Progress Society (High and Modernist), -the E. C. U. (High and not Modernist), the Liberal Churchmen’s League -(Broad), and the Evangelical Affiance (Low). Of these he selected that -system of thought that seemed to him to go most suitably with the -Socialism he was already pledged to; he would be a bigoted High Church -Modernist, and hate Broad Churchmen, Evangelicals, Anglican -Individualists, Ultramontane Romans, Atheists, and (particularly) German -Liberal Protestants. - -“Father will be disappointed in me, I’m afraid,” he reflected. - -Then he weighed the Church Defence Society against the Society for the -Liberation of Religion from State Patronage and Control, found neither -wanting, but concluded that as a Socialist he ought to support the -former, so wrote himself down an enemy of Disestablishment, remarking, -“Father will be better pleased this time.” Then he dealt with the Sunday -Society (for the opening of museums, etc., on that day) as incongruous -with the Lord’s Day Observance Society; the Sunday Society had it. -Turning to the arts, he supposed regretfully that some people would -think it inconsistent to belong both to the League for the Encouragement -and Better Appreciation of Post Impressionism, and to that for the -Maintenance of the Principles of Classical Art; or to the Society for -Encouraging the Realistic School of Modern Verse, and to the Poetry -Society (which does not do this.) Then it struck him that the Factory -Increase League clashed with the Coal Smoke Abatement Society, that the -Back to the Land League was perhaps incompatible with the Society for -the Preservation of Objects of Historic Interest in the Countryside; -that one should not subscribe both to the National Arts Collections -Fund, and to the Maintenance of Cordial Trans-Atlantic Relations; to the -Charity Organisation Society, and to the Salvation Army Shelters Fund. - -Many other such discrepancies of thought and ideal he found in himself -and corrected, either by choice or, more often (so equally good did both -alternatives as a rule seem to him to be) by the hand of chance. It was -not till after four o’clock on his wedding morning, when the -midsummer-day sunrise was gilding the river and breaking into the room, -that he stood up, cramped and stiff and weary, but a homogeneous and -consistent whole, ready at last for bigotry to seal him for her own. He -would yield himself unflinchingly to her hand; she should, in the course -of the long years, stamp him utterly into shape. He looked ahead, as he -leant out of the window and breathed in the clear morning air, and saw -his future life outspreading. What a lot he would be able to accomplish, -now that he was going to see one angle only of life and believe in it so -exclusively that he would think it the whole. Already he felt the -approaches of this desirable state. It would approach, he believed, -rapidly, now that he was no longer to be distracted by divergent -interests, torn by opposing claims on his sympathy. He saw himself a -writer for the press (but he really must remember to write no more for -the Conservative press, or the Liberal). He would hate Conservatism, -detest Liberalism; he would believe that Socialists alone were actuated -by their well-known sense of political equity and sound economics. In -working, as he meant to do, in Datcherd’s settlement, he would be as -fanatically political as Datcherd himself had been. Molly might slightly -regret this, because of the different tenets of Nevill and the rest of -her family; but she was too sensible really to mind. He saw her and -himself living their happy, and, he hoped, not useless life, in the -little house they had taken in Elm Park Road, Chelsea (they had not -succeeded in ousting the inhabitants of the Osiers). He would be writing -for some paper, and working every evening in the Lea Bridge Settlement, -and Molly would help him there with the girls’ clubs; she was keen on -that sort of thing, and did it well. They would have many friends; the -Bellairs’ relations and connections were numerous, and often military or -naval; and there would be Nevill and his friends, so hard-working, so -useful, so tidy, so well-bred; and their own friends, the friends they -made, the friends they had had before.... It was at this point that the -picture grew a little less vivid and clearly-outlined, and had to be -painted in with great decision. Of course they came into the picture, -Jane and Billy and the rest, and perhaps sometime, when she and Molly -had both changed their minds about it, Eileen; of course they would all -be there, coming in and out and mixing up amicably with the Bellairs -contingent, and pleasing and being pleased by Nevill and his -well-behaved friends, and liking to talk to Molly and she to them. Why -not? Eileen had surely been wrong about that; his friendships weren’t, -couldn’t be, part of the price he had to pay for his marriage, or even -for his bigotry. With a determined hand he painted them into the -picture, and produced a surprising, crowded jumble of visitors in the -little house--artists, colonels, journalists, civil servants, poets, -members of Parliament, settlement workers, actors, and clergymen.... He -must remember, of course, that he disliked Conservatism, Atheism, and -Individualism; but that, he thought, need be no barrier between him and -the holders of these unfortunate views. And any surprisingness, any lack -of realism, in the picture he had painted, he was firmly blind to. - -So Molly and he would live and work together; work for the right things, -war against the wrong. He had learnt how to set about working now; -learnt to use the weapons ready to hand, the only weapons provided by -the world for its battles. Using them, he would get accustomed to them; -gradually he would become the Complete Bigot, as to the manner born, -such a power has doing to react on the vision of those who do. Then and -only then, when, for him, many-faced Truth had resolved itself into one, -when he should see but little here below but see that little clear, when -he could say from the heart, “I believe Tariff Reformers, Unionists, -Liberals, Individualists, Roman Catholics, Protestants, Dissenters, -Vegetarians, and all others with whom I disagree, to be absolutely in -the wrong; I believe that I and those who think like me possess not -merely truth but _the_ truth”--then, and only then would he be able to -set to work and get something done.... - -Who should say it was not worth the price? - -Having completed the task he had set himself, Eddy was now free to -indulge in reflections more suited to a wedding morning. These -reflections were of the happy and absorbing nature customary in a person -in his situation; they may, in fact, be so easily imagined that they -need not here be set down. Having abandoned himself to them for half an -hour, he went to bed, to rest before his laborious life. For let no one -think he can become a bigot without much energy of mind and will. It is -not a road one can slip into unawares, as it were, like the primrose -paths of life--the novelist’s, for example, the poet’s, or the tramp’s. -It needs fibre; a man has to brace himself, set his teeth, shut his -eyes, and plunge with a courageous blindness. - -Five o’clock struck before Eddy went to bed. He hoped to leave it at -seven, in order to start betimes upon so strenuous a career. - -_Jarrold & Sons, Ltd., Printers, The Empire Press, Norwich._ - - -Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: - -I believe her mother neglected her when he was ill=> I believe her -mother neglected her when she was ill {pg 130} - -omniverous=> omnivorous {pg 154} - -incompatability=> incompatibility {pg 250} - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The making of a bigot, by Rose Macaulay - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAKING OF A BIGOT *** - -***** This file should be named 50953-0.txt or 50953-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/9/5/50953/ - -Produced by Suzanne Shell, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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/license - - -Title: The making of a bigot - -Author: Rose Macaulay - -Release Date: January 17, 2016 [EBook #50953] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAKING OF A BIGOT *** - - - - -Produced by Suzanne Shell, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="cb">THE MAKING OF A BIGOT</p> - -<p><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a> </p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="290" height="450" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<p><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a> </p> - -<p><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a> </p> - -<h1>THE<br /> -MAKING OF A BIGOT</h1> - -<p class="c">BY -<br /> -ROSE MACAULAY<br /> -Author of “The Lee Shore,” “Views and Vagabonds,” etc.<br /> -<br /><br /> -HODDER AND STOUGHTON<br /> -LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO<br /> -</p> - -<p><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a> </p> - -<p><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a> </p> - -<p class="c">TO D. F. C.</p> - -<p><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a> </p> - -<p>“How various is man! How multiplied his experience, his outlook, his -conclusions!”—<span class="smcap">H. Belloc.</span></p> - -<p>“And every single one of them is right.”—<span class="smcap">R. Kipling.</span></p> - -<p>“The rational human faith must armour itself with prejudice in an age of -prejudices.”—<span class="smcap">G. K. Chesterton.</span><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td> </td><td align="right"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2" align="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td>CAMBRIDGE</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_009">9</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2" align="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td>ST. GREGORY’S</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_021">21</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2" align="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td>PLEASANCE COURT</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_038">38</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2" align="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td>HEATHERMERE</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_052">52</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2" align="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td>DATCHERD AND THE VICAR</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_062">62</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2" align="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td>THE DEANERY AND THE HALL</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_080">80</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2" align="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td>VISITORS AT THE DEANERY</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_102">102</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2" align="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td>THE VISITORS GO</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_127">127</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2" align="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td>THE CLUB<a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_142">142</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2" align="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td>DATCHERD’S RETURN</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_167">167</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2" align="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td>THE COUNTRY</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_189">189</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2" align="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td>HYDE PARK TERRACE</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_209">209</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2" align="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td>MOLLY</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_230">230</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2" align="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td>UNITY</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_254">254</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2" align="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td>ARNOLD</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_270">270</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2" align="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td>EILEEN</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_276">276</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2" align="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td>CONVERSION</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_286">286</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /><br /> -<small>CAMBRIDGE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">I<small>T</small> was Trinity Sunday, full of buttercups and cuckoos and the sun. In -Cambridge it was a Scarlet Day. In colleges, people struggling through a -desert of Tripos papers or Mays rested their souls for a brief space in -a green oasis, and took their lunch up the river. In Sunday schools, -teachers were telling of the shamrock, that ill-considered and -peculiarly inappropriate image conceived by a hard-pressed saint. -Everywhere people were being ordained.</p> - -<p>Miss Jamison met Eddy Oliver in Petty Cury, while she was doing some -house-to-house visiting with a bundle of leaflets that looked like -tracts. She looked at him vaguely, then suddenly began to take an -interest in him.</p> - -<p>“Of course,” she said, with decision, “you’ve got to join, too.”</p> - -<p>“Rather,” he said. “Tell me what it is. I’m sure it’s full of truth.”<a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a></p> - -<p>“It’s the National Service League. I’m a working associate, and I’m -persuading people to join. It’s a good thing, really. Were you at the -meeting yesterday?”</p> - -<p>“No, I missed that. I was at another meeting, in point of fact. I often -am, you know.” He said it with a touch of mild perplexity. It was so -true.</p> - -<p>She was turning over the sheaf of tracts.</p> - -<p>“Let me see: which will meet your case? Leaflet M, the Modern -Sisyphus—that’s a picture one, and more for the poor; so simple and -graphic. P is better for you. <span class="smcap">Have you ever thought</span> what war is, and -what it would be like to have it raging round your own home? <span class="smcap">Have you -ever thought</span> what your feelings would be if you heard that an enemy had -landed on these shores, and you knew that you were ignorant of the means -by which you could help to defend your country and your home? <span class="smcap">You -probably think</span> that if you are a member of a rifle club, and know how to -shoot, you have done all that is needed. But—well, you haven’t, and so -on, you know. You’d better take P. And Q. Q says ‘Are you a Liberal? -Then join the League, because, etc. Are you a Democrat? Are you a -Socialist? Are you a Conservative? Are you——’ ”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Eddy, “I’m everything of that sort. It won’t be able to -think of anything I’m not.”</p> - -<p>She thought he was being funny, though he wasn’t; he was speaking the -simple truth.</p> - -<p>“Anyhow,” she said, “you’ll find good reasons<a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a> there why you should -join, whatever you are. Just think, you know, suppose the Germans -landed.” She supposed that for a little, then got on to physical -training and military discipline, how important they are.</p> - -<p>Eddy said when she paused, “Quite. I think you are utterly right.” He -always did, when anyone explained anything to him; he was like that; he -had a receptive mind.</p> - -<p>“You can become,” said Miss Jamison, getting to the gist of the matter, -“a guinea member, or a penny adherent, or a shilling associate, or a -more classy sort of associate, that pays five shillings and gets all -kinds of literature.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll be that,” said Eddy Oliver, who liked nearly all kinds of -literature.</p> - -<p>So Miss Jamison got out her book of vouchers on the spot, and enrolled -him, receiving five shillings and presenting a blue button on which was -inscribed the remark, “The Path of Duty is the Path of Safety.”</p> - -<p>“So true,” said Eddy. “A jolly good motto. A jolly good League. I’ll -tell everyone I meet to join.”</p> - -<p>“There’ll be another meeting,” said Miss Jamison, “next Thursday. Of -course you’ll come. We want a good audience this time, if possible. We -never have one, you know. There’ll be lantern slides, illustrating -invasion as it would be now, and invasion as it would be were the -National Service League Bill passed. Tremendously exciting.”<a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a></p> - -<p>Eddy made a note of it in his Cambridge Pocket Diary, a small and -profusely inscribed volume without which he never moved, as his -engagements were numerous, and his head not strong.</p> - -<p>He wrote below June 8th, “N.S.L., 8 p.m., Guildhall, small room.” For -the same date he had previously inscribed, “Fabians, 7.15, Victoria -Assembly Rooms,” “E.C.U. Protest Meeting, Guildhall, large room, 2.15,” -and “Primrose League Fête, Great Shelford Manor, 3 p.m.” He belonged to -all these societies (they are all so utterly right) and many others more -esoteric, and led a complex and varied life, full of faith and hope. -With so many right points of view in the world, so many admirable, if -differing, faiths, whither, he demanded, might not humanity rise? -Himself, he joined everything that came his way, from Vegetarian -Societies to Heretic Clubs and Ritualist Guilds; all, for him, were full -of truth. This attitude of omni-acceptance sometimes puzzled and worried -less receptive and more single-minded persons; they were known at times -even to accuse him, with tragic injustice, of insincerity. When they did -so, he saw how right they were; he entirely sympathised with their point -of view.</p> - -<p>At this time he was nearly twenty-three, and nearly at the end of his -Cambridge career. In person he was a slight youth, with intelligent -hazel eyes under sympathetic brows, and easily ruffled brown hair, and a -general air of receptive impressionability. Clad not unsuitably in grey -flannels<a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a> and the soft hat of the year (soft hats vary importantly from -age to age), he strolled down King’s Parade. There he met a man of his -own college; this was liable to occur in King’s Parade. The man said he -was going to tea with his people, and Eddy was to come too. Eddy did so. -He liked the Denisons; they were full of generous enthusiasm for certain -things—(not, like Eddy himself, for everything). They wanted Votes for -Women, and Liberty for Distressed Russians, and spinning-looms for -everyone. They had inspired Eddy to want these things, too; he belonged, -indeed, to societies for promoting each of them. On the other hand, they -did not want Tariff Reform, or Conscription, or Prayer Book Revision -(for they seldom read the Prayer Book), and if they had known that Eddy -belonged also to societies for promoting these objects, they would have -remonstrated with him.</p> - -<p>Professor Denison was a quiet person, who said little, but listened to -his wife and children. He had much sense of humour, and some -imagination. He was fifty-five. Mrs. Denison was a small and engaging -lady, a tremendous worker in good causes; she had little sense of -humour, and a vivid, if often misapplied, imagination. She was -forty-six. Her son Arnold was tall, lean, cynical, intelligent, edited a -university magazine (the most interesting of them), was president of a -Conversation Society, and was just going into his uncle’s publishing -house. He had plenty of sense of humour (if he had had<a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a> less, he would -have bored himself to death), and an imagination kept within due bounds. -He was twenty-three. His sister Margery was also intelligent, but, -notwithstanding this, had recently published a book of verse; some of it -was not so bad as a great many people’s verse. She also designed -wall-papers, which on the whole she did better. She had an unequal sense -of humour, keen in certain directions, blunt in others, like most -people’s; the same description applies to her imagination. She was -twenty-two.</p> - -<p>Eddy and Arnold found them having tea in the garden, with two brown -undergraduates and a white one. The Denisons belonged to the East and -West Society, which tries to effect a union between the natives of these -two quarters of the globe. It has conversazioni, at which the brown men -congregate at one end of the room and the white men at the other, and -both, one hopes, are happy. This afternoon Mrs. Denison and her daughter -were each talking to a brown young man (Downing and Christ’s), and the -white young man (Trinity Hall) was being silent with Professor Denison, -because East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, -and really, you can’t talk to blacks. Arnold joined the West; Eddy, who -belonged to the above-mentioned society, helped Miss Denison to talk to -her black.</p> - -<p>Rather soon the East went, and the West became happier.</p> - -<p>Miss Denison said, “Dorothy Jamison came<a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a> round this afternoon, wanting -us to join the National Service League or something.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Denison said, snippily, “Dorothy ought to know better,” at the same -moment that Eddy said, “It’s a jolly little League, apparently. Quite -full of truth.”</p> - -<p>The Hall man said that his governor was a secretary or something at -home, and kept having people down to speak at meetings. So he and the -Denisons argued about it, till Margery said, “Oh, well, of course, -you’re hopeless. But I don’t know what Eddy means by it. <i>You</i> don’t -want to encourage militarism, surely, Eddy.”</p> - -<p>Eddy said surely yes, shouldn’t one encourage everything? But really, -and no ragging, Margery persisted, he didn’t belong to a thing like -that?</p> - -<p>Eddy showed his blue button.</p> - -<p>“Rather, I do. <span class="smcap">Have you ever thought</span> what war is, and what it would be -like to have it raging round your own home? Are you a democrat? Then -join the League.”</p> - -<p>“Idiot,” said Margery, who knew him well enough to call him so.</p> - -<p>“He believes in everything. I believe in nothing,” Arnold explained. “He -accepts; I refuse. He likes three lumps of sugar in his tea; I like -none. He had better be a journalist, and write for the <i>Daily Mail</i>, the -<i>Clarion</i>, and the <i>Spectator</i>.”</p> - -<p>“What <i>are</i> you going to do when you go down?” Margery asked Eddy, -suspiciously.</p> - -<p>Eddy blushed, because he was going for a time<a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a> to work in a Church -settlement. A man he knew was a clergyman there, and had convinced him -that it was his duty and he must. The Denisons did not care about Church -settlements, only secular ones; that, and because he had a clear, pale -skin that showed everything, was why he blushed.</p> - -<p>“I’m going to work with some men in Southwark,” he said, embarrassed. -“Anyhow, for a time. Help with boys’ clubs, you know, and so on.”</p> - -<p>“Parsons?” inquired Arnold, and Eddy admitted it, where upon Arnold -changed the subject; he had no concern with Parsons.</p> - -<p>The Denisons were so shocked at Eddy, that they let the Hall man talk -about the South African match for quite two minutes. They were probably -afraid that if they didn’t Eddy might talk about the C.I.C.C.U., which -would be infinitely worse. Eddy was perhaps the only man at the moment -in Cambridge who belonged simultaneously to the C.I.C.C.U., the Church -Society, and the Heretics. (It may be explained for the benefit of the -uninitiated that the C.I.C.C.U. is Low Church, and the Church Society is -High Church, and the Heretics is no church at all. They are all -admirable societies).</p> - -<p>Arnold said presently, interrupting the match, “If I keep a second-hand -bookshop in Soho, will you help me, Eddy?”</p> - -<p>Eddy said he would like to.</p> - -<p>“It will be awfully good training for both of us,”<a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a> said Arnold. “You’ll -see much more life that way, you know, than at your job in Southwark.”</p> - -<p>Arnold had manfully overcome his distaste for alluding to Eddy’s job in -Southwark, in order to make a last attempt to snatch a brand from the -burning.</p> - -<p>But Eddy, thinking he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, -said,</p> - -<p>“You see, my people rather want me to take Orders, and the Southwark job -is by way of finding out if I want to or not. I’m nearly sure I don’t, -you know,” he added, apologetically, because the Denisons were looking -so badly disappointed in him.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Denison said kindly, “I think I should tell your people straight -out that you can’t. It’s a tiresome little jar, I know, but honestly, I -don’t believe it’s a bit of use members of a family pretending that they -see life from the same angle when they don’t.”</p> - -<p>Eddy said, “Oh, but I think we do, in a way. Only——”</p> - -<p>It was really rather difficult to explain. He did indeed see life from -the same angle as the rest of his family, but from many other angles as -well, which was confusing. The question was, could one select some one -thing to be, clergyman or anything else, unless one was very sure that -it implied no negations, no exclusions of the other angles? That was, -perhaps, what his life in Southwark would teach him. Most of the clergy -round his own home—and, his father being a Dean, he knew<a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a> many—hadn’t, -it seemed to him, learnt the art of acceptance; they kept drawing lines, -making sheep and goat divisions, like the Denisons.</p> - -<p>The Hall man, feeling a little embarrassed because they were getting -rather intimate and personal, and probably would like to get more so if -he were not there, went away. He had had to call on the Denisons, but -they weren’t his sort, he knew. Miss Denison and her parents frightened -him, and he didn’t get on with girls who dressed artistically, or wrote -poetry, and Arnold Denison was a conceited crank, of course. Oliver was -a good sort, only very thick with Denison for some reason. If he was -Oliver, and wanted to do anything so dull as slumming with parsons in -Southwark, he wouldn’t be put off by anything the Denisons said.</p> - -<p>“Why don’t <i>you</i> get your tie to match your socks, Eddy?” Arnold asked, -with a yawn, when Egerton had gone.</p> - -<p>His mother, a hospitable lady, and kind to Egertons and all others who -came to her house, told him not to be disagreeable. Eddy said, truly, -that he wished he did, and that it was a capital idea and looked -charming.</p> - -<p>“Egertons do look rather charming, quite often,” Margery conceded. “I -suppose that’s something after all.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Denison added, (exquisite herself, she had a taste for neatness): -“Their hair and their clothes are always beautifully brushed; which is -more than yours are, Arnold.”<a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a></p> - -<p>Arnold lay back with his eyes shut, and groaned gently. Egerton had -fatigued him very much.</p> - -<p>Eddy thought it was rather nice of Mrs. Denison and Margery to be kind -about Egerton because he had been to tea. He realised that he himself -was the only person there who was neither kind nor unkind about Egerton, -because he really liked him. This the Denisons would have hopelessly -failed to understand, or, probably, to believe; if he had mentioned it -they would have thought he was being kind, too. Eddy liked a number of -people who were ranked by the Denisons among the goats; even the rowing -men of his own college, which happened to be a college where one didn’t -row.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Denison asked Eddy if he would come to lunch on Thursday to meet -some of the Irish players, whom they were putting up for the week. The -Denisons, being intensely English and strong Home Rulers, felt, besides -the artistic admiration for the Abbey Theatre players common to all, a -political enthusiasm for them as Nationalists, so putting three of them -up was a delightful hospitality. Eddy, who shared both the artistic and -the political enthusiasm, was delighted to come to lunch. Unfortunately -he would have to hurry away afterwards to the Primrose League Fête at -Great Shelford, but he did not mention this.</p> - -<p>Consulting his watch, he found he was even now due at a meeting of a -Sunday Games Club to which he belonged, so he said goodbye to the -Denisons and went.<a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a></p> - -<p>“Mad as a hatter,” was Arnold’s languid comment on him when he had gone; -“but well-intentioned.”</p> - -<p>“But,” said Margery, “I can’t gather that he intends anything at all. -He’s so absurdly indiscriminate.”</p> - -<p>“He intends everything,” her father interpreted. “You all, in this -intense generation, intend much too much; Oliver carries it a little -further than most of you, that’s all. His road to his ultimate -destination is most remarkably well-paved.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, poor boy,” said Mrs. Denison, remonstrating. She went in to finish -making arrangements for a Suffrage meeting.</p> - -<p>Margery went to her studio to hammer jewellery for the Arts and Crafts -Exhibition.</p> - -<p>Professor Denison went to his study to look over Tripos papers.</p> - -<p>Arnold lay in the garden and smoked. He was the least energetic of his -family, and not industrious.<a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /><br /> -<small>ST. GREGORY’S.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">P<small>ROBABLY</small>, Eddy decided, after working for a week in Southwark, the thing -to be was a clergyman. Clergymen get their teeth into something; they -make things move; you can see results, which is so satisfactory. They -can point to a man, or a society, and say, “Here you are; I made this. I -found him a worm and no man, and left him a human being,” or, “I found -them scattered and unmoral units, and left them a Band of Hope, or a -Mothers’ Union.” It is a great work. Eddy caught the spirit of it, and -threw himself vigorously into men’s clubs and lads’ brigades, and boy -scouts, and all the other organisations that flourished in the parish of -St. Gregory, under the Reverend Anthony Finch and his assistant clergy. -Father Finch, as he was called in the parish, was a stout, bright man, -shrewd, and merry, and genial, and full of an immense energy and power -of animating the inanimate. He had set all kinds of people and -institutions on their feet, and given them a push to start them and keep -them in motion. So his parish was a live parish,<a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a> in a state of healthy -circulation. Father Finch was emphatically a worker. Dogma and ritual, -though certainly essential to his view of life, did not occupy the -prominent place given to them by, for instance, his senior curate, -Hillier. Hillier was the supreme authority on ecclesiastical ceremonial. -It was he who knew, without referring to a book, all the colours of all -the festivals and vigils; and what cere-cloths and maniples were; it was -he who decided how many candles were demanded at the festal evensong of -each saint, and what vestments were suitable to be worn in procession, -and all the other things that lay people are apt to think get done for -themselves, but which really give a great deal of trouble and thought to -some painstaking organiser.</p> - -<p>Hillier had genial and sympathetic manners with the poor, was very -popular in the parish, belonged to eight religious guilds, wore the -badges of all of them on his watch-chain, and had been educated at a -county school and a theological college. The junior curate, James -Peters, was a jolly young cricketer of twenty-four, and had been at -Marlborough and Cambridge with Eddy; he was, in fact, the man who had -persuaded Eddy to come and help in St. Gregory’s.</p> - -<p>There were several young laymen working in the parish. St. Gregory’s -House, which was something between a clergy house and a settlement, -spread wide nets to catch workers. Hither drifted bank clerks in their -leisure hours, eager to help<a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a> with clubs in the evenings and Sunday -school classes on Sundays. Here also came undergraduates in the -vacations, keen to plunge into the mêlée, and try their hands at social -and philanthropic enterprises; some of them were going to take Orders -later, some were not; some were stifling with ardent work troublesome -doubts as to the object of the universe, others were not; all were full -of the generous idealism of the first twenties. When Eddy went there, -there were no undergraduates, but several visiting lay workers.</p> - -<p>Between the senior and junior curates came the second curate, Bob -Traherne, an ardent person who belonged to the Church Socialist League. -Eddy joined this League at once. It is an interesting one to belong to, -and has an exciting, though some think old-fashioned, programme. Seeing -him inclined to join things, Hillier set before him, diplomatically, the -merits of the various Leagues and Guilds and Fraternities whose badges -he wore, and for which new recruits are so important.</p> - -<p>“Anyone who cares for the principles of the Church,” he said, shyly -eager, having asked Eddy into his room to smoke one Sunday evening after -supper, “must support the objects of the G.S.C.” He explained what they -were, and why. “You see, worship can’t be complete without it—not so -much because it’s a beautiful thing in itself, and certainly not from -the æsthetic or sensuous point of view, though of course there’s that -appeal<a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a> too, and particularly to the poor—but because it’s used in the -other branches, and we must join up and come into line as far as we -conscientiously can.”</p> - -<p>“Quite,” said Eddy, seeing it. “Of course we must.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll join the Guild, then?” said Hillier, and Eddy said, “Oh, yes, -I’ll join,” and did so. So Hillier had great hopes for him, and told him -about the F.I.S., and the L.M.G.</p> - -<p>But Traherne said afterwards to Eddy, “Don’t you go joining Hillier’s -little Fraternities and Incense Guilds. They won’t do you any good. -Leave them to people like Robinson and Wilkes.” (Robinson and Wilkes -were two young clerks who came to work in the parish and adored -Hillier.) “They seem to find such things necessary to their souls; in -fact, they tell me they are starved without them; so I suppose they must -be allowed to have them. But you simply haven’t the time to spend.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I think it’s right, you know,” said Eddy, who never rejected -anything or fell in with negations. That was where he drew his line—he -went along with all points of view so long as they were positive: as -soon as condemnation or rejection came in, he broke off.</p> - -<p>Traherne puffed at his pipe rather scornfully.</p> - -<p>“It’s not right,” he grunted, “and it’s not wrong. It’s neuter. Oh, have -it as you like. It’s all very attractive, of course; I’m entirely in<a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a> -sympathy with the objects of all these guilds, as you know. It’s only -the guilds themselves I object to—a lot of able-bodied people wasting -their forces banding themselves together to bring about relatively -trivial and unimportant things, when there’s all the work of the shop -waiting to be done. Oh, I don’t mean Hillier doesn’t work—of course -he’s first-class—but the more of his mind he gives to incense and -stoles, the less he’ll have to give to the work that matters—and it’s -not as if he had such an immense deal of it altogether—mind, I mean.”</p> - -<p>“But after all,” Eddy demurred, “if that sort of thing appeals to -anybody....”</p> - -<p>“Oh, let ’em have it, let ’em have it,” said Traherne wearily. “Let ’em -all have what they like; but don’t <i>you</i> be dragged into a net of -millinery and fuss. Even you will surely admit that things don’t all -matter equally—that it’s more important, for instance, that people -should learn a little about profit-sharing than a great deal about -church ornaments; more important that they should use leadless glaze -than that they should use incense. Well, then, there you are; go for the -essentials, and let the incidentals look after themselves.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, let’s go for everything,” said Eddy with enthusiasm. “It’s all -worth having.”</p> - -<p>The second curate regarded him with a cynical smile, and gave him up as -a bad job. But anyhow, he had joined the Church Socialist League, whose -members according to themselves, do go for the essentials, and, -according to some other people,<a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a> go to the devil; anyhow go, or -endeavour to go, somewhere, and have no superfluous energy to spend on -toys by the roadside. Only Eddy Oliver seemed to have energy to spare -for every game that turned up. He made himself rather useful, and taught -the boys’ clubs single-stick and boxing, and played billiards and -football with them.</p> - -<p>The only thing that young James Peters wanted him to join was a Rugby -football club. Teach the men and boys of the parish to play Rugger like -sportsmen and not like cads, and you’ve taught them most of what a boy -or man need learn, James Peters held. While the senior curate said, give -them the ritual of the Catholic Church, and the second curate said, give -them a minimum wage, and the vicar said, put into them, by some means or -another, the fear of God, the junior curate led them to the -playing-field hired at great expense, and tried to make sportsmen of -them; and grew at times, but very seldom, passionate like a thwarted -child, because it was the most difficult thing he had ever tried to do, -and because they would lose their tempers and kick one another on the -shins, and walk off the field, and send in their resignations, together -with an intimation that St. Gregory’s Church would see them no more, -because the referee was a liar and didn’t come it fair. Then James -Peters would throw back their resignations and their intimations in -their faces, and call them silly asses and generally manage to smooth -things down in his cheerful, youthful, vigorous way. Eddy Oliver<a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a> helped -him in this. He and Peters were great friends, though more unlike even -than most people are. Peters had a very single eye, and herded people -very easily and completely into sheep and goats; his particular -nomenclature for them was “sportsmen” and “rotters.” He took the -Catholic Church, so to speak, in his swing, and was one of her most -loyal and energetic sons.</p> - -<p>To him, Arnold Denison, whom he had known slightly at Cambridge, was -decidedly a goat. Arnold Denison came, at Eddy’s invitation, to supper -at St. Gregory’s House one Sunday night. The visit was not a success. -Hillier, usually the life of any party he adorned, was silent, and on -his guard. Arnold, at times a tremendous talker, said hardly a word -through the meal. Eddy knew of old that he was capable, in uncongenial -society, of an unmannerly silence, which looked scornful partly because -it was scornful, and partly because of Arnold’s rather cynical -physiognomy, which sometimes unjustly suggested mockery. On this Sunday -evening he was really less scornful than simply aloof; he had no concern -with these people, nor they with him; they made each other mutually -uncomfortable. Neither could have anything to say to the other’s point -of view. Eddy, the connecting link, felt unhappy about it. What was the -matter with the idiots, that they wouldn’t understand each other? It -seemed to him extraordinarily stupid. But undoubtedly the social fault -lay with Arnold, who was being rude. The<a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a> others, as hosts, tried to -make themselves pleasant—even Hillier, who quite definitely didn’t like -Arnold, and who was one of those who as a rule think it right and true -to their colours to show disapproval when they feel it. The others -weren’t like that (the difference perhaps was partly between the schools -which had respectively reared them), so they were agreeable with less -effort.</p> - -<p>But the meal was not a success. It began with grace, which, in spite of -its rapidity and its decent cloak of Latin, quite obviously shocked and -embarrassed Arnold. (“Stupid of him,” thought Eddy; “he might have known -we’d say it here.”) It went on with Peters talking about his Rugger -club, which bored Arnold. This being apparent, the Vicar talked about -some Cambridge men they both knew. As the men had worked for a time in -St. Gregory’s parish, Arnold had already given them up as bad jobs, so -hadn’t much to say about them, except one, who had turned over a new -leaf, and now helped to edit a new weekly paper. Arnold mentioned this -paper with approbation.</p> - -<p>“Did you see last week’s?” he asked the Vicar. “There were some -extraordinarily nice things in it.”</p> - -<p>As no one but Eddy had seen last week’s, and everyone but Eddy thought -<i>The Heretic</i> in thoroughly bad taste, if not worse, the subject was not -a general success. Eddy referred to a play that had been reviewed in it. -That seemed a good subject; plays are a friendly, uncontroversial<a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a> -topic. But between Arnold and clergymen no topic seemed friendly. -Hillier introduced a popular play of the hour which had a religious -trend. He even asked Arnold if he had seen it. Arnold said no, he had -missed that pleasure. Hillier said it was grand, simply grand; he had -been three times.</p> - -<p>“Of course,” he added, “one’s on risky ground, and one isn’t quite sure -how far one likes to see such marvellous religious experiences -represented on the stage. But the spirit is so utterly reverent that one -can’t feel anything but the rightness of the whole thing. It’s a rather -glorious triumph of devotional expression.”</p> - -<p>And that wasn’t a happy topic either, for no one but he and Eddy liked -the play at all. The Vicar thought it cheap and tawdry; Traherne thought -it sentimental and revolting; Peters thought it silly rot; and Arnold -had never thought about it at all, but had just supposed it to be -absurd, the sort of play to which one would go, if one went at all, to -laugh; like “The Sins of Society,” or “Everywoman,” only rather coarse, -too.</p> - -<p>Hillier said to Eddy, who had seen the play with him, “Didn’t you think -it tremendously fine, Oliver?”</p> - -<p>Eddy said, “Yes, quite. I really did. But Denison wouldn’t like it, you -know.”</p> - -<p>Denison, Hillier supposed, was one of the fools who have said in their -hearts, etc. In that case the play in question would probably be an -eye-opener<a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a> for him, and it was a pity he shouldn’t see it.</p> - -<p>Hillier told him so. “You really ought to see it, Mr. Denison.”</p> - -<p>Arnold said, “Life, unfortunately, is short.”</p> - -<p>Hillier, nettled, said, “I’d much rather see ‘The Penitent’ than all -your Shaws put together. I’m afraid I can’t pretend to owe any -allegiance there.”</p> - -<p>Arnold, who thought Shaw common, not to say Edwardian, looked -unresponsive. Then Traherne began to talk about ground-rents. When -Traherne began to talk he as a rule went on. Neither Hillier nor Arnold, -who had mutually shocked one another, said much more. Arnold knew a -little about rents, ground and other, and if Traherne had been a layman -he would have been interested in talking about them. But he couldn’t and -wouldn’t talk to clergymen; emphatically, he did not like them.</p> - -<p>After supper, Eddy took him to his own room to smoke. With his unlit -pipe in his hand, Arnold lay back and let out a deep breath of -exhaustion.</p> - -<p>“You were very rude and disagreeable at supper,” said Eddy, striking a -match. “It was awkward for me. I must apologise to-morrow for having -asked you. I shall say it’s your country manners, though I suppose you -would like me to say that you don’t approve of clergymen.... Really, -Arnold, I was surprised you should be so very rustic, even if you don’t -like them.”<a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a></p> - -<p>Arnold groaned faintly.</p> - -<p>“Chuck it,” he murmured. “Come out of it before it is too late, before -you get sucked in irrevocably. I’ll help you; I’ll tell the vicar for -you; yes, I’ll interview them all in turn, even Hillier, if it will make -it easier for you. Will it?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Eddy. “I’m not going to leave at present. I like being here.”</p> - -<p>“That,” said Arnold, “is largely why it’s so demoralising for you. Now -for <i>me</i> it would be distressing, but innocuous. For you it’s poison.”</p> - -<p>“Well, now,” Eddy reasoned with him, “what’s the matter with Traherne, -for instance? Of course, I see that the vicar’s too much the practical -man of the world for you, and Peters too much the downright sportsman, -and Hillier too much the pious ass (though I like him, you know). But -Traherne’s clever and all alive, and not in the least reputable. What’s -the matter with him, then?”</p> - -<p>Arnold grunted. “Don’t know. Must be something, or he wouldn’t be -filling his present position in life. Probably he labours under the -delusion that life is real, life is earnest. Socialists often do.... -Look here, come and see Jane one day, will you? She’d be a change for -you.”</p> - -<p>“What’s Jane like?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know.... Not like anyone here, anyhow. She draws in pen and -ink, and lives in a room in a little court out of Blackfriars Road, with -a little fat fair girl called Sally. Sally Peters;<a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a> she’s a cousin of -young James here, I believe. Rather like him, too, only rounder and -jollier, with bluer eyes and yellower hair. Much more of a person, I -imagine; more awake to things in general, and not a bit <i>rangée</i>, though -quite crude. But the same sort of cheery exuberance; personally, I -couldn’t live with either; but Jane manages it quite serenely. Sally -isn’t free of the good-works taint herself, though we hope she is -outgrowing it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’ve met her. She comes and helps Jimmy with the children’s clubs -sometimes.”</p> - -<p>“I expect she does. But, as I say, we’re educating her. She’s young -yet.... Jane is good for her. So are Miss Hogan, and the two Le Moines, -and I. We should also be good for <i>you</i>, if you could spare us some of -your valuable time between two Sunday school classes. Good night. I’m -going home now, because it makes me rather sad to be here.”</p> - -<p>He went home.</p> - -<p>The clergy of St. Gregory’s thought him (respectively) an ill-mannered -and irritating young man, probably clever enough to learn better some -day; an infidel, very likely too proud ever to learn better at all, this -side the grave; a dilettante slacker, for whom the world hadn’t much -use; and a conceited crank, for whom James Peters had no use at all. But -they didn’t like to tell Eddy so.</p> - -<p>James Peters, a transparent youth, threw only<a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a> a thin veil over his -opinions, however, when he talked to Eddy about his cousin Sally. He -was, apparently, anxious about Sally. Eddy had met her at children’s -clubs, and thought her a cheery young person, and admired the amber gold -of her hair, and her cornflower-blue eyes, and her power of always -thinking of a fresh game at the right moment.</p> - -<p>“I’m supposed to be keeping an eye upon her,” James said. “She has to -earn her living, you know, so she binds books and lives in a room off -the Blackfriars Road with another girl.... I’m not sure I care about the -way they live, to say the truth. They have such queer people in, to -supper and so on. Men, you know, of all sorts. I believe Denison goes. -They sit on a bed that’s meant to look like a sofa and doesn’t. And -they’re only girls—Miss Dawn’s older than Sally, but not very old—and -they’ve no one to look after them; it doesn’t seem right. And they do -know the most extraordinary people. Miss Dawn’s rather a queer girl -herself, I think; unlike other people, somehow. Very—very detached, if -you understand; and doesn’t care a rap for the conventions, I should -say. That’s all very well in its way, and she’s a very quiet-mannered -person—can’t think how she and Sally made friends—but it’s a dangerous -plan for most people. And some of their friends are ... well, rather -rotters, you know. Look like artists, or Fabians, without collars, and -so on.... Oh, I forgot—you’re a Fabian, aren’t you?... Well,<a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a> anyhow, I -should guess that some of them are without morals either; in my -experience the two things are jolly apt to go together. There are the Le -Moines, now. Have you ever come across either of them?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve just met Cecil Le Moine. He’s rather charming, isn’t he?”</p> - -<p>“The sort of person,” said James Peters, “for whom I have no use -whatever. No, he doesn’t appear to me charming. An effeminate ass, I -call him. Oh, I know he calls himself frightfully clever and all that, -and I suppose he thinks he’s good-looking ... but as selfish as sin. -Anyhow, he and his wife couldn’t live together, so they parted before -their first year was over. Her music worried him or something, and -prevented him concentrating his precious brain on his literary efforts; -and I suppose he got on her nerves, too. I believe they agreed quite -pleasantly to separate, and are quite pleased to meet each other about -the place, and are rather good friends. But I call it pretty beastly, -looking at marriage like that. If they’d hated each other there’d have -been more excuse. And she’s a great friend of Miss Dawn’s, and Sally’s -developed what I consider an inordinate affection for her; and she and -Miss Dawn between them have simply got hold of her—Sally, I mean—and -are upsetting her and giving her all kinds of silly new points of view. -She doesn’t come half as often to the clubs as she used. And she was -tremendously keen on the Church, and—<a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>and really religious, you -know—and she’s getting quite different. I feel sort of responsible, and -it’s worrying me rather.”</p> - -<p>He puffed discontentedly at his pipe.</p> - -<p>“Pity to get less keen on anything,” Eddy mused. “New points of view -seem to me all to the good; it’s losing hold of the old that’s a -mistake. Why let anything go, ever?”</p> - -<p>“She’s getting to think it doesn’t matter,” James complained; “Church, -and all that. I know she’s given up things she used to do. And really, -the more she’s surrounded by influences such as Mrs. Le Moine’s, the -more she needs the Church to pull her through, if only she’d see it. -Mrs. Le Moine’s a wonderful musician, I suppose, but she has queer -ideas, rather; I shouldn’t trust her. She and Hugh Datcherd—the editor -of <i>Further</i>, you know—are hand and glove. And considering he has a -wife and she a husband ... well, it seems pretty futile, doesn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Does it?” Eddy wondered. “It depends so much on the special -circumstances. If the husband and the wife don’t mind——”</p> - -<p>“Rot,” said James. “And the husband ought to mind, and I don’t know that -the wife doesn’t. And, anyhow, it doesn’t affect the question of right -and wrong.”</p> - -<p>That was too difficult a proposition for Eddy to consider; he gave it -up.</p> - -<p>“I’m going to the Blackfriars Road flat with Denison one day, I -believe,” he said. “I shall<a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a> be one of the Fabians that sit on the bed -that doesn’t look like a sofa.”</p> - -<p>James sighed. “I wish, if you get to know Sally at all, you’d encourage -her to come down here more, and try to put a few sound ideas into her -head. She’s taking to scorning my words of wisdom. I believe she’s taken -against parsons.... Oh, you’re going with Denison.”</p> - -<p>“Arnold won’t do anyone any harm,” Eddy reassured him. “He’s so -extraordinarily innocent. About the most innocent person I know. We -should shock him frightfully down here if he saw much of us; he’d think -us indecent and coarse. Hillier and I did shock him rather, by liking -“The Penitent.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder if you like everything,” grumbled Peters.</p> - -<p>“Most things, I expect,” said Eddy. “Well, most things are rather nice, -don’t you think?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose you’ll like the Le Moines and Miss Dawn if you get to know -them. And all the rest of that crew.”</p> - -<p>Eddy certainly expected to do so.</p> - -<p>Six o’clock struck, and Peters went to church to hear confessions, and -Eddy to the Institute to play billiards with the Church Lads’ Brigade, -of which he was an officer. A wonderful life of varied active service, -this Southwark life seemed to Eddy; full and splendid, and gloriously -single-eyed. Arnold, in sneering at it, showed himself a narrow prig. -More and more it was becoming<a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a> clear to Eddy that nothing should be -sneered at and nothing condemned, not the Catholic Church, nor the -Salvation Army, nor the views of artists, Fabians, and Le Moines, -without collars and without morals.<a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /><br /> -<small>PLEASANCE COURT.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">O<small>NE</small> evening Arnold took Eddy to supper with his cousin Jane Dawn and -James Peters’ cousin Sally. They lived in Pleasance Court, a small -square with a garden. After supper they were all going to a first -performance of a play by Cecil Le Moine, called “Squibs.”</p> - -<p>“You always know which their window is,” Arnold told Eddy as they turned -into the square, “by the things on the sill. They put the food and drink -there, to keep cool, or be out of the way, or something.” Looking up, -they saw outside an upper window a blue jug and a white bowl, keeping -cool in the moonlight. As they rang at the door, the window was pushed -up, and hands reached out to take the jug and bowl in. A cheerful face -looked down at the tops of their heads, and a cheerful voice said -clearly, “They’ve come, Jane. They’re very early, aren’t they? They’ll -have to help buttering the eggs.”</p> - -<p>Arnold called up, “If you would prefer it, we will walk round the square -till the eggs are buttered.”<a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a></p> - -<p>“Oh, no, please. We’d like you to come up and help, if you don’t mind.” -The voice was a little doubtful because of Eddy, the unknown quantity. -The door was opened by an aged door-keeper, and they climbed -breathlessly steep stairs to the room.</p> - -<p>In the room was the smell of eggs buttering over a spirit-lamp, and of -cocoa boiling over a fire. There was also a supper-table, laid with cups -and plates and oranges and butter and honey, and brown, -green-wainscotted walls, and various sorts of pictures hanging on them, -and various sorts of pots and jugs from various sorts of places, such as -Spain, New Brighton, and Bruges, and bronze chrysanthemums in jars, and -white shoots of bulbs pricking up out of cocoa-nut fibre in bowls, and a -book-case with books in it, and a table in a corner littered with -book-binding plant, and two girls cooking. One of them was soft and -round like a puppy, and had fluffy golden hair and a cornflower-blue -pinafore to match cornflower-blue eyes. The other was small, and had a -pale, pointed face and a large forehead and brown hair waving back from -it, and a smile of wonderfully appealing sweetness, and a small, gentle -voice. She looked somehow as if she had lived in a wood, and had -intimately and affectionately known all the little live wild things in -it, both birds and beasts and flowers: a queer unearthliness there was -about her, that suggested the morning winds and the evening stars. Eddy, -who knew some of<a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a> her drawings, had noted that chaste, elfin quality in -them; he was rather pleased to find it meet him so obviously in her face -and bearing. Seeing the two girls, he was disposed to echo James Peters’ -comment, “Can’t think how she and Sally made friends,” and to set it -down tritely to that law of contrasts which some people, in the teeth of -experience, appear to believe in as the best basis of friendship.</p> - -<p>Sally Peters was stirring the buttered egg vigorously, lest it should -stand still and burn. Jane Dawn was watching the cocoa, lest it should -run over and burn. Arnold wandered round the room peering at the -pictures—mostly drawings and etchings—with his near-sighted eyes, to -see if there was anything new. Jane had earned a little money lately, so -there were two new Duncan Grants and a Muirhead Bone, which he examined -with critical approval.</p> - -<p>“You’ve still got this up,” he remarked, tapping Beardsley’s “Ave Atque -Vale” with a disparaging finger. “The one banal thing Beardsley ever.... -Besides, anyhow Beardsley’s <i>passé</i>.”</p> - -<p>Jane Dawn, who looked as if she belonged not to time at all, seemed -peacefully undisturbed by this fact. Only Sally, in her young -ingenuousness, looked a little concerned.</p> - -<p>“I love the Ave,” Jane murmured over the saucepan, and then looked up at -Eddy with her small, half-affectionate smile—a likeable way she had -with her.<a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a></p> - -<p>He said, “I do too,” and Arnold snorted.</p> - -<p>“You don’t know him yet, Jane. He loves everything. He loves -‘Soap-bubbles,’ and ‘The Monarch of the Glen,’ and problem pictures in -the Academy. Not to mention ‘The Penitent,’ which, Jane, is a play of -which you have never heard, but to which you and I will one day go, to -complete our education. Only we won’t take Sally; it would be bad for -her. She isn’t old enough for it yet and it might upset her mind; -besides, it isn’t proper, I believe.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure I don’t want to go,” said Sally, pouring out the egg into a -dish. “It must be idiotic. Even Jimmy thinks so.”</p> - -<p>Arnold’s eyebrows went up. “In that case I may revise my opinion of it,” -he murmured. “Well, anyhow Eddy loves it, like everything else. Nothing -is beyond the limit of his tolerance.”</p> - -<p>“Does he like nice things too?” Sally naïvely asked. “Will he like -‘Squibs’?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, he’ll like ‘Squibs.’ His taste is catholic; he’ll probably be -the only person in London who likes both ‘Squibs’ and ‘The Penitent.’ -... I suppose we shan’t see Eileen to-night; she’ll have been given one -of the seats of the great. She shall come and talk to us between the -acts, though.”</p> - -<p>“We wanted Eileen and Bridget to come to supper,” said Sally. “It’s -quite ready now, by the way; let’s have it. But they were dining with -Cecil, and then going on to the theatre. Do you<a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a> like cocoa, Mr. Oliver? -Because if you don’t there’s milk, or lemonade.”</p> - -<p>Eddy said he liked them all, but would have cocoa at the moment. Jane -poured it out, with the most exquisitely-shaped thin small hands he had -ever seen, and passed it to him with her little smile, that seemed to -take him at once into the circle of her accepted friends. A rare and -delicate personality she seemed to him, curiously old and young, -affectionate and aloof, like a spring morning on a hill. There was -something impersonal and sexless about her. Eddy felt inclined at once -to call her Jane, and was amused and pleased when she slipped -unconsciously once or twice into addressing him as Eddy. The ordinary -conventions in such matters would never, one felt, weigh with her at -all, or even come into consideration, any more than with a child.</p> - -<p>“I was to give you James’ love,” Eddy said to Sally, “and ask you when -you are coming to St. Gregory’s again. The school-teachers, he tells me -to inform you, cannot run the Band of Hope basket-making class without -you.”</p> - -<p>Sally got rather pink, and glanced at Arnold, who looked cynically -interested.</p> - -<p>“What <i>is</i> the Band of Hope?” he inquired.</p> - -<p>“Temperance girls, temperance boys, always happy, always free,” Eddy -answered, in the words of their own song.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I see. Fight the drink. And does making baskets help them to fight -it?”<a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a></p> - -<p>“Well, of course if you have a club and it has to meet once a week, it -must do something,” said Sally, stating a profound and sad truth. “But I -told Jimmy I was frightfully busy; I don’t think I can go, really.... I -wish Jimmy wouldn’t go on asking me. Do tell him not to, Mr. Oliver. -Jimmy doesn’t understand; one can’t do everything.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Eddy dubiously, thinking that perhaps one could, almost, and -that anyhow the more things the more fun.</p> - -<p>“It’s a pity one can’t,” he added, from his heart.</p> - -<p>Arnold said that doing was a deadly thing, doing ends in death. “Only -that, I believe, is the Evangelical view, and you’re High Church at St. -Gregory’s.”</p> - -<p>Jane laughed at him. “Imagine Arnold knowing the difference! I don’t -believe he does in the least. I do,” she added, with a naïve touch of -vanity, “because I met a clergyman once, when I was drawing in the -Abbey, and he told me a lot about it. About candles, and ornaments, and -robes that priests wear in church. It must be much nicer than being Low -Church, I should think.” She referred to Eddy, with her questioning -smile.</p> - -<p>“They’re both rather nice,” Eddy said. “I’m both, I think.”</p> - -<p>Sally looked at him inquiringly with her blue eyes under their thick -black lashes. Was he advanced, this plausible, intelligent-looking young -man, who was a friend of Arnold Denison’s and liked “The Penitent,” and, -indeed, everything<a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a> else? Was he free and progressive and on the side of -the right things, or was he merely an amiable stick-in-the-mud like -Jimmy? She couldn’t gather, from his alert, expressive face and bright -hazel eyes and rather sensitive mouth: they chiefly conveyed a capacity -for reception, an openness to all impressions, a readiness to spread -sails to any wind. If he <i>were</i> a person of parts, if he had a brain and -a mind and a soul, and if at the same time he were an ardent server of -the Church—that, Sally thought unconsciously, might be a witness in the -Church’s favour. Only here she remembered Jimmy’s friend at St. -Gregory’s, Bob Traherne; he was all that and more, he had brain and mind -and soul and an ardent fire of zeal for many of the right things (Sally, -a little behind the times here, was a Socialist by conviction), and yet -in spite of him one was sure that somehow the Church wouldn’t do, -wouldn’t meet all the requirements of this complex life. Sally had -learnt that lately, and was learning it more and more. She was proud of -having learnt it; but still, she had occasional regrets.</p> - -<p>She made a hole in an orange, and put a lump of sugar in it and sucked -it.</p> - -<p>“The great advantage of that way,” she explained, “is that all the juice -goes inside you, and doesn’t mess the plates or anything else. You see, -Mrs. Jones is rather old, and not fond of washing up.”</p> - -<p>So they all made holes and put in sugar, and put the juice inside them. -Then Jane and Sally<a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a> retired to exchange their cooking pinafores for -out-door things, and then they all rode to “Squibs” on the top of a bus. -They were joined at the pit door by one Billy Raymond, a friend of -theirs—a tall, tranquil young man, by trade a poet, with an attractive -smile and a sweet temper, and a gentle, kind, serenely philosophical -view of men and things that was a little like Jane’s, only more human -and virile. He attracted Eddy greatly, as his poems had already done.</p> - -<p>To remove anxiety on the subject, it may be stated at once that the -first night of “Squibs” was neither a failure nor a triumphant success. -It was enjoyable, for those who enjoyed the sort of thing—(fantastic -wit, clever dialogue, much talk, little action, and less emotion)—and -dull for those who didn’t. It would certainly never be popular, and -probably the author would have been shocked and grieved if it had been. -The critics approved it as clever, and said it was rather lengthy and -highly improbable. Jane, Sally, Arnold, Billy Raymond, and Eddy enjoyed -it extremely. So did Eileen Le Moine and her companion Bridget Hogan, -who watched it from a box. Cecil Le Moine wandered in and out of the -box, looking plaintive. He told Eileen that they were doing it even -worse than he had feared. He was rather an engaging-looking person, with -a boyish, young-Napoleonic beauty of face and a velvet smoking-jacket, -and a sweet, plaintive voice, and the air of an injured child about him. -A child of genius, perhaps; anyhow a gifted<a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a> child, and a lovable one, -and at the same time as selfish as even a child can be.</p> - -<p>Eileen Le Moine and Miss Hogan came to speak to their friends in the pit -before taking their seats. Eddy was introduced to them, and they talked -for a minute or two. When they had gone, Sally said to him, “Isn’t -Eileen attractive?”</p> - -<p>“Very,” he said.</p> - -<p>“And Bridget’s a dear,” added Sally, childishly boasting of her friends.</p> - -<p>“I can imagine she would be,” said Eddy. Miss Hogan had amused him -during their short interview. She was older than the rest of them; she -was perhaps thirty-four, and very well dressed, and with a shrewd, -woman-of-the-world air that the others quite lacked, and dangling -pince-nez, and ironic eyes, and a slight stutter. Eddy regretted that -she was not sitting among them; her caustic comments would have added -salt to the evening.</p> - -<p>“Bridget’s worldly, you know,” Sally said. “She’s the only one of us -with money, and she goes out a lot. You see how smartly she’s dressed. -She’s the only person I’m really friends with who’s like that. She’s -awfully clever, too, though she doesn’t do anything.”</p> - -<p>“Doesn’t she do anything?” Eddy asked sceptically, and Arnold answered -him.</p> - -<p>“Our Bridget? Sally only means she’s a lily of the field. She writes -not, neither does she paint. She only mothers those who do, and hauls -them<a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a> out of scrapes. Eileen lives with her, you know, in a flat in -Kensington. She tries to look after Eileen. Quite enough of a job, -besides tending all the other ingenuous young persons of both sexes she -has under her wing.”</p> - -<p>Eddy watched her as she talked to Eileen Le Moine; a vivid, impatient, -alive person, full of quips and cranks and quiddities and a constant -flow of words. He could see, foreshortened, Eileen Le Moine’s face—very -attractive, as Sally had said; broad brows below dark hair, rounded -cheeks with deep dimples that came and went in them, great deep blue, -black-lashed eyes, a wide mouth of soft, generous curves, a mouth that -could look sulky but always had amusement lurking in it, and a round, -decisive chin. She was perhaps four or five and twenty; a brilliant, -perverse young person, full of the fun of living, an artist, a -pleasure-lover, a spoilt child, who probably could be sullen, who -certainly was wayward and self-willed, who had genius and charm and -ideas and a sublime independence of other people’s codes, and possibly -an immense untapped spring of generous self-sacrifice. She had probably -been too like Cecil Le Moine (only more than he was, every way) to live -with him; each would need something more still and restful as a -permanent companion. They had no doubt been well advised to part, -thought Eddy, who did not agree with James Peters about that way of -regarding marriage.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t Miss Carruthers ripping as Myra,”<a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a> whispered Sally. “Cecil wrote -it for her, you know. He says there’s no one else on the stage.”</p> - -<p>Jane put up a hand to silence her, because the curtain had risen.</p> - -<p>At the end the author was called and had a good reception; on the whole -“Squibs” had been a success. Eddy looked up and saw Eileen Le Moine -looking pleased and smiling as they clapped her boyish-looking -husband—an amused, sisterly, half ironic smile. It struck Eddy as the -smile she must inevitably give Cecil, and it seemed to illumine their -whole relations. She couldn’t, certainly, be the least in love with him, -and yet she must like him very much, to smile like that now that they -were parted.</p> - -<p>As Jane and Sally and Eddy and Billy Raymond rode down Holborn on their -bus (Arnold had walked to Soho, where he lived) Eddy, sitting next Jane, -asked “Did you like it?” being curious about Jane’s point of view.</p> - -<p>She smiled. “Yes, of course. Wouldn’t anyone?” Eddy could have answered -the question, instancing Hillier or James Peters, or his own parents or, -indeed, many other critics. But Jane’s “anyone” he surmised to have a -narrow meaning; anyone, she meant, of our friends; anyone of the sort -one naturally comes into contact with. (Jane’s outlook was through a -narrow gate on to woods unviolated by the common tourist; her experience -was delicate, exquisite, and limited).<a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a></p> - -<p>She added, “Of course it’s just a baby’s thing. He <i>is</i> just a baby, you -know.”</p> - -<p>“I should like to get to know him,” said Eddy. “He’s extraordinarily -pleasing,” and she nodded.</p> - -<p>“Of course you’ll get to know him. Why not? And Eileen, too.” In Jane’s -world, the admitted dwellers all got to know each other, as a matter of -course.</p> - -<p>“A lot of us are going down into the country next Sunday,” Jane added. -“Won’t you come?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, thanks; if I’m not needed in the parish I’d love to. Yes, I’m -almost sure I can.”</p> - -<p>“We all meet at Waterloo for the nine-thirty. We shall have breakfast at -Heathermere (but you can have had some earlier, too, if you like), and -then walk somewhere from there. Bring a thick coat, because we shall be -sitting about on the heath, and it’s not warm.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks awfully, if you’re sure I may come.”</p> - -<p>Jane wasted no more words on that; she probably never asked people to -come unless she was sure they might. She merely waved an appreciative -hand, like a child, at the blue night full of lights, seeking his -sympathy in the wonder of it. Then she and Sally had to change into the -Blackfriars Bridge bus, and Eddy sought London Bridge and the Borough on -foot. Billy Raymond, who lived in Beaufort Street, but was taking a -walk, came with him. They talked on the way about the play. Billy made -criticisms and comments that seemed to Eddy very much to the point, -though<a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a> they wouldn’t have occurred to him. There was an easy ability, a -serene independence of outlook, about this young man, that was -attractive. Like many poets, he was singularly fresh and unspoilt, -though in his case (unlike many poets) it wasn’t because he had nothing -to spoil him; he enjoyed, in fact, some reputation among critics and the -literary public. He figured in many an anthology of verse, and those who -gave addresses on modern poetry were apt to read his things aloud, which -habit annoys some poets and gratifies others. Further, he had been given -a reading all to himself at the Poetry Bookshop, which had rather -displeased him, because he had not liked the voice of the lady who read -him. But enough has been said to indicate that he was a promising young -poet.</p> - -<p>When Eddy got in, he found the vicar and Hillier smoking by the -common-room fire. The vicar was nodding over Pickwick, and Hillier -perusing the <i>Church Times</i>. The vicar, who had been asleep, said, -“Hullo, Oliver. Want anything to eat or drink? Had a nice evening?”</p> - -<p>“Very, thanks. No, I’ve been fed sufficiently.”</p> - -<p>“Play good?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, quite clever.... I say, would it be awfully inconvenient if I was -to be out next Sunday? Some people want me to go out for the day with -them. Of course there’s my class. But perhaps Wilkes.... He said he -wouldn’t mind, sometimes.”</p> - -<p>“No; that’ll be all right. Speak to Wilkes, will you.... Shall you be -away all day?”<a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a></p> - -<p>“I expect so,” said Eddy, feeling that Hillier looked at him askance, -though the vicar didn’t. Probably Hillier didn’t approve of Sunday -outings, thought one should be in church.</p> - -<p>He sat down and began to talk about “Squibs.”</p> - -<p>Hillier said presently, “He’s surely rather a mountebank, that Le Moine? -Full of cheap sneers and clap-trap, isn’t he?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” said Eddy. “Certainly not clap-trap. He’s very genuine, I -should say; expresses his personality a good deal more successfully than -most play writers.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no doubt,” Hillier said. “It’s his personality, I should fancy, -that’s wrong.”</p> - -<p>Eddy said, “He’s delightful,” rather warmly, and the vicar said, “Well, -now, I’m going to bed,” and went, and Eddy went, too, because he didn’t -want to argue with Hillier, a difficult feat, and no satisfaction when -achieved.<a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /><br /> -<small>HEATHERMERE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">S<small>UNDAY</small> was the last day but one of October. They all met at Waterloo in -a horrid fog, and missed the nine-thirty because Cecil Le Moine was -late. He sauntered up at 9.45, tranquil and at ease, the MS. of his -newest play under his arm (he obviously thought to read it to them in -the course of the day—“which must be prevented,” Arnold remarked). So -they caught a leisured train at 9.53, and got out of it at a little -white station about 10.20, and the fog was left behind, and a pure blue -October sky arched over a golden and purple earth, and the air was like -iced wine, thin and cool and thrilling, and tasting of heather and -pinewoods. They went first to the village inn, on the edge of the woods, -where they had ordered breakfast for eight. Their main object at -breakfast was to ply Cecil with food, lest in a leisure moment he should -say, “What if I begin my new play to you while you eat?”</p> - -<p>“Good taste and modesty,” Arnold remarked, à propos of nothing, “are so -very important. We have all achieved our little successes (if we prefer -to regard them in that light, rather than to take<a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a> the consensus of the -unintelligent opinion of our less enlightened critics). Jane has some -very well-spoken of drawings even now on view in Grafton Street, and -doubtless many more in Pleasance Court. Have you brought them, or any of -them, with you, Jane? No? I thought as much. Eileen last night played a -violin to a crowded and breathless audience. Where is the violin to-day? -She has left it at home; she does not wish to force the fact of her -undoubted musical talent down our throats. Bridget has earned deserved -recognition as an entertainer of the great; she has a social <i>cachet</i> -that we may admire without emulation. Look at her now; her dress is -simplicity itself, and she deigns to play in a wood with the humble -poor. Even the pince-nez is in abeyance. Billy had a selection from his -works read aloud only last week to the élite of our metropolitan -poetry-lovers by a famous expert, who alluded in the most flattering -terms to his youthful promise. Has he his last volume in his -breast-pocket? I think not. Eddy has made a name in proficiency in -vigorous sports with youths; he has taught them to box and play -billiards; does he come armed with gloves and a cue? I have written an -essay of some merit that I have every hope will find itself in next -month’s <i>English Review</i>. I am sorry to disappoint you, but I have not -brought it with me. When the well-bred come out for a day of well-earned -recreation, they leave behind them the insignia of their several -professions. For the time being<a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a> they are merely individuals, without -fame and without occupation, whose one object is to enjoy what is set -before them by the gods. Have some more bacon, Cecil.”</p> - -<p>Cecil started. “Have you been talking, Arnold? I’m so sorry—I missed it -all. I expect it was good, wasn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“No one is deceived,” Arnold said, severely. “Your ingenuous air, my -young friend, is overdone.”</p> - -<p>Cecil was looking at him earnestly. Eileen said, “He’s wondering was it -you that reviewed ‘Squibs’ in <i>Poetry and Drama</i>, Arnold. He always -looks like that when he’s thinking about reviews.”</p> - -<p>“The same phrases,” Cecil murmured—“(meant to be witty, you know)—that -Arnold used when commenting on ‘Squibs’ in private life to me. Either he -used them again afterwards, feeling proud of them, to the reviewer -(possibly Billy?) or the reviewer had just used them to him before he -met me, and he cribbed them, or.... But I won’t ask. I mustn’t know. I -prefer not to know. I will preserve our friendship intact.”</p> - -<p>“What does the conceited child expect?” exclaimed Miss Hogan. “The -review said he was more alive than Barker, and wittier than Wilde. The -grossest flattery I ever read!”</p> - -<p>“A bright piece,” Cecil remarked. “He said it was a bright piece. He -did, I tell you. <i>A bright piece.</i>”</p> - -<p>“Well, lots of the papers didn’t,” said Sally,<a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a> consoling him. “The -<i>Daily Comment</i> said it was long-winded, incoherent, and dull.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, Sally. That is certainly a cheering memory. To be found -bright by the <i>Daily Comment</i> would indeed be the last stage of -degradation.... I wonder what idiocy they will find to say of my -next.... I wonder——”</p> - -<p>“Have we all finished eating?” Arnold hastily intercepted. “Then let us -pay, and go out for a country stroll, to get an appetite for lunch, -which will very shortly be upon us.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Arnold, one doesn’t stroll immediately after breakfast; how -crude you are. One smokes a cigarette first.”</p> - -<p>“Well, catch us up when you’ve smoked it. We came out for a day in the -country, and we must have it. We’re going to walk several miles now -without a stop, to get warm.” Arnold was occasionally seized with a -fierce attack of energy, and would walk all through a day, or more -probably a night, to get rid of it, and return cured for the time being.</p> - -<p>The sandy road led first through a wood that sang in a fresh wind. The -cool air was sweet with pines and bracken and damp earth. It was a -glorious morning of odours and joy, and the hilarity of the last days of -October, when the end seems near and the present poignantly gay, and -life a bright piece nearly played out. Arnold and Bridget Hogan walked -on together ahead, both talking at once, probably competing as to which -could get in<a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a> most remarks in the shortest time. After them came Billy -Raymond and Cecil Le Moine, and with them Jane and Sally hand-in-hand. -Eddy found himself walking in the rear side by side with Eileen Le -Moine.</p> - -<p>Eileen, who was capable, ignoring all polite conventions, of walking a -mile with a slight acquaintance without uttering a word, because she was -feeling lazy, or thinking of something interesting, or because her -companion bored her, was just now in a conversational mood. She rather -liked Eddy; also she saw in him an avenue for an idea she had in mind. -She told him so.</p> - -<p>“You work in the Borough, don’t you? I wish you’d let me come and play -folk-music to your clubs sometimes. It’s a thing I’m rather keen -on—getting the old folk melodies into the streets, do you see, the way -errand boys will whistle them. Do you know Hugh Datcherd? He has musical -evenings in his Lea-side settlement; I go there a good deal. He has -morris dancing twice a week and folk-music once.”</p> - -<p>Eddy had heard much of Hugh Datcherd’s Lea-side settlement. According to -St. Gregory’s, it was run on very regrettable lines. Hillier said, “They -teach rank atheism there.” However, it was something that they also -taught morris dancing and folk-music.</p> - -<p>“It would be splendid if you’d come sometimes,” he said, gratefully. -“Just exactly what we should most like. We’ve had a little morris -dancing, of<a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a> course—who hasn’t?—but none of the other thing.”</p> - -<p>“Which evening will I come?” she asked. A direct young person; she liked -to settle things quickly.</p> - -<p>Eddy, consulting his little book, said, “To-morrow, can you?”</p> - -<p>She said, “No, I can’t; but I will,” having apparently a high-handed -method of dealing with previous engagements.</p> - -<p>“It’s the C.L.B. club night,” said Eddy. “Hillier—one of the -curates—is taking it to-morrow, and I’m helping. I’ll speak to him, but -I’m sure it will be all right. It will be a delightful change from -billiards and boxing. Thanks so much.”</p> - -<p>“And Mr. Datcherd may come with me, mayn’t he? He’s interested in other -people’s clubs. Do you read <i>Further</i>? And do you like his books?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, rather,” Eddy comprehensively answered all three questions. All -the same he was smitten with a faint doubt as to Mr. Datcherd’s coming. -Probably Hillier’s answer to the three questions would have been -“Certainly not.” But after all, St. Gregory’s didn’t belong to Hillier -but to the vicar, and the vicar was a man of sense. And anyhow anyone -who saw Mrs. Le Moine must be glad to have a visit from her, and anyone -who heard her play must thank the gods for it.</p> - -<p>“I do like his books,” Eddy amplified; “only they’re so awfully sad, and -so at odds with life.”</p> - -<p>A faint shadow seemed to cloud her face.</p> - -<p>“He <i>is</i> awfully sad,” she said, after a moment.<a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a> “And he is at odds -with life. He feels it hideous, and he minds. He spends all his time -trying and trying can he change it for people. And the more he tries and -fails, the more he minds.” She stopped abruptly, as if she had gone too -far in explaining Hugh Datcherd to him. Eddy had a knack of drawing -confidences; probably it was his look of intelligent sympathy and his -habit of listening.</p> - -<p>He wondered for a moment whether Hugh Datcherd’s sadness was all -altruistic, or did he find his own life hideous too? From what Eddy had -heard of Lady Dorothy, his wife, that might easily be so, he thought, -for they didn’t sound compatible.</p> - -<p>Instinctively, anyhow, he turned away his eyes from the queer, soft look -of brooding pity that momentarily shadowed Hugh Datcherd’s friend.</p> - -<p>From in front, snatches of talk floated back to them through the clear, -thin air. Miss Hogan’s voice, with its slight stutter, seemed to be -concluding an interesting anecdote.</p> - -<p>“And so they both committed suicide from the library window. And his -wife was paralysed from the waist up—is still, in fact. <i>Most</i> -unwholesome, it all was. And now it’s so on Charles Harker’s mind that -he writes novels about nothing else, poor creature. Very natural, if you -think what he went through. I hear he’s another just coming out now, on -the same.”</p> - -<p>“He sent it to us,” said Arnold, “but Uncle Wilfred and I weren’t sure -it was proper. I am<a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a> engaged in trying to broaden Uncle Wilfred’s mind. -Not that I want him to take Harker’s books, now or at any time.... You -know, I want Eddy in our business. We want a new reader, and it would be -so much better for his mind and moral nature than messing about as he’s -doing now.”</p> - -<p>Cecil was saying to Billy and Jane, “He wants me to put Lesbia behind -the window-curtain, and make her overhear it all. Behind the -window-curtain, you know! He really does. Could you have suspected even -our Musgrave of being so banal, Billy? He’s not even Edwardian—he’s -late-Victorian....”</p> - -<p>Arnold said over his shoulder, “Can’t somebody stop him? Do try, Jane. -He’s spoiling our day with his egotistic babbling. Bridget and I are -talking exclusively about others, their domestic tragedies, their -literary productions, and their unsuitable careers; never a word about -ourselves. I’m sure Eileen and Eddy are doing the same; and sandwiched -between us, Cecil flows on fluently about his private grievances and his -highly unsuitable plays. You’d think he might remember what day it is, -to say the least of it. I wonder how he was brought up, don’t you, -Bridget?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t wonder; I know,” said Bridget. “His parents not only wrote for -the Yellow Book, but gave it him to read in the nursery, and it -corrupted him for life. He would, of course, faint if one suggested that -he carried the taint of anything so antiquated, but infant impressions -are hard to eradicate.<a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a> I know of old that the only way to stop him is -to feed him, so let’s have lunch, however unsuitable the hour and the -place may be.”</p> - -<p>Sally said, “Hurrah, let’s. In this sand-pit.” So they got into the -sand-pit and produced seven packets of food, which is to say that they -each produced one except Cecil, who had omitted to bring his, and -undemurringly accepted a little bit of everyone else’s. They then played -hide and seek, dumb crambo, and other vigorous games, because as Arnold -said, “A moment’s pause, and we are undone,” until for weariness the -pause came upon them, and then Cecil promptly seized the moment and -produced the play, and they had to listen. Arnold succumbed, vanquished, -and stretched himself on the heather.</p> - -<p>“You have won; I give in. Only leave out the parts that are least -suitable for Sally to hear.”</p> - -<p>So, like other days in the country, the day wore through, and they -caught the 5.10 back to Waterloo.</p> - -<p>At supper that evening Eddy told the vicar about Mrs. Le Moine’s -proposal.</p> - -<p>“So she’s coming to-morrow night, with Datcherd.”</p> - -<p>Hillier looked up sharply.</p> - -<p>“Datcherd! That man!” He caught himself up from a scornful epithet.</p> - -<p>“Why not?” said the vicar tolerantly. “He’s very keen on social work, -you know.”</p> - -<p>Peters and Hillier both looked cross.</p> - -<p>“I know personally,” said Hillier, “of cases where his influence has -been ruinous.”<a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a></p> - -<p>Peters said, “What does he want down here?”</p> - -<p>Eddy said, “He won’t have much influence during one evening. I suppose -he wants to watch how they take the music, and, generally, to see what -our clubs are like. Besides, he and Mrs. Le Moine are great friends, and -she naturally likes to have someone to come with.”</p> - -<p>“Datcherd’s a tremendously interesting person,” said Traherne. “I’ve met -him once or twice; I should like to see more of him.”</p> - -<p>“A very able man,” said the vicar, and said grace.<a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /><br /> -<small>DATCHERD AND THE VICAR.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">D<small>ATCHERD</small> looked ill; that was the predominant impression Eddy got of -him. An untidy, pale, sad-eyed person of thirty-five, with a bad temper -and an extraordinarily ardent fire of energy, at once determined and -rather hopeless. The evils of the world loomed, it seemed, even larger -in his eyes than their possible remedies; but both loomed large. He was -a pessimist and a reformer, an untiring fighter against overwhelming -odds. He was allied both by birth and marriage (the marriage had been a -by-gone mistake of the emotions, for which he was dearly paying) with a -class which, without intermission, and by the mere fact of its -existence, incurred his vindictive wrath. (See <i>Further</i>, month by -month.) He had tried and failed to get into Parliament; he had now given -up hopes of that field of energy, and was devoting himself to -philanthropic social schemes and literary work. He was not an attractive -person, exactly; he lacked the light touch, and the ordinary human -amenities; but there was a drawing-power in the impetuous ardour of his -convictions and purposes,<a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a> in his acute and brilliant intelligence, in -his immense, quixotic generosity, and, to some natures, in his -unhappiness and his ill-health. And his smile, which came seldom, would -have softened any heart.</p> - -<p>Perhaps he did not smile at Hillier on Monday evening; anyhow Hillier’s -heart remained hard towards him, and his towards Hillier. He was one of -the generation who left the universities fifteen years ago; they are -often pronounced and thoughtful agnostics, who have thoroughly gone into -the subject of Christianity as taught by the Churches, and decided -against it. They have not the modern way of rejection, which is to let -it alone as an irrelevant thing, a thing known (and perhaps cared) too -little about to pronounce upon; or the modern way of acceptance, which -is to embark upon it as an inspiring and desirable adventure. They of -that old generation think that religion should be squared with science, -and, if it can’t be, rejected finally. Anyhow Datcherd thought so; he -had rejected it finally as a Cambridge undergraduate, and had not -changed his mind since. He believed freedom of thought to be of immense -importance, and, a dogmatic person himself, was anxious to free the -world from the fetters of dogma. Hillier (also a dogmatic person; there -are so many) preached a sermon the Sunday after he had met Datcherd -about those who would find themselves fools at the Judgment Day. -Further, Hillier agreed with James Peters that the relations of Datcherd -and Mrs. Le Moine were unfitting, considering<a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a> that everyone knew that -Datcherd didn’t get on with his wife nor Mrs. Le Moine live with her -husband. People in either of those unfortunate positions cannot be too -careful of appearances.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, Mrs. Le Moine’s fiddling held the club spell-bound. She -played English folk-melodies and Hungarian dances, and the boys’ feet -shuffled in tune. Londoners are musical people, on the whole; no one can -say that, though they like bad music, they don’t like good music, too; -they are catholic in taste. Eddy Oliver, who liked anything he heard, -from a barrel-organ to a Beethoven Symphony, was a typical specimen. His -foot, too, tapped in tune; his blood danced in him to the lilt of -laughter and passion and gay living that the quick bow tore from the -strings. He knew enough, technically, about music, to know that this was -wonderful playing; and he remembered what he had heard before, that this -brilliant, perverse, childlike-looking person, with her great brooding -eyes and half-sullen brows, and the fiddle tucked away under her round -chin, was a genius. He believed he had heard that she had some Hungarian -blood in her, besides the Irish strain. Certainly the passion and the -fire in her, that was setting everyone’s blood stirring so, could hardly -be merely English.</p> - -<p>At the end of a wild dance tune, and during riotous applause, Eddy -turned to Datcherd, who stood close to him, and laughed.</p> - -<p>“My word!” was all he said.<a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a></p> - -<p>Datcherd smiled a little at him, and Eddy liked him more than ever.</p> - -<p>“They like it, don’t they?” said Datcherd. “Look how they like it. They -like this; and then we go and give them husks; vulgarities from the -comic operas.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but they like those, too,” said Eddy.</p> - -<p>Datcherd said impatiently, “They’d stop liking them if they could always -get anything decent.”</p> - -<p>“But surely,” said Eddy, “the more things they like the better.”</p> - -<p>Datcherd, looking round at him to see if he meant it, said, “Good -heavens!” and was frowningly silent.</p> - -<p>An intolerant man, and ill-tempered at that, Eddy decided, but liked him -very much all the same.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Le Moine was playing again, quite differently; all the passion and -the wildness were gone now; she was playing a sixteenth century tune, -curiously naïf and tender and engaging, and objective, like a child’s -singing, or Jane Dawn’s drawings. The detachment of it, the utter -self-obliteration, pleased Eddy even more than the passion of the dance; -here was genius at its highest. It seemed to him very wonderful that she -should be giving of her best so lavishly to a roomful of ignorant -Borough lads; very wonderful, and at the same time very characteristic -of her wayward, quixotic, self-pleasing generosity, that he fancied was -neither based on any principle, nor restrained by any<a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a> considerations of -prudence. She would always, he imagined, give just what she felt -inclined, and when she felt inclined, whatever the gifts she dealt in. -Anyhow she had become immensely popular in the club-room. The admiration -roused by her music was increased by the queer charm she carried with -her. She stood about among the boys for a little, talking. She told them -about the tunes, what they were and whence they came; she whistled a bar -here and there, and they took it up from her; she had asked which they -had liked, and why.</p> - -<p>“In my Settlement up by the Lea,” said Datcherd to Eddy, “she’s got some -of the tunes out into the streets already. You hear them being whistled -as the men go to work.”</p> - -<p>Eddy looked at Hillier, to see if he hadn’t been softened by this -wonderful evening. Hillier, of course, had liked the music; anyone -would. But his moral sense had a fine power of holding itself severely -aloof from conversion by any but moral suasions. He was genially -chatting with the boys, as usual—Hillier was delightful with boys and -girls, and immensely popular—but Eddy suspected him unchanged in his -attitude towards the visitors. Eddy, for music like that, would have -loved a Mrs. Pendennis (had she been capable of producing it) let alone -anyone so likeable as Eileen Le Moine. Hillier, less susceptible to -influence, still sat in judgment.</p> - -<p>Flushed and bright-eyed, Eddy made his way to Mrs. Le Moine.<a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a></p> - -<p>“I say, thanks most awfully,” he said. “I knew it was going to be -wonderful, but I didn’t know how wonderful. I shall come to all your -concerts now.”</p> - -<p>Hillier overheard that, and his brows rose a little. He didn’t see how -Eddy was going to make the time to attend all Mrs. Le Moine’s concerts; -it would mean missing club nights, and whole afternoons. In his opinion, -Eddy, for a parish worker, went too much out of the parish already.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Le Moine said, with her usual lack of circumlocution, “I’ll come -again next Monday. Shall I? I would like to get the music thoroughly -into their heads; they’re keen enough to make it worth while.”</p> - -<p>Eddy said promptly, “Oh, will you really? How splendid.”</p> - -<p>Hillier, coming up to them, said courteously, “This has been extremely -good of you, Mrs. Le Moine. We have all had a great treat. But you -really mustn’t waste more of your valuable time on our uncultivated -ears. We’re not worth it, I’m afraid.”</p> - -<p>Eileen looked at him with a glint of amusement in the gloomy blue -shadowiness of her eyes.</p> - -<p>“I won’t come,” she said, “unless you want me to, of course.”</p> - -<p>Hillier protested. “It’s delightful for us, naturally—far more than we -deserve. It was your time I was thinking of.”</p> - -<p>“That will be all right. I’ll come, then, for<a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a> half an hour, next -Monday.” She turned to Eddy. “Will you come to lunch with us—Miss Hogan -and me, you know—next Sunday? Arnold Denison’s coming, and Karl -Lovinski, the violinist, and two or three other people. 3, Campden Hill -Road, at 1.30.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks; I should like to.”</p> - -<p>Datcherd came up from the back of the room where he had been talking to -Traherne, who had come in lately. They said goodbye, and the club took -to billiards.</p> - -<p>“Is Mr. Datcherd coming, too, next Monday?” Hillier inquired gloomily of -Eddy.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I expect so. I suppose it’s less of a bore for Mrs. Le Moine not to -have to come all that way alone. Besides, he’s awfully interested in it -all.”</p> - -<p>“A first-class man,” said Traherne, who was an enthusiast, and had found -in Datcherd another Socialist, though not a Church one.</p> - -<p>Eddy and the curates walked back together later in the evening. Eddy -felt vaguely jarred by Hillier to-night; probably because Hillier was, -in his mind, opposing something, and that was the one thing that annoyed -Eddy. Hillier was, he felt, opposing these delightful people who had -provided the club with such a glorious evening, and were going to do so -again next Monday; these brilliant people, who spilt their genius so -lavishly before the poor and ignorant; these charming, friendly people, -who had asked Eddy to lunch next Sunday.<a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a></p> - -<p>What Hillier said was, “Shall you get Wilkes to take your class again on -Sunday afternoon, Oliver?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suppose so. He doesn’t mind, does he? I believe he really takes -it a lot better than I do.”</p> - -<p>Hillier believed so, too, and made no comment. Traherne laughed. -“Wilkes! Oh, he means well, no doubt. But I wouldn’t turn up on Sunday -afternoon if I was going to be taught by Wilkes. What an ass you are, -Oliver, going to lunch parties on Sundays.”</p> - -<p>With Traherne, work came first, and everything else, especially anything -social, an immense number of lengths behind. With Eddy a number of -things ran neck to neck all the time. He wouldn’t, Traherne thought, a -trifle contemptuously, ever accomplish much in any sphere of life at -that rate.</p> - -<p>He said to the vicar that night, “Oliver’s being caught in the toils of -Society, I fear. For such a keen person, he’s oddly slack about sticking -to his job when anything else turns up.”</p> - -<p>But Hillier said, at a separate time, “Oliver’s being dragged into a -frightfully unwholesome set, vicar. I hate those people; that man -Datcherd is an aggressive unbeliever, you know; he does more harm, I -believe, than anyone quite realises. And one hears things said, you -know, about him and Mrs. Le Moine—oh, no harm, I daresay, but one has -to think of the effect on the weaker brethren. And Oliver’s bringing -them into the parish, and I wouldn’t care to answer for the effects.... -It made me a little sick, I don’t mind saying to you,<a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a> to see Datcherd -talking to the lads to-night; a word dropped here, a sneer there, and -the seed is sown from which untold evil may spring. Of course, Mrs. Le -Moine is a wonderful player, but that makes her influence all the more -dangerous, to my mind. The lads were fascinated this evening; one saw -them hanging on her words.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose,” said the vicar, “that she, or Datcherd either, would -say anything to hurt them.”</p> - -<p>Hillier caught him up sharply.</p> - -<p>“You approve, then? You won’t discourage Oliver’s intimacy with them, or -his bringing them into the parish?”</p> - -<p>“Most certainly I shall, if it gets beyond a certain point. There’s a -mean in all things.... But it’s their effect on Oliver rather than on -the parish that I should be afraid of. He’s got to realise that a man -can’t profitably have too many irons in the fire at once. If he’s going -perpetually to run about London seeing friends, he’ll do no good as a -worker. Also, it’s not good for his soul to be continually with people -who are unsympathetic with the Church. He’s not strong enough or -grown-up enough to stand it.”</p> - -<p>But Eddy had a delightful lunch on Sunday, and Wilkes took his class.</p> - -<p>Other Sundays followed, and other week-days, and more delightful -lunches, and many concerts and theatres, and expeditions into the -country, and rambles about the town, and musical evenings in St. -Gregory’s parish, and, in general, a jolly life.<a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a> Eddy loved the whole -of life, including his work in St. Gregory’s, which he was quite as much -interested in as if it had been his exclusive occupation. Ingenuously, -he would try to draw his friends into pleasures which they were by -temperament and training little fitted to enjoy. For instance, he said -to Datcherd and Mrs. Le Moine one day, “We’ve got a mission on now in -the parish. There’s an eight o’clock service on Monday night, so -there’ll be no club. I wish you’d come to the service instead; it’s -really good, the mission. Father Dempsey, of St. Austin’s, is taking it. -Have you ever heard him?”</p> - -<p>Datcherd, in his grave, melancholy way, shook his head. Eileen smiled at -Eddy, and patted his arm in the motherly manner she had for him.</p> - -<p>“Now what do you think? No, we never have. Would we understand him if we -did? I expect not, do you know. Tell us when the mission (is that what -you call it? But I thought they were for blacks and Jews) is over, and -I’ll come again and play to the clubs. Till then, oughtn’t you to be -going to services every night, and I wonder ought you to be dining and -theatreing with us on Thursday?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I can fit it in easily,” said Eddy, cheerfully. “But, seriously, I -do wish you’d come one night. You’d like Father Dempsey. He’s an -extraordinarily alive and stimulating person. Hillier thinks him -flippant; but that’s rubbish. He’s the best man in the Church.”<a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a></p> - -<p>All the same, they didn’t come. How difficult it is to make people do -what they are not used to! How good it would be for them if they would; -if Hillier would but sometimes spend an evening at Datcherd’s -settlement; if James Peters would but come, at Eddy’s request, to shop -at the Poetry Bookshop; if Datcherd would but sit under Father Dempsey, -the best man in the Church! It sometimes seemed to Eddy that it was he -alone, in a strange, uneclectic world, who did all these things with -impartial assiduity and fervour.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>And he found, which was sad and bewildering, that those with less -impartiality of taste got annoyed with him. The vicar thought, not -unnaturally, that during the mission he ought to have given up other -engagements, and devoted himself exclusively to the parish, getting them -to come. All the curates thought so too. Meanwhile Arnold Denison -thought that he ought to have stayed to the end of the debate on -Impressionism in Poetry at the Wednesday Club that met in Billy -Raymond’s rooms, instead of going away in the middle to be in time for -the late service at St. Gregory’s. Arnold thought so particularly -because he hadn’t yet spoken himself, and it would obviously have been -more becoming in Eddy to wait and hear him. Eddy grew to have an -uncomfortable feeling of being a little wrong with everyone; he felt -aggrieved under it.</p> - -<p>At last, a fortnight before Christmas, the vicar<a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a> spoke to him. It was -on a Sunday evening. Eddy had had supper with Cecil Le Moine, as it was -Cecil’s turn to have the Sunday Games Club, a childish institution that -flourished just then among them, meet at his house. Eddy returned to St. -Gregory’s late.</p> - -<p>The vicar said, at bedtime, “I want to speak to you, Oliver, if you can -spare a minute or two,” and they went into his study. Eddy felt rather -like a schoolboy awaiting a jawing. He watched the vicar’s square, -sensible, kind face, through a cloud of smoke, and saw his point of view -precisely. He wanted certain work done. He didn’t think the work was so -well done if a hundred other things were done also. He believed in -certain things. He didn’t think belief in those things could be quite -thorough if those who held it had constant and unnecessary traffic with -those who quite definitely didn’t. Well, it was of course a point of -view; Eddy realised that.</p> - -<p>The vicar said, “I don’t want to be interfering, Oliver. But, frankly, -are you as keen on this job as you were two months ago?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, rather,” said Eddy. “Keener, I think. One gets into it, you see.”</p> - -<p>The vicar nodded, patient and a little cynical.</p> - -<p>“Quite. Well, it’s a full man’s job, you know; one can’t take it easy. -One’s got to put every bit of oneself into it, and even so there isn’t -near enough of most of us to get upsides with it.... Oh, I don’t mean -don’t take on times, or don<a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>’t have outside interests and plenty of -friends; of course I don’t. But one’s got not to fritter and squander -one’s energies. And one’s got to have one’s whole heart in the work, or -it doesn’t get done as it should. It’s a job for the keen; for the -enthusiasts; for the single-minded. Do you think, Oliver, that it’s -quite the job for you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Eddy, readily, though crest-fallen. “I’m keen. I’m an -enthusiast. I’m——” He couldn’t say single-minded, so he broke off.</p> - -<p>“Really,” he added, “I’m awfully sorry if I’ve scamped the work lately, -and been out of the parish too much. I’ve tried not to, honestly—I mean -I’ve tried to fit it all in and not scamp things.”</p> - -<p>“Fit it all in!” The vicar took him up. “Precisely. There you are. Why -do you try to fit in so much more than you’ve properly room for? Life’s -limited, you see. One’s got to select one thing or another.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” Eddy murmured, “what an awful thought! I want to select lots and -lots of things!”</p> - -<p>“It’s greedy,” said the vicar. “What’s more, it’s silly. You’ll end by -getting nothing.... And now there’s another thing. Of course you choose -your own friends; it’s no business of mine. But you bring them a good -deal into the parish, and that’s my business, of course. Now, I don’t -want to say anything against friends of yours; still less to repeat the -comments of ignorant and prejudiced people; but I expect you know the -sort of things such people would say about Mr. Datcherd and Mrs.<a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a> Le -Moine. After all, they’re both married to someone else. You’ll admit -that they are very reckless of public opinion, and that that’s a pity.” -He spoke cautiously, saying less than he felt, in order not to be -annoying. But Eddy flushed, and for the first time looked cross.</p> - -<p>“Surely, if people are low-minded enough——” he began.</p> - -<p>“That,” said the vicar, “is part of one’s work, to consider low minds. -Besides—my dear Oliver, I don’t want to be censorious—but why doesn’t -Mrs. Le Moine live with her husband? And why isn’t Datcherd ever to be -seen with his wife? And why are those two perpetually together?”</p> - -<p>Eddy grew hotter. His hand shook a little as he took out his pipe.</p> - -<p>“The Le Moines live apart because they prefer it. Why not? Datcherd, I -presume, doesn’t go about with his wife because they are hopelessly -unsuited to each other in every way, and bore each other horribly. I’ve -seen Lady Dorothy Datcherd. The thought of her and Datcherd as -companions is absurd. She disapproves of all he is and does. She’s a -worldly, selfish woman. She goes her way and he his. Surely it’s best. -As for Datcherd and Mrs. Le Moine—they <i>aren’t</i> perpetually together. -They come down here together because they’re both interested; but -they’re in quite different sets, really. His friends are mostly social -workers, and politicians, and writers of leading articles, and -contributors to the quarterlies<a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a> and the political press—what are -called able men you know; his own family, of course, are all that sort. -Her friends are artists and actors and musicians, and poets and -novelists and journalists, and casual, irresponsible people who play -round and have a good time and do clever work—I mean, her set and his -haven’t very much to do with one another really.” Eddy spoke rather -eagerly, as if he was anxious to impress this on the vicar and himself.</p> - -<p>The vicar heard him out patiently, then said, “I never said anything -about sets. It’s him and her I’m talking about. You won’t deny they’re -great friends. Well, no man and woman are ‘great friends’ in the eyes of -poor people; they’re something quite different. And that’s not -wholesome. It starts talk. And your being hand and glove with them does -no good to your influence in the parish. For one thing, Datcherd’s known -to be an atheist. These constant Sunday outings of yours—you’re always -missing church, you see, and that’s a poor example. I’ve been spoken to -about it more than once by the parents of your class-boys. They think it -strange that you should be close friends with people like that.”</p> - -<p>Eddy started up. “People like that? People like Hugh Datcherd and Eileen -Le Moine? Good heavens! I’m not fit to black their boots, and nor are -the idiots who talk about them like that. Vulgar-mouthed lunatics!”</p> - -<p>This was unlike Eddy; he never called people<a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a> vulgar, nor despised them; -that was partly why he made a good church worker. The vicar looked at -him over his pipe, a little irritated in his turn. He had not reckoned -on the boy being so hot about these friends of his.</p> - -<p>“It’s a clear choice,” said the vicar, rather sharply. “Either you give -up seeing so much of these people, and certainly give up bringing them -into the parish; or—I’m very sorry, because I don’t want to lose -you—you must give up St. Gregory’s.”</p> - -<p>Eddy stood looking on the floor, angry, unhappy, uncertain.</p> - -<p>“It’s no choice at all,” he said at last. “You know I can’t give them -up. Why can’t I have them and St. Gregory’s, too? What’s the -inconsistency? I don’t understand.”</p> - -<p>The vicar looked at him impatiently. His faculty of sympathy, usually so -kind, humorous, and shrewd, had run up against one of those limiting -walls that very few people who are supremely in earnest over one thing -are quite without. He occasionally (really not often) said a stupid -thing; he did so now.</p> - -<p>“You don’t understand? Surely it’s extremely simple. You can’t serve God -and Mammon; that’s the long and the short of it. You’ve got to choose -which.”</p> - -<p>That, of course, was final. Eddy said, “Naturally, if it’s like that, -I’ll leave St. Gregory’s at once. That is, directly it’s convenient for -you that I<a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a> should,” he added, considerate by instinct, though angry.</p> - -<p>The vicar turned to face him. He was bitterly disappointed.</p> - -<p>“You mean that, Oliver? You won’t give it another trial, on the lines I -advise? Mind, I don’t mean I want you to have no friends, no outside -interests.... Look at Traherne, now; he’s full of them.... I only want, -for your own sake and our people’s, that your heart should be in your -job.”</p> - -<p>“I had better go,” said Eddy, knowing it for certain. He added, “Please -don’t think I’m going off in a stupid huff or anything. It’s not that. -Of course, you’ve every right to speak to me as you did; but it’s made -my position quite clear to me. I see this isn’t really my job at all. I -must find another.”</p> - -<p>The vicar said, holding out his hand, “I’m very sorry, Oliver. I don’t -want to lose you. Think it over for a week, will you, and tell me then -what you have decided. Don’t be hasty over it. Remember, we’ve all grown -fond of you here; you’ll be throwing away a good deal of valuable -opportunity if you leave us. I think you may be missing the best in -life. But I mustn’t take back what I said. It is a definite choice -between two ways of life. They won’t mix.”</p> - -<p>“They will, they will,” said Eddy to himself, and went to bed. If the -vicar thought they wouldn’t, the vicar’s way of life could not be his.<a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a> -He had no need to think it over for a week. He was going home for -Christmas, and he would not come back after that. This job was not for -him. And he could not, he knew now, be a clergyman. They drew lines; -they objected to people and things; they failed to accept. The vicar, -when he had mentioned Datcherd, had looked as Datcherd had looked when -Eddy had mentioned Father Dempsey and the mission; Eddy was getting to -know that critical, disapproving look too well. Everywhere it met him. -He hated it. It seemed to him even stranger in clergymen than in others, -because clergymen are Christians, and, to Eddy’s view, there were no -negations in that vivid and intensely positive creed. Its commands were -always, surely, to go and do, not to abstain and reject. And look, too, -at the sort of people who were of old accepted in that generous, -all-embracing circle....<a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /><br /> -<small>THE DEANERY AND THE HALL.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">E<small>DDY</small> was met at the station by his sister Daphne, driving the dog-cart. -Daphne was twenty; a small, neat person in tailor-made tweeds, -bright-haired, with an attractive brown-tanned face, and alert blue -eyes, and a decisively-cut mouth, and long, straight chin. Daphne was -off-hand, quick-witted, intensely practical, spoilt, rather selfish, -very sure of herself, and with an unveiled youthful contempt for manners -and people that failed to meet with her approval. Either people were -“all right,” and “pretty decent,” or they were cursorily dismissed as -“queer,” “messy,” or “stodgy.” She was very good at all games requiring -activity, speed, and dexterity of hand, and more at home out of doors -than in. She had quite enough sense of humour, a sharp tongue, some -cleverness, and very little imagination indeed. A confident young -person, determined to get and keep the best out of life. With none of -Eddy’s knack of seeing a number of things at once, she saw a few things -very clearly, and went straight towards them.<a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a></p> - -<p>“Hullo, young Daffy,” Eddy called out to her, as he came out of the -station.</p> - -<p>She waved her whip at him.</p> - -<p>“Hullo. I’ve brought the new pony along. Come and try him. He shies at -cats and small children, so look out through the streets. How are you, -Tedders? Pretty fit?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, rather. How’s everyone?”</p> - -<p>“Going strong, as usual. Father talks Prayer Book revision every night -at dinner till I drop asleep. He’s got it fearfully hot and strong just -now; meetings about it twice a week, and letters to the <i>Guardian</i> in -between. I wish they’d hurry up and get it revised and have done. Oh, by -the way, he says you’ll want to fight him about that now—because you’ll -be too High to want it touched, or something. <i>Are</i> you High?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I think so. But I should like the Prayer Book to be revised, too.”</p> - -<p>Daphne sighed. “It’s a bore if you’re High. Father’ll want to argue at -meals. I do hope you don’t want to keep the Athanasian Creed, anyhow.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, rather. I like it, except the bits slanging other people.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, well,” Daphne looked relieved. “As long as you don’t like those -bits, I daresay it’ll be all right. Canon Jackson came to lunch -yesterday, and he liked it, slanging and all, and oh, my word, how tired -I got of him and father! What can it matter whether one has it or not? -It’s only a few times a year, anyhow. Oh, and father’s keen<a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a> on a new -translation of the Bible, too. I daresay you’ve seen about it; he keeps -writing articles in the <i>Spectator</i> about it.... And the Bellairs have -got a new car, a Panhard; Molly’s learning to drive it. Nevill let me -the other day; it was ripping. I do wish father’d keep a car. I should -think he might now. It would be awfully useful for him for touring round -to committee meetings. Mind that corner; Timothy always funks it a bit.”</p> - -<p>They turned into the drive. It may or may not have hitherto been -mentioned that Eddy’s home was a Deanery, because his father was a Dean. -The Cathedral under his care was in a midland county, in fine, rolling, -high-hedged country, suitable for hunting, and set with hard-working -squires. The midlands may not be picturesque or romantic, but they are -wonderfully healthy, and produce quite a number of sane, level-headed, -intelligent people.</p> - -<p>Eddy’s father and mother were in the hall.</p> - -<p>“You look a little tired, dear,” said his mother, after the greetings -that may be imagined. “I expect it will be good for you to get a rest at -home.”</p> - -<p>“Trust Finch to keep his workers on the run,” said the Dean, who had -been at Cambridge with Finch, and hadn’t liked him particularly. Finch -had been too High Church for his taste even then; he himself had always -been Broad, which was, no doubt, why he was now a dean.</p> - -<p>“Christmas is a busy time,” said Eddy, tritely.<a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a></p> - -<p>The Dean shook his head. “They overdo it, you know, those people. Too -many services, and meetings, and guilds, and I don’t know what. They -spoil their own work by it.”</p> - -<p>He was, naturally, anxious about Eddy. He didn’t want him to get -involved with the ritualist set and become that sort of parson; he -thought it foolish, obscurantist, childish, and unintelligent, not to -say a little unmanly.</p> - -<p>They went into lunch. The Dean was rather vexed because Eddy, forgetting -where he was, crossed himself at grace. Eddy perceived this, and -registered a note not to do it again.</p> - -<p>“And when have you to be back, dear?” said his mother. She, like many -deans’ wives, was a dignified, intelligent, and courteous lady, with -many social claims punctually and graciously fulfilled, and a great love -of breeding, nice manners, and suitable attire. She had many anxieties, -finely restrained. She was anxious lest the Dean should overwork himself -and get a bad throat; lest Daphne should get a tooth knocked out at -mixed hockey, or a leg broken in the hunting-field; lest Eddy should -choose an unsuitable career or an unsuitable wife, or very unsuitable -ideas. These were her negative anxieties. Her positive ones were that -the Dean should be recognised according to his merits; that Daphne -should marry the right man; that Eddy should be a success, and also -please his father; that the Prayer Book might be revised very soon.<a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a></p> - -<p>One of her ambitions for Eddy was satisfied forthwith, for he pleased -his father.</p> - -<p>“I’m not going back to St. Gregory’s at all.”</p> - -<p>The Dean looked up quickly.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you’ve given that up, have you? Well, it couldn’t go on always, of -course.” He wanted to ask, “What have you decided about Orders?” but, as -fathers go, he was fairly tactful. Besides, he knew Daphne would.</p> - -<p>“Are you going into the Church, Tedders?”</p> - -<p>Her mother, as always when she put it like that, corrected her. “You -know father hates you to say that, Daphne. Take Orders.”</p> - -<p>“Well, take Orders, then. Are you, Tedders?”</p> - -<p>“I think not,” said Eddy, good-tempered as brothers go. “At present I’ve -been offered a small reviewing job on the <i>Daily Post</i>. I was rather -lucky, because it’s awfully hard to get on the <i>Post</i>, and, of course, -I’ve had no experience except at Cambridge; but I know Maine, the -literary editor. I used to review a good deal for the <i>Cambridge Weekly</i> -when his brother ran it. I think it will be rather fun. You get such -lots of nice books to keep for your own if you review.”</p> - -<p>“Nice and otherwise, no doubt,” said the Dean. “You’ll want to get rid -of most of them, I expect. Well, reviewing is an interesting side of -journalism, of course, if you are going to try journalism. You genuinely -feel you want to do this, do you?”</p> - -<p>He still had hopes that Eddy, once free of the ritualistic set, would -become a Broad Church<a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a> clergyman in time. But clergymen are the broader, -he believed, for knocking about the world a little first.</p> - -<p>Eddy said he did genuinely feel he wanted to do it.</p> - -<p>“I’m rather keen to do a little writing of my own as well,” he added, -“and it will leave me some time for that, as well as time for other -work. I want to go sometimes to work in the settlement of a man I know, -too.”</p> - -<p>“What shall you write?” Daphne wanted to know.</p> - -<p>“Oh, much what every one else writes, I suppose. I leave it to your -imagination.”</p> - -<p>“H’m. Perhaps it will stay there,” Daphne speculated, which was -superfluously unkind, considering that Eddy used to write quite a lot at -Cambridge, in the <i>Review</i>, the <i>Magazine</i>, the <i>Granta</i>, the -<i>Basileon</i>, and even the <i>Tripod</i>.</p> - -<p>“An able journalist,” said the Dean, “has a great power in his hands. He -can do more than the politicians to mould public opinion. It’s a great -responsibility. Look at the <i>Guardian</i>, now; and the <i>Times</i>.”</p> - -<p>Eddy looked at them, where they lay on the table by the window. He -looked also at the <i>Spectator</i>, <i>Punch</i>, the <i>Morning Post</i>, the -<i>Saturday Westminster</i>, the <i>Quarterly</i>, the <i>Church Quarterly</i>, the -<i>Hibbert</i>, the <i>Cornhill</i>, the <i>Commonwealth</i>, the <i>Common Cause</i>, and -<i>Country Life</i>. These were among the periodicals taken in at the -Deanery. Among those not taken<a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a> in were the <i>Clarion</i>, the <i>Eye-Witness</i> -(as it was called in those bygone days) the <i>Church Times</i>, <i>Poetry and -Drama</i>, the <i>Blue Review</i>, the <i>English Review</i>, the <i>Suffragette</i>, -<i>Further</i>, and all the halfpenny dailies. All the same, it was a -well-read home, and broad-minded, too, and liked to hear two sides (but -not more) of a question, as will be inferred from the above list of its -periodical literature.</p> - -<p>They had coffee in the hall after lunch. Grace, ease, spaciousness, a -quiet, well-bred luxury, characterised the Deanery. It was a well-marked -change to Eddy, both from the asceticism of St. Gregory’s, and the -bohemianism (to use an idiotic, inevitable word) of many of his other -London friends. This was a true gentleman’s home, one of the stately -homes of England, how beautiful they stand.</p> - -<p>Daphne proposed that they should visit another that afternoon. She had -to call at the Bellairs’ for a puppy. Colonel Bellairs was a land-owner -and J.P., whose home was two miles out of the town. His children and the -Dean’s children had been intimate friends since the Dean came to -Welchester from Ely, where he had been a Canon, five years ago. Molly -Bellairs was Daphne Oliver’s greatest friend. There were also several -boys, who flourished respectively in Parliament, the Army, Oxford, Eton, -and Dartmouth. They were fond of Eddy, but did not know why he did not -enter one of the Government services, which seems the obvious thing to -do.<a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a></p> - -<p>Before starting on this expedition, Daphne and Eddy went round the -premises, as they always did on Eddy’s first day at home. They played a -round of bumble-puppy on the small lawn, inspected the new tennis court -that had just been laid, and was in danger of not lying quite flat, and -visited the kennels and the stables, where Eddy fed his horse with a -carrot and examined his legs, and discussed with the groom the prospects -of hunting weather next week, and Daphne petted the nervous Timothy, who -shied at children and cats.</p> - -<p>These pleasing duties done, they set out briskly for the Hall, along the -field path. It was just not freezing. The air blew round them crisp and -cool and stinging, and sang in the bare beech woods that their path -skirted. Above them white clouds sailed about a blue sky. The brown -earth was full of a repressed yet vigorous joy. Eddy and Daphne swung -along quickly through fields and lanes. Eddy felt the exuberance of the -crisp weather and the splendid earth tingle through him. It was one of -the many things he loved, and felt utterly at home with, this motion -across open country, on foot or on horse-back. Daphne, too, felt and -looked at home, with her firm, light step, and her neat, useful stick, -and her fair hair blowing in strands under her tweed hat, and all the -competent, wholesome young grace of her. Daphne was rather charming, -there was no doubt about that. It sometimes occurred to Eddy when he met -her after<a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a> an absence. There was a sort of a drawing-power about her -that was quite apart from beauty, and that made her a popular and -sought-after person, in spite of her casual manners and her frequent -selfishnesses. The young men of the neighbourhood all liked Daphne, and -consequently she had a very good time, and was decidedly spoilt, and, in -a cool, not unattractive way, rather conceited. She seldom had any -tumbles mortifying to her self-confidence, partly because she was in -general clever and competent at the things that came in her way to do, -and partly because she did not try to do those she would have been less -good at, not from any fear of failure, but simply because she was bored -by them. But a clergyman’s daughter, even a dean’s, has, unfortunately, -to do a few things that bore her. One is bazaars. Another is leaving -things at cottages. Mrs. Oliver had given them a brown paper parcel to -leave at a house in the lane. They left it, and Eddy stayed for a moment -to talk with the lady of the house. Master Eddy was generally beloved in -Welchester, because he always had plenty of attention to bestow even on -the poorest and dullest. Miss Daphne was beloved, too, and admired, but -was usually more in a hurry. She was in a hurry to-day, and wouldn’t let -Eddy stay long.</p> - -<p>“If you let Mrs. Tom Clark start on Tom’s abscess, we should never get -to the Hall to-day,” she said, as they left the cottage. “Besides, I -hate abscesses.”<a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a></p> - -<p>“But I like Tom and his wife,” said Eddy.</p> - -<p>“Oh, they’re all right. The cottage is awfully stuffy, and always in a -mess. I should think she might keep it cleaner, with a little -perseverance and carbolic soap. Perhaps she doesn’t because Miss Harris -is always jawing to her about it. I wouldn’t tidy up, I must say, if -Miss Harris was on to me about my room. What do you think, she’s gone -and made mother promise I shall take the doll stall at the Assistant -Curates’ Bazaar. It’s too bad. I’d have dressed any number of dolls, but -I do bar selling them. It’s a hunting day, too. It’s an awful fate to be -a parson’s daughter. It’s all right for you; parsons’ sons don’t have to -sell dolls.”</p> - -<p>“Look here,” said Eddy, “are we having people to stay after Christmas?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t think so. Only casual droppers-in here and there; Aunt Maimie and -so on. Why?”</p> - -<p>“Because, if we’ve room, I want to ask some people; friends of mine in -London. Denison’s one.”</p> - -<p>Daphne, who knew Denison slightly, and did not like him, received this -without joy. They had met last year at Cambridge, and he had annoyed her -in several ways. One was his clothes; Daphne liked men to be neat. -Another was, that at the dance given by the college which he and Eddy -adorned, he had not asked her to dance, though introduced for that -purpose, but had stood at her side while she sat partnerless through her -favourite<a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a> waltz, apparently under the delusion that what was required -of him was interesting conversation. Even that had failed before long, -as Daphne had neither found it interesting nor pretended to do so, and -they remained in silence together, she indignant and he unperturbed, -watching the festivities with an indulgent, if cynical, eye. A -disagreeable, useless, superfluous person, Daphne considered him. He -gathered this; it required no great subtlety to gather things from -Daphne; and accommodated himself to her idea of him, laying himself out -to provoke and tease. He was one of the few people who could sting -Daphne to real temper.</p> - -<p>So she said, “Oh.”</p> - -<p>“The others,” went on Eddy, hastily, “are two girls I know; they’ve been -over-working rather and are run down, and I thought it might be rather -good for them to come here. Besides, they’re great friends of mine, and -of Denison’s—(one of them’s his cousin)—and awfully nice. I’ve written -about them sometimes, I expect—Jane Dawn and Eileen Le Moine. Jane -draws extraordinarily nice things in pen and ink, and is altogether -rather a refreshing person. Eileen plays the violin—you must have heard -her name—Mrs. Le Moine. Everyone’s going to hear her just now; she’s -wonderful.”</p> - -<p>“She’d better play at the bazaar, I should think,” suggested Daphne, who -didn’t see why parsons’ daughters should be the only ones involved in -this<a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a> bazaar business. She wasn’t very fond of artists and musicians and -literary people, for the most part; so often their conversation was -about things that bored one.</p> - -<p>“Are they pretty?” she inquired, wanting to know if Eddy was at all in -love with either of them. It might be amusing if he was.</p> - -<p>Eddy considered. “I don’t know that you’d call Jane pretty, exactly. -Very nice to look at. Sweet-looking, and extraordinarily innocent.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t like sweet innocent girls,” said Daphne. “They’re so inept, as -a rule.”</p> - -<p>“Well, Jane’s very ept. She’s tremendously clever at her own things, you -know; in fact, clever all round, only clever’s not a bit the word as a -matter of fact. She’s a genius, I suppose—a sort of inspired child, -very simple about everything, and delightful to talk to. Not the least -conventional.”</p> - -<p>“No; I didn’t suppose she’d be that. And what’s Mrs.—the other one -like?”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Le Moine. Oh, well—she’s—she’s very nice, too.”</p> - -<p>“Pretty?”</p> - -<p>“Rather beautiful, she is. Irish, and a little Hungarian, I believe. She -plays marvellously.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, you said that.”</p> - -<p>Daphne’s thoughts on Mrs. Le Moine produced the question, “Is she -married, or a widow?”</p> - -<p>“Married. She’s quite friends with her husband.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I suppose she would be. Ought to be,<a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a> anyhow. Can we have her -without him, by the way?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, they don’t live together. That’s why they’re friends. They weren’t -till they parted. Everyone asks them about separately of course. She -lives with a Miss Hogan, an awfully charming person. I’d love to ask -her, too, but there wouldn’t be room. I wonder if mother’ll mind my -asking those three?”</p> - -<p>“You’d better find out,” advised Daphne. “They won’t rub father the -wrong way, I suppose, will they? He doesn’t like being surprised, -remember. You’d better warn Mr. Denison not to talk against religion or -anything.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Denison will be all right. He knows it’s a Deanery.”</p> - -<p>“Will the others know it’s a Deanery, too?”</p> - -<p>Eddy, to say the truth, had a shade of doubt as to that. They were both -so innocent. Arnold had learnt a little at Cambridge about the attitude -of the superior clergy, and what not to say to them, though he knew more -than he always practised. Jane had been at Somerville College, Oxford, -but this particular branch of learning is not taught there. Eileen had -never adorned any institution for the higher education. Her father was -an Irish poet, and the editor of a Nationalist paper, and did not like -any of the many Deans of his acquaintance. In Ireland, Deans and -Nationalists do not always see eye to eye. Eddy hoped that Eileen had -not any hereditary distaste for the profession.<a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a></p> - -<p>“Father and mother’ll think it funny, Mrs. Le Moine not living with her -husband,” said Daphne, who had that insight into her parents’ minds -which comes of twenty years co-residence.</p> - -<p>Eddy was afraid they would.</p> - -<p>“But it’s not funny, really, and they’ll soon see it’s quite all right. -They’ll like her, I know. Everyone who knows her does.”</p> - -<p>He remembered as he spoke that Hillier didn’t, and James Peters didn’t -much. But surely the Dean wouldn’t be found on any point in agreement -with Hillier, or even with the cheery, unthinking Peters, innocent of -the Higher Criticism. Perhaps it might be diplomatic to tell the Dean -that these two young clergymen didn’t much like Eileen Le Moine.</p> - -<p>While Eddy ruminated on this question, they reached the Hall. The Hall -was that type of hall they erected in the days of our earlier Georges; -it had risen on the site of an Elizabethan house belonging to the same -family. This is mentioned in order to indicate that the Bellairs’ had -long been of solid worth in the country. In themselves, they were -pleasant, hospitable, clean-bred, active people, of a certain charm, -which those susceptible to all kinds of charm, like Eddy, felt keenly. -Finally, none of them were clever, all of them were nicely dressed, and -most of them were on the lawn, hitting at a captive golf-ball, which was -one of the many things they did well, though it is at best an -unsatisfactory occupation, achieving little in the way<a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a> of showy -results. They left it readily to welcome Eddy and Daphne.</p> - -<p>Dick (the Guards) said, “Hullo, old man, home for Christmas? Good for -you. Come and shoot on Wednesday, will you? Not a parson yet, then?”</p> - -<p>Daphne said, “He’s off that just now.”</p> - -<p>Eddy said, “I’m going on a paper for the present.”</p> - -<p>Claude (Magdalen) said, “A <i>what</i>? What a funny game! Shall you have to -go to weddings and sit at the back and write about the bride’s clothes? -What a rag!”</p> - -<p>Nevill (the House of Commons) said, “What paper?” in case it should be -one on the wrong side. It may here be mentioned (what may or may not -have been inferred) that the Bellairs’ belonged to the Conservative -party in the state. Nevill a little suspected Eddy’s soundness in this -matter (though he did not know that Eddy belonged to the Fabian Society -as well as to the Primrose League). Also he knew well the sad fact that -our Liberal organs are largely served by Conservative journalists, and -our great Tory press fed by Radicals from Balliol College, Oxford, -King’s College, Cambridge, and many other less refined homes of -sophistry. This fact Nevill rightly called disgusting. He did not think -these journalists honest or good men. So he asked, “What paper?” rather -suspiciously.</p> - -<p>Eddy said, “The <i>Daily Post</i>,” which is a Conservative organ, and also -costs a penny, a highly respectable sum, so Nevill was relieved.<a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a></p> - -<p>“Afraid you might be going on some Radical rag,” he said, quite -superfluously, as it had been obvious he had been afraid of that. “Some -Unionists do. Awfully unprincipled, I call it. I can’t see how they -square it with themselves.”</p> - -<p>“I should think quite easily,” said Eddy; but added, to avert an -argument (he had tried arguing with Nevill often, and failed), “But my -paper’s politics won’t touch me. I’m going as literary reviewer, -entirely.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I see.” Nevill lost interest, because literature isn’t interesting, -like politics. “Novels and poetry, and all that.” Novels and poetry and -all that of course must be reviewed, if written; but neither the writing -of them nor the reviewing (perhaps not the reading either, only that -takes less time) seems quite a man’s work.</p> - -<p>Molly (the girl) said, “<i>I</i> think it’s an awfully interesting plan, -Eddy,” though she was a little sorry Eddy wasn’t going into the Church. -(The Bellairs were allowed to call it that, though Daphne wasn’t.)</p> - -<p>Molly could be relied on always to be sympathetic and nice. She was a -sunny, round-faced person of twenty, with clear, amber-brown eyes and -curly brown hair, and a merry infectious laugh. People thought her a -dear little girl; she was so sweet-tempered, and unselfish, and -charmingly polite, and at the same time full of hilarious high spirits, -and happy, tomboyish energies. Though less magnetic, she was really much -nicer than<a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a> Daphne. The two were very fond of one another. Everyone, -including her brothers and Eddy Oliver, was fond of Molly. Eddy and she -had become, in the last two years, since Molly grew up, close friends.</p> - -<p>“Well, look here,” said Daphne, “we’ve come for the puppy,” and so they -all went to the yard, where the puppy lived.</p> - -<p>The puppy was plump and playful and amber-eyed, and rather like Molly, -as Eddy remarked.</p> - -<p>“The Diddums! I wish I <i>was</i> like him,” Molly returned, hugging him, -while his brother and sister tumbled about her ankles. “He’s rather -fatter than Wasums, Daffy, but not <i>quite</i> so tubby as Babs. I thought -you should have the middle one.”</p> - -<p>“He’s an utter joy,” said Daphne, taking him.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I’d better walk down the lane with you when you go,” said -Molly, “so as to break the parting for him. But come in to tea now, -won’t you.”</p> - -<p>“Shall we, Eddy?” said Daphne. “D’you think we should? There’ll be -canons’ wives at home.”</p> - -<p>“That settles it,” said Eddy. “There won’t be us. Much as I like canons’ -wives, it’s rather much on one’s very first day. I have to get used to -these things gradually, or I get upset. Come on, Molly, there’s time for -one go at bumble-puppy before tea.”</p> - -<p>They went off together, and Daphne stayed<a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a> about the stables and yard -with the boys and the dogs.</p> - -<p>The Bellairs’ had that immensely preferable sort of tea which takes -place round a table, and has jam and knives. They didn’t have this at -the Deanery, because people do drop in so at Deaneries, and there -mightn’t be enough places laid, besides, drawing-room tea is politer to -canons and their wives. So that alone would have been a reason why -Daphne and Eddy liked tea with the Bellairs’. Also, the Bellairs’ <i>en -famille</i> were a delightful and jolly party. Colonel Bellairs was -hospitable, genial, and entertaining; Mrs. Bellairs was most wonderfully -kind, and rather like Molly on a sobered, motherly, and considerably -filled-out scale. They were less enlightened than at the Deanery, but -quite prepared to admit that the Prayer Book ought to be revised, if the -Dean thought so, though for them, personally, it was good enough as it -stood. There were few people so kind-hearted, so genuinely courteous and -well-bred.</p> - -<p>Colonel Bellairs, though a little sorry for the Dean because Eddy didn’t -seem to be settling down steadily into a sensible profession—(in his -own case the “What to do with our boys” problem had always been very -simple)—was fond of his friend’s son, and very kind to him, and thought -him a nice, attractive lad, even if he hadn’t yet found himself. He and -his wife both hoped that Eddy would make this discovery before long, for -a reason they had.<a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a></p> - -<p>After tea Claude and Molly started back with the Olivers, to break the -parting for Diddums. Eddy wanted to tell Molly about his prospects, and -for her to tell him how interesting they were (Molly was always so -delightfully interested in anything one told her), so he and she walked -on ahead down the lane, in the pale light of the Christmas moon, that -rose soon after tea. (It was a year when this occurred).</p> - -<p>“I expect,” he said, “you think it’s fairly feeble to have begun a thing -and be dropping it so soon. But I suppose one has to try round a little, -to find out what one’s job really is.”</p> - -<p>“Why, of course. It would be absurd to stick on if it isn’t really what -you like to do.”</p> - -<p>“I did like it, too. Only I found I didn’t want to give it quite all my -time and interest. I can’t be that sort of thorough, one-job man. The -men there are. Traherne, now—I wish you knew him; he’s splendid. He -simply throws himself into it body and soul, and says no to everything -else. I can’t. I don’t think I even want to. Life’s too many-sided for -that, it seems to me, and one wants to have it all—or lots of it, -anyhow. The consequence was that I was chucked out. Finch told me I was -to cut off those other things, or get out. So I got out. I quite see his -point of view, and that he was right in a way; but I couldn’t do it. He -wanted me to see less of my friends, for one thing; thought they got in -the way of work, which perhaps they may have sometimes; also he didn<a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>’t -much approve of all of them. That’s so funny. Why shouldn’t one be -friends with anyone one can, even if their point of view isn’t -altogether one’s own?”</p> - -<p>“Of course.” Molly considered it for a moment, and added, “I believe I -could be friends with anyone, except a heathen.”</p> - -<p>“A what?”</p> - -<p>“A heathen. An unbeliever, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I see. I thought you meant a black. Well, it partly depends on what -they don’t believe, of course. I think, personally, one should try to -believe as many things as one can, it’s more interesting; but I don’t -feel any barrier between me and those who believe much less. Nor would -you, if you got to know them and like them. One doesn’t like people for -what they believe, or dislike them for what they don’t believe. It -simply doesn’t come in at all.”</p> - -<p>All the same, Molly did not think she could be real friends with a -heathen. The fact that Eddy did, very slightly worried her; she -preferred to agree with Eddy. But she was always staunch to her own -principles, and didn’t attempt to do so in this matter.</p> - -<p>“I want you to meet some friends of mine who I hope are coming to stay -after Christmas,” went on Eddy, who knew he could rely on a much more -sympathetic welcome for his friends from Molly than from Daphne. “I’m -sure you’ll like them immensely. One’s Arnold Denison, whom I expect<a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a> -you’ve heard of.” (Molly had, from Daphne.) “The others are girls—Jane -Dawn and Eileen Le Moine.” He talked a little about Jane Dawn and Eileen -Le Moine, as he had talked to Daphne, but more fully, because Molly was -a more gratifying listener.</p> - -<p>“They sound awfully nice. So original and clever,” was her comment. “It -must be perfectly ripping to be able to do anything really well. I wish -I could.”</p> - -<p>“So do I,” said Eddy. “I love the people who can. They’re so—— well, -alive, somehow. Even more than most people, I mean; if possible,” he -added, conscious of Molly’s intense aliveness, and Daphne’s, and his -own, and Diddums’. But the geniuses, he knew, had a sort of white-hot -flame of living beyond even that....</p> - -<p>“We’d better wait here for the others,” said Molly, stopping at the -field gate, “and I’ll hand over Diddums to Daffy. He’ll feel it’s all -right if I put him in her arms and tell him to stay there.”</p> - -<p>They waited, sitting on the stile. The silver light flooded the brown -fields, turning them grey and pale. It silvered Diddums’ absurd brown -body as he snuggled in Molly’s arms, and Molly’s curly, escaping waves -of hair and small sweet face, a little paled by its radiance. To Eddy -the grey fields and woods and Molly and Diddums beneath the moon made a -delightful home-like picture, of which he himself was very much part. -Eddy certainly had a convenient knack of fitting into any<a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a> picture -without a jar, whether it was a Sunday School class at St. Gregory’s, a -Sunday Games Club in Chelsea, a canons’ tea at the Deanery, the stables -and kennels at the Hall, or a walk with a puppy over country fields. He -belonged to all of them, and they to him, so that no one ever said “What -is <i>he</i> doing in that <i>galère</i>?” as is said from time to time of most of -us.</p> - -<p>Eddy, as they waited for Claude and Daphne at the gate, was wondering a -little whether his new friends would fit easily into this picture. He -hoped so, very much.</p> - -<p>The others came up, bickering as usual. Molly put Diddums into Daphne’s -arms and told him to stay there, and they parted.<a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /><br /> -<small>VISITORS AT THE DEANERY.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">E<small>DDY</small>, while they played coon-can that evening (a horrid game prevalent -at this time) approached his parents on the subject of the visitors he -wanted. He mentioned to them the facts already retailed to Daphne and -Molly concerning their accomplishments and virtues (omitting those -concerning their domestic arrangements). And these eulogies are a -mistake when one is asking friends to stay. One should not utter them. -To do so starts a prejudice hard to eradicate in the minds of parents -and brothers and sisters, and the visit may prove a failure. Eddy was -intelligent and should have known this, but he was in an unthinking mood -this Christmas, and did it.</p> - -<p>His mother kindly said, “Very well, dear. Which day do you want them to -come?”</p> - -<p>“I’d rather like them to be here for New Year’s day, if you don’t mind. -They might come on the thirty-first.”</p> - -<p>Eddy put down three twos in the first round, for the excellent reason -that he had collected them.<a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a> Daphne, disgusted, said, “Look at Teddy -saving six points off his damage! I suppose that’s the way they play in -your slum.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Oliver said, “Very well. Remember the Bellairs’ are coming to -dinner on New Year’s Day. It will make rather a large party, but we can -manage all right.”</p> - -<p>“Your turn, mother,” said Daphne, who did not like dawdling.</p> - -<p>The Dean, who had been looking thoughtful, said, “Le Moine, did you say -one of your friends was called? No relation, I suppose, to that writer -Le Moine, whose play was censored not long ago?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, that’s her husband. But he’s a delightful person. And it was a -delightful play, too. Not a bit dull or vulgar or pompous, like some -censored plays. He only put in the parts they didn’t like just for fun, -to see whether it would be censored or not, and partly because someone -had betted him he couldn’t get censored if he tried.”</p> - -<p>The Dean looked as if he thought that silly. But he did not mean to talk -about censored plays, because of Daphne, who was young. So he only said, -“Playing with fire,” and changed the subject. “Is it raining outside, -Daffy?” he inquired with humorous intention, as his turn came round to -play. As no one asked him why he wanted to know, he told them. “Because, -if you don’t mind, I’m thinking of going out,” and he laid his hand on -the table.<a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a></p> - -<p>“Oh, I say, father! Two jokers! No wonder you’re out.” (This jargon of -an old-time but once popular game perhaps demands apology; anyhow no one -need try to understand it. <i>Tout passe, tout lasse</i>.... Even the Tango -Tea will all too soon be out of mode).</p> - -<p>The Dean rose from the table. “Now I must stop this frivolling. I’ve any -amount of work to get through.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t go on too long, Everard.” Mrs. Oliver was afraid his head would -ache.</p> - -<p>“Needs must, I’m afraid, when a certain person drives. The certain -person in this case being represented by poor old Taggert.”</p> - -<p>Poor old Taggert was connected with another Church paper, higher than -the <i>Guardian</i>, and he had been writing in this paper long challenges to -the Dean “to satisfactorily explain” what he had meant by certain -expressions used by him in his last letter on Revision. The Dean could -satisfactorily explain anything, and found it an agreeable exercise, but -one that took time and energy.</p> - -<p>“Frightful waste of time, <i>I</i> call it,” said Daphne, when the door was -shut. “Because they never will agree, and they don’t seem to get any -further by talking. Why don’t they toss up or something, to see who’s -right? Or draw lots. Long one, revise it all, middle one, revise it as -father and his lot want, short one, let it alone, like the <i>Church -Times</i> and Canon Jackson want.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be silly, dear,” said her mother, absently.<a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a></p> - -<p>“Some day,” added Eddy, “you may be old enough to understand these -difficult things, dear. Till then, try and be seen and not heard.”</p> - -<p>“Anyhow,” said Daphne, “I go out.... I believe this is rather a footling -game, really. It doesn’t amuse one more than a week. I’d rather play -bridge, or hide and seek.”</p> - -<p>Christmas passed, as Christmas will pass, only give it time. They kept -it at the deanery much as they keep it at other deaneries, and, indeed, -in very many homes not deaneries. They did up parcels and ran short of -brown paper, and bought more string and many more stamps, and sent off -cards and cards, and received cards and cards and cards, and hurried to -send off more cards to make up the difference (but some only arrived on -Christmas Day, a mean trick, and had to wait to be returned till the new -year), and took round parcels, and at last rested, and Christmas Day -dawned. It was a bright frosty day, with ice, etcetera, and the Olivers -went skating in the afternoon with the Bellairs, round and round -oranges. Eddy taught Molly a new trick, or step, or whatever those who -skate call what they learn, and Daphne and the Bellairs boys flew about -hand-in-hand, graceful and charming to watch. In the night it snowed, -and next day they all tobogganed.</p> - -<p>“I haven’t seen Molly looking so well for weeks,” said Molly’s mother to -her father, though indeed Molly usually looked well.</p> - -<p>“Healthy weather,” said Colonel Bellairs, “and<a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a> healthy exercise. I like -to see all those children playing together.”</p> - -<p>His wife liked it too, and beamed on them all at tea, which the Olivers -often came in to after the healthy exercise.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Arnold Denison and Jane Dawn and Eileen Le Moine all wrote to -say they would come on the thirty-first, which they proceeded to do. -They came by three different trains, and Eddy spent the afternoon -meeting them, instead of skating with the Bellairs. First Arnold came, -from Cambridge, and twenty minutes later Jane, from Oxford, without her -bag, which she had mislaid at Rugby. Meanwhile Eddy got a long telegram -from Eileen to the effect that she had missed her train and was coming -by the next. He took Jane and Arnold home to tea.</p> - -<p>Daphne was still skating. The Dean and his wife were always charming to -guests. The Dean talked Cambridge to Arnold. He had been up with -Professor Denison, and many other people, and had always kept in touch -with Cambridge, as he remarked. Sometimes, while a canon of Ely, he had -preached the University Sermon. He did not wholly approve of the social -and theological, or non-theological, outlook of Professor Denison and -his family; but still, the Denisons were able and interesting and -respect-worthy people, if cranky. Arnold the Dean suspected of being -very cranky indeed; not the friend he would have chosen for Eddy in the -improbable hypothesis of his having had<a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a> the selection of Eddy’s -friends. Certainly not the person he would have chosen for Eddy to share -rooms with, as was now their plan. But nothing of this appeared in his -courteous, if not very effusive, manner to his guest.</p> - -<p>To Jane he talked about her father, a distinguished Oxford scholar, and -meanwhile eyed her a little curiously, wondering why she looked somehow -different from the girls he was used to. His wife could have told him it -was because she had on a grey-blue dress, rather beautifully embroidered -on the yoke and cuffs, instead of a shirt and coat and skirt. She was -not surprised, being one of those people whose rather limited experience -has taught them that artists are often like that. She talked to Jane -about Welchester, and the Cathedral, and its windows, some of which were -good. Jane, with her small sweet voice and pretty manners and charming, -friendly smile, was bound to make a pleasant impression on anybody not -too greatly prejudiced by the grey-blue dress. And Mrs. Oliver was -artistic enough to see that the dress suited her, though she herself -preferred that girls should not make themselves look like early Italian -pictures of St. Ursula. It might be all right in Oxford or Cambridge -(one understands that this style is still, though with decreasing -frequency, occasionally to be met with in our older Universities), or no -doubt, at Letchworth and the Hampstead Garden City, and possibly beyond -Blackfriars Bridge (Mrs. Oliver was vague as to this, not knowing that<a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a> -part of London well); but in Welchester, a midland cathedral country -town, it was unsuitable, and not done. Mrs. Oliver wondered whether Eddy -didn’t mind, but he didn’t seem to. Eddy had never minded the things -most boys mind in those ways; he had never, when at school, betrayed the -least anxiety concerning his parents’ clothes or manners when they had -visited him; probably he thought all clothes and all manners, like all -ideas, were very nice, in their different ways.</p> - -<p>But when Daphne came in, tweed-skirted, and clad in a blue golfer and -cap, and prettily flushed by the keen air to the colour of a pink shell, -her quick eyes took in every detail of Jane’s attire before she was -introduced, and her mother guessed a suppressed twinkle in her smile. -Mrs. Oliver hoped Daphne was going to be polite to these visitors. She -was afraid Daphne was in a rather perverse mood towards Eddy’s friends. -Denison, of course, she frankly disliked, and did not make much secret -of it. He was conceited, plain, his hair untidy, his collar low, and his -manners supercilious. Denison was well equipped for taking care of -himself; those who came to blows with him rarely came off best. He -behaved very well at tea, knowing, as Eddy had said, that it was a -Deanery. But he was annoying once. Someone had given Mrs. Oliver at -Christmas a certain book, containing many beautiful and tranquil -thoughts about this world, its inhabitants, its origin, and its goal, by -a writer who had produced, and would, no doubt,<a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a> continue to produce, -very many such books. Many people read this writer constantly, and got -help therefrom, and often wrote and told him so; others did not read him -at all, not finding life long enough; others, again, read him sometimes -in an idle moment, to get a little diversion. Of these last was Arnold -Denison. When he put his tea-cup down on the table at his side, his eye -chanced on the beautiful book lying thereon, and he laughed a little.</p> - -<p>“Which one is that? Oh, <i>Garden Paths</i>. That’s the last but two, isn’t -it.” He picked it up and turned the leaves, and chuckled at a certain -passage, which he proceeded to read aloud. It had, unfortunately, or was -intended to have, a philosophical and more or less religious bearing -(the writer was a vague but zealous seeker after truth); also, more -unfortunately still, the Dean and his wife knew the author; in fact, he -had stayed with them often. Eddy would have warned Arnold of that had he -had time, but it was too late. He could only now say, “I call that very -interesting, and jolly well put.”</p> - -<p>The Dean said, genially, but with acerbity, “Ah, you mustn’t make game -of Phil Underwood here, you know; he’s a <i>persona grata</i> with us. A dear -fellow. And not in the least spoilt by all his tremendous success. As -candid and unaffected as he was when we were at Cambridge together, five -and thirty years ago. And look at all he’s done since then. He’s walked -straight into the heart of the reading public—the more thoughtful and -discriminating<a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a> part of it, that is, for of course he’s not any man’s -fare—not showy enough; he’s not one of your smart -paradox-and-epigram-mongers. He leads one by very quiet and delightful -paths, right out of the noisy world. A great rest and refreshment for -busy men and women; we want more like him in this hurrying age, when -most people’s chief object seems to be to see how much they can get done -in how short a time.”</p> - -<p>“<i>He’s</i> fairly good at that, you know,” suggested Arnold, innocently -turning to the title-page of the last but two, to find its date.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Oliver said, gently, but a little distantly, “I always feel it -rather a pity to make fun of a writer who has helped so many people so -very greatly as Philip Underwood has,” which was damping and final, and -the sort of unfair thing, Arnold felt, that shouldn’t be said in -conversation. That is the worst of people who aren’t clever; they -suddenly turn on you and score heavily, and you can’t get even. So he -said, bored, “Shall I come down with you to meet Eileen, Eddy?” and -Daphne thought he had rotten manners and had cheeked her parents. He and -Eddy went out together, to meet Eileen.</p> - -<p>It was characteristic of Jane that she had given no contribution to this -conversation, never having read any Philip Underwood, and only very -vaguely and remotely having heard of him. Jane was marvellously good at -concerning herself only with the first-rate; hence she never sneered at -the<a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a> second or third-rate, for it had no existence for her. She was not -one of those artists who mock at the Royal Academy; she never saw most -of the pictures there exhibited, but only the few she wished to see, and -went on purpose to see. Neither did she jeer at even our most popular -writers of fiction, nor at Philip Underwood. Jane was very cloistered, -very chaste. Whatsoever things were lovely, she thought on these things, -and on no others. At the present moment she was thinking of the Deanery -hall, how beautifully it was shaped, and how good was the curve of the -oak stairs up from it, and how pleasing and worth drawing Daphne’s long, -irregular, delicately-tinted face, with the humorous, one-sided, -half-reluctant smile, and the golden waves of hair beneath the blue cap. -She wondered if Daphne would let her make a sketch. She would draw her -as some little vagabond, amused, sullen, elfish, half-tamed, wholly -spoilt, preferably in rags, and bare-limbed—Jane’s fingers itched to be -at work on her.</p> - -<p>Rather a silent girl, Mrs. Oliver decided, and said, “You must go over -the Cathedral to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>Jane agreed that she must, and Daphne hoped that Eddy would do that -business. For her, she was sick of showing people the Cathedral, and -conducting them to the Early English door and the Norman arches, and the -something else Lady-chapel, and all the rest of the tiresome things the -guide-book superfluously put it into people’s heads to inquire after. -One took aunts round.... But<a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a> whenever Daphne could, she left it to the -Dean, who enjoyed it, and had, of course, very much more to say about -it, knowing not only every detail of its architecture and history, but -every detail of its needed repairs and pinnings-up, and general -improvements, and how long they would take to do, and how little money -was at present forthcoming to do them with. The Dean was as keen on his -Cathedral as on revision. Mrs. Oliver had the knowledge of it customary -with people of culture who live near cathedrals, and Eddy that and -something more, added by a great affection. The Cathedral for him had a -glamour and glory.</p> - -<p>The Dean began to tell Jane about it.</p> - -<p>“You are an artist, Eddy tells us,” he said, presently; “well, I think -certain bits of our Cathedral must be an inspiration to any artist. Do -you know Wilson Gavin’s studies of details of Ely? Very exquisite and -delicate work.”</p> - -<p>Jane thought so too.</p> - -<p>“Poor Gavin,” the Dean added, more gravely; “we used to see something of -him when he came down to Ely, five or six years ago. It’s an -extraordinary thing that he could do work like that, so marvellously -pure and delicate, and full, apparently of such reverent love of -beauty—and at the same time lead the life he has led since, and I -suppose is leading now.”</p> - -<p>Jane looked puzzled.</p> - -<p>The Dean said, “Ah, of course, you don’t know him. But one hears sad -stories....”<a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a></p> - -<p>“I know Mr. Gavin a little,” said Jane. “I always like him very much.”</p> - -<p>The Dean thought her either not nearly particular enough, or too -ignorant to be credible. She obviously either had never heard, had quite -forgotten, or didn’t mind, the sad stories. He hoped for the best, and -dropped the subject. He couldn’t well say straight out, before Miss Dawn -and Daphne, that he had heard that Mr. Gavin had eloped with someone -else’s wife.</p> - -<p>It was perhaps for the best that Eddy and Arnold and Eileen arrived at -this moment.</p> - -<p>At a glance the Olivers saw that Mrs. Le Moine was different from Miss -Dawn. She was charmingly dressed. She had a blue travelling-coat, grey -furs, deep blue eyes under black brows, and an engaging smile. Certainly -“rather beautiful,” as Eddy had said to Daphne, and of a charm that they -all felt, but especially the Dean.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Oliver, catching Eddy’s eye as he introduced her, saw that he was -proud of this one among his visitors. She knew the look, radiant, half -shy, the look of a nice child introducing an admired school friend to -his people, sure they will get on, thinking how jolly for both of them -to know each other. The less nice child has a different look, -mistrustful, nervous, anxious, lest his people should disgrace -themselves....</p> - -<p>Mrs. Oliver gave Mrs. Le Moine tea. They all talked. Eileen had brought -in with her a periodical she had been reading in the train, which had in -it<a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a> a poem by Billy Raymond. Arnold picked it up and read it, and said -he was sorry about it. Eddy then read it and said, “I rather like it. -Don’t you, Eileen? It’s very much Billy in a certain mood, of course.”</p> - -<p>Arnold said it was Billy reacting with such violence against -Masefield—a very sensible procedure within limits—that he had all but -landed himself in the impressionist preciosity of the early Edwardians.</p> - -<p>Eileen said, “It’s Billy when he’s been lunching with Cecil. He’s often -taken like that then.”</p> - -<p>The Dean said, “And who’s Cecil?”</p> - -<p>Eileen said, “My husband,” and the Dean and Mrs. Oliver weren’t sure if, -given one was living apart from one’s husband, it was quite nice to -mention him casually at tea like that; more particularly when he had -just written a censored play.</p> - -<p>The Dean, in order not to pursue the subject of Mr. Le Moine, held out -his hand for the <i>Blue Review</i>, and perused Billy’s production, which -was called “The Mussel Picker.”</p> - -<p>He laid it down presently and said, “I can’t say I gather any very -coherent thought from it.”</p> - -<p>Arnold said, “Quite. Billy hadn’t any just then. That is wholly obvious. -Billy sometimes has, but occasionally hasn’t, you know. Billy is at -times, though by no means always, a shallow young man.”</p> - -<p>“Shallow young men produce a good deal of our modern poetry, it seems to -me from my slight acquaintance with it,” said the Dean. “One misses<a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a> the -thought in it that made the Victorian giants so fine.”</p> - -<p>As a good many of the shallow young producers of our modern poetry were -more or less intimately known to his three guests, Arnold suspected the -Dean of trying to get back on him for his aspersions on Philip -Underwood. He with difficulty restrained himself from saying, gently but -aloofly, <i>a la</i> Mrs. Oliver, “I always think it rather a pity to -criticize writers who have helped so many people so very greatly as our -Georgian poets have,” and said instead, “But the point about this thing -of Billy’s is that it’s not modern in the least. It breathes of fifteen -years back—the time when people painted in words, and were all for -atmosphere. Surely whatever you say about the best modern people, you -can’t deny they’re full of thought—so full that sometimes they forget -the sound and everything else. Of course you mayn’t <i>like</i> the thought, -that’s quite another thing; but you can’t miss it; it fairly jumps out -at you.... Did you read John Henderson’s thing in this month’s <i>English -Review</i>?”</p> - -<p>This was one of the periodicals not taken in at the Deanery, so the Dean -hadn’t read it. Nor did he want to enter into an argument on modern -poetry, with which he was less familiar than with the Victorian giants.</p> - -<p>Arnold, talking too much, as he often did when not talking too little, -said across the room to Daphne, “What do <i>you</i> think of John Henderson, -Miss Oliver?”<a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a></p> - -<p>It amused him to provoke her, because she was a match for him in -rudeness, and drew him too by her attractive face and abrupt speech. She -wasn’t dull, though she might care nothing for John Henderson or any -other poet, and looked on and yawned when she was bored.</p> - -<p>“Never thought about him at all,” she said now. “Who is he?” though she -knew quite well.</p> - -<p>Arnold proceeded to tell her, with elaboration and diffuseness.</p> - -<p>“I can lend you his works, if you’d like,” he added.</p> - -<p>She said, “No, thanks,” and Mrs. Oliver said, “I’m afraid we don’t find -very much time for casual reading here, Mr. Denison,” meaning that she -didn’t think John Henderson proper for Daphne, because he was sometimes -coarse, and she suspected him of being free-thinking, though as a matter -of fact he was ardently and even passionately religious, in a way hardly -fit for deaneries.</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> don’t read John’s things, you know, Arnold,” put in Jane. “I don’t -like them much. He said I’d better not try, as he didn’t suppose I -should ever get to like them better.”</p> - -<p>“That’s John all over,” said Eileen. “He’s so nice and untouchy. Fancy -Cecil saying that—except in bitter sarcasm. John’s a dear, so he is. -Though he read worse last Tuesday at the Bookshop than I’ve ever heard -anyone. You’d think he had a plum in his mouth.”</p> - -<p>Obviously these young people were much<a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a> interested in poets and poetry. -So Mrs. Oliver said, “On the last night of the year, the Dean usually -reads us some poetry, just before the clock strikes. Very often he reads -Tennyson’s ‘Ring out, wild bells.’ It is an old family custom of ours,” -she added, and they all said what a good one, and how nice it would be. -Then Mrs. Oliver told them that they weren’t to dress for dinner, -because there was evensong afterwards in the Cathedral, on account of -New Year’s Eve.</p> - -<p>“But you needn’t go unless you want to,” Daphne added, enviously. -Herself she had to go, whether she wanted to or not.</p> - -<p>“I’d like to,” Eileen said.</p> - -<p>“It’s a way of seeing the Cathedral, of course,” said Eddy. “It’s rather -beautiful by candlelight.”</p> - -<p>So they all settled to go, even Arnold, who thought that of all the ways -of seeing the Cathedral, that was the least good. However, he went, and -when they came back they settled down for a festive night, playing -coon-can and the pianola, and preparing punch, till half-past eleven, -when the Dean came in from his study with Tennyson, and read “Ring out, -wild bells.” At five minutes to twelve they began listening for the -clock to strike, and when it had struck and been duly counted, they -drank each other a happy new year in punch, except Jane, who disliked -whisky too much to drink it, and had lemonade instead. In short, they -formed one of the many happy homes of<a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a> England who were seeing the old -year out in the same cheerful and friendly manner. Having done so, they -went to bed.</p> - -<p>“Eddy in the home is entirely a dear,” Eileen said to Jane, lingering a -moment by Jane’s fire before she went to her own. “He’s such—such a -good boy, isn’t he?” She leant on the words, with a touch of tenderness -and raillery. Then she added, “But, Jane, we shall have his parents -shocked before we go. It would be easily done. In fact, I’m not sure -we’ve not done it already, a little. Arnold is so reckless, and you so -ingenuous, and myself so ambiguous in position. I’ve a fear they think -us a little unconventional, no less, and are nervous about our being too -much with the pretty little sulky sister. But I expect she’ll see to -that herself; we bore her, do you know. And Arnold insists on annoying -her, which is tiresome of him.”</p> - -<p>“She looks rather sweet when she’s cross,” said Jane, regarding the -matter professionally. “I should like to draw her then. Eddy’s people -are very nice, only not very peaceful, somehow, do you think? I don’t -know why, but one feels a little tired after talking much to them; -perhaps it’s because of what you say, that they might easily be shocked; -and besides, one doesn’t quite always understand what they say. At -least, I don’t; but I’m stupid at understanding people, I know.”</p> - -<p>Jane sighed a little, and let her wavy brown hair fall in two smooth -strands on either side of her small pale face. The Deanery was full of -strange<a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a> standards and codes and values, alien and unintelligible. Jane -didn’t know even what they were, though Eileen and Arnold, living in a -less rarefied, more in-the-world atmosphere, could have enlightened her -about many of them. It mattered in the Deanery what one’s father was; -quite kindly but quite definitely note was taken of that; Mrs. Oliver -valued birth and breeding, though she was not snobbish, and was quite -prepared to be kind and friendly to those without it. Also it mattered -how one dressed; whether one had on usual, tidy, and sufficiently -expensive clothes; whether, in fact, one displayed good taste in the -matter, and was neither cheap nor showy, but suitable to the hour and -occasion. These things do matter, it is very certain. Also it mattered -that one should be able to find one’s way about a Church of England -Prayer Book during a service, a task at which Jane and Eileen were both -incompetent. Jane had not been brought up to follow services in a book, -only to sit in college ante-chapels and listen to anthems; and Eileen, -reared by an increasingly anti-clerical father, had drifted fitfully in -and out of Roman Catholic churches as a child in Ireland, and had since -never attended any. Consequently they had helplessly fumbled with their -books at evening service. Arnold, who had received the sound Church -education (sublimely independent of personal fancies as to belief or -disbelief) of our English male youth at school and college, knew all -about it, and showed Jane how to<a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a> find the Psalms, while Eddy performed -the same office for Eileen. Daphne looked on with cynical amusement, and -Mrs. Oliver with genuine shocked feeling.</p> - -<p>“Anyhow,” said Daphne to her mother afterwards, “I should think they’ll -agree with father that it wants revising.”</p> - -<p>Next day they all went tobogganing, and met the Bellairs family. Eddy -threw Molly and Eileen together, because he wanted them to make friends, -which Daphne resented, because she wanted to talk to Molly herself, and -Eileen made her feel shy. When she was alone with Molly she said, “What -do you think of Eddy’s friends?”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Le Moine is very charming,” said Molly, an appreciative person. -“She’s so awfully pretty, isn’t she? And Miss Dawn seems rather sweet, -and Mr. Denison’s very clever, I should think.”</p> - -<p>Daphne sniffed. “He thinks so, too. I expect they all think they’re -jolly clever. But those two”—she indicated Eileen and Jane—“can’t find -their places in their Prayer Books without being shown. I don’t call -that very clever.”</p> - -<p>“How funny,” said Molly.</p> - -<p>Acrimony was added to Daphne’s view of Eileen by Claude Bellairs, who -looked at her as if he admired her. Claude as a rule looked at Daphne -herself like that; Daphne didn’t want him to, thinking it silly, but it -was rather much to have his admiration transferred to this Mrs. Le -Moine. Certainly anyone might have admired Eileen;<a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a> Daphne grudgingly -admitted that, as she watched her. Eileen’s manner of accepting -attentions was as lazy and casual as Daphne’s own, and considerably less -provocative; she couldn’t be said to encourage them. Only there was a -charm about her, a drawing-power....</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> don’t think it’s nice, a married person letting men hang round -her,” said Daphne, who was rather vulgar.</p> - -<p>Molly, who was refined, coloured all over her round, sensitive face.</p> - -<p>“Daffy! How can you? Of course it’s all right.”</p> - -<p>“Well, Claude would be flirting in no time if she let him.”</p> - -<p>“But of course she wouldn’t. How could she?” Molly was dreadfully -shocked.</p> - -<p>Daphne gave her cynical, one-sided smile. “Easily, I should think. Only -probably she doesn’t think him worth while.”</p> - -<p>“Daffy, I think it’s horrible to talk like that. I do wish you -wouldn’t.”</p> - -<p>“All right. Come on and have a go down the hill, then.”</p> - -<p>The Bellairs’ came to dinner that evening. Molly was a little subdued, -and with her usual flow of childish high spirits not quite so -spontaneous as usual. She sat between Eddy and the Dean, and was rather -quiet with both of them. The Dean took in Eileen, and on her other side -was Nevill Bellairs, who, having deduced in<a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a> the afternoon that she was -partly Irish, very naturally mentioned the Home Rule Bill, which he had -been spending last session largely in voting against. Being Irish, Mrs. -Le Moine presumably felt strongly on this subject, which he introduced -with the complacency of one who had been fighting in her cause. She -listened to him with her half railing, inscrutable smile, until Eddy -said across the table, “Mrs. Le Moine’s a Home Ruler, Nevill; look out,” -and Nevill stopped abruptly in full flow and said, “You’re not!” and -pretended not to mind, and to be only disconcerted for himself, but was -really indignant with her for being such a thing, and a little with Eddy -for not having warned him. It dried up his best conversation, as one -couldn’t talk politics to a Home Ruler. He wondered was she a Papist, -too. So he talked about hunting in Ireland, and found she knew nothing -of hunting there or indeed anywhere. Then he tried London, but found -that the London she knew was different from his, except externally, and -you can’t talk for ever about streets and buildings, especially if you -do not frequent the same eating-places. From different eating-places the -world is viewed from different angles; few things are a more significant -test of a person’s point of view.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the Dean was telling Jane about places of interest, such as -Roman camps, in the neighbourhood. The Dean, like many deans, talked -rather well. He thought Jane prettily attentive, and more educated than -most young women, and that<a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a> it was a pity she wore such an old-fashioned -dress. He did not say so, but asked her if she had designed it from -Carpaccio’s St. Ursula, and she said no, from an angel playing the -timbrel by Jacopo Bellini in the Accademia. So after that they talked -about Venice, and he said he must show her his photographs of it after -dinner. “It must be a wonderful place for an artist,” he told her, and -she agreed, and then they compared notes and found that he had stayed at -the Hotel Europa, and had had a lovely view of the Giudecca and Santa -Maria Maggiore from the windows (“most exquisite on a grey day”), and -she had stayed in the flat of an artist friend, looking on to the Rio -delle Beccarie, which is a <i>rio</i> of the poor. Like Eileen and Nevill, -they had eaten in different places; but, unlike London, Venice is a -coherent whole, not rings within rings, so they could talk, albeit with -reservations and a few cross purposes. The Dean liked talking about -pictures, and Torcello, and Ruskin, and St. Mark’s, and the other things -one talks about when one has been to Venice. Perhaps too he even wanted -a little to hear her talk about them, feeling interested in the -impressions of an artist. Jane was rather disappointingly simple and -practical on these subjects; artists, like other experts, are apt to -leave rhapsodies to the layman, and tacitly assume admiration of the -beauty that is dilated on by the unprofessional. They are baffling -people; the Dean remembered that about poor Wilson Gavin.</p> - -<p>While he thus held Jane’s attention, Eddy talked<a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a> to Molly about -skating, a subject in which both were keenly interested, Daphne sparred -with Claude, and Arnold entertained Mrs. Oliver, whom he found a little -<i>difficile</i> and rather the <i>grande dame</i>. Frankly, Mrs. Oliver did not -like Arnold, and he saw through her courtesy as easily as through -Daphne’s rudeness. She thought him conceited (which he was), irreverent -(which he was also), worldly (which he was not), and a bad influence -over Eddy (and whether he was that depended on what you meant by “bad”).</p> - -<p>On the whole it was rather an uncomfortable dinner, as dinners go. There -was a sense of misfit about it. There were just enough people at -cross-purposes to give a feeling of strain, a feeling felt most strongly -by Eddy, who had perceptions, and particularly wanted the evening to be -a success. Even Molly and he had somehow come up against something, a -rock below the cheerful, friendly stream of their intercourse, that -pulled him up, though he didn’t understand what it was. There was a -spiritual clash somewhere, between nearly every two of them. Between him -and Molly it was all her doing; he had never felt friendlier; it was she -who had put up a queer, vague wall. He could not see into her mind, so -he didn’t bother about it much but went on being cheerful and friendly.</p> - -<p>They were all happier after dinner, when playing the pianola in the hall -and dancing to it.</p> - -<p>But on the whole the evening was only a moderate success.</p> - -<p>The Bellairs’ told their parents afterwards that<a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a> they didn’t much care -about the friends Eddy had staying.</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> believe they’re stuck up,” said Dick (the Guards), who hadn’t been -at dinner, but had met them tobogganing. “That man Denison’s for ever -trying to be clever. I can’t stand that; it’s such beastly bad form. -Don’t think he succeeds, either, if you ask me. I can’t see it’s -particularly clever to be always sneering at things one knows nothing -about. Can’t think why Eddy likes him. He’s not a bit keen on the things -Eddy’s keen on—hunting, or shooting, or games, or soldiering.”</p> - -<p>“There are lots like him at Oxford,” said Claude. “I know the type. -Balliol’s full of it. Awfully unwholesome, and a great bore to meet. -They write things, and admire each other’s. I suppose it’s the same at -Cambridge. Only I should have thought Eddy would have kept out of the -way of it.”</p> - -<p>Claude had been disgusted by what he considered Arnold’s rudeness to -Daphne. “I thought Mrs. Le Moine seemed rather nice, though,” he added.</p> - -<p>“Well, I must say,” Nevill said, “she was a little too much for me. -English Home Rulers are bad enough, but at least they know nothing about -it and are usually merely silly; but Irish ones are more than I can -stand. Eddy told me afterwards that her father was that fellow Conolly, -who runs the <i>Hibernian</i>—the most disloyal rag that ever throve in a -Dublin gutter. It does more harm than any other paper in Ireland, I -believe.<a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a> What can you expect of his daughter, let alone a woman married -to a disreputable play-writer, and not even living with him? I rather -wonder Mrs. Oliver likes to have her in the house with Daphne.”</p> - -<p>“Miss—what d’you call her—Morning—seemed harmless, but a little off -it,” said Dick. “She doesn’t talk too much, anyhow, like Denison. Queer -things she wears, though. And she doesn’t know much about London, for a -person who lives there, I must say. Doesn’t seem to have seen any of the -plays. Rather vague, somehow, she struck me as being.”</p> - -<p>Claude groaned. “So would her father if you met him. A fearful old -dreamer. I coach with him in Political Science. He’s considered a great -swell; I was told I was lucky to get him; but I can’t make head or tail -of him or his books. His daughter has just his absent eye.”</p> - -<p>“Poor things,” said Mrs. Bellairs, sleepily. “And poor Mrs. Oliver and -the Dean. I wonder how long these unfortunate people are staying, and if -we ought to ask them over one day?”</p> - -<p>But none of her children appeared to think they ought. Even Molly, -always loyal, always hospitable, always generous, didn’t think so. For -stronger in Molly’s child-like soul than even her loyalty and her -hospitality, and her generosity, was her moral sense, and this was -questioning, shamefacedly, reluctantly, whether these friends of Eddy’s -were really “good.”</p> - -<p>So they didn’t ask them over.<a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE VISITORS GO.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">N<small>EXT</small> morning Eileen got a letter. She read it before breakfast, turned -rather paler, and looked up at Eddy as if she was trying to bring her -mind back from a great distance. In her eyes was fear, and that look of -brooding, soft pity that he had learnt to associate with one only of -Eileen’s friends.</p> - -<p>She said, “Hugh’s ill,” frowning at him absently, and added, “I must go -to him, this morning. He’s alone,” and Eddy remembered a paragraph he -had seen in the <i>Morning Post</i> about Lady Dorothy Datcherd and the -Riviera. Lady Dorothy never stayed with Datcherd when he was ill. -Periodically his lungs got much worse, and he had to lie up, and he -hated that.</p> - -<p>“Does he write himself?” Arnold asked. He was fond of Hugh Datcherd.</p> - -<p>“Yes—oh, he doesn’t say he’s ill, he never will, but I know it by his -writing—I must go by the next train, I’m afraid”; she remembered to -turn to Mrs. Oliver and speak apologetically. “I’m very sorry to be so -sudden.”<a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a></p> - -<p>“We are so sorry for the cause,” said Mrs. Oliver, courteously. “Is it -your brother?” (Surely it wouldn’t be her husband, in the -circumstances?)</p> - -<p>“It is not,” said Eileen, still abstracted. “It’s a friend. He’s alone, -and consumptive, and if he’s not looked after he destroys himself doing -quite mad things. His wife’s gone away.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Oliver became a shade less sympathetic. It was a pity it was not a -brother, which would have been more natural. However, Mrs. Le Moine was, -of course, a married woman, though under curious circumstances. She -began to discuss trains, and the pony-carriage, and sandwiches.</p> - -<p>Eddy explained afterwards while Eileen was upstairs.</p> - -<p>“It’s Hugh Datcherd, a great friend of hers; poor chap, his lungs are -frightfully gone, I’m afraid. He’s an extraordinarily interesting and -capable man; runs an enormous settlement in North-East London, and has -any number of different social schemes all over the place. He edits -<i>Further</i>—do you ever see it, father?”</p> - -<p>“<i>Further?</i> Yes, it’s been brought to my notice once or twice. It goes a -good way ‘further’ than even our poor heretical deans, doesn’t it?”</p> - -<p>It went in a quite different direction, Eddy thought. Our heretical -deans do not always go very far along the road which leads to social -betterment and slum-destroying; they are often too busy improving -theology to have much time to improve houses.<a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a></p> - -<p>“An able man, I daresay,” said the Dean. “Like all the Datcherds. Most -of them have been Parliamentary, of course. Two Datcherds were at -Cambridge with me—Roger and Stephen; this man’s uncles, I suppose; his -father would be before my time. They were both very brilliant fellows, -and fine speakers at the Union, and have become capable Parliamentary -speakers now. A family of hereditary Whigs; but this man’s the only out -and out Radical, I should say. A pity he’s so bitter against -Christianity.”</p> - -<p>“He’s not bitter,” said Eddy. “He’s very gentle. Only he disbelieves in -it as a means of progress.”</p> - -<p>“Surely,” said Mrs. Oliver, “he married one of Lord Ulverstone’s -daughters—Dorothy, wasn’t it.” (Lord Ulverstone and Mrs. Oliver’s -family were both of Westmorland, where there is strong clannish -feeling.)</p> - -<p>“He and Dorothy don’t seem to be hitting it off, do they,” put in -Daphne, and her mother said, “Daphne, dear,” and changed the subject. -Daphne ought not, by good rights, to have heard that about Hugh Datcherd -being ill and alone, and Mrs. Le Moine going to him.</p> - -<p>“She’s a trying woman, I fancy,” said Eddy, who did not mean to be -tactless, but had been absorbed in his own thoughts and had got left -behind when his mother started a new subject. “Hard, and selfish, and -extravagant, and thinks of nothing but amusing herself, and doesn’t care -a<a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a> hang for any of Datcherd’s schemes, or for Datcherd himself, for that -matter. She just goes off and leaves him to be ill by himself. He nearly -died last year; he was awfully cut up, too, about their little girl -dying—she was the only child, and Datcherd was absolutely devoted to -her, and I believe her mother neglected her when she was ill, just as -she does Datcherd.”</p> - -<p>“These stories get exaggerated, of course,” said Mrs. Oliver, because -Lady Dorothy was one of the Westmorland Ulverstones, because Daphne was -listening, and because she suspected the source of the stories to be -Eileen Le Moine.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’ve no doubt there’s her side of it, too, if one knew it,” -admitted Eddy, ready, as usual, to see everyone’s point of view. “It -would be a frightful bore being married to a man who was interested in -all the things you hated most, and gave his whole time and money and -energy to them. But anyhow, you see why his friends, and particularly -Eileen, who’s his greatest friend, feel responsible for him.”</p> - -<p>“A very sad state of things,” said Mrs. Oliver.</p> - -<p>“Anyhow,” said Daphne, “here’s the pony-trap.”</p> - -<p>Eileen came downstairs, hand-in-hand with Jane, and said goodbye to the -Dean, and Mrs. Oliver, and Daphne, and “Thank you so much for having -me,” and drove off with Eddy and Jane, still with that look of troubled -wistfulness in her face.</p> - -<p>She smiled faintly at Eddy from the train.<a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a></p> - -<p>“I’m sorry, Eddy. It’s a shame I have to go,” but her thoughts were not -for him, as he knew.</p> - -<p>Outside the station they met Arnold, and he and Jane walked off together -to see something in the Cathedral, while Eddy drove home.</p> - -<p>Jane gave a little pitiful sigh. “Poor dears,” she murmured.</p> - -<p>“H’m?” questioned Arnold, who was interested in the streets.</p> - -<p>“Poor Eileen,” Jane amplified; “poor Hugh.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, quite,” Arnold nodded. But, feeling more interested in ideas than -in people, he talked about Welchester.</p> - -<p>“The stuffiness of the place!” he commented, with energy of abuse. “The -stodginess. The canons and their wives. The—the enlightened culture of -the Deanery. The propriety. The correctness. The intelligence. The -cathedralism. The good breeding. How can Eddy bear it, Jane? Why doesn’t -he kick someone or something over and run?”</p> - -<p>“Eddy likes it,” said Jane. “He’s very fond of it. After all, it is -rather exquisite; look——”</p> - -<p>They had stopped at the end of Church Street, and looked along its -narrow length to the square that opened out before the splendid West -Front. Arnold screwed up his eyes at it, appreciatively.</p> - -<p>“<i>That’s</i> all right. It’s the people I’m thinking of.”</p> - -<p>“But you know, Arnold, Eddy’s not exclusive like most people, like you -and me, and—and Mrs.<a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a> Oliver, and those nice Bellairs’. He likes -everyone and everything. Things are delightful to him merely because -they exist.”</p> - -<p>Arnold groaned. “Whitman said that before you, the brute. If I thought -Eddy had anything in common with Walt, our friendship would end -forthwith.”</p> - -<p>“He has nothing whatever,” Jane reassured him, placidly. “Whitman hated -all sorts of things. Whitman’s more like you; he’d have hated -Welchester.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I’m afraid that’s true. The cleanliness, the cant, the smug faces -of men and women in the street, the worshippers in cathedrals, the -keepers of Sabbaths, the respectable and the well-to-do, the Sunday hats -and black coats of the men, the panaches and tight skirts of the women, -the tea-fights, the well-read deans and their lady-like wives—what have -I to do with these or these with me? All, all of them I loathe; away -with them, I will not have them near me any more. <i>Allons, camerado</i>, I -will take to the open road beneath the stars.... What a pity he would -have said that; but I can’t alter my opinion, even for him.... How at -home dear old Phil Underwood would be here, wouldn’t he. How he must -enjoy his visits to the Deanery, where he’s a <i>persona grata</i>. And how -he must bore the young sister. <i>She’s</i> all right, you know, Jane. I -rather like her. And she hates me. She’s quite genuine, and free from -cant; just as worldly as they make ’em, and never<a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a> pretends to be -anything else. Besides, she’s all alive; rather like a young wild -animal. It’s queer she and Eddy being brother and sister, she so decided -and fixed in all her opinions and rejections, and he so impressionable. -Oh, another thing—I have an unhappy feeling that Eddy is going, -eventually, to marry that little yellow-eyed girl—Miss Bellairs. -Somehow I feel it.”</p> - -<p>Jane said, “Nonsense,” and laughed. “She’s not a bit the sort.”</p> - -<p>“Of course she’s not. But to Eddy, as you observed, all sorts are -acceptable. She’s one sort, you’ll admit. And one he’s attached to—wind -and weather and jolly adventures and old companionship, she stands for -to him. Not a subtle appeal, but still, an appeal. They’re fond of each -other, and it will turn to that, you’ll see. Eddy never says, “That’s -not the sort of thing, or the sort of person, for me.” Because they all -are. Look at the way he swallowed those parsons down in his slum. -Swallowed them—why, he loves them. Look at the way he accepts -Welchester, stodginess and all, and likes it. He was the same at -Cambridge; nothing was outside the range for him; he never drew the -line. I’m really not particular”—Jane laughed at him again—“but I tell -you he consorted sometimes with the most utterly utter, and didn’t seem -to mind. Kept very bad company indeed on occasion; company the Dean -wouldn’t at all have approved of, I’m sure. Many times I’ve had to step -in and try in vain to haul<a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a> him by force out of some select set. Nuts, -smugs, pious men, betting <i>roués</i>, beefy hulks—all were grist to his -mill. And still it’s the same. Miss Bellairs, no doubt, is a very nice -girl, quite genuine and natural, and rather like a jolly kitten, which -is always attractive. But she’s rigid within; she won’t mix with the -people Eddy will want to mix with. She’s not comprehensive. She wouldn’t -like us much, for instance; she’d think us rather queer and shady -beings, not what she’s used to or understands. We should worry and -puzzle her. She’s gay and sweet and unselfish, and good, sweet maid, and -lets who will be clever. Lets them, but doesn’t want to have much to do -with them. She’ll shut us all out, and try to shut Eddy in with her. She -won’t succeed, because he’ll go on wanting a little bit of all there is, -and so they’ll both be miserable. Her share of the world, you see—all -the share she asks for—is homogeneous; his is heterogeneous, a sort of -gypsy stew with everything in it. You may say that he’s greedy for mixed -fare, while she has a simple and fastidious appetite. There are the -materials for another unhappy marriage ready provided.”</p> - -<p>Jane was looking at the Prior’s Door with her head on one side. She -smiled at it peacefully.</p> - -<p>“Really, Arnold——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know. You’re going to say, what reason have I for supposing that -Eddy has ever thought of this young girl in that way, as they say in -fiction. I don’t say he has yet. But he will. Propinquity<a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a> will do it, -and common tastes, and old affection. You’ll see, Jane. I’m not often -wrong about these unfortunate affairs. I dislike them so much that it -gives me an instinct.”</p> - -<p>Jane shook her head. “I think Welchester is affecting you for bad, -Arnold. That, you know, is what the people who annoy you so much here -would do, I expect—look at all affection and friendship like that.”</p> - -<p>“That’s true.” Arnold looked at her in surprise. “But I shouldn’t have -expected you to know it. You are improving in perspicacity, Jane; it’s -the first time I have known you aware of the vulgarity about you.”</p> - -<p>Jane looked a little proud of herself, as she only did when she had -displayed a piece of worldly knowledge. She did not say that she had -obtained her knowledge from Mrs. Oliver and the Dean, who, watching Eddy -and Eileen, had too obviously done so with troubled eyes, so that she -longed to comfort them with explanations they would never understand.</p> - -<p>It was certain that they were relieved that Eileen had gone, though the -reason of her going had placed her in a more dubious light. Also, she -forgot, unfortunately, to write her bread and butter letter. “I suppose -she can’t spare the time from Hugh,” said Daphne. But she wrote to Jane, -telling her that Hugh was laid up with hemorrhage, and had been ordered -to go away directly he was fit. “They say Davos, but he won’t. I don’t -know where it<a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a> will be.” Jane, whose worldly shrewdness after all had -narrow limits, repeated this to Eddy in his mother’s presence.</p> - -<p>“Has his wife got back yet?” Mrs. Oliver inquired gravely, and Jane -shook her head. “Oh no. She won’t. She’s spending the winter on the -Riviera.”</p> - -<p>“I should think Mr. Datcherd too had better spend the winter on the -Riviera,” suggested Mrs. Oliver.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t it rather bad for consumption?” said Eddy, shirking issues other -than hygienic.</p> - -<p>“I believe,” said Jane, not shirking them, “his wife isn’t coming back -to him at all again. She’s tired of him, I’m afraid. I daresay it’s a -good thing; she is very irritating and difficult.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Oliver changed the subject. These seemed to her what women in her -district would have called strange goings on. She commented on them to -the Dean, who, more tolerant, said, “One must allow some licence to -genius, I suppose.” Perhaps: but the question was, how much. Genius -might alter manners—(for the worse, Mrs. Oliver thought)—but it -shouldn’t be allowed to alter morals.</p> - -<p>“Anyhow,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I am rather troubled that Eddy should be so -intimate with these people.”</p> - -<p>“Eddy is a steady-headed boy,” said the Dean. “He knows where to draw -the line.” Which is what parents often think of their children, with how -little warrant! Drawing the line was precisely<a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a> the art which, Arnold -complained, Eddy had not learnt at all.</p> - -<p>Jane and Arnold stayed three days more at the Deanery. Jane drew details -of the Cathedral and studies of Daphne. The Dean thought, as he had -often thought before, that artists were interesting, child-like, but -rather baffling people, incredibly innocent, or else incredibly apt to -accept moral evil with indifference; also that, though, he feared, quite -outside the Church, and what he considered to be pagan in outlook, she -displayed, like poor Wilson Gavin, a very delicate appreciation of -ecclesiastical architecture and religious art.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Oliver thought her more unconventional and lacking in knowledge of -the world than any girl had a right to be.</p> - -<p>Daphne and the Bellairs family thought her a harmless crank, who took -off her hat in the road.</p> - -<p>The Bellairs’ supposed she must Want a Vote, till she announced her -indifference on that subject, which disgusted Daphne, an ardent and -potentially militant suffragist, and disappointed her mother, a calm but -earnest member of the National Union for Women’s Suffrage, who went to -meetings Daphne was not allowed at. Jane—perhaps it was because of the -queer sexlessness which was part of her charm, perhaps because of being -an artist, and other-worldly—seemed to care little for women’s rights -or women’s wrongs. Mrs. Oliver noted that her social conscience was -unawakened, and thought her selfish. Artists<a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a> were perhaps like -that—wrapped up in their own joy of the lovely world, so that they -never turned and looked into the shadows. Eddy, a keen suffragist -himself, said it was because Jane had never lived among the very poor.</p> - -<p>“She should use her power of vision,” said the Dean. “She’s got plenty.”</p> - -<p>“She’s one-windowed,” Eddy explained. “She only looks out on to the -beautiful things; she has a blank wall between her and the ugly.”</p> - -<p>“In plain words, a selfish young woman,” said Mrs. Oliver, but to -herself.</p> - -<p>So much for Jane. Arnold was more severely condemned. The more they all -saw of him, the less they liked him, and the more supercilious he grew. -Even at times he stopped remembering it was a Deanery, though he really -tried to do this. But the atmosphere did annoy him.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Denison has really very unfortunate ways of expressing himself at -times,” said Mrs. Oliver, who had too, Arnold thought.</p> - -<p>“Oh, he means well,” said Eddy apologetic. “You mustn’t mind him. He’s -got corns, and if anyone steps on them he turns nasty. He’s always like -that.”</p> - -<p>“In fact, a conceited pig,” said Daphne, not to herself.</p> - -<p>Personally Daphne thought the best of the three was Mrs. Le Moine, who -anyhow dressed well and could dance, though her habits might be queer. -Better queer habits than queer clothes, any day,<a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a> thought Daphne, -innately a pagan, with the artist’s eye and the materialist’s soul.</p> - -<p>Anyhow, Jane and Arnold departed on Monday. From the point of view of -Mrs. Oliver and the Dean, it might have been better had it been -Saturday, as their ideas of how to spend Sunday had been revealed as -unfitting a Deanery. The Olivers were not in the least sabbatarian, they -were much too wide-minded for that, but they thought their visitors -should go to church once during the day. Perhaps Jane had been -discouraged by her experiences with the Prayer Book on New Year’s Eve. -Perhaps it never occurred to her to go. Anyhow in the morning she stayed -at home and drew, and in the evening wandered into the Cathedral during -the collects, stayed for the anthem, and wandered out, peaceful and -content, with no suspicion of having done the wrong or unusual thing. -Arnold lay in the hall all the morning and smoked and read <i>The New -Machiavelli</i>, which was one of the books not liked at the Deanery. -(Arnold, by the way, didn’t like it much either, but dipped in and out -of it, grunting when bored.) In consequence (not in consequence of <i>The -New Machiavelli</i>, which she would have found dull, but of being obliged -herself to go to church), Daphne was cross and envious, the Dean and his -wife slightly disapproving, and Eddy sorry about the misunderstanding.</p> - -<p>On the whole, the visit had not been the success Eddy had wished for. He -felt that. In spite of<a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a> some honest endeavour on both sides, the hosts -and guests had not fitted into each other.</p> - -<p>Coming back into Welchester from a walk, and seeing its streets full of -peace and blue winter twilight and starred with yellow lamps, Eddy -thought it queer that there should be disharmonies in such a place. It -had peace, and a wistful, ordered beauty, and dignity, and grace....</p> - -<p>They were singing in the Cathedral, and lights glowed redly through the -stained windows. Strangely the place transcended all factions, all -barriers, proving them illusions in the still light of the Real. Eddy, -beneath all his ineffectualities, his futilities of life and thought, -had a very keen sense of unity, of the coherence of all beauty and good; -in a sense he did really transcend the barriers recognised by less -shallow people. With a welcoming leap his heart went out to embrace all -beauty, all truth. Surely one could afford to miss no aspect of it -through blindness. Open-eyed he looked into the blue night of lamps and -shadows and men and women, and beyond it to the stars and the sickle of -the moon, and all of it crowded into his vision, and he caught his -breath a little and smiled, because it was so good and so much.</p> - -<p>When he got home he saw his mother sitting in the hall, reading the -<i>Times</i>. Moved by love and liking, he put his arm round her shoulders -and bent over her and kissed her. The grace, the breeding, the -culture—she was surely part of it all, and should make, like the -Cathedral, for harmony.<a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a> Arnold had found Mrs. Oliver commonplace. Eddy -found her admirable. Jane had not found her at all. There was the -difference between them. Undoubtedly Eddy’s, whether the most truthful -way or not, was the least wasteful.<a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /><br /> -<small>THE CLUB.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">S<small>OON</small> after Eddy’s return to London, Eileen Le Moine wrote and asked him -to meet her at lunch at a restaurant in Old Compton Street. It was a -rather more select restaurant than they and their friends usually -frequented in Soho, so Eddy divined that she wanted to speak to him -alone and uninterrupted. She arrived late, as always, and pale, and a -little abstracted, as if she were tired in mind or body, but her smile -flashed out at him, radiant and kind. Direct and to the point, as usual, -she began at once, as they began to eat risotto, “I wonder would you do -something for Hugh?”</p> - -<p>Eddy said, “I expect so,” and added, “I hope he’s much better?”</p> - -<p>“He is not,” she told him. “The doctor says he must go away—out of -England—for quite a month, and have no bother or work at all. It’s -partly nerves, you see, and over-work. Someone will have to go with him, -to look after him, but they’ve not settled who yet. He’ll probably go to -Greece, and walk about.... Anyhow he’s to be away somewhere.... And he’s -been destroying<a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a> himself with worry because he must leave his work—the -settlement and everything—and he’s afraid it will go to pieces. You -know he has the Club House open every evening for the boys and young -men, and goes down there himself several nights a week. What we thought -was that perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking charge, being generally -responsible, in fact. There are several helpers, of course, but Hugh -wants someone to see after it and get people to give lectures and keep -the thing going. We thought you’d perhaps have the time, and we knew you -had the experience and could do it. It’s very important to have someone -at the top that they like; it just makes all the difference. And Hugh -thinks it so hopeful that they turned you out of St. Gregory’s; he -doesn’t entirely approve of St. Gregory’s, as you know. Now will you?”</p> - -<p>Eddy, after due consideration, said he would do the best he could.</p> - -<p>“I shall be very inept, you know. Will it matter much? I suppose the men -down there—Pollard and the rest—will see me through. And you’ll be -coming down sometimes, perhaps.”</p> - -<p>She said “I may,” then looked at him for a moment speculatively, and -added, “But I may not. I might be away, with Hugh.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said Eddy.</p> - -<p>“If no one else satisfactory can go with him,” she said. “He must have -the right person. Someone who, besides looking after him, will make him<a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a> -like living and travelling and seeing things. That’s very important, the -doctor says. He is such a terribly depressed person, poor Hugh. I can -brighten him up. So I rather expect I will go, and walk about Greece -with him. We would both like it, of course.”</p> - -<p>“Of course,” said Eddy, his chin on his hand, looking out of the window -at the orange trees that grew in tubs by the door.</p> - -<p>“And, lest we should have people shocked,” added Eileen, “Bridget’s -coming too. Not that we mind people with that sort of horrible mind -being shocked—but it wouldn’t do to spoil Hugh’s work by it, and it -might. Hugh, of course, doesn’t want things said about me, either. -People are so stupid. I wonder will the time ever come when two friends -can go about together the way no harm will be said. Bridget thinks -never. But after all, if no one’s prepared to set an example of -common-sense, how are we to move on ever out of all this horrid, -improper tangle and muddle? Jane, of course, says, what does it matter, -no one who counts would mind; but then for Jane so few people count. -Jane would do it herself to-morrow, and never even suspect that anyone -was shocked. But one can’t have people saying things about Hugh, and he -running clubs and settlements and things; it would destroy him and them; -he’s one of the people who’ve got to be careful; which is a bore, but -can’t be helped.”</p> - -<p>“No, it can’t be helped,” Eddy agreed. “One<a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a> doesn’t want people to be -hurt or shocked, even apart from clubs and things; and so many even of -the nicest people would be.”</p> - -<p>There she differed from him. “Not the nicest. The less nice. The -foolish, the coarse-minded, the shut-in, the—the tiresome.”</p> - -<p>Eddy smiled disagreement, and she remembered that they would be shocked -at the Deanery, doubtless.</p> - -<p>“Ah well,” she said, “have it your own way. The nicest, then, as well as -the least nice, because none of them know any better, poor dears. For -that matter, Bridget said she’d be shocked herself if we went alone. -Bridget has moods, you know, when she prides herself on being -proper—the British female guarding the conventions. She’s in one of -them now.... Well, go and see Hugh to-morrow, will you, and talk about -the Settlement. He’ll have a lot to say, but don’t have him excited. -It’s wonderful what a trust he has in you, Eddy, since you left St. -Gregory’s.”</p> - -<p>“An inadequate reason,” said Eddy, “but leading to a very proper -conclusion. Yes, I’ll go and see him, then.”</p> - -<p>He did so, next day. He found Datcherd at the writing-table in his -library. It was a large and beautiful library in a large and beautiful -house. The Datcherds were rich (or would have been had not Datcherd -spent much too much money on building houses for the poor, and Lady -Dorothy Datcherd rather too much on cards and clothes and<a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a> other -luxuries), and there was about their belongings that air of caste, of -inherited culture, of transmitted intelligence and recognition of social -and political responsibilities, that is perhaps only to be found in -families with a political tradition of several generations. Datcherd -wasn’t a clever literary free-lance; he was a hereditary Whig; that was -why he couldn’t be detached, why, about his breaking with custom and -convention, there would always be a wrench and strain, a bitterness of -hostility, instead of the light ease of Eileen Le Moine’s set, that -could gently mock at the heavy-handed world because it had never been -under its dominance, never conceived anything but freedom. That, and -because of their finer sense of responsibility, is why it is aristocrats -who will always make the best social revolutionaries. They know that -life is real, life is earnest; they are bound up with the established -status by innumerable ties, which either to keep or to break means -purpose. They are, in fact, heavily involved, all round; they cannot -escape their liabilities; they are the grown-up people in a -light-hearted world of children. Surely, then, they should have more of -the reins in their hands, less jerking of them from below.... Such, at -least, were Eddy’s reflections in Datcherd’s library, while he waited -for Datcherd to finish a letter and thought how ill he looked.</p> - -<p>Their ensuing conversation need not be detailed. Datcherd told Eddy -about arranging lectures at the Club House whenever he could, about the -reading-room,<a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a> the gymnasium, the billiard-room, the woodwork, and the -other diversions and educational enterprises which flourish in such -institutions. Eddy was familiar with them already, having sometimes been -down to the Club House. It was in its main purpose educational. To it -came youths between the ages of fifteen and five and twenty, and gave -their evenings to acquiring instruction in political economy, sociology, -history, art, physical exercises, science, and other branches of -learning. They had regular instructors; and besides these, irregular -lecturers came down once or twice a week, friends of Datcherd’s, -politicians, social workers, writers, anyone who would come and was -considered by Datcherd suitable. The Fabian Society, it seemed, throve -still among the Club members, and was given occasional indulgences such -as Mr. Shaw or Mr. Sidney Webb, and lesser treats frequently. They had -debates, and other habits such as will be readily imagined. Having -indicated these, Datcherd proceeded to tell Eddy something about his -assistant workers, in what ways each needed firm or tender handling.</p> - -<p>While they were talking, Billy Raymond came in, to tell Datcherd about a -new poet he had found, who wrote verse that seemed suitable for -<i>Further</i>. Billy Raymond, a generous and appreciative person, was given -to finding new poets, usually in cellars, attics, or workmen’s flats. It -was commonly said that he less found them than made them, by some -transmuting magic of his own touch. Anyhow<a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a> they quite often produced -poetry, for longer or shorter periods. This latest one was a Socialist -in conviction and expression; hence his suitability for <i>Further</i>. Eddy -wasn’t sure that they ought to talk of <i>Further</i>; it obviously had Hugh -excited.</p> - -<p>He and Billy Raymond came away together, which rather pleased Eddy, as -he liked Billy better than most people of his acquaintance, which was -saying much. There was a breadth about Billy, a large and gentle -tolerance, a courtesy towards all sorts and conditions of men and views, -that made him restful, as compared, for instance, with the intolerant -Arnold Denison. Perhaps the difference was partly that Billy was a poet, -with the artist’s vision, which takes in, and Arnold only a critic, -whose function it is to select and exclude. Billy, in short, was a -producer, and Arnold a publisher; and publishers have to be for ever -saying that things won’t do, aren’t good enough. If they can’t say that, -they are poor publishers indeed. Billy, in Eddy’s view, approached more -nearly than most people to that synthesis which, Eddy believed, unites -all factions and all sections of truth.</p> - -<p>Billy said, “Poor dear Hugh. I am extraordinarily sorry for him. I am -glad you are going to help in the Settlement. He hates leaving it so -much. I’m sure I couldn’t worry about my work or anything else if I was -going to walk about Greece for a month; but he’s so—so ascetic. I think -I respect Datcherd more than almost anyone; he’s so absolutely -single-minded. He won’t enjoy Greece<a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a> a bit, I believe, because of all -the people in slums who can’t be there, and wouldn’t if they could. It -will seem to him wicked waste of money. Waste, you know! My word!”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” said Eddy, “he’ll learn how to enjoy life more now his wife -has left him. She must have been a weight on his mind.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, well,” said Billy, “I don’t know. Perhaps so.... One never really -felt that she quite existed, and I daresay he didn’t either, so I don’t -suppose her being gone will make so very much difference. She was a sort -of unreal thing—a shadow. I always got on with her pretty well; in -fact, I rather liked her in a way; but I never felt she was actually -there.”</p> - -<p>“She’d be there to Datcherd, though,” Eddy said, feeling that Billy’s -wisdom hardly embraced the peculiar circumstances of married life, and -Billy, never much interested in personal relations, said, “Perhaps.”</p> - -<p>They were in Kensington, and Billy went to call on his grandmother, who -lived in Gordon Place, and to whom he went frequently to play backgammon -and relate the news. Billy was a very affectionate and dutiful young -man, and also nearly as fond of backgammon as his grandmother was. With -his grandmother lived an aunt, who didn’t care for his poetry much, and -Billy was very fond of her too. He sometimes went with his grandmother -to St. Mary Abbot’s Church, to help her to see weddings (which she -preferred even to backgammon), or<a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a> attend services. She was proud of -Billy, but, for poets to read, preferred Scott, Keble, or Doctor Watts. -She admitted herself behind modern times, but loved to see and hear what -young people were doing, though it usually seemed rather silly. To her -Billy went this afternoon, and Eddy meanwhile called on Mrs. Le Moine -and Miss Hogan in Campden Hill Road. He found Miss Hogan in, just -returned from a picture-show, and she gave him tea and conversation.</p> - -<p>“Of course you’ve heard all about our intentions. Actually we’re off on -Thursday.... Last time Eileen went abroad, the people she was with took -a maniac by mistake; so very uncomfortable. I quite thought after that -she had decided that travel was not for her. However, it seems not. You -know—I’m sure she told you—she was for going just he and she, <i>tout -simple</i>. Most improper, of course, not to say unwholesome. They meant no -harm, dear children, but who would believe that, and even so, what are -the <i>convenances</i> for but to be observed? I put it before Eileen in my -most banal and <i>borné</i> manner, but, needless to say, how fruitless! So -at last I had to offer to go too. Of course from kindness she had to -accept that, though it won’t be at all the same, particularly not to -Hugh. Anyhow there we are, and we’re off on Thursday. Hugh will be very -much upset by the Channel; I believe he always is; no constitution -whatever, poor creature. Also I believe he is of those with whom it -lasts on between Calais and<a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a> Paris—a most unhappy class, but to be -avoided as travelling companions. I know too well, because of an aunt of -mine.... Well, anyhow we’re going to take the train to Trieste, and then -a ship to Kalamata, and then take to our feet and walk across Greece. -Hitherto I have only done Greece on the Dunnottar Castle, in the care of -Sir Henry Lunn, which, if less thrilling, is safer, owing to the wild -dogs that tear the pedestrian on the Greek hills, one is given to -understand. I only hope we may be preserved.... And meanwhile you’re -going to run those wonderful clubs of Hugh’s. I wonder if you’ll do it -at all as he would wish! It is beautiful to see how he trusts you—why, -I can’t imagine. In his place I wouldn’t; I would rather hand over my -clubs to some unlettered subordinate after my own heart and bred in my -own faith. As for you, you have so many faiths that Hugh’s will be -swamped in the crowd. But you feel confident that you will do it well? -That is good, and the main qualification for success.”</p> - -<p>Thus Miss Hogan babbled on, partly because she always did, partly -because the young man looked rather strained, and she was afraid if she -paused that he might say how sad he was at Eileen’s going, and she -believed these things better unexpressed. He wasn’t the only young man -who was fond of Eileen, and Miss Hogan had her own ideas as to how to -deal with such emotions. She didn’t believe it went deep with Eddy, or -that he would admit to himself any emotion at all beyond friendship,<a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a> -owing to his own views as to what was right, not to speak of what was -sensible; and no doubt if left to himself for a month or so, he would -manage to recover entirely. It would be so obviously silly, as well as -wrong, to fall in love with Eileen Le Moine, and Bridget did not believe -Eddy, in spite of some confusion in his mental outlook, to be really -silly.</p> - -<p>She directed the conversation on to the picture-show she had just been -to, and that reminded her of Sally Peters.</p> - -<p>“Did you hear what the stupid child’s done? Joined the Wild Women, and -jabbed her umbrella into a lot of Post Impressionists in the Grafton -Galleries. Of course they caught her at it—the clumsiest child!—and -took her up on the spot, and she’s coming up for trial to-morrow with -three other lunatics, old enough to know better than to lead an ignorant -baby like that into mischief. I expect she’ll get a month, and serve her -right. I suppose she’ll go on hunger-strike; but she’s so plump that it -will probably affect her health not unfavourably. I don’t know who got -hold of her; doubtless some mad and bad creatures who saw she had no -more sense than a little owl, and set her blundering into shop-windows -and picture-glasses like a young blue-bottle.... By the way, though you -are, I know, so many things, I feel sure you draw the line at the -militants.”</p> - -<p>Eddy said he thought he saw their point of view.</p> - -<p>“Point of view! They’ve not one,” Miss Hogan<a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a> cried. “I suppose, like -other decent people, you want women to have votes! Well, you must grant -they’ve spoilt any chance of <i>that</i>, anyhow—smashed up the whole -suffrage campaign with their horrible jabbing umbrellas and absurd -little bombs.”</p> - -<p>Eddy granted that. “They’ve smashed the suffrage, for the present, yes. -Poor things.” He reflected for a moment on these unfortunate persons, -and added, “But I do see what they mean, all the same. They smash and -spoil and hurt things and people and causes, because they are stupid -with anger; but they’ve got things to be angry about, after all. Oh, I -admit they’re very, very stupid and inartistic, and hopelessly -unaesthetic and British and unimaginative and cruel and without any -humour at all—but I do see what they mean, in a way.”</p> - -<p>“Well, don’t explain it to me, then, because I’ve heard it at first-hand -far too often lately.”</p> - -<p>Eddy went round to the rooms in Old Compton Street which he shared with -Arnold Denison. Arnold had chosen Soho for residence partly because he -liked it, partly to improve his knowledge of languages, and partly to -study the taste of the neighbourhood in literature, as it was there that -he intended, when he had more leisure, to start a bookshop. Eddy, too, -liked it. (This is a superfluous observation, because anybody would.) In -fact, he liked his life in general just now. He liked reviewing for the -<i>Daily Post</i> and writing for himself (himself <i>via</i> the editors of -various magazines who met with<a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a> his productions on their circular route -and pushed them on again). He liked getting review copies of books to -keep; his taste was catholic and omnivorous, and boggled at nothing. -With joy he perused everything, even novels which had won prizes in -novel competitions, popular discursive works called “About the Place,” -and books of verse (to do them justice, not even popular) called -“Pipings,” and such. He wrote appreciative reviews of all of them, -because he appreciated them all. It may fairly be said that he saw each -as its producer saw it, which may or may not be what a reviewer should -try to do, but is anyhow grateful and comforting to the reviewed. -Arnold, who did not do this, in vain protested that he would lose his -job soon. “No literary editor will stand such indiscriminate fulsomeness -for long.... It’s a dispensation of providence that you didn’t come and -read for us, as I once mistakenly wished. You would, so far as your -advice carried any weight, have dragged us down into the gutter. Have -you no sense of values or of decency? Can you really like these florid -effusions of base minds?” He was reading through Eddy’s last review, -which was of a book of verse by a lady gifted with emotional tendencies -and an admiration for landscape. Arnold shook his head and laughed as he -put the review down.</p> - -<p>“The queer thing about it is that it’s not a bad review, in spite of -everything you say in appreciation of the lunatic who wrote the book. -That’s what I can’t understand; how you can be so<a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a> intelligent and yet -so idiotic. You’ve given the book exactly, in a few phrases—no one -could possibly mistake its nature—and then you make several quite true, -not to say brilliant remarks about it—and then you go on and say how -good it is.... Well, I shall be interested to see how long they keep you -on.”</p> - -<p>“They like me,” Eddy assured him, complacently. “They think I write -well. The authors like me, too. Many a heartfelt letter of thanks do I -get from those whom there are few to praise and fewer still to love. As -you may have noticed, they strew the breakfast table. Is it <i>comme il -faut</i> for me to answer? I do—I mean, I did, both times—because it -seemed politer, but it was perhaps a mistake, because the correspondence -between me and one of them has not ceased yet, and possibly never will, -since neither of us likes to end it. How involving life is!”</p> - -<p>Meanwhile he went to the Club House by the Lea most evenings. That, too, -he liked. He had a gift which Datcherd had detected in him, the gift of -getting on well with all sorts of people, irrespective of their incomes, -breeding, social status, intelligence, or respectability. He did not, -like Arnold, rule out the unintelligent, the respectable, the -commonplace; nor, like Datcherd, the orthodoxly religious; nor, as Jane -did, without knowing it, the vulgar; nor, like many delightful and -companionable and well-bred people, the uneducated, those whom we, -comprehensively and rightly, call<a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a> the poor—rightly, because, though -poverty may seem the merest superficial and insignificant attribute of -the completed product, it is also the original, fundamental cause of all -the severing differences. Molly Bellairs thought Eddy would have made a -splendid clergyman, a better one than his father, who was unlimitedly -kind, but ill at ease, and talked above poor people’s heads. Eddy, with -less grip of theological problems, had a surer hold of points of view, -and apprehended the least witty of jokes, the least pathetic of -quarrels, the least picturesque of emotions. Hence he was popular.</p> - -<p>He found that the sort of lectures Datcherd’s clubs were used to expect -were largely on subjects like the Minimum Wage, Capitalism versus -Industrialism, Organised Labour, the Eight Hours Day, Poor Law Reform, -the Endowment of Mothers, Co-partnership, and such; all very interesting -and profitable if well treated. So Eddy wrote to Bob Traherne, the -second curate at St. Gregory’s, to ask him to give one. Traherne replied -that he would, if Eddy liked, give a course of six. He proceeded to do -so, and as he was a good, concise, and pungent speaker, drew large -audiences and was immensely popular. At the end of his lecture he sold -penny tracts by Church Socialists; really sold them, in large numbers. -After his third lecture, which was on the Minimum Wage, he said he would -be glad to receive the names of any persons who would like to join the -Church Socialist League, the most effective society he knew<a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a> of for -furthering these objects. He received seven forthwith, and six more -after the next.</p> - -<p>Protests reached Eddy from a disturbed secretary, a pale, red-haired -young man, loyal to Datcherd’s spirit.</p> - -<p>“It’s not what Mr. Datcherd would like, Mr. Oliver.”</p> - -<p>Eddy said, “Why on earth shouldn’t he? He likes the men to be -Socialists, doesn’t he?”</p> - -<p>“Not that sort, he doesn’t. At least, he wouldn’t. He likes them to -think for themselves, not to be tied up with the Church.”</p> - -<p>“Well, they are thinking for themselves. He wouldn’t like them to be -tied up to his beliefs either, surely. I feel sure it’s all right, -Pollard. Anyhow, I can’t stop them joining the League if they want to, -can I?”</p> - -<p>“We ought to stop the Reverend Traherne that’s where it is. He’d talk -the head off an elephant. He gets a hold of them, and abuses it. It -isn’t right, and it isn’t fair, nor what Mr. Datcherd would like in the -Club.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense,” said Eddy. “Mr. Datcherd would be delighted. Mr. Traherne’s -a first-rate lecturer, you know; they learn more from him than they do -from all the Socialist literature they get out of the library.”</p> - -<p>Worse than this, several young men who despised church-going, quite -suddenly took to it, bicycling over to the Borough to hear the Reverend -Traherne preach. Datcherd had no objection to anyone<a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a> going to church if -from conviction, but this sort of unbalanced, unreasoning yielding to a -personal influence he would certainly consider degrading and unworthy of -a thinking citizen. Be a man’s convictions what they might, Datcherd -held, let them <i>be</i> convictions, based on reason and principle, not -incoherent impulses and chance emotions. It was almost certain that he -would not have approved of Traherne’s influence over his clubs.</p> - -<p>Still less, Pollard thought, would he have approved of Captain -Greville’s. Captain Greville was a retired captain, who needs no -description here. His mission in life was to talk about the National -Service League. Eddy, who, it may be remembered, belonged among other -leagues to this, met him somewhere, and requested him to come and -address the club on the subject one evening. He did so. He made a very -good speech, for thirty-five minutes, which is exactly the right length -for this topic. (Some people err, and speak too long, on this as on many -other subjects, and miss their goal in consequence.) Captain Greville -said, How delightful to strengthen the national fibre and the sense of -civic duty by bringing all men into relation with national ideas through -personal training during youth; to strengthen the national health by -sound physical development and discipline, etcetera; to bring to bear -upon the most important business with which a nation can have to deal, -namely, National Defence, the knowledge, the interest, and the criticism -of the national mind;<a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a> to safeguard the nation against war by showing -that we are prepared for it, and ensure that, should war break out, -peace may be speedily re-established; in short, to Organize our Man -Power; further, not to be shot in time of invasion for carrying a gun -unlawfully, which is a frequent incident (sensation). He said a good -deal more, which need not be specified, as it is doubtless familiar to -many, and would be unwelcome to others. At the end he said, “Are you -Democrats? Then join the League, which advocates the only democratic -system of defence. Are you Socialists?” (this was generous, because he -disliked Socialists very much) “Then join the League, which aims at a -reform strictly in accordance with the principles of co-operative -socialism; in fact, many people base their opposition to it on the -grounds that it is too socialistic. Finally (he observed), what we want -is not a standing army, and not a war—God forbid—but men capable of -fighting <i>like</i> men in defence of their wives, their children, and their -homes.”</p> - -<p>The Club apparently realised suddenly that this was what they did want, -and crowded up to sign cards and receive buttons inscribed with the -inspiring motto: “The Path of Duty is the Path of Safety.” In short, -quite a third of the young men became adherents of the League, -encouraged thereto by Eddy, and congratulated by the enthusiastic -captain. They were invited to ask questions, so they did. They asked, -What about<a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a> employers chucking a man for good because he had to be away -for his four months camp? Answer: This would not happen; force would be -exerted over the employer. (Some scepticism, but a general sentiment of -approval for this, as for something which would indeed be grand if it -could be worked, and which might in itself be worth joining the League -for, merely to score off the employer.) Further answer: The late Sir -Joseph Whitworth said, “The labour of a man who has gone through a -course of military drill is worth eighteen-pence a week more than that -of one untrained, as through the training received in military drill men -learn ready obedience, attention, and combination, all of which are so -necessary in work.” Question: Would they get it? Answer: Get what? -Question: The eighteen-pence. Answer: In justice they certainly should. -Question: Would employers be forced to give it them? Answer: All these -details are left to be worked out later in the Bill. Conclusion: The -Bill would not be popular among employers. Further conclusion: Let us -join it. Which they did.</p> - -<p>Before he departed, Captain Greville said that he was very pleased with -the encouraging results of the evening, and he hoped that as many as -would be interested would come and see a cinematograph display he was -giving in Hackney next week, called “In Time of Invasion.” From that he -would venture to say they would learn something of the horrors of -unprepared attack. The Club went to<a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a> that. It was a splendid show, well -worth threepence. It abounded in men being found unlawfully with guns -and being shot like rabbits; in untrained and incompetent soldiers -fleeing from the foe; abandoned mothers defending their cottage homes to -the last against a brutal soldiery; corpses of children tossed on pikes -to make a Prussian holiday; Boy Scouts and Girl Guides, the one saving -element in the terrible display of national incompetence, performing -marvellous feats of skill and heroism, and dying like flies in discharge -of their duties. Afterwards there was a very different series to -illustrate the Invasion as it would be had the National Service Act been -passed. “The Invaders realise their Mistake,” was inscribed on the -preliminary curtain. Well-trained, efficient, and courageous young men -then sallied into the field, proud in the possession of fire-arms they -had a right to, calm in their perfect training, temerity, and -discipline, presenting an unflinching and impregnable front to the -cowering foe, who retreated in broken disorder, realising their mistake -(cheers). Then on the Finis curtain blazed out the grand moral of it -all: “The Path of Duty is the Path of Safety. Keep your homes inviolate -by learning to Defend them.” (Renewed cheers, and “God Save the King”).</p> - -<p>A very fine show, to which, it may be added, Mr. Sidney Pollard, the -Club Secretary, did not go.</p> - -<p>It was soon after this that Captain Greville, having been much -pleased—very pleased, as he<a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a> said—by the Lea-side Club, presented its -library with a complete set of Kipling. Kipling, since the Kipling -period was some years past, was not well known by the Club; appearing -among them suddenly, on the top of the Cinema, he made something of a -furore. If Mr. Datcherd would get <i>him</i> to write poetry for <i>Further</i>, -now, instead of Mr. Henderson and Mr. Raymond, and all the people he did -get, that would be something like. Finding Kipling so popular, and -yielding to a request, Eddy, who read rather well, gave some Kipling -readings, which were much enjoyed by a crowded audience.</p> - -<p>“Might as well take them to a music hall at once,” complained Mr. -Pollard.</p> - -<p>“Would they like it? I will,” returned Eddy, and did so, paying for a -dozen boys at the Empire.</p> - -<p>It must not be supposed that Eddy neglected, in the cult of a manly -patriotism, the other aspects of life. On the contrary, he induced Billy -Raymond, a good-natured person, to give a lecture on the Drama, and -after it, took a party to the Savoy Theatre, to see Granville Barker’s -Shakespeare, which bored them a good deal. Then he got Jane to give an -address on drawings, and, to illustrate it, took some rather apathetic -youths to see Jane’s own exhibition. Also he conducted a party to where -Mr. Roger Fry was speaking on Post-Impressionism, and then, when they -had thoroughly grasped it, to the gallery where it was just then being -exemplified. First he told them that they could laugh at the pictures if -they choose, of course,<a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a> but that was an exceedingly stupid way of -looking at them; so they actually did not, such was his influence over -them at this time. Instead, when he pointed out to them the beauties of -Matisse, they pretended to agree with him, and listened tolerant, if -bored, while he had an intelligent discussion with an artist friend whom -he met.</p> - -<p>All this is to say that Eddy had his young men well in hand—better in -hand than Datcherd, who was less cordial and hail-fellow-well-met with -them, had ever had them. It was great fun. Influencing people in a mass -always is; it feels rather like driving a large and powerful car, which -is sent swerving to right or left by a small turn of the wrist. Probably -actors feel like this when acting, only more so; perhaps speakers feel -like this when speaking. Doing what you like with people, the most -interesting and absorbing of the plastic materials ready to the -hand—that is better than working with clay, paints, or words. Not that -Eddy was consciously aware of what he was doing in that way; only about -each fresh thing as it turned up he was desirous to make these lads that -he liked feel keen and appreciative, as he felt himself; and he was -delighted that they did so, showing themselves thereby so sane, -sensible, and intelligent. He had found them keen enough on some -important things—industrial questions, certain aspects of Socialism, -the Radical Party in politics; it was for him to make them equally keen -on other things, hitherto apparently rather overlooked by them.<a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a> One of -these things was the Church; here his success was only partial, but -distinctly encouraging. Another was the good in Toryism, which they were -a little blind to. To open their eyes, he had a really intelligent -Conservative friend of his to address them on four successive Tuesdays -on politics. He did not want in the least to change their politics—what -can be better than to be a Radical?—(this was as well, because it would -have been a task outside even his sphere of influence)—but certainly -they should see both sides. So both sides were set before them; and the -result was certainly that they looked much less intolerantly than before -upon the wrong side, because Mr. Oliver, who was a first-rater, gave it -his countenance, as he had to Matisse and that tedious thing at the -Savoy. Matisse, Shakespeare, Tariff Reform, they all seemed silly, but -there, they pleased a good chap and a pleasant friend, who could also -appreciate Harry Lauder, old Victor Grayson, Kipling, and the Minimum -Wage.</p> - -<p>Such were the interests of a varied and crowded life on club nights by -the Lea. Distraught by them, Mr. Sidney Pollard wrote to his master in -Greece—(address, Poste-Restante, Athens, where eventually his -wanderings would lead him and he would call for letters)—to say that -all was going to sixes and sevens, and here was a Tariff Reformer let -loose on the Club on Tuesday evenings, and a parson to rot about his -fancy Socialism on Wednesdays, and another parson holding a mission -service in<a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a> the street last Sunday afternoon, not even about -Socialism—(this was Father Dempsey)—and half the club hanging about -him and asking him posers, which is always the beginning of the end, -because any parson, having been bred to it, can answer posers so much -more posingly than anyone can ask them; and some captain or other -talking that blanked nonsense about National Service, and giving round -his silly buttons as if they were chocolate drops at a school-feast, and -leading them on to go to an idiot Moving Picture Show, calculated to -turn them all into Jingoes of the deepest dye; and some Blue Water -maniac gassing about Dreadnoughts, so that “We want eight and we won’t -wait” was sung by the school-children in the streets instead of “Every -nice girl loves a sailor,” which may mean, emotionally, much the same, -but is politically offensive. Further, Mr. Oliver had been giving -Kipling readings, and half the lads were Kipling-mad, and fought to get -Barrack-room Ballads out of the library. Finally, “Mr. Oliver may mean -no harm, but he is doing a lot,” said Mr. Pollard. “If he goes on here, -the tone of the Club will be spoilt, he is personally popular, owing to -being a friend to all in his manner and having pleasant ways, and that -is the worst sort. If you are not coming home yourself soon, perhaps you -will make some change by writing, and tell Mr. Oliver if you approve of -above things or not. I have thought it right to let you know all, and -you will act according as you think. I very much<a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a> trust your health is -on the mend, you are badly missed here.”</p> - -<p>Datcherd got that letter at last, but not just yet, for he was then -walking inland across the Plain of Thessaly between Volo and Tempe.<a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.<br /><br /> -<small>DATCHERD’S RETURN.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">O<small>N</small> the last day of April, Eddy procured an Irish Nationalist to address -the Club on Home Rule. He was a hot-tempered person, and despised -English people and said so; which was foolish in a speaker, and rather -discounted his other remarks, because the Club young men preferred to be -liked, even by those who made speeches to them. His cause, put no doubt -over-vehemently, was on the whole approved of by the Club, Radically -inclined as it in the main was; but it is a noticeable fact that this -particular subject is apt to fall dead on English working-class -audiences, who have, presumably, a deeply-rooted feeling that it does -not seriously affect them either way. Anyhow, this Nationalist hardly -evoked the sympathy he deserved in the Club. Also they were inclined to -be amused at his accent, which was unmodified Wexford. Probably Eddy -appreciated him and his arguments more than anyone else did.</p> - -<p>So, when on the second day of May Eddy introduced an Orangeman to speak -on the same subject from<a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a> another point of view, the audience was -inclined to receive him favourably. The Orangeman was young, much -younger than the Nationalist, and equally Irish, though from another -region, both geographically and socially. His accent, what he had of it, -is best described as polite North of Ireland, and he had been at -Cambridge with Eddy. Though capable of fierceness, and with an -Ulster-will-fight look in the eye, the fierceness was directed rather -against his disloyal compatriots than against his audience, which was -more satisfactory to the audience. And whenever he liked he could make -them laugh, which was more satisfactory still. From his face you might, -before he spoke, guess him to be a Nationalist, so essentially and -indubitably south-west Irish was the look of it. To avert so distressing -an error he did speak, as a rule, quite a lot.</p> - -<p>He spoke this evening with energy, lucidity, humour, and vehemence, and -the Club listened appreciatively. Gradually he worked them up from -personal approval of himself to partial approval of, or at least -sympathy with, his cause. He went into the financial question with an -imposing production of figures. He began several times, “The -Nationalists will tell you,” and then proceeded to repeat precisely what -the Nationalist the other night <i>had</i> told them, only to knock it down -with an argument that was sometimes conclusive, often would just do, and -occasionally just wouldn’t; and the Club cheered the first sort, -accepted the<a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a> second as ingenious, and said “Oh,” good-humouredly, to -the third. Altogether it was an excellent speech, full of profound -conviction, with some incontrovertible sense, and a smattering of -intelligent nonsense. Not a word was dull, and not a word was unkind to -the Pope of Rome or his adherents, as is usual, and perhaps essential, -in such speeches when produced in Ireland, and necessitates their -careful expurgating before they are delivered to English audiences, who -have a tolerant, if supercilious, feeling towards that misguided Church. -The young man spoke for half an hour, and held his audience. He held -them even when he said, drawing to the end, “I wonder do any of you here -know anything at all about Ireland and Irish politics, or do you get it -all second-hand from the English Radical papers? Do you know at all what -you’re talking about? Bad government, incompetent economy, partiality, -prejudice, injustice, tyranny—that’s what the English Radicals want to -hand us over to. And that is what they will not hand us over to, because -we in Ulster, the most truly and nationally Irish part of Ireland, have -signed this.” He produced from his breast-pocket the Covenant, and held -it up before them, so that they all saw the Red Hand that blazed out on -it. He read it through to them, and sat down. Cheers broke out, stamping -of feet, clapping of hands; it was the most enthusiastic reception a -speaker had ever had at the Club.</p> - -<p>Someone began singing “Rule Britannia,” as the<a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a> nearest expression that -occurred to him of the patriotic and anti-disruptive sentiments that -filled him, and it was taken up and shouted all over the room. It was as -if the insidious influence of Kipling, the National Service League, the -Invasion Pictures, the Primrose League, and the Blue Water School, which -had been eating with gradual corruption into the sound heart of the -Club, was breaking out at last, under the finishing poison of Orangeism, -into an eruption which could only be eased by song and shout. So they -sang and shouted, some from enthusiasm, some for fun, and Eddy said to -his friend the speaker, “You’ve fairly fetched them this time,” and -looked smiling over the jubilant crowd, from the front chairs to the -back, and, at the back of all, met the eyes of Datcherd. He stood -leaning against the door, unjubilant, songless, morose, his hands in his -pockets, a cynical smile faintly touching his lips. At his side was -Sidney Pollard, with very bright eyes in a white face, and a “There, you -see for yourself” air about him.</p> - -<p>Eddy hadn’t known Datcherd was coming down to the Club to-night, though -he knew he had arrived in England, three weeks before he had planned. -Seeing him, he rose to his feet and smiled, and the audience, following -his eyes, turned round and saw their returned president and master. Upon -that they cheered again, louder if possible than before. Datcherd’s -acknowledgment was of the faintest. He stood there for a moment longer, -then turned and left the room.<a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a></p> - -<p>The meeting ended, after the usual courtesies and votes of thanks, and -Eddy took his friend away.</p> - -<p>“You must come and be introduced to Datcherd,” he said. “I wonder where -he’s got to.”</p> - -<p>His friend looked doubtful. “He could have come and spoken to me in the -room if he’d wanted. Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps he’d be tired after his -journey. He didn’t look extraordinarily cheery, somehow. I think I’ll -not bother him.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he’s all right. He only looked like a Home Ruler listening to -Orange cheering. I expect they don’t, as a rule, look very radiant, do -they?”</p> - -<p>“They do not. But you don’t mean he’d mind my coming to speak, surely? -Because, if he does, I ought never to have come. You told me they had -lectures from all sorts of people on all sorts of things.”</p> - -<p>“So they do. No, of course he wouldn’t mind. But that’s the way he’s -bound to look in public, as a manifesto, don’t you see. Like a clergyman -listening to a Nonconformist preacher. He has to assert his principles.”</p> - -<p>“But a Church clergyman probably wouldn’t get a Nonconformist to preach -in his church. They don’t, I believe, as a rule.”</p> - -<p>Eddy was forced to admit that, unfortunately, they didn’t.</p> - -<p>His friend, a person of good manners, was a little cross. “We’ve had him -offended now, and I don’t blame him. You should have told me. I should<a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a> -never have come. It’s such rustic manners, to break into a person’s Club -and preach things he hates. I could tell he hated it, by the look in his -eye. He kept the other end of the room, the way he wouldn’t break out at -me and say anything ferocious. No, I’m not coming to look for him; I -wouldn’t dare look him in the face; you can go by yourself. You’ve -fairly let me in, Oliver. I hate being rude to the wrong side, it gives -them such an advantage. They’re rude enough to us, as a rule, to do for -the two. <i>I</i> don’t want to have anything to do with his little Radical -Club; if he wants to keep it to himself and his Radical friends, he’s -welcome.”</p> - -<p>“You’re talking nonsense,” Eddy said. “Did it behave like a Radical club -to-night?”</p> - -<p>“It did not. Which is exactly why Datcherd has every reason to be -annoyed. Well, you can tell him from me that it was no one’s fault but -your own. Good-night.”</p> - -<p>He departed, more in anger than in sorrow—(it had really been rather -fun to-night, though rude)—and Eddy went to find Datcherd.</p> - -<p>But he didn’t find Datcherd. He was told that Datcherd had left the Club -and gone home. His friend’s remark came back to him. “He kept the other -end of the room, the way he wouldn’t break out at me and say anything -ferocious.” Was that what Datcherd was doing to him, or was he tired -after his journey? Eddy hoped for the best, but felt forebodings. -Datcherd certainly had not looked<a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a> cordial or cheerful. The way he had -looked had disappointed and rather hurt the Club. They felt that another -expression, after three months absence, would have been more suitable. -After all, for pleasantness of demeanour, Mr. Datcherd, even at the best -of times (which this, it seemed, hardly was) wasn’t a patch on Mr. -Oliver.</p> - -<p>These events occurred on a Friday evening. It so happened that Eddy was -going out of town next morning for a Cambridge week-end, so he would not -see Datcherd till Monday evening. He and Arnold spent the week-end at -Arnold’s home. Whenever Eddy visited the Denisons he was struck afresh -by the extreme and rarefied refinement of their atmosphere; they (except -Arnold, who had been coarsened, like himself, by contact with the world) -were academic in the best sense; theoretical, philosophical, idealistic, -serenely sure of truth, making up in breeding what, possibly, they a -little lacked (at least Mrs. Denison and her daughter lacked) in humour; -never swerving from the political, religious, and economic position they -had taken up once and for all. A trifle impenetrable and closed to new -issues, they were; the sort of Liberal one felt would never, however -changed the circumstances, become Conservative. A valuable type, -representing breeding and conscience in a rough-and-tumble world; if -Christian and Anglican, it often belongs to the Christian Social Union; -if not, like the Denisons, it will surely belong to some other -well-intentioned and high-principled society<a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a> for bettering the poor. -They are, in brief, gentlemen and ladies. Life in the country is too -sleepy for them and their progressive ideas; London is quite too wide -awake; so they flourish like exquisite flowers in our older Universities -and in Manchester, and visit Greece and Italy in the vacations.</p> - -<p>Eddy found it peaceful to be with the Denisons. To come back to London -on Monday morning was a little disturbing. He could not help a slight -feeling of anxiety about his meeting with Datcherd. Perhaps it was just -as well, he thought, to have given Datcherd two days to recover from the -shock of the Unionist meeting. He hoped that Datcherd, when he met him, -would look less like a Home Ruler listening to Orange cheering (a very -unpleasant expression of countenance) than he had on Friday evening. -Thinking that he might as well find out about this as soon as possible, -he called at Datcherd’s house that afternoon.</p> - -<p>Datcherd was in his library, as usual, writing. He got up and shook -hands with Eddy, and said, “I was coming round to see you,” which -relieved Eddy. But he spoke rather gravely, and added, “There are some -things I want to talk to you about,” and sat down and nursed his gaunt -knee in his thin hands and gnawed his lips.</p> - -<p>Eddy asked him if he was much better, thinking he didn’t look it, and if -he had had a good time. Datcherd scarcely answered; he was one of those -people who only think of one thing at once, and<a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a> he was thinking just -now of something other than his health or his good time.</p> - -<p>He said, after a moment’s silence, “It’s been extremely kind of you to -manage the Club all this time.”</p> - -<p>Eddy, with a wan smile, said apologetically, “You know, we really did -have a Home Ruler to speak on Wednesday.”</p> - -<p>Datcherd relaxed a little, and smiled in his turn.</p> - -<p>“I know. In fact, I gather that there are very few representatives of -any causes whatever whom you have <i>not</i> had to speak.”</p> - -<p>“I see,” said Eddy, “that Pollard has told you all.”</p> - -<p>“Pollard has told me some things. And you must remember that I spent -both Saturday and Sunday evenings at the Club.”</p> - -<p>“What,” inquired Eddy hopefully, “did you think of it?”</p> - -<p>Datcherd was silent for a moment. Perhaps he was remembering again how -kind it had been of Eddy to manage the Club all this time. When he -spoke, it was with admirable moderation.</p> - -<p>“It hardly,” he said, “seems quite on the lines I left it on. I was a -little surprised, I must own. We had a very small Club on Sunday night, -because a lot of them had gone off to some service in church. That -surprised me rather. They never used to do that. Of course I don’t mind, -but——”</p> - -<p>“That’s Traherne,” said Eddy. “He got a tremendous hold on some of them -when he came<a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a> down to speak. He’s always popular, you know, with men and -lads.”</p> - -<p>“I daresay. What made you get him?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, to speak about rents and wages and things. He’s very good. They -liked him.”</p> - -<p>“That is apparent. He’s dragged some of them into the Church Socialist -League, and more to church after him. Well, it’s their own business, of -course; if they like the sort of thing, I’ve no objection. They’ll get -tired of it soon, I expect.... But, if you’ll excuse my asking, why on -earth have you been corrupting their minds with lectures on Tariff -Reform, National Service, Ulsterism and Dreadnoughts? Didn’t you realise -that one can’t let in that sort of influence without endangering the -sanity of a set of half-educated lads? I left them reading Mill; I find -them reading Kipling. Upon my word, anyone would think you belonged to -the Primrose League, from the way you’ve been going on.”</p> - -<p>“I do,” said Eddy simply.</p> - -<p>Datcherd stared at him, utterly taken aback.</p> - -<p>“You <i>what</i>?”</p> - -<p>“I belong to the Primrose League,” Eddy repeated. “Why shouldn’t I?”</p> - -<p>Datcherd pulled his startled wits together, and laughed shortly.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon. The mistake, I suppose, was mine. I had somehow got -it into my head that you were a Fabian.”</p> - -<p>“So I am,” said Eddy, patiently explaining.<a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a> “All those old things, you -know. And most of the new ones as well. I’m sorry if you didn’t know; I -suppose I ought to have mentioned it, but I never thought about it. Does -it matter?”</p> - -<p>Datcherd was gazing at him with grave, startled eyes, as at a maniac.</p> - -<p>“Matter? Well, I don’t know. Yes, I suppose it would have mattered, from -my point of view, if I’d known. Because it just means that you’ve been -playing when I thought you were in earnest; that, whereas I supposed you -took your convictions and mine seriously and meant to act on them, -really they’re just a game to you. You take no cause seriously, I -suppose.”</p> - -<p>“I take all causes seriously,” Eddy corrected him quickly. He got up, -and walked about the room, his hands deep in his pockets, frowning a -little because life was so serious.</p> - -<p>“You see,” he explained, stopping in front of Datcherd and frowning down -on him, “truth is so pervasive; it gets everywhere; leaks into -everything. Like cod-liver oil spilt in a trunk of clothes; everything’s -saturated with it. (Is that a nasty comparison? I thought of it because -it happened to me the other day.) The clothes are all different from -each other, but the cod-liver oil is in all of them for ever and ever. -Truth is like that—pervasive. Isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Datcherd, with vehemence. “No. Truth is <i>not</i> like that. If -it were, it would mean that one thing was no better and no worse than<a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a> -another; that all progress, moral and otherwise, was illusive. We should -all become fatalists, torpid, uncaring, dead, sitting with our hands -before us and drifting with the tide. There’d be an end of all fight, -all improvement, all life. But truth is <i>not</i> like that. One thing <i>is</i> -better than another, and always will be. Democracy <i>is</i> a better aim -than oligarchy; freedom <i>is</i> better than tyranny; work <i>is</i> better than -idleness. And, because it fights, however slowly and hesitatingly, on -the side of those better things, Liberalism is better than Toryism, the -League of Young Liberals a better thing to encourage among the young men -of the country than the Primrose League. You say truth is everywhere. -Frankly, I look at the Primrose League, and all your Tory Associations, -and I can’t find it. I see only a monumental tissue of lies. Lying to -the people for their good—that’s what all honest Tories would admit -they do. Lying to them for their harm—that’s what we say they do. -Truth! It isn’t named among them. They’ve not got minds that can know -truth when they see it. It’s not their fault. They’re mostly good men -warped by a bad creed. And you say one creed is as good as another.”</p> - -<p>“I say there’s truth in all of them,” said Eddy. “Can’t you see the -truth in Toryism? I can, so clearly. It’s all so hackneyed, so often -repeated, but it’s true in spite of that. Isn’t there truth in -government by the best for the others? If that isn’t good what is? If -it’s not true that one man’s more<a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a> fitted by nature and training to -manage difficult political affairs than another, nothing’s true. And -it’s true that he can do it best without a mass of ignorant, -uninstructed, sentimental people for ever jerking at the reins. Put the -best on top—that’s the gist of Toryism.” Datcherd was looking at him -cynically.</p> - -<p>“And yet—you belong to the Young Liberals’ League.”</p> - -<p>“Of course I do. Do you want me to enlarge on the gist and the beauties -of Liberalism too? I could, only I won’t, because you’ve just done so -yourself. All that you’ve said about its making for freedom and -enlightenment is profoundly true, and is why I am a Liberal. I insist on -my right to be both. I am both. I hope I shall always be both.”</p> - -<p>Datcherd said, after a thoughtful moment, “I wish we had had this -conversation three months ago. We didn’t; I was reckless and hasty, and -so we’ve made this mess of things.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Is</i> it a mess?” asked Eddy. “I’m sorry if so. It hasn’t struck me in -that light all this time.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t think me ungrateful, Oliver,” said Datcherd, quickly. “I’m not. -Looking at things as you do, I suppose it was natural that you should -have done as you have. Perhaps you might have let me a little more into -your views beforehand than you did—but never mind that now. The fact -that matters is that I find the Club in a state of mental confusion that -I never expected, and it will take some time to settle it again, if we -ever do.<a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a> We want, as you know, to make the Club the nucleus of a sound -Radical constituency. Well, upon my word, if there was an election now, -I couldn’t say which way some of them would vote. You may answer that it -doesn’t matter, as so few are voters yet; but it does. It’s what I call -a mess; and a silly mess, too. They’ve been playing the fool with things -they ought to be keen enough about to take in deadly earnest. That’s -your doing. You seem to have become pretty popular, I must say; which is -just the mischief of it. All I can do now is to try and straighten -things out by degrees.”</p> - -<p>“You’d rather I didn’t come and help any more, I suppose,” said Eddy.</p> - -<p>“To be quite frank, I would. In fact, I wouldn’t have you at any price. -You don’t mind my speaking plainly? The mistake’s been mine; but it -<i>has</i> been a pretty idiotic mistake, and we mustn’t have any more of -it.... I ought never to have gone away. I shan’t again, whatever any -fools of doctors say.”</p> - -<p>Eddy held out his hand. “Goodbye. I’m really very sorry, Datcherd. I -suppose I ought to have guessed what you would feel about all this.”</p> - -<p>“Honestly, I think you ought. But thank you very much, all the same, for -all the trouble you’ve taken.... You’re doing some reviewing work now, -aren’t you?” His tone implied that Eddy had better go on doing reviewing -work, and desist from doing anything else.<a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a></p> - -<p>Eddy left the house. He was sorry, and rather angry, and badly -disappointed. He had been keen on the Club; he had hoped to go on -helping with it. It seemed that he was not considered fit by anyone to -have anything to do with clubs and such philanthropic enterprises. First -the Vicar of St. Gregory’s had turned him out because he had too many -interests besides (Datcherd being one), and now Datcherd turned him out -because he had tried to give the Club too many interests (the cause the -vicar stood for being one). Nowhere did he seem to be wanted. He was a -failure and an outcast. Besides which, Datcherd thought he had behaved -dishonourably. Perhaps he had. Here he saw Datcherd’s point of view. -Even his friend the Ulsterman had obviously had the same thought about -that. Eddy ruefully admitted that he had been an idiot not to know just -how Datcherd would feel. But he was angry with Datcherd for feeling like -that. Datcherd was narrow, opinionated, and unfair. So many people are, -in an unfair world.</p> - -<p>He went home and told Arnold, who said, “Of course. I can’t think why -you didn’t know how it would be. I always told you you were being -absurd, with your Blue Water lunatics, and your Food Tax ante-diluvians, -and your conscription captains. (No, don’t tell me about it’s not being -conscription; now is not the moment. You are down, and it is for me to -talk.) You had better try your hand at no more good works, but stick to -earning an honest livelihood, as long as they<a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a> will give you any money -for what you do. I daresay from a rumour I heard from Innes to-day, that -it won’t be long. I believe the <i>Daily Post</i> are contemplating a -reduction in their literary staff, and they will very probably begin -with you, unless you learn to restrain your redundant appreciations a -little. No paper could bear up under that weight of indiscriminate -enthusiasm for long.”</p> - -<p>“Hulbert told me I was to criticize more severely,” said Eddy. “So I try -to now. It’s difficult, when I like a thing, to be severe about it. I -wonder if one ought.”</p> - -<p>But he was really wondering more what Eileen Le Moine thought and would -say about his difference with Datcherd.</p> - -<p>He didn’t discover this for a week. He called at 3, Campden Hill Road, -and found both its occupants out. They did not write, as he had half -expected, to ask him to come again, or to meet them anywhere. At last he -met Eileen alone, coming out of an exhibition of Max Beerbohm cartoons. -He had been going in, but he turned back on seeing her. She looked -somehow altered, and grave, and she was more beautiful even than he had -known, but tired, and with shadowed eyes of fire and softness; to him -she seemed, vaguely, less of a child, and more of a woman. Perhaps it -was Greece.... Somehow Greece, and all the worlds old and new, and all -the seas, seemed between them as she looked at him with hardening eyes. -An observer would have said from that look that<a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a> she didn’t like him; -yet she had always liked him a good deal. A capricious person she was; -all her friends knew that.</p> - -<p>He turned back from the entrance door to walk with her, though she said, -“Aren’t you going in?”</p> - -<p>“No,” he said. “I’ve seen them once already. I’d rather see you now, if -you don’t mind. I suppose you’re going somewhere? You wouldn’t come and -have tea with me first?”</p> - -<p>She hesitated a moment, as if wondering whether she would, then said, -“No; I’m going to tea with Billy’s grandmother; she wants to hear about -Greece. Then Billy and I are taking Jane to the Academy, to broaden her -mind. She’s never seen it yet, and it’s time her education was -completed.”</p> - -<p>She said it coldly, even the little familiar mockery of Jane and the -Academy, and Eddy knew that she was angry with him. That he did not -like, and he said quickly, “May I go with you as far as Gordon Place?” -(which was where Billy’s grandmother lived), and she answered with -childish sullenness, “If we’re going the one way at the one time I -suppose we will be together,” and said no more till he broke the silence -as they crossed Leicester Square in the sunshine with, “Please, is -anything the matter, Eileen?”</p> - -<p>She turned and looked at him, her face hard in the shadow of the -sweeping hat-brim, and flung back ironically, “It is not. Of course not; -how would it be?”</p> - -<p>Eddy made a gesture of despair with his hands.<a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a></p> - -<p>“You’re angry too. I knew it. You’re all angry, because I had Tariff -Reformers and Orangemen to lecture to the Club.”</p> - -<p>“D’you tell me so?” She still spoke in uncomfortable irony. “I expect -you hoped we would be grateful and delighted at being dragged back from -Greece just when Hugh was beginning to be better, and to enjoy things, -by a letter from that miserable Pollard all about the way you had the -Club spoilt. Why, we hadn’t been to Olympia yet. We were just going -there when Hugh insisted on calling for letters at Athens and got this. -Letters indeed! Bridget and I didn’t ask were there any for us; but Hugh -always will. And of course, when he’d read it nothing would hold him; he -must tear off home by the next train and arrive in London three weeks -sooner than we’d planned. Now why, if you felt you had to go to spoil -Hugh’s club, couldn’t you have had Pollard strangled first, the way he -wouldn’t be writing letters?”</p> - -<p>“I wish I had,” said Eddy, with bitter fervour. “I was a fool.”</p> - -<p>“And worse than that, so you were,” said Eileen, unsparingly. “You were -unprincipled, and then so wanting foresight that you wrecked your own -schemes. Three weeks more, and you might have had twenty-one more -captains and clergymen and young men from Ulster to complete the -education of Hugh’s young Liberals. As it is, Hugh thinks you’ve not -done them much harm, though you did your best, and he’s slaving away to -put sense into<a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a> them again. The good of Greece is all gone from him -already; worry was just what he wasn’t to do, and you’ve made him do it. -He’s living already again at top speed, and over-working, and being sad -because it’s all in such a silly mess. Hugh cares for his work more than -for anything in the world,” her voice softened to the protective cadence -familiar to Eddy, “and you’ve hurt him in it. No one should hurt Hugh in -his work, even a little. Didn’t you know that?”</p> - -<p>She looked at him now with eyes less hostile but more sad, as if her -thoughts had left him and wandered to some other application of this -principle. Indeed, as she said it, it had the effect of a creed, a -statement of a governing principle of life, that must somehow be -preserved intact while all else broke.</p> - -<p>“Could I have known it would have hurt him—a few lectures?” Eddy -protested against the unfairness of it, losing his temper a little. “You -all talk as if Datcherd was the mistress of a girls’ school, who is -expected to protect her pupils from the contamination of degrading -influences and finds they have been reading Nietsche or <i>Tom Jones</i>.”</p> - -<p>It was a mistake to say that. He might have known it. Eileen flushed -pink with a new rush of anger.</p> - -<p>“Is that so? Is that the way we speak of Hugh? I’ll tell him you said -so. No, I wouldn’t trouble his ears with anything so paltry. I wonder do -you know the way he speaks of you? He thinks<a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a> you must be weak in the -head, and he makes excuses for you, so he does; he never says an unkind -word against you, only how you ought to be locked up and not let loose -like ordinary people, and how he ought to have known you were like that -and explained to you in so many words beforehand the principles he -wanted maintained. As if he hadn’t been too ill to explain anything, and -as if any baby wouldn’t have known, and as if any honourable person -wouldn’t have taken particular care, just when he was ill and away, to -run things just the way he would like. And after that you call him a -girls’ school mistress....”</p> - -<p>“On the contrary,” said Eddy, crossly, “I said he wasn’t. You are -horribly unfair. Is it any use continuing this conversation?”</p> - -<p>“It is not. Nor any other.”</p> - -<p>So, in her excitement, she got into a bus that was not going to Billy’s -grandmother, and he swallowed his pride and told her so, but she would -not swallow hers and listen to him, but climbed on to the top, and was -carried down Piccadilly, and would have to change at Hyde Park Corner.</p> - -<p>Eileen was singularly poor at buses, Eddy reflected bitterly. He walked -down to the Embankment, too crushed and unhappy to go home and risk -meeting Arnold. He had been rude and ill-tempered to Eileen, and sneered -at Datcherd to her, and she had been rude and ill-tempered to him, and -would never forgive him, because it had been about Datcherd, her friend, -loyalty to whom was<a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a> the mainspring of her life. All her other friends -might go by the board, if Datcherd but prospered. How much she cared, -Eddy reflected, his anger fast fading into a pity and regret that hurt. -For all her bitter words to him had that basis—a poignant caring for -Datcherd, with his wrecked health, and his wrecked home, and his -hopeless, unsatisfied love for her—a love which would never be -satisfied, because he had principles which forbade it, and she had a -love for him which would always preserve his principles and his life’s -work intact. And they were growing to care so much—Eddy had seen that -in Eileen’s face when first he met her at the Leicester Galleries—with -such intensity, such absorbing flame, that it hurt and burnt.... Eddy -did not want to watch it.</p> - -<p>But one thing it had done for him; it had killed in him the last -vestiges of that absurd emotion he had had for her, an emotion which had -always been so hopeless, and for that very reason had never become, and -never would become, love.</p> - -<p>But he wanted to be friends. However much she had been the aggressor in -the quarrel, however unfair, and unjust, and unkind she had been, still -he was minded to write and say he was sorry, and would she please come -to lunch and go on being friends.</p> - -<p>He turned into Soho Square, and went back to his rooms. There he found a -letter from his editor telling him that his services on the <i>Daily Post</i> -would not be required after the end of May. It was not<a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a> unexpected. The -<i>Post</i> was economising in its literary staff, and starting on him. It -was very natural, even inevitable, that they should; for his reviewing -lacked discrimination, and his interest in the Club had often made him -careless about his own job. He threw the letter at Arnold, who had just -come in.</p> - -<p>Arnold said, “I feared as much.”</p> - -<p>“What now, I wonder?” said Eddy, not caring particularly.</p> - -<p>Arnold looked at him thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>“Really, it’s very difficult. I don’t know.... You do so muddle things -up, don’t you? I wish you’d learn to do only one job at once and stick -to it.”</p> - -<p>Eddy said bitterly, “It won’t stick to me, unfortunately.”</p> - -<p>Arnold said, “If Uncle Wilfred would have you, would you come to us?”</p> - -<p>Eddy supposed he would. Only probably Uncle Wilfred wouldn’t have him. -Later in the evening he got a telegram to say that his father had had a -stroke, and could he come home at once. He caught a train at half-past -eight, and was at Welchester by ten.<a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br /><br /> -<small>THE COUNTRY.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">T<small>HE</small> Dean was paralysed up the right side, his wife agitated and anxious, -his daughter cross.</p> - -<p>“It’s absurd,” said Daphne to Eddy, the morning after his arrival. -“Father’s no more sense than a baby. He insists on bothering about some -article he hasn’t finished for the <i>Church Quarterly</i> on the Synoptic -Problem. As if one more like that mattered! The magazines are too full -of them already.”</p> - -<p>But the Dean made it obvious to Eddy that it did matter, and induced him -to find and decipher his rough notes for the end of the article, and -write them out in proper form. He was so much better after an afternoon -of that that the doctor said to Eddy, “How long can you stop at home?”</p> - -<p>“As long as I can be any use. I have just given up one job and haven’t -begun another yet, so at present I am free.”</p> - -<p>“The longer you stay the better, both for your father and your mother,” -the doctor said. “You can take a lot of strain off Mrs. Oliver. Miss -Daphne’s very young—too young for much sick-nursing, I fancy; and the -nurse can only do what<a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a> nurses can do. He wants companionship, and -someone who can do for him the sort of job you’ve been doing to-day.”</p> - -<p>So Eddy wrote to Arnold that he didn’t know when he would be coming back -to London. Arnold replied that whenever he did he could come into his -uncle’s publishing house. He added in a postscript that he had met -Eileen and Datcherd at the Moulin d’Or, and Eileen had said, “Give Eddy -my love, and say I’m sorry. Don’t forget.” Sorry about his father, -Arnold understood, of course; but Eddy believed that more was meant by -it than that, and that Eileen was throwing him across space her -characteristically sweet and casual amends for her bitter words.</p> - -<p>He went on with the Synoptic Problem. The Dean’s notes were lucid and -coherent, like all his work. It seemed to Eddy an interesting article, -and the Dean smiled faintly when he said so. Eddy was appreciative and -intelligent, if not learned or profound. The Dean had been afraid for a -time that he was going to turn into a cleric of that active sort which -is so absorbed in practical energies that it does not give due value to -thoughtful theology. The Dean had reason to fear that too many High -Church clergy were like this. But he had hopes now that Eddy, if in the -end he did take Orders, might be of those who think out the faith that -is in them, and tackle the problem of the Fourth Gospel. Perhaps he had -had to, while managing Datcherd’s free-thinking club.<a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a></p> - -<p>“Are you still helping Datcherd?” the Dean asked, in the slow, hindered -speech that was all he could use now.</p> - -<p>“No. Datcherd has done with me. I managed things badly there, from his -point of view. I wasn’t exclusive enough for him,” and Eddy, to amuse -his father, told the story of that fiasco.</p> - -<p>Daphne said, “Serve you right for getting an anti-suffragist to speak. -How could you? They’re always so deadly silly, and so dull. Worse, -almost, than the other side, though that’s saying a lot. I do think, -Tedders, you deserved to be chucked out.”</p> - -<p>Daphne had blossomed into a militant. Mrs. Oliver had been telling Eddy -about that the day before. Mrs. Oliver herself belonged to the -respectable National Union for Women’s Suffrage, the pure and reformed -branch of it in Welchester established, non-militant, non-party, -non-exciting. Daphne, and a few other bright and ardent young spirits, -had joined the W.S.P.U., and had been endeavouring to militate in -Welchester. Daphne had dropped some Jeye’s disinfectant fluid, which is -sticky and brown, into the pillar-box at the corner of the Close, and -made disagreeable thereby a letter to herself from a neighbour asking -her to tennis, and a letter to the Dean from a canon fixing the date -(which was indecipherable) of a committee meeting.</p> - -<p>Daphne looked critically at breakfast next day at these two results of -her tactics, and called them “Jolly fine.”<a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a></p> - -<p>“Disgusting,” said the Dean. “I didn’t know we had these wild women in -Welchester. Who on earth can it have been?”</p> - -<p>“Me,” said Daphne. “Alone I did it.”</p> - -<p>Scene: the Dean horrified, stern, and ashamed; Mrs. Oliver shocked and -repressive; Daphne sulky and defiant, and refusing to promise not to do -it again.</p> - -<p>“We’ve joined the militants, several of us,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Who?” inquired her mother. “I’m sure Molly hasn’t.”</p> - -<p>“No, Molly hasn’t,” said Daphne, with disgust. “All the Bellairs’ are -too frightfully well-bred to fight for what they ought to have. They’re -antis, all of them. Nevill approves of forcible feeding.”</p> - -<p>“So does anyone, of course,” said the Dean. “Prisoners can’t be allowed -to die on our hands just because they are criminally insane. Once for -all, Daphne, I will not have a repetition of this disgusting episode. -Other people’s daughters can make fools of themselves if they like, but -mine isn’t going to. Is that quite clear?”</p> - -<p>Daphne muttered something and looked rebellious; but the Dean did not -think she would flatly disobey him. She did not, in fact, repeat the -disgusting episode of the Jeye, but she was found a few evenings later -trying to set fire to a workmen’s shelter after dark, and arrested. She -was naturally anxious to go to prison, to complete her experiences,<a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a> but -she was given the option of a fine (which the Dean insisted, in spite of -her protests, on paying), and bound over not to do it again. The Dean -said after that that he was ashamed to look his neighbours in the face, -and very shortly he had a stroke. Daphne decided reluctantly that -militant methods must be in abeyance till he was recovered, and more fit -to face shocks. To relieve herself, she engaged in a violent quarrel -with Nevill Bellairs, who was home for Whitsuntide and ventured to -remonstrate with her on her proceedings. They parted in sorrow and -anger, and Daphne came home very cross, and abused Nevill to Eddy as a -stick-in-the-mud.</p> - -<p>“But it <i>is</i> silly to burn and spoil things,” said Eddy. “Very few -things are silly, I think, but that is, because it’s not the way to get -anything. You’re merely putting things back; you’re reactionaries. All -the sane suffragists hate you, you know.”</p> - -<p>Daphne was not roused to say anything about peaceful methods having -failed, and the time having come for violence, or any of the other -things that are natural and usual to say in the circumstances; she was -sullenly silent, and Eddy, glancing at her in surprise, saw her sombre -and angry.</p> - -<p>Wondering a little, he put it down to her disagreement with Nevill. -Perhaps she really felt that badly. Certainly she and Nevill had been -great friends during the last year. It was a pity they should quarrel -over a difference of opinion; anything in the world, to Eddy, seemed a -more<a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a> reasonable cause of alienation. He looked at his young sister with -a new respect, however; after all, it was rather respectable to care as -much as that for a point of view.</p> - -<p>Molly Bellairs threw more light on the business next day when Eddy went -to tennis there (Daphne had refused to go).</p> - -<p>“Poor Daffy,” Molly said to Eddy when they were sitting out. “She’s -frightfully cross with Nevill for being anti-suffragist, and telling her -she’s silly to militate. And he’s cross with her. She told him, I -believe, that she wasn’t going to be friends with him any more till he -changed. And he never does change about anything, and she doesn’t -either, so there they are. It’s <i>such</i> a pity, because they’re really so -awfully fond of each other. Nevill’s miserable. Look at him.”</p> - -<p>Eddy looked, and saw Nevill, morose and graceful in flannels, smashing -double faults into the net.</p> - -<p>“He always does that when he’s out of temper,” Molly explained.</p> - -<p>“Why does he care so much?” Eddy asked, with brotherly curiosity. “Do -you mean he’s <i>really</i> fond of Daffy? Fonder, I mean, than the rest of -you are?”</p> - -<p>“Quite differently.” Molly became motherly and wise. “Haven’t you seen -it? It’s been coming on for quite a year. <i>I</i> believe, Eddy, they’d be -<i>engaged</i> by now if it wasn’t for this.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, would they?” Eddy was interested. “But would they be such donkeys -as to let this get<a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a> in the way, if they want to be engaged? I thought -Daffy had more sense.”</p> - -<p>Molly shook her head. “They think each other so wrong, you see, and -they’ve got cross about it.... Well, I don’t know. I suppose they’re -right, if they really do feel it’s a question of right and wrong. You -can’t go on being friends with a person, let alone get engaged to them, -if you feel they’re behaving frightfully wrongly. You see, Daffy thinks -it immoral of Nevill to be on the anti side in Parliament, and to -approve of what she calls organised bullying, and he thinks it immoral -of her to be a militant. <i>I</i> think Daffy’s wrong, of course, but I can -quite see that she couldn’t get engaged to Nevill feeling as she does.”</p> - -<p>“Why,” Eddy pondered, “can’t they each see the other’s point of -view,—the good in it, not the bad? It’s so absurd to quarrel about the -respective merits of different principles, when all are so excellent.”</p> - -<p>“They’re not,” said Molly, rather sharply. “That’s so like you, Eddy, -and it’s nonsense. What else should one quarrel about? What <i>I</i> think is -absurd is to quarrel about personal things, like some people do.”</p> - -<p>“It’s absurd to quarrel at all,” said Eddy, and there they left it, and -went to play tennis.</p> - -<p>Before he went home, Colonel Bellairs proposed a scheme to him. His -youngest boy, Bob, having been ill, had been ordered to spend the summer -at home, and was not to go back to Eton till<a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a> September. Meanwhile he -wanted to keep up with his work, and they had been looking out for a -tutor for him, some intelligent young public-school man who would know -what he ought to be learning. As Eddy intended to be at home for the -present, would he take up this job? The Colonel proposed a generous -payment, and Eddy thought it an excellent plan. He went home engaged for -the job, and started it next morning. Bob, who was sixteen, was, like -all the Bellairs’, neither clever nor stupid; his gifts were practical -rather than literary, but he had a fairly serviceable head. Eddy found -that he rather liked teaching. He had a certain power of transmitting -his own interest in things to other people that was useful.</p> - -<p>As the Dean got better, Eddy sometimes stayed on at the Hall after work -hours, and played tennis or bumble-puppy with Molly and Bob before -lunch, or helped Molly to feed the rabbits, or wash one of the dogs. -There was a pleasant coherence and unity about these occupations, and -about Molly and Bob, which Eddy liked. Meanwhile he acted as amanuensis -and secretary to his father, and was useful and agreeable in the home.</p> - -<p>Coherence and unity; these qualities seemed in the main sadly lacking in -Welchester, as in other places. It was—country life is, life in -Cathedral or any other cities is—a chaos of warring elements, -disturbing to the onlooker. There are no communities now, village or -other. In Welchester, and in the country round about it, there was the -continuous<a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a> strain of opposing interests. You saw it on the main road -into Welchester, where villas and villa people ousted cottages and small -farmers; ousted them, and made a different demand on life, set up a -different, opposing standard. Then, in the heart of the town, was the -Cathedral, standing on a hill and for a set of interests quite different -again, and round about it were the canons’ houses of old brick, and the -Deanery, and they were imposing on life standards of a certain dignity -and beauty and tradition and order, not in the least accepted either by -the slum-yards behind Church Street, or by Beulah, the smug tabernacle -just outside the Close. And the Cathedral society, the canons and their -families, the lawyers, doctors, and unemployed gentry, kept themselves -apart with satisfied gentility from the townspeople, the keepers of -shops, the dentists, the auctioneers. Sentiment and opinion in -Welchester was, in short, disintegrated, rent, at odds within itself. It -returned a Conservative member, but only by a small majority; the large -minority held itself neglected, unrepresented.</p> - -<p>Out in the rolling green country beyond the town gates, the same -unwholesome strife saddened field and lane and park. Land-owners, great -and small, fought to the last ditch, the last ungenerous notice-board, -with land-traversers; squires and keepers disagreed bitterly with -poachers; tenant farmers saw life from an opposite angle to that of -labourers; the parson differed from the minister,<a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a> and often, alas, from -his flock. It was as if all these warring elements, which might, from a -common vantage-ground, have together conducted the exploration into the -promised land, were staying at home disputing with one another as to the -nature of that land. Some good, some better state of things, was in most -of their minds to seek; but their paths of approach, all divergent, -seemed to run weakly into waste places for want of a common energy. It -was a saddening sight. The great heterogeneous unity conceived by -civilised idealists seemed inaccessibly remote.</p> - -<p>Eddy this summer took to writing articles for the <i>Vineyard</i> about the -breaches in country life and how to heal them. The breach, for instance, -between tenant-farmer and labourer; that was much on his mind. But, when -he had written and written, and suggested and suggested, like many -before him and since, the breach was no nearer being healed. He formed -in his mind at this time a scheme for a new paper which he would like to -start some day if anyone would back it, and if Denison’s firm would -publish it. And, after all, so many new papers are backed, but how -inadequately, and started, and published, and flash like meteors across -the sky, and plunge fizzling into the sea of oblivion to perish -miserably—so why not this? He thought he would like it to be called -<i>Unity</i>, and to have that for its glorious aim. All papers have aims -beforehand (one may find them set forth in many a prospectus); how soon, -alas,<a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a> in many cases to be disregarded or abandoned in response to the -exigencies of circumstance and demand. But the aim of <i>Unity</i> should -persist, and, if heaven was kind, reach its mark.</p> - -<p>Pondering on this scheme, Eddy could watch chaos with more tolerant -eyes, since nothing is so intolerable if one is thinking of doing -something, even a very little, to try and alleviate it. He carried on a -correspondence with Arnold about it. Arnold said he didn’t for a moment -suppose his Uncle Wilfred would be so misguided as to have anything to -do with such a scheme, but he might, of course. The great dodge with a -new paper, was, Arnold said, the co-operative system; you collect a -staff of eager contributors who will undertake to write for so many -months without pay, and not want to get their own back again till after -the thing is coining money, and then they share what profits there are, -if any. If they could collect a few useful people for this purpose, such -as Billy Raymond, and Datcherd, and Cecil Le Moine (only probably Cecil -was too selfish), and John Henderson, and Margaret Clinton (a novelist -friend of Arnold’s), and various other intelligent men and women, the -thing might be worked. And Bob Traherne and Dean Oliver, to represent -two different Church standpoints, Eddy added to the list, and a field -labourer he knew who would talk about small holdings, and a Conservative -or two (Conservatives were conspicuously lacking in Arnold’s list). -Encouraged by Arnold’s reception of the idea, Eddy<a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a> replied by sketching -his scheme for <i>Unity</i> more elaborately. Arnold answered, “If we get all -or any of the people we’ve thought of to write for it, <i>Unity</i> will go -its own way, regardless of schemes beforehand.... Have your Tories and -parsons in if you must, only don’t be surprised if they sink it.... The -chief thing to mind about with a writer is, has he anything new to say? -I hate all that sentimental taking up and patting on the back of -ploughmen and navvies and tramps merely as such; it’s silly, inverted -snobbery. It doesn’t follow that a man has anything to say that’s worth -hearing merely because he says it ungrammatically. Get day labourers to -write about land-tenure if they have anything to say about it that’s -more enlightening than what you or I would say; but not unless; because -they won’t put it so well, by a long way. If ever I have anything to do -with a paper, I shall see that it avoids sentimentality so far as is -consistent with just enough popularity to live by.”</p> - -<p>It was still all in the air, of course, but Eddy felt cheered by the -definite treatment Arnold was giving to his idea.</p> - -<p>About the middle of June Arnold wrote that Datcherd had hopelessly -broken down at last, and there seemed no chance for him, and he had -given up everything and gone down to a cottage in Devonshire, probably -to die there.</p> - -<p>“Eileen has gone with him,” Arnold added, in graver vein than usual. “I -suppose she wants to<a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a> look after him, and they both want not to waste -the time that’s left.... Of course, many people will be horrified, and -think the worst. Personally, I think it a pity she should do it, because -it means, for her, giving up a great deal, now and afterwards, though -for him nothing now but a principle. The breaking of the principle is -surprising in him, and really, if one comes to think of it, pretty sad, -and a sign of how he’s broken up altogether. Because he has always held -these things uncivilised and wrong, and said so. I suppose he’s too weak -in body to say so any more, or to stand against his need and hers any -longer. I think it a bad mistake, and I wish they wouldn’t do it. -Besides, she’s too fine, and has too much to give, to throw it all at -one dying man, as she’s doing. What’s it been in Datcherd all along -that’s so held her—he so sickly and wrecked and morose, she so -brilliant and alive and young and full of genius and joy? Of course he’s -brilliant too, in his own way, and lovable, and interesting; but a -failure for all that, and an unhappy failure, and now at the last a -failure even as to his own principles of life. I suppose it has been -always just that that has held her; his failure and need. These things -are dark; but anyhow there it is; one never saw two people care for each -other more or need each other more.... She was afraid of hurting his -work by coming to him before; but the time for thinking of that is past, -and I suppose she will stay with him now till the end, and it will be -their one happy time. You<a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a> know I think these things mostly a mistake, -and these absorbing emotions uncivilised, and nearly all alliances -ill-assorted, and this one will be condemned. But much she’ll care for -that when it is all over and he has gone. What will happen to her then I -can’t guess; she won’t care much for anything any of us can do to help, -for a long time. It is a pity. But such is life, a series of futile -wreckages.” He went on to other topics. Eddy didn’t read the rest just -then, but went out for a long and violent walk across country with his -incredibly mongrel dog.</p> - -<p>Confusion, with its many faces, its shouting of innumerable voices, -overlay the green June country. For him in that hour the voice of pity -and love rose dominant, drowning the other voices, that questioned and -wondered and denied, as the cuckoos from every tree questioned and -commented on life in their strange, late note. Love and pity; pity and -love; mightn’t these two resolve all discord at last? Arnold’s point of -view, that of the civilised person of sense, he saw and shared; Eileen’s -and Datcherd’s he saw and felt; his own mother’s, and the Bellairs’, and -that of those like-minded with them, he saw and appreciated; all were -surely right, yet they did not make for harmony.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, a background to discord, the woods were green and the hedges -starred pink with wild roses and the cow-parsley a white foam in the -ditches, and the clouds shreds of white fleece in the blue above, and -cows knee-deep in cool pools beneath<a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a> spreading trees, and, behind the -jubilance of larks and the other jocund little fowls, cried the -perpetual questioning of the unanswered grey bird....</p> - -<p>In the course of July, Eddy became engaged to Molly Bellairs, an event -which, with all its preliminary and attendant circumstances, requires -and will receive little treatment here. Proposals and their attendant -emotions, though more interesting even than most things to those -principally concerned, are doubtless so familiar to all as to be readily -imagined, and can occupy no place in these pages. The fact emerges that -Eddy and Molly, after the usual preliminaries, <i>did</i> become engaged. It -must not be surmised that their emotions, because passed lightly over, -were not of the customary and suitable fervour; in point of fact, both -were very much in love. Both their families were pleased. The marriage, -of course, was not to occur till Eddy was settled definitely into a -promising profession, but that he hoped to be in the autumn, if he -entered the Denisons’ publishing firm and at the same time practised -journalism.</p> - -<p>“You should get settled with something permanent, my boy,” said the -Dean, who was by now well enough to talk like that. “I don’t like this -taking things up and dropping them.”</p> - -<p>“They drop me,” Eddy explained, much as he had to Arnold once, but the -Dean did not like him to put it like that, as anyone would rather his -son dropped than was dropped.</p> - -<p>“You know you can do well if you like,” he said,<a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a> being fairly started -in that vein. “You did well at school and Cambridge, and you can do well -now. And now that you’re going to be married, you must give up feeling -your way and occupying yourself with jobs that aren’t your regular -career, and get your teeth into something definite. It wouldn’t be fair -to Molly to play about with odd jobs, even useful and valuable ones, as -you have been doing. You wouldn’t think of schoolmastering at all, I -suppose? With your degree you could easily get a good place.” The Dean -hankered after a scholastic career for his son; besides, schoolmasters -so often end in Orders. But Eddy said he thought he would prefer -publishing or journalism, though it didn’t pay so well at first. He told -the Dean about the proposed paper and the co-operative system, which was -sure to work so well.</p> - -<p>The Dean said, “I haven’t any faith in all these new papers, whatever -the system. Even the best die. Look at the <i>Pilot</i>. And the <i>Tribune</i>.”</p> - -<p>Eddy looked back across the ages at the <i>Pilot</i> and the <i>Tribune</i>, whose -deaths he just remembered.</p> - -<p>“There’ve been plenty died since those,” he remarked. “Those whom the -gods love, etcetera. But lots have lived, too. If you come to that, look -at the <i>Times</i>, the <i>Spectator</i>, and the <i>Daily Mirror</i>. They were new -once. So was the <i>English Review</i>; so was <i>Poetry and Drama</i>; so was the -<i>New Statesman</i>; so was the <i>Blue Review</i>. They’re alive yet. Then why -not <i>Unity</i>? Even if it has a short life, it may be a merry one.”<a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a></p> - -<p>“To heal divisions,” mused the Dean. “A good aim, of course. Though -probably a hopeless one. One makes it one’s task, you know, to throw -bridges, as far as one can, between the Church and the agnostics, and -the Church and dissent. And look at the result. A friendly act of -conciliation on the part of one of our bishops calls forth torrents of -bitter abuse in the columns of our Church papers. The High Church party -is so unmanageable: it’s stiff: it stands out for differences: it won’t -be brought in. How can we ever progress towards unity if the extreme -left remains in that state of wilful obscurantism and unchristian -intolerance?... Of course, mind, there are limits; one would fight very -strongly against disestablishment or disendowment; but the ritualists -seem to be out for quarrels over trifles.” He added, because Eddy had -worked in St. Gregory’s, “Of course, individually, there are numberless -excellent High Churchmen; one doesn’t want to run down their work. But -they’ll never stand for unity.”</p> - -<p>“Quite,” said Eddy, meditating on unity. “That’s exactly what Finch and -the rest say about the Broad Church party, you know. And it’s what -dissenters say about Church people, and Church people about dissenters. -The fact is, so few parties do stand for unity. They nearly all stand -for faction.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think we Broad Churchmen stand for faction,” said the Dean, and -Eddy replied that nor did the High Churchmen think they did, nor<a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a> -dissenters either. They all thought they were aiming at unity, but it -was the sort of unity attained by the survivor of the <i>Nancy</i> brig, or -the tiger of Riga, that was the ideal of most parties; it was doubtless -also the ideal of a boa-constrictor. Mrs. Oliver, who had come into the -room and wasn’t sure it was in good taste to introduce light verse and -boa-constrictors into religious discussions, said, “You seem to be -talking a great deal of nonsense, dear boy. Everard, have you had your -drops yet?”</p> - -<p>In such fruitful family discourse they wiled away the Dean’s -convalescence.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Molly, jolly and young and alive, with her brown hair curling -in the sun, and her happy infectious laugh and her bright, eager, amber -eyes full of friendly mirth, was a sheer joy. If she too “stood for” -anything beyond herself, it was for youth and mirth and jollity and -country life in the open; all sweet things. Eddy and she liked each -other rather more each day. They made a plan for Molly to spend a month -or so in the autumn with her aunt that lived in Hyde Park Terrace, so -that she and Eddy should be near each other.</p> - -<p>“They’re darlings,” said Molly, of her uncle and aunt and cousins. “So -jolly and hospitable. You’ll love them.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure I shall. And will they love me?” inquired Eddy, for this -seemed even more important.</p> - -<p>Molly said of course they would.<a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a></p> - -<p>“Do they love most people?” Eddy pursued his investigations.</p> - -<p>Molly considered that. “Well ... most ... that’s a lot, isn’t it. No, -Aunt Vyvian doesn’t do that, I should think. Uncle Jimmy more. He’s a -sailor, you know; a captain, retired. He seems awfully young, always; -much younger than me.... One thing about Aunt Vyvian is, I should think -you’d know it pretty quick if she didn’t like you.”</p> - -<p>“She’d say so, would she?”</p> - -<p>“She’d snub you. She’s rather snippy sometimes, even to me and people -she’s fond of. Only one gets used to it, and it doesn’t mean anything -except that she likes to amuse herself. But she’s frightfully -particular, and if she didn’t like you she wouldn’t have anything to do -with you.”</p> - -<p>“I see. Then it’s most important that she should. What can I do about -it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, just be pleasant, and make yourself as entertaining as you can, and -pretend to be fairly sensible and intelligent.... She wouldn’t like it -if she thought you were, well, a socialist, or an anarchist, or a person -who was trying to do something and couldn’t, like people who try and get -plays taken; or if I was a suffragette. She thinks people <i>oughtn’t</i> to -be like that, because they don’t get on. And, too, she likes very much -to be amused. <i>You’ll</i> be all right, of course.”</p> - -<p>“Sure to be. I’m such a worldly success. Well, I shall haunt her -doorstep whether she likes me or not.”<a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a></p> - -<p>“If she dared not to,” said Molly indignantly, “I should walk straight -out of her house and never go into it again, and make Nevill take me -into his rooms instead. I should jolly well think she <i>would</i> like -you!”<a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br /><br /> -<small>HYDE PARK TERRACE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">F<small>ORTUNATELY</small> Mrs. Crawford did like Eddy (he presumed, therefore, that -she did not know he was a socialist and a suffragist, and had tried to -do many things he couldn’t), so Molly did not have to walk out of the -house. He liked her too, and went to her house very frequently. She was -pretty and clever and frankly worldly, and had a sweet trailing voice, a -graceful figure, and two daughters just out, one of whom was engaged -already to a young man in the Foreign Office.</p> - -<p>She told Molly, “I like your young man, dear; he has pleasant manners, -and seems to appreciate me,” and asked him to come to the house as often -as he could. Eddy did so. He came to lunch and dinner, and met pleasant, -polite, well-dressed people. (You had to be rather well-dressed at the -Crawfords’: they expected it, as so many others do, with what varying -degrees of fulfilment!) It is, of course, as may before have been -remarked in these pages, exceedingly important to dress well. Eddy knew -this, having been well brought up, and did dress<a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a> as well as accorded -with his station and his duties. He quite saw the beauty of the idea, as -of the other ideas presented to him. He also, however, saw the merits of -the opposite idea held by some of his friends, that clothes are things -not worth time, money, or trouble, and fashion an irrelevant absurdity. -He always assented sincerely to Arnold when he delivered himself on this -subject, and with equal sincerity to the tacit recognition of high -standards that he met at the Crawfords’ and elsewhere.</p> - -<p>He also met at the Crawfords’ their nephew Nevill Bellairs, who was now -parliamentary secretary to an eminent member, and more than ever -admirable in his certainty about what was right and what wrong. The -Crawfords too were certain about that. To hear Nevill on Why Women -should Not Vote was to feel that he and Daphne must be for ever -sundered, and, in fact, were best apart. Eddy came to that melancholy -conclusion, though he divined that their mutual and unhappy love still -flourished.</p> - -<p>“You’re unfashionable, Nevill,” his aunt admonished him. “You should try -and not be that more than you can help.”</p> - -<p>Captain Crawford, a simple, engaging, and extraordinarily youthful -sailor man of forty-six, said, “Don’t be brow-beaten, Nevill; I’m with -you,” for that was the sort of man he was; and the young man from the -Foreign Office said how a little while ago he had approved of a limited -women<a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>’s suffrage, but since the militants, etc., etc., and everyone he -knew was saying the same.</p> - -<p>“I am sure they are,” Mrs. Crawford murmured to Eddy. “What a pity it -does not seem to him a sufficient reason for abstaining from the remark -himself. I do so dislike the subject of the suffrage; it makes everyone -so exceedingly banal and obvious. I never make any remarks about it -myself, for I have a deep fear that if I did so they might not be more -original than that.”</p> - -<p>“Mine certainly wouldn’t,” Eddy agreed. “Militant suffragism is like the -weather, a safety-valve for all our worst commonplaces. Only it’s unlike -the weather in being a little dull in itself, whereas the weather is an -agitatingly interesting subject, as a rule inadequately handled.... You -know, I’ve no objection to commonplace remarks myself, I rather like -them. That’s why I make them so often, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“I think you have no objection to any kind of remarks,” Mrs. Crawford -commented. “You are fortunate.”</p> - -<p>Nevill said from across the room, “How’s the paper getting on, Eddy? Is -the first number launched yet?”</p> - -<p>“Not yet. Only the dummy. I have a copy of the dummy here; look at it. -We have filled it with the opinions of eminent persons on the great need -that exists for our paper. We wrote to many. Some didn’t answer. I -suppose they were not aware of this great need, which is recognised so -clearly by<a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a> others. The strange thing is that <i>Unity</i> has never been -started before, considering how badly it is obviously wanted. We have -here encouraging words from politicians, authors, philanthropists, a -bishop, an eminent rationalist, a fellow of All Souls, a landlord, a -labour member, and many others. The bishop says, ‘I am greatly -interested in the prospectus you have sent me of your proposed new -paper. Without committing myself to agreement with every detail, I may -say that the lines on which it is proposed to conduct <i>Unity</i> promise a -very useful and attractive paper, and one which should meet a genuine -need and touch an extensive circle.’ The labour member says, ‘Your new -paper is much needed, and with such fine ideals should be of great -service to all.’ The landlord says, ‘Your articles dealing with country -matters should meet a long-felt demand, and make for good feeling -between landlords, tenants and labourers.’ The rationalist says, -‘Precisely what we want.’ The Liberal politician says, ‘I heartily wish -all success to <i>Unity</i>. A good new paper on those lines cannot fail to -be of inestimable service.’ The Unionist says, ‘A capital paper, with -excellent ideals.’ The philanthropist says, ‘I hope it will wage -relentless war against the miserable internal squabbles which retard our -social efforts.’ Here’s a more tepid one—he’s an author. He only says, -‘There may be scope for such a paper, amid the ever-increasing throng of -new journalistic enterprises. Anyhow there is no harm in trying.’ A -little damping, he was.<a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a> Denison was against putting it in, but I think -it so rude, when you’ve asked a man for a word of encouragement, and he -gives it you according to his means, not to use it. Of course we had to -draw the line somewhere. Shore merely said, ‘It’s a free country. You -can hang yourselves if you like.’ We didn’t put in that. But on the -whole people are obviously pining for the paper, aren’t they. Of course -they all think we’re going to support their particular pet party and -project. And so we are. That is why I think we shall sell so well—touch -so extensive a circle, as the bishop puts it.”</p> - -<p>“As long as you help to knock another plank from beneath the feet of -this beggarly government, I’ll back you through thick and thin,” said -Captain Crawford.</p> - -<p>“Are you going on the Down-with-the-Jews tack?” Nevill asked. “That’s -been overdone, I think; it’s such beastly bad form.”</p> - -<p>“All the same,” murmured Captain Crawford, “I don’t care about the -Hebrew.”</p> - -<p>“We’re not,” said Eddy, “going on a down-with-anybody tack. Our <i>métier</i> -is to encourage the good, not to discourage anyone. That, as I remarked -before, is why we shall sell so extremely well.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Crawford said, “Humph. It sounds to me a trifle savourless. A -little abuse hasn’t usually been found, I believe, to reduce the sales -of a paper appreciably. We most of us like to see our enemies hauled -over the coals; or, failing our enemies, some innocuous and eminent -member of an<a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a> unpopular and over-intelligent race. In short, we like to -see a fine hot quarrel going on. If <i>Unity</i> isn’t going to quarrel with -anyone, I shall certainly not subscribe.”</p> - -<p>“You shall have it gratis,” said Eddy. “It is obviously, as the eminent -rationalist puts it, precisely what you need.”</p> - -<p>Nevill said, “By the way, what’s happening to that Radical paper of poor -Hugh Datcherd’s? Is it dead?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. It couldn’t have survived Datcherd; no one else could possibly -take it on. Besides, he financed it entirely himself; it never anything -near paid its way, of course. It’s a pity; it was interesting.”</p> - -<p>“Like it’s owner,” Mrs. Crawford remarked. “He too, one gathers, was a -pity, though no doubt an interesting one. The one failure in a -distinguished family.”</p> - -<p>“I should call all the Datcherds a pity, if you ask me,” said Nevill. -“They’re wrong-headed Radicals. All agnostics, too, and more or less -anti-church.”</p> - -<p>“All the same,” said his aunt, “they’re not failures, mostly. They -achieve success; even renown. They occasionally become cabinet -ministers. I ask no more of a family than that. You may be as -wrong-headed, radical, and anti-church as you please, Nevill, if you -attain to being a cabinet minister. Of course they have disadvantages, -such as England expecting them not to invest their money as they would -prefer, and so on;<a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a> but on the whole an enviable career. Better even -than running a paper which meets a long-felt demand.”</p> - -<p>“But the paper’s much more fun,” Molly put in, and her aunt returned, -“My dear child, we are not put into this troubled world to have fun, -though I have noticed that you labour under that delusion.”</p> - -<p>The young man from the Foreign Office said, “It’s not a delusion that -can survive in my profession, anyhow. I must be getting back, I’m -afraid,” and they all went away to do something else. Eddy arranged to -meet Molly and her aunt at tea-time, and take them to Jane Dawn’s -studio; he had asked her if he might bring them to see her drawings.</p> - -<p>They met at Mrs. Crawford’s club, and drove to Blackfriars’ Road.</p> - -<p>“<i>Where</i>?” inquired Mrs. Crawford, after Eddy’s order to the driver.</p> - -<p>“Pleasance Court, Blackfriars’ Road,” Eddy repeated.</p> - -<p>“Oh! I somehow had an idea it was Chelsea. That’s where one often finds -studios; but, after all, there must be many others, if one comes to -think of it.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps Jane can’t afford Chelsea. She’s not poor, but she spends her -money like a child. She takes after her father, who is extravagant, like -so many professors.”</p> - -<p>“Chelsea’s supposed to be cheap, my dear boy. That’s why it’s full of -struggling young artists.”<a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a></p> - -<p>“I daresay Pleasance Court is cheaper. Besides, it’s pleasant. They like -it.”</p> - -<p>“They?”</p> - -<p>“Jane and her friend Miss Peters, who shares rooms with her. Rather a -jolly sort of girl; though——” On second thoughts Eddy refrained from -mentioning that Sally Peters was a militant and had been in prison; he -remembered that Mrs. Crawford found the subject tedious.</p> - -<p>But militancy will out, as must have been noticed by many. Before the -visitors had been there ten minutes, Sally referred to the recent -destruction of the property of a distinguished widowed lady in such -laudatory terms that Mrs. Crawford discerned her in a minute, raised a -disapproving lorgnette at her, murmured, “They devour widows’ houses, -and for a pretence make long speeches,” and turned her back on her. -Jolly sorts of girls who were also criminal lunatics were not suffered -in the sphere of her acquaintance.</p> - -<p>Jane’s drawings were obviously charming; also they were the drawings of -an artist, not of a young lady of talent. Mrs. Crawford, who knew the -difference, perceived that, and gave them the tribute she always ceded -to success. She thought she would ask Jane to lunch one day, without, of -course, the blue-eyed child who devoured widows’ houses. She did so -presently.</p> - -<p>Jane said, “Thank you so much, but I’m afraid I can’t,” and knitted her -large forehead a little, in her apologetic way, so obviously trying to -think of a<a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a> suitable reason why she couldn’t, that Mrs. Crawford came to -her rescue with “Perhaps you’re too busy,” which was gratefully -accepted.</p> - -<p>“I am rather busy just now.” Jane was very polite, very deprecating, but -inwardly she reproached Eddy for letting in on her strange ladies who -asked her to lunch.</p> - -<p>That no one ought to be too busy for social engagements, was what Mrs. -Crawford thought, and she turned a little crisper and cooler in manner. -Molly was standing before a small drawing in a corner—a drawing of a -girl, bare-legged, childish, half elfin, lying among sedges by a stream, -one leg up to the knee in water, and one arm up to the elbow. Admirably -the suggestion had been caught of a small wild thing, a little -half-sulky animal. Molly laughed at it.</p> - -<p>“That’s Daffy, of course. It’s not like her—and yet it <i>is</i> her. A sort -of inside look it’s got of her; hasn’t it, Eddy? I suppose it looks -different because Daffy’s always so neat and tailor-made, and never -<i>would</i> be like that. It’s a different Daffy, but it is Daffy.”</p> - -<p>“Your pretty little sister, isn’t it, Eddy,” said Mrs. Crawford, who had -met Daphne at Welchester. “Yes, that’s clever. ‘Undine,’ you call it. -Why? Has she no soul?”</p> - -<p>Jane smiled and retired from this question. She seldom explained why her -pictures were so called; they just were.</p> - -<p>Molly was not looking at Undine. Her glance<a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a> had fallen on a drawing -near it. It was another drawing of a girl; a very beautiful girl, -playing a violin. It was called “Life.” No one would have asked why -about this; the lightly poised figure, the glowing eyes under their -shadowing black brows, the fiddle tucked away under the round chin, and -the dimples tucked away in the round cheeks, the fine supple hands, -expressed the very spirit of life, all its joy and brilliance and genius -and fire, and all its potential tragedy. Molly looked at it without -comment, as she might have looked at a picture of some friend of the -artist’s who had died a sad death. She knew that Eileen Le Moine had -died, from her point of view; she knew that she had spent the last -months of Hugh Datcherd’s life with him, for Eddy had told her. She had -said to Eddy that this was dreadful and wicked. Eddy had said, “They -don’t think it is, you see.” Molly had said that what they thought made -no difference to right and wrong; Eddy had replied that it made all the -difference in the world. She had finally turned on him with, “But <i>you</i> -think it dreadful, Eddy?” and he had, to her dismay, shaken his head.</p> - -<p>“Not as they’re doing it, I don’t. It’s all right. You’d know it was all -right if you knew them, Molly. It’s been, all along, the most faithful, -loyal, fine, simple, sad thing in the world, their love. They’ve held -out against it just so long as to give in would have hurt anyone but -themselves; now it won’t, and she’s giving herself to him that he may -die in peace. Don’t judge them, Molly.”<a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a></p> - -<p>But she had judged them so uncompromisingly, so unyieldingly, that she -had never referred to the subject again, for fear it should come between -Eddy and her. A difference of principle was the one thing Molly could -not bear. To her this thing, whatever its excuse, was wrong, against the -laws of the Christian Church, in fine, wicked. And it was Eddy’s friends -who had done it, and he didn’t want her to judge them; she must say -nothing, therefore. Molly’s ways were ways of peace.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Crawford peered through her lorgnette at the drawing. “What’s that -delicious thing? ‘Life.’ Quite; just that. That is really utterly -charming. Who’s the original? Why, it’s——-” She stopped suddenly.</p> - -<p>“It’s Mrs. Le Moine, the violinist,” said Jane.</p> - -<p>“She’s a great friend of ours,” Sally interpolated, in childish pride, -from behind. “I expect you’ve heard her play, haven’t you?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Crawford had. She recognised the genius of the picture, which had -so exquisitely caught and imprisoned the genius of the subject.</p> - -<p>“Of course; who hasn’t? A marvellous player. And a marvellous picture.”</p> - -<p>“It’s Eileen all over,” said Eddy, who knew it of old.</p> - -<p>“Hugh bought it, you know,” said Jane. “And when he died Eileen sent it -back to me. I thought perhaps you and Eddy,” she turned to Molly, “might -care to have it for a wedding-present, with ‘Undine.’<a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a> ”</p> - -<p>Molly thanked her shyly, flushing a little. She would have preferred to -refuse ‘Life,’ but her never-failing courtesy and tenderness for -people’s feelings drove her to smile and accept.</p> - -<p>It was then that someone knocked on the studio door. Sally went to open -it; cried, “Oh, Eileen,” and drew her in, an arm about her waist.</p> - -<p>She was not very like Jane’s drawing of her just now. The tragic -elements of Life had conquered and beaten down its brilliance and joy; -the rounded white cheeks were thin, and showed, instead of dimples, the -fine structure of the face and jaw; the great deep blue eyes brooded -sombrely under sad brows; she drooped a little as she stood. It was as -if something had been quenched in her, and left her as a dead fire. The -old flashing smile had left only the wan, strange ghost of itself. If -Jane had drawn her now, or any time since the middle of August, she -would rather have called the drawing “Wreckage.” To Eddy and all her -friends she and her wrecked joy, her quenched vividness, stabbed at a -pity beyond tears.</p> - -<p>Molly looked at her for a moment, and turned rosy red all over her -wholesome little tanned face, and bent over a picture near her.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Crawford looked at her, through her, above her, and said to Jane, -“Thank you so much for a delightful afternoon. We really must go now.”</p> - -<p>Jane said, slipping a hand into Eileen’s, “Oh, but you’ll have tea, -won’t you? I’m so sorry; we ought to have had it earlier.... Do you -know<a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a> Mrs. Le Moine? Mrs. Crawford; and <i>you</i> know each other, of -course,” she connected Eileen and Molly with a smile, and Molly put out -a timid hand.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Crawford’s bow was so slight that it might have been not a bow at -all. “Thank you, but I’m afraid we mustn’t stop. We have enjoyed your -delightful drawings exceedingly. Goodbye.”</p> - -<p>“Must you both go?” said Eddy to Molly. “Can’t you stop and have tea and -go home with me afterwards?”</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid not,” Molly murmured, still rosy.</p> - -<p>“Are you coming with us, Eddy?” asked Molly’s aunt, in her sweet, -sub-acid voice. “No? Goodbye then. Oh, don’t trouble, please, Miss Dawn; -Eddy will show us out.” Her faint bow comprehended the company.</p> - -<p>Eddy came with them to their carriage.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry you won’t stop,” he said.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Crawford’s fine eyebrows rose a little.</p> - -<p>“You could hardly expect me to stop, still less to let Molly stop, in -company with a lady of Mrs. Le Moine’s reputation. She has elected to -become, as you of course are aware, one of the persons whose -acquaintance must be dispensed with by all but the unfastidious. You are -not going to dispense with it, I perceive? Very well; but you must allow -Molly and me to take the ordinary course of the world in such matters. -Goodbye.”</p> - -<p>Eddy, red as if her words had been a whip in his face, turned back into -the house and shut the door rather violently behind him, as if by the -gesture<a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a> he would shut out all the harsh, coarse judgments of the -undiscriminating world. He climbed the stairs to the studio, and found -them having tea and discussing pictures, from their own several points -of view, not the world’s. It was a rest.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Crawford, as they drove over the jolting surface of Blackfriars’ -Road, said, “Very odd friends your young man has, darling. And what a -very unpleasant region they live in. It is just as well for the sake of -the carriage wheels that we shall never have to go there again. We -can’t, of course, if we are liable to meet people of no reputation -there. I’m sure you know nothing about things like that, but I’m sorry -to say that Mrs. Le Moine has done things she ought not to have done. -One may continue to admire her music, as one may admire the acting of -those who lead such unfortunate lives on the stage; but one can’t meet -her. Eddy ought to know that. Of course it’s different for him. Men may -meet anyone; in fact, I believe they do; and no one thinks the worse of -them. But I can’t; still less, of course, you. I don’t suppose your dear -mother would like me to tell you about her, so I won’t.”</p> - -<p>“I know,” said Molly, blushing again and feeling she oughtn’t to. “Eddy -told me. He’s a great friend of hers, you see.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, indeed. Well, girls know everything now-a-days, of course. In fact, -everyone knows this; both she and Hugh Datcherd were such well-known -people. I don’t say it was so very dreadfully<a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a> wrong, what they did; and -of course Dorothy Datcherd left Hugh in the lurch first—but you -wouldn’t have heard of that, no—only it does put Mrs. Le Moine beyond -the pale. And, in fact, it is dreadfully wrong to fly in the face of -everybody’s principles and social codes; of course it is.”</p> - -<p>Molly cared nothing for everyone’s principles and social codes; but she -knew it was dreadfully wrong, what they had done. She couldn’t even -reason it out; couldn’t formulate the real reason why it was wrong; -couldn’t see that it was because it was giving rein to individual desire -at the expense of the violation of a system which on the whole, however -roughly and crudely, made for civilisation, virtue, and intellectual and -moral progress; that it was, in short, a step backwards into savagery, a -giving up of ground gained. Arnold Denison, more clear-sighted, saw -that; Molly, with only her childlike, unphilosophical, but intensely -vivid recognition of right and wrong to help her, merely knew it was -wrong. From three widely different standpoints those three, Molly, -Arnold Denison, Mrs. Crawford, joined in that recognition. Against them -stood Eddy, who saw only the right in it, and the stabbing, wounding -pity of it....</p> - -<p>“It is extremely fortunate,” said Mrs. Crawford, “that that young woman -Miss Dawn refused to come to lunch. I daresay she knew she wasn’t fit -for lunch, with such people straying in and out of her rooms and she -holding their hands. I give her credit so far. As for the plump fair -child, she<a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a> is obviously one of those vulgarians I insist on not hearing -mentioned. Very strange friends, darling, your....”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure nearly all Eddy’s friends are very nice,” Molly broke in. -“Miss Dawn was staying at the Deanery at Christmas, you know. I’m sure -she’s nice, and she draws beautifully. And I expect Miss Peters is nice -too; she’s so friendly and jolly, and has such pretty hair and eyes. -And....”</p> - -<p>“You can stop there, dearest. If you are proceeding to say that you are -sure Mrs. Le Moine is nice too, you can spare yourself the trouble.”</p> - -<p>“I wasn’t,” said Molly unhappily, and lifted her shamed, honest, amber -eyes to her aunt’s face. “Of course ... I know ... she can’t be.”</p> - -<p>Her aunt gave her a soothing pat on the shoulder. “Very well, pet: don’t -worry about it. I’m afraid you will find that there are a large number -of people in the world, and only too many of them aren’t at all nice. -Shockingly sad, of course; but if one took them all to heart one would -sink into an early grave. The worst of this really is that we have lost -our tea. We might drop in on the Tommy Durnfords; it’s their day, -surely.... When shall you see Eddy next, by the way?”</p> - -<p>“I think doesn’t he come to dinner to-morrow?”</p> - -<p>“So he does. Well, he and I must have a good talk.”</p> - -<p>Molly looked at her doubtfully. “Aunt Vyvian, I don’t think so. Truly I -don’t.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I do, my dear. I’m responsible to your<a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a> parents for you, and your -young man’s got to be careful of you, and I shall tell him so.”</p> - -<p>She told him so in the drawing-room after dinner next evening. She sat -out from bridge on purpose to tell him. She said, “I was surprised and -shocked yesterday afternoon, Eddy, as no doubt you gathered.”</p> - -<p>Eddy admitted that he had gathered that. “Do you mind if I say that I -was too, a little?” he added. “Is that rude? I hope not.”</p> - -<p>“Not in the least. I’ve no doubt you were shocked; but I don’t think -really that you can have been much surprised, you know. Did you honestly -expect me and Molly to stay and have tea with Mrs. Le Moine? She’s not a -person whom Molly ought to know. She’s stepped deliberately outside the -social pale, and must stay there. Seriously, Eddy, you mustn’t bring her -and Molly together.”</p> - -<p>“Seriously,” said Eddy, “I mean to. I want Molly to know and care for -all my friends. Of course she’ll find in lots of them things she -wouldn’t agree with; but that’s no barrier. I can’t shut her out, don’t -you see? I know all these people so awfully well, and see so much of -them; of course she must know them too. As for Mrs. Le Moine, she’s one -of the finest people I know; I should think anyone would be proud to -know her. Surely one can’t be rigid about things?”</p> - -<p>“One can,” Mrs. Crawford asserted. “One can, and one is. One draws one’s -line. Or rather the<a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a> world draws it for one. Those who choose to step -outside it must remain outside it.”</p> - -<p>Eddy said softly, “Bother the world!”</p> - -<p>“I’m not going,” she returned, “to do any such thing. I belong to the -world, and am much attached to it. And about this sort of thing it -happens to be entirely right. I abide by its decrees, and so must Molly, -and so must you.”</p> - -<p>“I had hoped,” he said, “that you, as well as Molly, would make friends -with Eileen. She needs friendship rather. She’s hurt and broken; you -must have seen that yesterday.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I hardly looked. But I’ve no doubt she would be. I’m sorry for -your unfortunate friend, Eddy, but I really can’t know her. You didn’t -surely expect me to ask her here, to meet Chrissie and Dulcie and my -innocent Jimmy, did you? What will you think of next? Well, well, I’m -going to play bridge now, and you can go and talk to Molly. Only don’t -try and persuade her to meet your scandalous friends, because I shall -not allow her to, and she has no desire to if I did. Molly, I am pleased -to say, is a very right-minded and well-conducted girl.”</p> - -<p>Eddy discovered that this was so. Molly evinced no desire to meet Eileen -Le Moine. She said “Aunt Vyvian doesn’t want me to.”</p> - -<p>“But,” Eddy expostulated, “she’s constantly with the rest—Jane and -Sally, and Denison, and Billy Raymond, and Cecil Le Moine, and all that -set—you can’t help meeting her sometimes.”<a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a></p> - -<p>“I needn’t meet any of them much, really,” said Molly.</p> - -<p>Eddy disagreed. “Of course you need. They’re some of my greatest -friends. They’ve got to be your friends too. When we’re married they’ll -come and see us constantly, I hope, and we shall go and see them. We -shall always be meeting. I awfully want you to get to know them quickly. -They’re such good sorts, Molly; you’ll like them all, and they’ll love -you.”</p> - -<p>There was an odd doubtful look in Molly’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“Eddy,” she said after a moment, painfully blushing, “I’m awfully sorry, -and it sounds priggish and silly—but I <i>can’t</i> like people when I think -they don’t feel rightly about right and wrong. I suppose I’m made like -that. I’m sorry.”</p> - -<p>“You precious infant.” He smiled at her distressed face. “You’re made as -I prefer. But you see, they <i>do</i> feel rightly about things; they really -do, Molly.”</p> - -<p>“Then,” her shamed, averted eyes seemed to say, “why don’t they act -rightly?”</p> - -<p>“Just try,” he besought her, “to understand their points of -view—everyone’s point of view. Or rather, don’t bother about points of -view; just know the people, and you won’t be able to help caring for -them. People are like that—so much more alive and important than what -they think or do, that none of that seems to matter. Oh, don’t put up -barriers, Molly. Do love my friends. I want you to. I’ll love all yours; -I will indeed, whatever dreadful<a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a> things they’ve done or are doing. I’ll -love them even if they burn widows’ houses, or paint problem pictures -for the Academy, or write prize novels, or won’t take in <i>Unity</i>. I’ll -love them through everything. Won’t you love mine a little, too?”</p> - -<p>She laughed back at him, unsteadily.</p> - -<p>“Idiot, of course I will. I will indeed. I’ll love them nearly all. Only -I can’t love things I hate, Eddy. Don’t ask me to do that, because I -can’t.”</p> - -<p>“But you mustn’t hate, Molly. Why hate? It isn’t what things are there -for, to be hated. Look here. Here are you and I set down in the middle -of all this jolly, splendid, exciting jumble of things, just like a -toy-shop, and we can go round looking at everything, touching -everything, tasting everything (I used always to try to taste tarts and -things in shops, didn’t you?) Well isn’t it all jolly and nice, and -don’t you like it? And here you sit and talk of hating!”</p> - -<p>Molly was looking at him with her merry eyes unusually serious.</p> - -<p>“But Eddy—you’re just pretending when you talk of hating nothing. You -know you hate some things yourself; there are some things everyone must -hate. You know you do.”</p> - -<p>“Do I?” Eddy considered it. “Why, yes, I suppose so; some things. But -very few.”</p> - -<p>“There’s good,” said Molly, with a gesture of one hand, “and there’s -bad....” she swept the other. “They’re quite separate, and they’re -fighting.”<a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a></p> - -<p>Eddy observed that she was a Manichean Dualist.</p> - -<p>“Don’t know what that is. But it seems to mean an ordinary sensible -person, so I hope I am. Aren’t you?”</p> - -<p>“I think not. Not to your extent, anyhow. But I quite see your point of -view. Now will you see mine? And Eileen’s? And all the others? Anyhow, -will you think it over, so that by the time we’re married you’ll be -ready to be friends?”</p> - -<p>Molly shook her head.</p> - -<p>“It’s no use, Eddy. Don’t let’s talk about it any more. Come and play -coon-can; I do like it such a lot better than bridge; it’s so much -sillier.”</p> - -<p>“I like them all,” said Eddy.<a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br /><br /> -<small>MOLLY.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">E<small>DDY</small> next Sunday collected a party to row up to Kew. They were Jane -Dawn, Bridget Hogan, Billy Raymond, Arnold Denison, Molly and himself, -and they embarked in a boat at Crabtree Lane at two o’clock, and all -took turns of rowing except Bridget, who, as has been observed before, -was a lily of the field, and insisted on remaining so. She, Molly, and -Eddy may be called the respectable-looking members of the party; Jane, -Arnold, and Billy were sublimely untidy, which Eddy knew was a pity, -because of Molly, who was always a daintily arrayed, fastidiously neat -child. But it did not really matter. They were all very happy. The -others made a pet and plaything of Molly, whose infectious, -whole-hearted chuckle and naïve high spirits pleased them. She and Eddy -decided to live in a river-side house, and made selections as they rowed -by.</p> - -<p>“You’d be better off in Soho,” said Arnold.</p> - -<p>“Eddy would be nearer his business, and nearer<a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a> the shop we’re going to -start presently. Besides, it’s more select. You can’t avoid the -respectable resident, up the river.”</p> - -<p>“The cheery non-resident, too, which is worse,” added Miss Hogan. “Like -us. The river on a holiday is unthinkable. We were on it all Good Friday -last year, which seems silly, but I suppose we must have had some wise -purpose. Why was it, Billy? Do you remember? You came, didn’t you? And -you, Jane. And Eileen and Cecil, I think. Anyhow never again. Oh yes, -and we took some poor starved poet of Billy’s—a most unfortunate -creature, who proved, didn’t he, to be unable even to write poetry. Or, -indeed, to sit still in a boat. One or two very narrow shaves we had I -remember. He’s gone into Peter Robinson’s since, I believe, as walker. -So much nicer for him in every way. I saw him there last Tuesday. I gave -him a friendly smile and asked how he was, but I think he had forgotten -his past life, or else he had understood me to be asking the way to the -stocking department, for he only replied, “Hose, madam?” Then I -remembered that that was partly why he had failed to be a poet, because -he would call stockings hose, and use similar unhealthy synonyms. So I -concluded with pleasure that he had really found his vocation, the one -career where such synonyms are suitable, and, in fact, necessary.”</p> - -<p>“He’s a very nice person, Nichols,” Billy said; “he still writes a -little, but I don’t think he’ll ever get anything taken. He can’t get -rid of the idea<a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a> that he’s got to be elegant. It’s a pity, because he’s -really got a little to say.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; quite a little, isn’t it. Poor dear.”</p> - -<p>Eddy asked hopefully, “Would he do us an article for <i>Unity</i> from the -shop walker’s point of view, about shop life, and the relations between -customers and shop people?”</p> - -<p>Billy shook his head. “I’m sure he wouldn’t. He’d want to write you a -poem about something quite different instead. He hates the shop, and he -won’t write prose; he finds it too homely. And if he did, it would be -horrible stuff, full of commencing, and hose, and words like that.”</p> - -<p>“And corsets, and the next pleasure, and kindly walk this way. It might -be rather delightful really. I should try to get him to, Eddy.”</p> - -<p>“I think I will. We rather want the shopman’s point of view, and it’s -not easy to get.”</p> - -<p>They were passing Chiswick Mall. Molly saw there the house she -preferred.</p> - -<p>“Look, Eddy. That one with wistaria over it, and the balcony. What’s it -called? The Osiers. What a nice name. Do let’s stop and find out if we -can have it.”</p> - -<p>“Well, someone obviously lives there; in fact, I see someone on the -balcony. He might think it odd of us, do you think?”</p> - -<p>“But perhaps he’s leaving. Or perhaps he’d as soon live somewhere else, -if we found a nice place for him. I wonder who it is?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. We might find out who his<a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a> doctor is, and get him to tell -him it’s damp and unhealthy. It looks fairly old.”</p> - -<p>“And they say those osier beds are most unwholesome,” Bridget added.</p> - -<p>“It’s heavenly. And look, there’s a heron.... Can’t we land on the -island?”</p> - -<p>“No. Bridget says it’s unwholesome.”</p> - -<p>So they didn’t, but went on to Kew. There they landed and went to look -for the badger in the gardens. They did not find him. One never does. -But they had tea. Then they rowed down again to Crabtree Lane, and their -ways diverged.</p> - -<p>Eddy went home with Molly. She said, “It’s been lovely, Eddy,” and he -said “Hasn’t it.” He was pleased, because Molly and the others had got -on so well and made such a happy party. He said, “When we’re at the -Osiers we’ll often do that.”</p> - -<p>She said “Yes,” thoughtfully, and he saw that something was on her mind.</p> - -<p>“And when Daffy and Nevill have stopped quarrelling,” added Eddy, “we’ll -have them established somewhere near by, and they shall come on the -river too. We must fix that up somehow.”</p> - -<p>Molly said “Yes,” again, and he asked, “And what’s the matter now?” and -touched a little pucker on her forehead with his finger. She smiled.</p> - -<p>“I was only thinking, Eddy.... It was something Miss Hogan said, about -spending Good Friday on the river. Do you think they really did?”</p> - -<p>He laughed a little at her wide, questioning eyes and serious face.<a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a></p> - -<p>“I suppose so. But Bridget said ‘Never again’—didn’t you hear?”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes. But that was only because of the crowd.... Of course it may be -all right—but I just wished she hadn’t said it, rather. It sounded as -if they didn’t care much, somehow. I’m sure they do, but....”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure they don’t,” Eddy said. “Bridget isn’t what you would call a -Churchwoman, you see. Nor are Jane, or Arnold, or Billy. They see things -differently, that’s all.”</p> - -<p>“But—they’re not dissenters, are they?”</p> - -<p>Eddy laughed. “No. That’s the last thing any of them are.”</p> - -<p>Molly’s wide gaze became startled.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean—they’re heathens? Oh, how dreadfully sad, Eddy. Can’t you -... can’t you help them somehow? Couldn’t you ask some clergyman you -know to meet them?”</p> - -<p>Eddy chuckled again. “I’m glad I’m engaged to you, Molly. You please me. -But I’m afraid the clergyman would be no more likely to convert them -than they him.”</p> - -<p>Molly remembered something Daphne had once told her about Miss Dawn and -Mrs. Le Moine and the prayer book. “It’s so dreadfully sad,” she -repeated. There was a little silence. The revelation was working in -Molly’s mind. She turned it over and over.</p> - -<p>“Eddy.”</p> - -<p>“Molly?”<a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a></p> - -<p>“Don’t you find it matters? In being friends, I mean?”</p> - -<p>“What? Oh, that. No, not a bit. How should it matter, that I happen to -believe certain things they don’t? How could it?”</p> - -<p>“It would to me.” Molly spoke with conviction. “I might try, but I know -I couldn’t really be friends—not close friends—with an unbeliever.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, you could. You’d get over all that, once you knew them. It -doesn’t stick out of them, what they don’t believe; it very seldom turns -up. Besides theirs is such an ordinary, and such a comprehensible and -natural point of view. Have you always believed what you do now about -such things?”</p> - -<p>“Why, of course. Haven’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Oh dear no. For quite a long time I didn’t. After all, it’s pretty -difficult.... And particularly at my home I think it was a little -difficult—for me, anyhow. I suppose I wanted more of the Catholic -Church standpoint. I didn’t come across that much till Cambridge; then -suddenly I caught on to the point of view, and saw how fine it was.”</p> - -<p>“It’s more than fine,” said Molly. “It’s true.”</p> - -<p>“Rather, of course it is. So are all fine things. If once all these -people who don’t believe saw the fineness of it, they’d see it must be -true. Meanwhile, I don’t see that the fact that one believes one’s -friends to be missing something they might have is any sort of reason -for not being friends. Is it now? Billy might as well say he couldn’t be -friends with<a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a> you because you said you didn’t care about Masefield. You -miss something he’s got; that’s all the difference it makes, in either -case.”</p> - -<p>“Masefield isn’t so important as——” Molly left a shy hiatus.</p> - -<p>“No; of course; but, it’s the same principle.... Well, anyhow you like -them, don’t you?” said Eddy shifting his ground.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, I do. But I expect they think me a duffer. I don’t know -anything about their things, you see. They’re awfully nice to me.”</p> - -<p>“That seems odd, certainly. And they may come and visit us at the -Osiers, mayn’t they?”</p> - -<p>“Of course. And we’ll all have tea on the balcony there. Oh, do let’s -begin turning out the people that live there at once.”</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Jane and Arnold and Billy, walking along the embankment, when -they had discussed the colour of the water, the prospects of the -weather, the number of cats on the wall, and other interesting subjects, -commented on Molly. Jane said, “She’s a little sweetmeat. I love her -yellow eyes and her rough curly hair. She’s like a spaniel puppy we’ve -got at home.”</p> - -<p>Billy said, “She’s quite nice to talk to, too. I like her laugh.”</p> - -<p>Arnold said, maliciously, “She’ll never read your poetry, Billy. She -probably only reads Tennyson’s and Scott’s and the <i>Anthology of -Nineteenth Century Verse</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Billy, placidly, “I’m in that. If<a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a> she knows that, she -knows all the best twentieth century poets. You seem to be rather -acrimonious about her. Hadn’t she read your ‘Latter Day Leavings,’ or -what?”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure I trust not. She’d hate them.... It’s all very well, and I’ve -no doubt she’s a very nice little girl—but what does Eddy want with -marrying her? Or, indeed, anyone else? He’s not old enough to settle -down. And marrying that spaniel-child will mean settling down in a -sense.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t know. She’s got plenty of fun, and can play all right.”</p> - -<p>Arnold shook his head over her. “All the same, she’s on the side of -darkness and the conventions. She mayn’t know it yet, being still half a -child, and in the playing puppy stage, but give her ten years and you’ll -see. She’ll become proper. Even now, she’s not sure we’re quite nice or -very good. I spotted that.... Don’t you remember, Jane, what I said to -you at Welchester about it? With my never-failing perspicacity, I -foresaw the turn events would take, and I foresaw also exactly how she -would affect Eddy. You will no doubt recollect what I said (I hope you -always do); therefore I won’t repeat it now, even for Billy’s sake. But -I may tell you, Billy, that I prophesied the worst. I still prophesy -it.”</p> - -<p>“You’re too frightfully particular to live, Arnold,” Billy told him. -“She’s a very good sort and a very pleasant person. Rather like a brook -in sunlight, I thought her; her eyes are that colour, and her<a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a> hair and -dress are the shadowed parts, and her laugh is like the water chuckling -over a stone. I like her.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, heavens,” Arnold groaned. “Of course you do. You and Jane are -hopeless. You may <i>like</i> brooks in sunlight or puppies or anything else -in the universe—but you don’t want to go and <i>marry</i> them because of -that.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t,” Billy admitted, peacefully. “But many people do. Eddy -obviously is one of them. And I should say it’s quite a good thing for -him to do.”</p> - -<p>“Of course it is,” said Jane, who was more interested at the moment in -the effect of the evening mist on the river.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps they’ll think better of it and break it off before the -wedding-day,” Arnold gloomily suggested. “There’s always that hope.... I -see no place for this thing called love in a reasonable life. It will -smash up Eddy, as it’s smashed up Eileen. I hate the thing.”</p> - -<p>“Eileen’s a little better lately,” said Jane presently. “She’s going to -play at Lovinski’s concert next week.”</p> - -<p>“She’s rather worse really,” said Billy, a singularly clear-sighted -person; and they left it at that.</p> - -<p>Billy was very likely right. At that moment Eileen was lying on the -floor of her room, her head on her flung-out arms, tearless and still, -muttering a name over and over, through clenched teeth. The passage of -time took her further from him, slow<a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a> hour by slow hour; took her out -into cold, lonely seas of pain, to drown uncomforted. She was not rather -better.</p> - -<p>She would spend long mornings or evenings in the fields and lanes by the -Lea, walking or sitting, silent and alone. She never went to the -disorganised, lifeless remnant of Datcherd’s settlement; only she would -travel by the tram up Shoreditch and Mare Street to the north east, and -walk along the narrow path by the Lea-side wharf cottages, little and -old and jumbled, and so over the river on to Leyton Marsh, where sheep -crop the grass. Here she and Datcherd had often walked, after an evening -at the Club, and here she now wandered alone. These regions have a -queer, perhaps morbid, peace; they brood, as it were, on the fringe of -the huge world of London; they divide it, too, from that other stranger, -sadder world beyond the Lea, Walthamstow and its endless drab slums.</p> - -<p>Here, in the November twilight on Leyton Marsh, Eddy found her once. He -himself was bicycling back from Walthamstow, where he had been to see -one of his Club friends (he had made many) who lived there. Eileen was -leaning on a stile at the end of one of the footpaths that thread this -strange borderland. They met face to face; and she looked at him as if -she did not see him, as if she was expecting someone not him. He got off -his bicycle, and said “Eileen.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him dully, and said, “I’m waiting for Hugh.”<a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a></p> - -<p>He gently took her hand. “You’re cold. Come home with me.”</p> - -<p>Her dazed eyes upon his face slowly took perception and meaning, and -with them pain rushed in. She shuddered horribly, and caught away her -hand.</p> - -<p>“Oh ... I was waiting ... but it’s no use ... I suppose I’m going -mad....”</p> - -<p>“No. You’re only tired and unstrung. Come home now, won’t you. Indeed -you mustn’t stay.”</p> - -<p>The mists were white and chilly about them; it was a strange phantom -world, set between the million-eyed monster to the west, and the -smaller, sprawling, infinitely sad monster to the east.</p> - -<p>She flung out her arms to the red-eyed city, and moaned, “Hugh, Hugh, -Hugh,” till she choked and cried.</p> - -<p>Eddy bit his own lips to steady them. “Eileen—dear Eileen—come home. -He’d want you to.”</p> - -<p>She returned, through sobs that rent her. “He wants nothing any more. He -always wanted things, and never got them; and now he’s dead, the way he -can’t even want. But I want him; I want him; I want him—oh, Hugh!”</p> - -<p>So seldom she cried, so strung up and tense had she long been, even to -the verge of mental delusion, that now that a breaking-point had come, -she broke utterly, and cried and cried, and could not stop.</p> - -<p>He stood by her, saying nothing, waiting till he could be of use. At -last from very weariness she quieted, and stood very still, her head -bowed on her arms that were flung across the stile.<a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a></p> - -<p>He said then, “Dear, you will come now, won’t you,” and apathetically -she lifted her head, and her dim, wet, distorted face was strange in the -mist-swathed moonlight.</p> - -<p>Together they took the little path back over the grass-grown marsh, -where phantom sheep coughed in the fog, and so across the foot-bridge to -the London side of the Lea, and the little wharfside cottages, and up on -to the Lea Bridge Road, and into Mare Street, and there, by unusual good -fortune there strayed a taxi, a rare phenomenon north of Shoreditch, and -Eddy put Eileen and himself and his bicycle in it and on it, and so they -came back out of the wilds of the east, by Liverpool Street and the -city, across London to Campden Hill Road in the further west. And all -the way Eileen leant back exhausted and very still, only shuddering from -time to time, as one does after a fit of crying or of sickness. But by -the end of the journey she was a little restored. Listlessly she touched -Eddy’s hand with her cold one.</p> - -<p>“Eddy, you are a dear. You’ve been good to me, and I such a great fool. -I’m sorry. It isn’t often I am.... But I think if you hadn’t come -to-night I would have gone mad, no less. I was on the way there, I -believe. Thank you for saving me. And now you’ll come in and have -something, won’t you.”</p> - -<p>He would not come in. He should before this have been at Mrs. Crawford’s -for dinner. He waited to see her in, then hurried back to Soho to<a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a> -dress. His last sight of her was as she turned to him in the doorway, -the light on her pale, tear-marred face, trying to smile to cheer him. -That was a good sign, he believed, that she could think even momentarily -of anyone but herself and the other who filled her being.</p> - -<p>Heavy-hearted for pity and regret, he drove back to his rooms and -hurriedly dressed, and arrived in Hyde Park Terrace desperately late, a -thing Mrs. Crawford found it hard to forgive. In fact, she did not try -to forgive it. She said, “Oh, we had quite given up hope. Hardwick, some -soup for Mr. Oliver.”</p> - -<p>Eddy said he would rather begin where they had got to. But he was not -allowed thus to evade his position, and had to hurry through four -courses before he caught them up. They were a small party, and he -apologised across the table to his hostess as he ate.</p> - -<p>“I’m frightfully sorry; simply abject. The fact is, I met a friend on -Leyton Marsh.”</p> - -<p>“On <i>what</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Leyton Marsh. Up in the north east, by the Lea, you know.”</p> - -<p>“I certainly don’t know. Is that where you usually take your evening -walks when dining in Kensington?”</p> - -<p>“Well, sometimes. It’s the way to Walthamstow, you see. I know some -people there.”</p> - -<p>“Really. You do, as the rationalist bishop told you, touch a very -extensive circle, certainly. And<a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a> so you met one of them on this marsh, -and the pleasure of their society was such——”</p> - -<p>“She wasn’t well, and I took her back to where she lived. She lives in -Kensington, so it took ages; then I had to get back to Compton Street to -dress. Really, I’m awfully sorry.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Crawford’s eyebrows conveyed attention to the sex of the friend; -then she resumed conversation with the barrister on her right.</p> - -<p>Molly said consolingly, “Don’t you mind, Eddy. She doesn’t really. She -only pretends to, for fun. She knows it wasn’t your fault. Of course you -had to take your friend home if she wasn’t well.”</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t have left her, as a matter of fact. She was frightfully -unhappy and unhinged.... It was Mrs. Le Moine.” He conquered a vague -reluctance and added this. He was not going to have the vestige of a -secret from Molly.</p> - -<p>She flushed quickly and said nothing, and he knew that he had hurt her. -Yet it was an unthinkable alternative to conceal the truth from her; -equally unthinkable not to do these things that hurt her. What then, -would be the solution? Simply he did not know. A change of attitude on -her part seemed to him the only possible one, and he had waited now long -for that in vain. To avert her sombreness and his, he began to talk -cheerfully to her about all manner of things, and she responded, but not -quite spontaneously. A shadow lay between them.<a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a></p> - -<p>So obvious was it that after dinner he told her so, in those words.</p> - -<p>She tried to smile. “Does it? How silly you are.”</p> - -<p>“You’d better tell me the worst, you know. You think it was ill-bred of -me to be late for dinner.”</p> - -<p>“What rubbish; I don’t. As if you could help it.”</p> - -<p>But he knew she thought he could have helped it. So they left it at -that, and the shadow remained.</p> - -<p>Eddy, it may have been mentioned, had the gift of sympathy largely -developed—the quality of his defect of impressionability. He had it -more than is customary. People found that he said and felt the most -consoling thing, and left unsaid the less. It was because he found -realisation easy. So people in trouble often came to him. Eileen Le -Moine, reaching out in her desperate need on the mist-bound marshes, -had, as it were, met the saving grasp of his hand. Half-consciously she -had let it draw her out of the deep waters where she was sinking, on to -the shores of sanity. She reached out to him again. He had cared for -Hugh; he cared for her; he understood how nothing in heaven and earth -now mattered; he did not try to give her interests; he simply gave her -his sorrow and understanding and his admiration of Hugh. So she claimed -it, as a drowning man clutches instinctively at the thing which will -best support him. And as she claimed he gave. He gave of his best. He -tried to make Molly give too, but she would not.<a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a></p> - -<p>There came a day when Bridget Hogan wrote and said that she had to go -out of town for Sunday, and didn’t want to leave Eileen alone in the -flat all day, and would Eddy come and see her there—come to lunch, -perhaps, and stay for the afternoon.</p> - -<p>“You are good for her; better than anyone else, I think,” Bridget wrote. -“She feels she can talk about Hugh to you, though to hardly anyone—not -even to me much. I am anxious about her just now. Please do come if you -can.”</p> - -<p>Eddy, who had been going to lunch and spend the afternoon at the -Crawfords’, made no question about it. He went to Molly and told her how -it was. She listened silently. The room was strange with fog and blurred -lights, and her small grave face was strange and pale too.</p> - -<p>Eddy said, “Molly, I wish you would come too, just this once. She would -love it; she would indeed.... Just this once, Molly, because she’s in -such trouble. Will you?”</p> - -<p>Molly shook her head, and he somehow knew it was because she did not -trust her voice.</p> - -<p>“Well, never mind, then, darling. I’ll go alone.”</p> - -<p>Still she did not speak. After a moment he rose to go. He took her cold -hands in his, and would have kissed her, but she pushed him back, still -wordless. So for a moment they stood, silent and strange and perplexed -in the blurred fog-bound room, hands locked in hands.</p> - -<p>Then Molly spoke, steady-voiced at last.<a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a></p> - -<p>“I want to say something, Eddy. I must, please.”</p> - -<p>“Do, sweetheart.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him, as if puzzled by herself and him and the world, -frowning a little, childishly.</p> - -<p>“We can’t go on, Eddy. I ... I can’t go on.”</p> - -<p>Cold stillness fell over him like a pall. The fog-shadows huddled up -closer round them.</p> - -<p>“What do you mean, Molly?”</p> - -<p>“Just that. I can’t do it.... We mustn’t be engaged any more.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, we must. I must, you must. Molly, don’t talk such ghastly -nonsense. I won’t have it. Those aren’t things to be said between you -and me, even in fun.”</p> - -<p>“It’s not in fun. We mustn’t be engaged any more, because we don’t fit. -Because we make each other unhappy. Because, if we married, it would be -worse. No—listen now; it’s only this once and for all, and I must get -it all out; don’t make it more difficult than it need be, Eddy. It’s -because you have friends I can’t ever have; you care for people I must -always think bad; I shall never fit into your set.... The very fact of -your caring for them and not minding what they’ve done, proves we’re -miles apart really.”</p> - -<p>“We’re not miles apart.” Eddy’s hands on her shoulders drew her to him. -“We’re close together—like this. And all the rest of the world can go -and drown itself. Haven’t we each other, and isn’t it enough?”<a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a></p> - -<p>She pulled away, her two hands against his breast.</p> - -<p>“No, it isn’t enough. Not enough for either of us. Not for me, because I -can’t not mind that you think differently from me about things. And not -for you, because you want—you need to have—all the rest of the world -too. You don’t mean that about its drowning itself. If you did, you -wouldn’t be going to spend Sunday with——”</p> - -<p>“No, I suppose I shouldn’t. You’re right. The rest of the world mustn’t -drown itself, then; but it must stand well away from us and not get in -our way.”</p> - -<p>“And you don’t mean that, either,” said Molly, strangely clear-eyed. -“You’re not made to care only for one person—you need lots. And if we -were married, you’d either have them, or you’d be cramped and unhappy. -And you’d want the people I can’t understand or like. And you’d want me -to like them, and I couldn’t. And we should both be miserable.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Molly, Molly, are we so silly as all that? Just trust life—just -live it—don’t let’s brood over it and map out all its difficulties -beforehand. Just trust it—and trust love—isn’t love good enough for a -pilot?—and we’ll take the plunge together.”</p> - -<p>She still held him away with her pressing hands, and whispered, “No, -love isn’t good enough. Not—not your love for me, Eddy.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Not?</i>”</p> - -<p>“No.” Quite suddenly she weakened and<a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a> collapsed, and her hands fell -from him, and she hid her face in them and the tears came.</p> - -<p>“No—don’t touch me, or I can’t say it. I know you care ... but there -are so many ways of caring. There’s the way you care for me ... and the -way ... the way you’ve always cared for ... her....”</p> - -<p>Eddy stood and looked down at her as she crouched huddled in a chair, -and spoke gently.</p> - -<p>“There <i>are</i> many ways of caring. Perhaps one cares for each of one’s -friends rather differently—I don’t know. But love is different from -them all. And I love you, Molly. I have loved no one else, ever, in that -sense.... I’m not going to pretend I don’t understand you. By ‘her’ I -believe you mean Eileen Le Moine. Now can you look me in the face and -say you think I care for Eileen Le Moine in—in that way? No, of course -you can’t. You know I don’t; what’s more, you know I never did. I have -always admired her, liked her, been fond of her, attracted to her. If -you asked why I have never fallen in love with her, I suppose I should -answer that it was, in the first instance, because she never gave me the -chance. She has always, since I knew her, been so manifestly given over, -heart and soul, to someone else. To fall in love with her would have -been absurd. Love needs just the element of potential reciprocity; at -least, for me it does. There was never that element with Eileen. So I -never—quite—fell in love with her. That perhaps was my reason before I -found I cared<a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a> for you. After that, no reason was needed. I had found -the real thing.... And now you talk of taking it away from me. Molly, -say you don’t mean it; say so at once, please.” She had stopped crying, -and sat huddled in the big chair, with downbent, averted face.</p> - -<p>“But I do mean it, Eddy.” Her voice came small and uncertain through the -fog-choked air. “Truly I do. You see, the things I hate and can’t get -over are just nothing at all to you. We don’t feel the same about right -and wrong.... There’s religion, now. You want me, and you’d want me more -if we were married, to be friends with people who haven’t any, in the -sense I mean, and don’t want any. Well, I can’t. I’ve often told you. I -suppose I’m made that way. So there it is; it wouldn’t be happy a bit, -for either of us.... And then there are the wrong things people do, and -which you don’t mind. Perhaps I’m a prig, but anyhow we’re different, -and I do mind. I shall always mind. And I shouldn’t like to feel I was -getting in the way of your having the friends you liked, and we should -have to go separate ways, and though you could be friends with all my -friends—because you can with everyone—I couldn’t with all yours, and -we should hate it. You want so many more kinds of things and people than -I do; I suppose that’s it.” (Arnold Denison, who had once said, “Her -share of the world is homogeneous; his is heterogeneous,” would perhaps -have been surprised at her discernment, confirming his.)<a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a></p> - -<p>Eddy said, “I want you. Whatever else I want, I want you. If you want -me—if you did want me, as I thought you did—it would be enough. If you -don’t.... But you do, you must, you do.”</p> - -<p>And it was no argument. And she had reason and logic on her side, and he -nothing but the unreasoning reason of love. And so through the dim -afternoon they fought it out, and he came up against a will firmer than -his own, holding both their loves in check, a vision clearer than his -own, seeing life steadily and seeing it whole, till at last the vision -was drowned in tears, and she sobbed to him to go, because she would -talk no more. He went, vanquished and angry, out into the black, muffled -city, and groped his way to Soho, like a man who has been robbed of his -all and is full of bitterness but unbeaten, and means to get it back by -artifice or force.</p> - -<p>He went back next day, and the day after that, hammering desperately on -the shut door of her resolve. The third day she left London and went -home. He only saw Mrs. Crawford, who looked at him speculatively and -with an odd touch of pity, and said, “So it’s all over. Molly seems to -know her own mind. I dislike broken engagements exceedingly; they are so -noticeable, and give so much trouble. One would have thought that in all -the years you have known each other one of you might have discovered -your incompatibility before entering into rash compacts. But dear Molly -only sees a little at a time, and that extremely<a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a> clearly. She tells me -you wouldn’t suit each other. Well, she may be right, and anyhow I -suppose she must be allowed to judge. But I am sorry.”</p> - -<p>She was kind; she hoped he would still come and see them; she talked, -and her voice was far away and irrelevant. He left her. He was like a -man who has been robbed of his all and knows he will never get it back, -by any artifice or any force.</p> - -<p>On Sunday he went to Eileen. It seemed about a month ago that he had -heard from Bridget asking him to do so. He found her listless and -heavy-eyed, and yawning from lack of sleep. Gently he led her to talk, -till Hugh Datcherd seemed to stand alive in the room, caressed by their -allusions. He told her of people who missed him; quoted what working-men -of the Settlement had said of him; discussed his work. She woke from -apathy. It was as if, among a world that, meaning kindness, bade her -forget, this one voice bade her remember, and remembered with her; as -if, among many voices that softened over his name as with pity for -sadness and failure, this one voice rang glorying in his success. Sheer -intuition had told Eddy that that was what she wanted, what she was sick -for—some recognition, some triumph for him whose gifts had seemed to be -broken and wasted, whose life had set in the greyness of unsuccess. As -far as one man could give her what she wanted, he gave it, with both -hands, and so she clung to him out of all the kind, uncomprehending -world.</p> - -<p>They talked far into the grey afternoon. And<a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a> she grew better. She grew -so much better that she said to him suddenly, “You look tired to death, -do you know. What have you been doing to yourself?”</p> - -<p>With the question and her concerned eyes, the need came to him in his -turn for sympathy.</p> - -<p>“I’ve been doing nothing. Molly has. She has broken off our engagement.”</p> - -<p>“Do you say so?” She was startled, sorry, pitiful. She forgot her own -grief. “My dear—and I bothering you with my own things and never seeing -how it was with you! How good you’ve been to me, Eddy. I wonder is there -anyone else in the world would be so patient and so kind. Oh, but I’m -sorry.”</p> - -<p>She asked no questions, and he did not tell her much. But to talk of it -was good for both of them. She tried to give him back some of the -sympathy she had had of him; she was only partly successful, being still -half numbed and bound by her own sorrow; but the effort a little -loosened the bands. And part of him watched their loosening with -interest, as a doctor watches a patient’s first motions of returning -health, while the other part found relief in talking to her. It was a -strange, half selfish, half unselfish afternoon they both had, and a -little light crept in through the fogs that brooded about both of them. -Eileen said as he went, “It’s been dear of you to come like this.... I’m -going to spend next Sunday at Holmbury St. Mary. If you’re doing nothing -else, I wish you’d come there too, and we’ll spend the day tramping.”<a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a></p> - -<p>Her thought was to comfort both of them, and he accepted it gladly. The -thought came to him that there was no one now to mind how he spent his -Sundays. Molly would have minded. She would have thought it odd, not -proper, hardly right. Having lost her partly on this very account, he -threw himself with the more fervour into this mission of help and -healing to another and himself. His loss did not thus seem such utter -waste, the emptiness of the long days not so blank.<a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br /><br /> -<small><i>UNITY</i>.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">T<small>HE</small> office of <i>Unity</i> was a room on the top floor of the Denisons’ -publishing house. It looked out on Fleet Street, opposite Chancery Lane. -Sitting there, Eddy, when not otherwise engaged (he and Arnold were -joint editors of <i>Unity</i>) watched the rushing tide far below, the people -crowding by. There with the tide went the business men, the lawyers, the -newspaper people, who made thought and ensued it, the sellers and the -buyers. Each had his and her own interests, his and her own irons in the -fire. They wanted none of other people’s; often they resented other -people’s. Yet, looked at long enough ahead (one of the editors in his -trite way mused) all interests must be the same in the end. No state, -surely, could thrive, divided into factions, one faction spoiling -another. They must needs have a common aim, find a heterogeneous city of -peace. So <i>Unity</i>, gaily flinging down barriers, cheerily bestriding -walls, with one foot planted in each neighbouring and antagonistic -garden—<i>Unity</i>, so sympathetic with all causes, so ably written, so -versatile, must surely succeed.<a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a></p> - -<p><i>Unity</i> really was rather well written, rather interesting. New -magazines so often are. The co-operative contributors, being clever -people, and fresh-minded, usually found some new, unstaled aspect of the -topics they touched, and gave them life. The paper, except for a few -stories and poems and drawings, was frankly political and social in -trend; it dealt with current questions, not in the least impartially -(which is so dull), but taking alternate and very definite points of -view. Some of these articles were by the staff, others by specialists. -Not afraid to aim high, they endeavoured to get (in a few cases -succeeded, in most failed) articles by prominent supporters and -opponents of the views they handled; as, for example, Lord Hugh Cecil -and Dr. Clifford on Church Disestablishment; Mr. Harold Cox and Sir -William Robertson Nicholl on Referendums, Dr. Cunningham and Mr. -Strachey on Tariff Reform; Mr. Roger Fry and Sir William Richmond on -Art; Lord Robert Cecil and the Sidney Webbs on the Minimum Wage; the -Dean of Welchester and Mr. Hakluyt Egerton on Prayer Book Revision; Mr. -Conrad Noel and Mr. Victor Grayson on Socialism as Synonymous with -Christianity, an Employer, a Factory Hand, and Miss Constance Smith, on -the Inspection of Factories; Mrs. Fawcett and Miss Violet Markham on -Women as Political Creatures; Mr. J. M. Robertson and Monsignor R. H. -Benson on the Church as an Agent for Good; land-owners, farmers, -labourers, and Mr. F. E. Greene, on Land<a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a> Tenure. (The farmers’ and -labourers’ articles were among the failures, and had to be editorially -supplied.) A paper’s reach must exceed its grasp, or what are -enterprising editors for? But <i>Unity</i> did actually grasp some writers of -note, and some of unlettered ardour, and supplied, to fill the gaps in -these, contributors of a certain originality and vividness of outlook. -On the whole it was a readable production, as productions go. There were -several advertisements on the last page; most, of course, were of books -published by the Denisons, but there were also a few books published by -other people, and, one proud week, “Darn No More,” “Why Drop Ink,” and -“Dry Clean Your Dog.” “Dry Clean Your Dog” seemed to the editors -particularly promising; dogs, though led, indeed, by some literary -people about the book-shops of towns, suggest in the main a wider, more -breezy, less bookish class of reader; the advertisement called up a -pleasant picture of <i>Unity</i> being perused in the country, perhaps even -as far away as Weybridge; lying on hall tables along with the <i>Field</i> -and <i>Country Life</i>, while its readers obediently repaired to the kennels -with a dry shampoo.... It was an encouraging picture. For, though any -new journal can get taken in (for a time) by the bookier cliques of -cities, who read and write so much that they do not need to be very -careful, in either case, what it is, how few shall force a difficult -entrance into our fastidious country homes.</p> - -<p>The editors of <i>Unity</i> could not, indeed, persuade themselves that they -had a large circulation in the<a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a> country as yet. Arnold said from the -first, “We never shall have. That is very certain.”</p> - -<p>Eddy said, “Why?” He hoped they would have. It was his hope that <i>Unity</i> -would circulate all round the English-speaking world.</p> - -<p>“Because we don’t stand for anything,” said Arnold, and Eddy returned, -“We stand for everything. We stand for Truth. We are of Use.”</p> - -<p>“We stand for a lot of lies, too,” Arnold pointed out, because he -thought it was lies to say that Tariff Reform and Referendums and -Democracies were good things, and that Everyone should Vote, and that -Plays should be Censored, and the Prayer Book Revised, and lots of other -things. Eddy, who knew that Arnold knew that he for his part thought -these things true, did not trouble to say so again.</p> - -<p>Arnold added, “Not, of course, that standing for lies is any check on -circulation; quite the contrary; but it’s dangerous to mix them up with -the truth; you confuse people’s minds. The fact that I do not approve of -any existing form of government or constitution of society, and that you -approve of all, makes us harmonious collaborators, but hardly gives us, -as an editorial body, enough insight into the mind of the average -potential reader, who as a rule prefers, quite definitely prefers, one -party or one state of things to another; has, in fact, no patience with -any other, and does not in the least wish to be told how admirable it -is. And if he does—if a country squire, for instance, really does want -to<a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a> hear a eulogy of Free Trade—(there may be a few such squires, -possibly, hidden in the home counties; I doubt it, but there may)—well, -there is the <i>Spectator</i> ready to his hand. The <i>Spectator</i>, which has -the incidental advantage of not disgusting him on the next page with ‘A -Word for a Free Drama,’ or ‘Socialism as Synonymous with Christianity.’ -If, on the other hand, as might conceivably happen, he desired to hear -the praises of Tariff Reform—well, there are the <i>Times</i> and the -<i>Morning Post</i>, both organs that he knows and trusts. And if, by any -wild chance, in an undisciplined mood, he craved for an attack on the -censorship, or other insubordinate sentiments, he might find at any rate -a few to go on with in, say, the <i>English Review</i>. Or, if it is -Socialism he wants to hear about (and I never yet met the land-owner, -did you, who hadn’t Socialism on the brain; it’s a class obsession), -there is the <i>New Statesman</i>, so bright, thorough, and reliable. Or, if -he wants to learn the point of view and the grievances of his tenant -farmers or his agricultural labourers, without asking them, he can read -books on ‘The Tyranny of the Countryside,’ or take in the <i>Vineyard</i>. -Anyhow, where does <i>Unity</i> come in? I don’t see it, I’m afraid. It would -be different if we were merely or mainly literary, but we’re frankly -political. To be political without being partisan is savourless, like an -egg without salt. It doesn’t go down. Liberals don’t like, while reading -a paper, to be hit in the eye by long articles headed ‘Toryism as the -only Basis.’<a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a> Unionists don’t care to open at a page inscribed ‘The Need -for Home Rule.’ Socialists object to being confronted by articles on -‘Liberty as an Ideal.’ No one wants to see exploited and held up for -admiration the ideals of others antagonistic to their own. You yourself -wouldn’t read an article—not a long article, anyhow—called ‘Party -Warfare as the Ideal.’ At least you might, because you’re that kind of -lunatic, but few would. That is why we shall not sell well, when people -have got over buying us because we’re new.”</p> - -<p>Eddy merely said, “We’re good. We’re interesting. Look at this drawing -of Jane’s; and this thing of Le Moine’s. They by themselves should sell -us, as mere art and literature. There are lots of people who’ll let us -have any politics we like if we give them things as good as that with -them.”</p> - -<p>But Arnold jeered at the idea of there being enough readers who cared -for good work to make a paper pay. “The majority care for bad, -unfortunately.”</p> - -<p>“Well, anyhow,” said Eddy, “the factory articles are making a stir among -employers. Here’s a letter that came this morning.”</p> - -<p>Arnold read it.</p> - -<p>“He thinks it’s his factory we meant, apparently. Rather annoyed, he -sounds. ‘Does not know if we purpose a series on the same subject’—nor -if so what’s going to get put into it, I suppose. I imagine he suspects -one of his own hands of being the author. It wasn’t, though, was it; it -was a jam man. And<a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a> very temperate in tone it was; most unreasonable of -any employer to cavil at it. The remarks were quite general, too; mainly -to the effect that all factories were unwholesome, and all days too -long; statements that can hardly be disputed even by the proudest -employer. I expect he’s more afraid of what’s coming than of what’s come -already.”</p> - -<p>“Anyhow,” said Eddy, “<i>he’s</i> coming. In about ten minutes, too. Shall I -see him, or you?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you can. What does he want out of us?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose he wants to know who wrote the article, and if we purpose a -series. I shall tell him we do, and that I hope the next number of it -will be an article by him on the Grievances of Employers. We need one, -and it ought to sweeten him. Anyhow it will show him we’ve no prejudice -in the matter. He can say all workers are pampered and all days too -short, if he likes. I should think that would be him coming up now.”</p> - -<p>It was not him, but a sturdy and sweet-faced young man with an article -on the Irrelevance of the Churches to the World’s Moral Needs. The -editors, always positive, never negative, altered the title to the Case -for Secularism. It was to be set next to an article by a Church -Socialist on Christianity the Only Remedy. The sweet-faced young man -objected to this, but was over-ruled. In the middle of the discussion -came the factory owner, and Eddy was left alone to deal with him. After -that as many of the contributors as found it convenient met at<a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a> lunch at -the Town’s End Tavern, as they generally did on Fridays, to discuss the -next week’s work.</p> - -<p>This was at the end of January, when <i>Unity</i> had been running for two -months. The first two months of a weekly paper may be significant, but -are not conclusive. The third month is more so. Mr. Wilfred Denison, who -published <i>Unity</i>, found the third month conclusive enough for him. He -said so. At the Town’s End on a foggy Friday towards the end of -February, Arnold and Eddy announced at lunch that <i>Unity</i> was going to -stop. No one was surprised. Most of these people were journalists, and -used to these catastrophic births and deaths, so radiant or so sad, and -often so abrupt. It is better when they are abrupt. Some die a long and -lingering death, with many recuperations, artificial galvanisations, -desperate recoveries, and relapses. The end is the same in either case; -better that it should come quickly. It was an expected moment in this -case, even to the day, for the contract with the contributors had been -that the paper should run on its preliminary trial trip for three -months, and then consider its position.</p> - -<p>Arnold, speaking for the publishers, announced the result of the -consideration.</p> - -<p>“It’s no good. We’ve got to stop. We’re not increasing. In fact, we’re -dwindling. Now that people’s first interest in a new thing is over, they -don’t buy us enough to pay our way.”</p> - -<p>“The advertisements are waning, certainly,” said someone. “They’re -nearly all books and<a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a> author’s agencies and fountain pens now. That’s a -bad sign.”</p> - -<p>Arnold agreed. “We’re mainly bought now by intellectuals and -non-political people. As a political paper, we can’t grow fat on that; -there aren’t enough of them.... We’ve discussed whether we should change -our aim and become purely literary; but after all, that’s not what we’re -out for, and there are too many of such papers already. We’re -essentially political and practical, and if we’re to succeed as that, -we’ve got to be partisan too, there’s no doubt about it. Numbers of -people have told us they don’t understand our line, and want to know -precisely what we’re driving at politically. We reply we’re driving at a -union of parties, a throwing down of barriers. No one cares for that; -they think it silly, and so do I. So, probably, do most of us; perhaps -all of us except Oliver. Ned Jackson, for instance, was objecting the -other day to my anti-Union article on the Docks strike appearing side by -side with his own remarks of an opposite tendency. He, very naturally, -would like <i>Unity</i> not merely to sing the praise of the Unions, but to -give no space to the other side. I quite understand it; I felt the same -myself. I extremely disliked his article; but the principles of the -paper compelled us to take it. Why, my own father dislikes his essays on -the Monistic Basis to be balanced by Professor Wedgewood’s on Dualism as -a Necessity of Thought. A philosophy, according to him, is either good -or bad, true or false. So, to most people, are<a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a> all systems of thought -and principles of conduct. Very naturally, therefore, they prefer that -the papers they read should eschew evil as well as seeking good. And so, -since one can’t (fortunately) read everything, they read those which -seem to them to do so. I should myself, if I could find one which seemed -to me to do so, only I never have.... Well, I imagine that’s the sort of -reason <i>Unity’s</i> failing; it’s too comprehensive.”</p> - -<p>“It’s too uneven on the literary and artistic side,” suggested a -contributor. “You can’t expect working-men, for instance, who may be -interested in the more practical side of the paper, to read it if it’s -liable to be weighted by Raymond’s verse, or Le Moine’s essays, or Miss -Dawn’s drawings. On the other hand, the clever people are occasionally -shocked by coming on verse and prose suitable for working men. I expect -it’s that; you can’t rely on it; it’s not all of a piece, even on its -literary side, like <i>Tit-Bits</i>, for instance. People like to know what -to expect.”</p> - -<p>Cecil Le Moine said wearily in his high sweet voice, “Considering how -few things do pay, I can’t imagine why any of you ever imagined <i>Unity</i> -would pay. I said from the first ... but no one listened to me; they -never do. It’s not <i>Unity’s</i> fault; it’s the fault of all the other -papers. There are hundreds too many already; millions too many. They -want thinning, like dandelions in a garden, and instead, like -dandelions, they spread like a disease. Something ought to be done about -it. I hate Acts of<a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a> Parliament, but this is really a case for one. It is -surely Mr. McKenna’s business to see to it; but I suppose he is kept too -busy with all these vulgar disturbances. Anyhow, <i>we</i> have done our best -now to stem the tide. There will be one paper less. Perhaps some of the -others will follow our example. Perhaps the <i>Record</i> will. I met a woman -in the train yesterday (between Hammersmith and Turnham Green it was), -and I passed her my copy of <i>Unity</i> to read. I thought she would like to -read my Dramatic Criticism, so it was folded back at that, but she -turned over the pages till she came to something about the Roman -Catholic Church, by some Monsignor; then she handed it back to me and -said she always took the <i>Record</i>. She obviously supposed <i>Unity</i> to be -a Popish organ. I hunted through it for some Dissenting sentiments, and -found an article by a Welsh Calvinistic Methodist on Disestablishment, -but it was too late; she had got out. But there it is, you see; she -always took the <i>Record</i>. They all always take something. There are too -many.... Well, anyhow, can’t we all ask each other to dinner one night, -to wind ourselves up? A sort of funeral feast. Or ought the editors to -ask the rest of us? Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken.”</p> - -<p>“You should not,” Eddy said. “We were going to introduce that subject -later on.”</p> - -<p>The company, having arranged the date of the dinner, and of the final -business meeting, dispersed and got back to their several jobs. No one -minded<a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a> particularly about <i>Unity’s</i> death, except Eddy. They were so -used to that sort of thing, in the world of shifting fortunes in which -writers for papers move.</p> - -<p>But Eddy minded a good deal. For several months he had lived in and for -this paper; he had loved it extraordinarily. He had loved it for itself, -and for what, to him, it stood for. It had been his contribution to the -cause that seemed to him increasingly of enormous importance; -increasingly, as the failure of the world at large to appreciate it -flung him from failure to failure, wrested opportunities one by one out -of his grasp. People wouldn’t realise that they were all one; that, -surely, was the root difficulty of this distressed world. They would -think that one set of beliefs excluded another; they were blind, they -were rigid, they were mad. So they wouldn’t read <i>Unity</i>, surely a good -paper; so <i>Unity</i> must perish for lack of being wanted, poor lonely -waif. Eddy rebelled against the sinking of the little ship he had -launched and loved; it might, it would, had it been given a chance, have -done good work. But its chance was over; he must find some other way.</p> - -<p>To cheer himself up when he left the office at six o’clock, he went -eastward, to see some friends he had in Stepney. But it did not cheer -him up, for they were miserable, and he could not comfort them. He found -a wife alone, waiting for her husband and sons, who were still out at -the docks where they worked, though they ought to have been back an hour -since.<a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a> And they were blacklegs, and had refused to come out with the -strikers. The wife was white, and red-eyed.</p> - -<p>“They watch for them,” she whimpered. “They lay and wait for them, and -set on them, many to one, and do for them. There was someone ’eard a -Union man say he meant to do for my men one day. I begged my man to come -out, or anyhow to let the boys, but he wouldn’t, and he says the Union -men may go to ’ell for ’im. I know what’ll be the end. There was a man -drowned yesterday; they found ’im in the canal, ’is ’ands tied up; ’e -wouldn’t come out, and so they did for ’im, the devils. And it’s just -seven, and they stop at six.”</p> - -<p>“They’ve very likely stopped at the public for a bit on the way home,” -Eddy suggested gently, but she shook her head.</p> - -<p>“They’ve not bin stoppin’ anywhere since the strike began. Them as won’t -come out get no peace at the public.... The Union’s a cruel thing, that -it is, and my man and lads that never do no ’urt to nobody, they’ll lay -and wait for ’em till they can do for ’em.... There’s Mrs. Japhet, in -Jubilee Street; she’s lost her young man; they knocked ’im down and -kicked ’im to death on ’is way ’ome the other day. Of course ’e was a -Jew, too, which made ’im more rightly disliked as it were; but it were -because ’e wouldn’t come out they did it. And there was Mrs. Jim Turner; -they laid for ’er and bashed ’er ’ead in at the corner of Salmon Lane, -to spite Turner. And they’re so sly, the police can’t lay ’ands on -them,<a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a> scarcely ever.... And it’s gone seven, and as dark as ’ats.”</p> - -<p>She opened the door and stood listening and crying. At the end of the -squalid street the trams jangled by along Commercial Road, bringing men -and women home from work.</p> - -<p>“They’ll be all right if they come by tram,” said Eddy.</p> - -<p>“There’s all up Jamaica Street to walk after they get out,” she wailed.</p> - -<p>Eddy went down the street and met them at the corner, a small man and -two big boys, slouching along the dark street, Fred Webb and his sons, -Sid and Perce. He had known them well last year at Datcherd’s club; they -were uncompromising individualists, and liberty was their watchword. -They loathed the Union like poison.</p> - -<p>Fred Webb said that there had been a bit of a row down at the docks, -which had kept them. “There was Ben Tillett speaking, stirring them up -all. They began hustling about a bit—but we got clear. The missus wants -me to come out, but I’m not having any.”</p> - -<p>“Come out with that lot!” Sid added, in a rather unsteady voice. “I’d -see them all damned first. <i>You</i> wouldn’t say we ought to come out, Mr. -Oliver, would you?”</p> - -<p>Eddy said, “Well, not just now, of course. In a general way, I suppose -there’s some sense in it.”</p> - -<p>“Sense!” growled Webb. “Don’t you go talking to my boys like that, sir, -if you please. You’re<a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a> not going to come out, Sid, so you needn’t think -about it. Good night, Mr. Oliver.”</p> - -<p>Eddy, dismissed, went to see another Docks family he knew, and heard how -the strike was being indefinitely dragged out and its success -jeopardised by the blacklegs, who thought only for themselves.</p> - -<p>“I hate a man not to have public spirit. The mean skunks. They’d let all -the rest go to the devil just to get their own few shillings regular -through the bad times.”</p> - -<p>“They’ve a right to judge for themselves, I suppose,” said Eddy, and -added a question as to the powers of the decent men to prevent -intimidation and violence.</p> - -<p>The man looked at him askance.</p> - -<p>“Ain’t no ’timidation or violence, as I know of. ‘Course they say so; -they’ll say anything. Whenever a man gets damaged in a private quarrel -they blame it on the Union chaps now. It’s their opportunity. Pack o’ -liars, they are. ‘Course a man may get hurt in a row sometimes; you -can’t help rows; but that’s six of one and ’alf a dozen of the other, -and it’s usually the blacklegs as begin it. We only picket them, quite -peaceful.... Judge for themselves, did you say? No, dang them; that’s -just what no man’s a right to do. It’s selfish; that’s what it is.... -I’ve no patience with these ’ere individualists.”</p> - -<p>Discovering that Eddy had, he shut up sullenly and suspiciously, and -ceased to regard him as a<a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a> friend, so Eddy left him. On the whole, it -had not been a cheery evening.</p> - -<p>He told Arnold about it when he got home.</p> - -<p>“There’s such a frightful lot to be said on both sides,” he added.</p> - -<p>Arnold said, “There certainly is. A frightful lot. If one goes down to -the Docks any day one may hear a good deal of it being said; only that’s -nearly all on one side, and the wrong side.... I loathe the Unions and -their whole system; it’s revolting, the whole theory of the thing, quite -apart from the bullying and coercion.”</p> - -<p>“I should rather like,” said Eddy, “to go down to the Docks to-morrow -and hear the men speaking. Will you come?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I can’t answer for myself; I may murder someone; but I’ll come if -you’ll take the risk of that.”</p> - -<p>Eddy hadn’t known before that Arnold, the cynical and negligent, felt so -strongly about anything. He was rather interested.</p> - -<p>“You’ve got to <i>have</i> Unions, surely you’d admit that,” he argued. This -began a discussion too familiar in outline to be retailed; the reasons -for Unions and against them are both exceedingly obvious, and may be -imagined as given. It lasted them till late at night.</p> - -<p>They went down to the Docks next day, about six o’clock in the evening.<a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br /><br /> -<small>ARNOLD.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">T<small>HERE</small> was a crowd outside the Docks gates. Some, under the eyes of -vigilant policemen, were picketing the groups of workmen as they came -sullenly, nervously, defiantly, or indifferently out from the Docks. -Others were listening to a young man speaking from a cart. Arnold and -Eddy stopped to listen, too. It was poor stuff; not at all interesting. -But it was adapted to its object and its audience, and punctuated by -vehement applause. At the cheering, Arnold looked disgustedly on the -ground; no doubt he was ashamed of the human race. But Eddy thought, -“The man’s a fool, but he’s got hold of something sound. The man’s a -stupid man, but he’s got brains on his side, and strength, and -organisation; all the forces that make for civilisation. They’re crude, -they’re brutal, they’re revolting, these people, but they do look ahead, -and that’s civilisation.” The Tory-Socialist side of him thus -appreciated, while the Liberal-Individualist side applauded the -blacklegs coming<a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a> up from work. The human side applauded them, too; they -were few among many, plucky men surrounded by murderous bullies, who -would as likely as not track some of them home and bash their heads in -on their own doorsteps, and perhaps their wives’ heads too.</p> - -<p>Eddy caught sight of Fred Webb and his two sons walking in a group, -surrounded by picketters. Suddenly the scene became a nightmare to him, -impossibly dreadful. Somehow he knew that people were going to hurt and -be hurt very soon. He looked at the few police, and wondered at the -helplessness or indifference of the law, that lets such things be, that -is powerless to guard citizens from assault and murder.</p> - -<p>He heard Arnold give a short laugh at his side, and recalled his -attention to what the man on the cart was saying.</p> - -<p>“The poor lunatic can’t even make sense and logic out of his own case,” -Arnold remarked. “I could do it better myself.”</p> - -<p>Eddy listened. It was indeed pathetically stupid, pointless, -sentimental.</p> - -<p>After another minute of it, Arnold said, “Since they’re so ready to -listen, why shouldn’t they listen to me for a change?” and scrambled up -on to a cart full of barrels and stood for a moment looking round. The -speaker went on speaking, but someone cried, “Here’s another chap with -something to say. Let ’im say it, mate; go on, young feller.”<a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a></p> - -<p>Arnold did go on. He had certainly got something to say, and he said it. -For a minute or two the caustic quality of his utterances was missed; -then it was slowly apprehended. Someone groaned, and someone else -shouted, “Chuck it. Pull him down.”</p> - -<p>Arnold had a knack of biting and disagreeable speech, and he was using -it. He was commenting on the weak points in the other man’s speech. But -if he had thought to persuade any, he was disillusioned. Like an -audience of old, they cried out with a loud voice, metaphorically -stopped their ears, and ran at him with one accord. Someone threw a -brick at him. The next moment hands dragged him down and hustled him -away. A voice Eddy recognised as Webb’s cried, “Fair play; let ’im -speak, can’t you. ’E was talking sense, which is more than most here -do.”</p> - -<p>The scuffling and hustling became excited and violent. It was becoming a -free fight. Blacklegs were surrounded threateningly by strikers; the -police drew nearer. Eddy pushed through shoving, angry men to get to -Arnold. They recognised him as Arnold’s companion, and hustled him -about. Arnold was using his fists. Eddy saw him hit a man on the mouth. -Someone kicked Eddy on the shin. He shot out his fist mechanically, and -hit the man in the face, and thought, “I must have hurt him a lot, what -a lot of right he’s got on his side,” before the blow was returned, -cutting his lip open.<a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a></p> - -<p>He saw Arnold disappear, borne down by an angry group; he pushed towards -him, jostling through the men in his way, who were confusedly giving now -before the mounted police. He could not reach Arnold; he lost sight of -where he was; he was carried back by the swaying crowd. He heard a -whimpering boy’s voice behind him, “Mr. Oliver, sir,” and looked round -into young Sid Webb’s sick, frightened face.</p> - -<p>“They’ve downed dad.... And I think they’ve done for him.... They kicked -him on the head.... They’re after me now——”</p> - -<p>Eddy said, “Stick near me,” and the next moment Sid gave an angry -squeal, because someone was twisting his arm back. Eddy turned round and -hit a man under the chin, sending him staggering back under the feet of -a plunging horse. The sight of the trampling hoofs so near the man’s -head turned Eddy sick; he swore and caught at the rein, and dragged the -horse sharply sideways. The policeman riding it brought down his -truncheon violently on his arm, which dropped nerveless and heavy at his -side. Hands caught at his knees from below; he was dragged suddenly to -the ground, and saw, looking up, the bleeding face of the man he had -knocked down close to his own. The next moment the man was up, trampling -him, pushing out of the way of the plunging horse. Eddy struggled to his -knees, tried to get up, and could not. He was beaten down by a writhing -forest of legs and heavy boots. He gave it up, and fell over on his side -into<a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a> the slimy, trodden mud. Everything hurt desperately—other -people’s feet, his own arm, his face, his body. The forest smelt of mud -and human clothes, and suddenly became quite dark.</p> - -<p>Someone was lifting his head, and trying to make him drink brandy. He -opened his eyes and said, moving his cut lips stiffly and painfully, -“Their principles are right, but their methods are rotten.” Someone else -said, “He’s coming round,” and he came.</p> - -<p>He could breathe and see now, for the forest had gone. There were people -still, and gas-lamps, and stars, but all remote. There were policemen, -and he remembered how they had hurt him. It seemed, indeed, that -everyone had hurt him. All their principles were no doubt right; but all -their methods were certainly rotten.</p> - -<p>“I’m going to get up,” he said, and lay still.</p> - -<p>“Where do you live?” asked someone. “Perhaps he’d better be taken to -hospital.”</p> - -<p>Eddy said, “Oh, no. I live somewhere all right. Besides, I’m not hurt,” -but he could not talk well, because his mouth was so swollen. In another -moment he remembered where he did live. “22<span class="smcap">A</span>, Old Compton Street, of -course.” That reminded him of Arnold. Things were coming back to him.</p> - -<p>“Where’s my friend?” he mumbled. “He was knocked down, too.”</p> - -<p>They said, “Don’t you worry about him; he’ll be looked after all right,” -and Eddy sat up and said,<a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a> “I suppose you mean he’s dead,” quietly, and -with conviction.</p> - -<p>Since that was what they did mean, they hushed him and told him not to -worry, and he lay back in the mud and was quiet.<a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br /><br /> -<small>EILEEN.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">E<small>DDY</small> lay for some days in bed, battered and bruised, and slightly -broken. He was not seriously damaged; not irreparably like Arnold; -Arnold, who was beyond piecing together.</p> - -<p>Through the queer, dim, sad days and nights, Eddy’s weakened thoughts -were of Arnold; Arnold the cynical, the sceptical, the supercilious, the -scornful; Arnold, who had believed in nothing, and had yet been murdered -for believing in something, and saying so. Arnold had hated democratic -tyranny, and his hatred had given his words and his blows a force that -had recoiled on himself and killed him. Eddy’s blows on that chaotic, -surprising evening had lacked this energy; his own consciousness of -hating nothing had unnerved him; so he hadn’t died. He had merely been -buffeted about and knocked out of the way like so much rubbish by both -combatant sides in turn. He bore the scars of the strikers’ fists and -boots, and of the heavy truncheon of the law. Both sides had struck him -as an enemy, because he was not whole-heartedly for them. It was, -surely, an<a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a> ironical epitome, a brief summing-up in terms of blows, of -the story of his life. What chaos, what confusion, what unheroic -shipwreck of plans and work and career dogged those who fought under -many colours! One died for believing in something; one didn’t die for -believing in everything; one lived on incoherently, from hand to mouth, -despised of all, accepted of none, fruitful of nothing. For these the -world has no use; the piteous, travailing world that needs all the -helpers, all the workers it can get. The dim shadows of his room through -the long, strange nights seemed to be walls pressing round, pressing in -closer and closer, pushed by the insistent weight of the unredressed -evil without. Here he saw himself lying, shut by the shadow walls into a -little secluded place, allowed to do nothing, because he was no use. The -evil without haunted his nightmares; it must have bitten more deeply -into his active waking moments than he had known. It seemed hideous to -lie and do nothing. And when he wanted to get up at once and go out and -do something to help, they would not let him. He was no use. He never -would be any use.</p> - -<p>More and more it seemed to him clear that the one way to be of use in -this odd world—of the oddity of the world he was becoming increasingly -convinced, comparing it with the many worlds he could more easily have -imagined—the one way, it seemed, to be of use was to take a definite -line and stick to it and reject all others; to be single-minded and -ardent, and exclusive; to be, in brief, a partisan,<a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a> if necessary a -bigot. In procession there moved before him the fine, strong, ardent -people he had known, who had spent themselves for an idea, and for its -inherent negations, and he saw them all as martyrs; Eileen, living on -broken and dead because so utter had been her caring for one person that -no one else was any good; Molly, cutting two lives apart for a -difference of principle; Billy Raymond, Jane Dawn, all the company of -craftsmen and artists, fining words and lines to their utmost, -fastidiously rejecting, laying down insuperable barriers between good -and bad, so that never the twain should meet; priests and all moral -reformers, working against odds for these same barriers in a different -sphere; all workers, all artists, all healers of evil, all makers of -good; even Daphne and Nevill, parted for principles that could not join; -and Arnold, dead for a cause. Only the aimless drifters, the -ineptitudes, content to slope through the world on thoughts, were left -outside the workshop unused.</p> - -<p>In these dark hours of self-disgust, Eddy half thought of becoming a -novelist, that last resource of the spiritually destitute. For novels -are not life, that immeasurably important thing that has to be so -sternly approached; in novels one may take as many points of view as one -likes, all at the same time; instead of working for life, one may sit -and survey it from all angles simultaneously. It is only when one starts -walking on a road that one finds it excludes the other roads. Yes; -probably he<a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a> would end a novelist. An ignoble, perhaps even a fatuous -career; but it is, after all, one way through this queer, shifting chaos -of unanswerable riddles. When solutions are proved unattainable, some -spend themselves and their all on a rough-and-ready shot at truth, on -doing what they can with the little they know; others give it up and -talk about it. It was as a refuge for such as these that the novelist’s -trade was presented to man, we will not speculate from whence or by -whom....</p> - -<p>Breaking into these dark reflections came friends to see him, dropping -in one by one. The first was Professor Denison, the morning after the -accident. A telegram had brought him up from Cambridge, late last night. -Seeing his grey, stricken face, Eddy felt miserably disloyal, to have -come out of it alive. Dr. Denison patted him on the shoulder and said, -“Poor boy, poor boy. It is hard for you,” and it was Eddy who had tears -in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“I took him there,” he muttered; but Dr. Denison took no notice of that.</p> - -<p>Eddy said next, “He spoke so splendidly,” then remembered that Arnold -had spoken on the wrong side, and that that, too, must be bitter to his -father.</p> - -<p>Professor Denison made a queer, hopeless, deprecatory gesture with his -hands.</p> - -<p>“He was murdered by a cruel system,” he said, in his remote, toneless -voice. “Don’t think I blame those ignorant men who did him to death. -What killed him was the system that made those men what they are—the -cruel oppression, the<a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a> economic grinding—what can you expect....” He -broke off, and turned helplessly away, remembering only that he had lost -his son.</p> - -<p>Every day as long as he stayed in London he came into Eddy’s room after -visiting Arnold’s, and sat with him, infinitely gentle, silent, and sad.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Oliver said, “Poor man, one’s too dreadfully sorry for him to -suggest it, but it’s not the best thing for you to have him, dear.”</p> - -<p>The other visitors who came were probably better for Eddy, but Mrs. -Oliver thought he had too many. All his friends seemed to come all day.</p> - -<p>And once Eileen Le Moine came, and that was not as it should be. Mrs. -Oliver, when the message was sent up, turned to Eddy doubtfully; but he -said at once, “Ask her if she’ll come up,” and she had to bear it.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Le Moine came in. Mrs. Oliver slightly touched her hand. For a -moment her look hung startled on the changed, dimmed brilliance she -scarcely recognised. Mrs. Le Moine, whatever her sins, had, it seemed, -been through desperate times since they had parted at Welchester -fourteen months ago. There was an absent look about her, as if she -scarcely took in Eddy’s mother. But for Eddy himself, stretched -shattered on the couch by the fire, her look was pitiful and soft.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Oliver’s eyes wavered from her to Eddy. Being a lady of kind -habits, she usually left Eddy alone with his friends for a little. In -this instance she was doubtful; but Eddy’s eyes, unconsciously<a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a> wistful, -decided her, and she yielded. After all, a three-cornered interview -between them would have been a painful absurdity. If Eddy must have such -friends, he must have them to himself....</p> - -<p>When they were alone, Eileen sat down by him, still a little absent and -thoughtful, though, bending compassionate eyes on him, she said softly, -of him and Arnold, “You poor boys....” Then she was broodingly silent, -and seemed to be casting about how to begin.</p> - -<p>Suddenly she pulled herself together.</p> - -<p>“We’ve not much time, have we? I must be quick. I’ve something I want to -say to you, Eddy.... Do you know Mrs. Crawford came to see me the other -day?”</p> - -<p>Eddy shook his head, languidly, moved only with a faint surprise at Mrs. -Crawford’s unexpectedness.</p> - -<p>Eileen went on, “I just wondered had she told you. But I thought perhaps -not.... I like her, Eddy. She was nice to me. I don’t know why, because -I supposed—but never mind. What she came for was to tell me some -things. Things I think I ought to have guessed for myself. I think I’ve -been very stupid and very selfish, and I complaining to you about my -troubles all this long while, and never thinking how it might be doing -you harm. I ought to have known why Molly broke your engagement.”</p> - -<p>“There were a number of reasons,” said Eddy. “She thought we didn’t -agree about things and couldn’t pull together.”</p> - -<p>Eileen shook her head. “She may have. But<a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a> I think there was only one -reason that mattered very much. She didn’t approve of me, and didn’t -like it that you were my friend. And she was surely right. A man -shouldn’t have friends his wife can’t be friends with too; it spoils it -all. And of course she knew she couldn’t be friends with me; she thinks -me bad. Molly would find it impossible even if it wasn’t wrong, to be -friends with a bad person. So of course she had the engagement ended; -there was no other way.... And you never told me it was that.... You -should have told me, you foolish boy. Instead, you went on seeing me and -being good to me, and letting me talk about my own things, and—and -being just the one comfort I had, (for you have been that; it’s the way -you understand things, I suppose)—and I all the time spoiling your -life. When Mrs. Crawford told me how it was I was angry with you. You -had a right to have told me. And now I’ve come to tell <i>you</i> something. -You’re to go to Molly and mend what’s broken, and tell her you and I -aren’t going to be friends any more. That will be the plain truth. We -are not. Not friends to matter, I mean. We won’t be seeing each other -alone and meeting the way we’ve been doing. If we meet it will be by -chance, and with other people; that won’t hurt.”</p> - -<p>Eddy, red-faced and indignant, said weakly, “It will hurt. It will hurt -me. Haven’t I lost enough friends, then, that I must lose you, too?”</p> - -<p>A queer little smile touched her lips.</p> - -<p>“You have not. Not enough friends yet. Eddy,<a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a> what’s the best thing of -all in this world of good things? Don’t you and I both know it? Isn’t it -love, no less? And isn’t love good enough to pay a price for? And if the -price must be paid in coin you value—in friendship, and in some other -good things—still, isn’t it worth it? Ah, you know, and I know, that it -is!”</p> - -<p>The firelight, flickering across her white face, lit it swiftly to -passion. She, who had paid so heavy a price herself, was saying what she -knew.</p> - -<p>“So you’ll pay it, Eddy. You’ll pay it. You’ll have to pay more than you -know, before you’ve done with love. I wonder will you have to pay your -very soul away? Many people have to do that; pay away their own inmost -selves, the things in them they care for most, their secret dreams. ‘I -have laid my dreams under your feet. Tread softly, because you tread on -my dreams.’... It’s like that so often; and then she—or he—doesn’t -always tread softly; they may tread heavily, the way the dreams break -and die. Still, it’s worth it....”</p> - -<p>She fell into silence, brooding with bent head and locked hands. Then -she roused herself, and said cheerfully, “You may say just what you -like, Eddy, but I’m not going to spoil your life any more. That’s gone -on too long already. If it was only by way of saying thank you, I would -stop it now. For you’ve been a lot of use to me, you know. I don’t think -I could easily tell you how much. I’m not going to try; only I <i>am</i> -going to do what I can to help you patch up your affairs that you’ve -muddled so. So<a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a> you go to Molly directly you get home, and make her -marry you. And you’ll pay the price she asks, and you’ll go on, both of -you, paying it and paying it, more and more of it, as long as you both -live.”</p> - -<p>“She won’t have me,” said Eddy. “No one would have me, I should think. -Why should they? I’m nothing. Everyone else is something; but I’m -nothing. I can do nothing, and be nothing. I am a mere muddle. Why -should Molly, who is straight and simple and direct, marry a muddle?”</p> - -<p>“Because,” said Eileen, “she cares for it. And she’ll probably -straighten it out a bit; that’s what I mean, partly, by the price ... -you’ll have to become straight and simple and direct too, I wouldn’t -wonder, in the end. You may die a Tory country gentleman, no less, -saying, ‘To hell with these Socialist thieves’—no, that’s the horrid -language we use in Ireland alone isn’t it, but I wouldn’t wonder if the -English squires meant the same. Or you might become equally simple and -direct in another direction, and say, ‘Down with the landed tyrants,’ -only Molly wouldn’t like that so well. But it’ll be a wonder if you -don’t, once you’re married to Molly, have to throw overboard a few -creeds, as well as a few people. Anyhow, that’s not your business now. -What you’ve got to do now is to get your health again and go down to -Welchester and talk to Molly the way she’ll see reason.... And now I -must go. Your mother doesn’t care for me to be here, but I had to come -this once; it’s never again, you can tell her that.”<a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a></p> - -<p>Eddy sat up and frowned. “Don’t go on like that, Eileen. I’ve not the -least intention of having my friendships broken for me like this. If -Molly ever marries me—only she won’t—it will be to take my friends; -that is certain.”</p> - -<p>She shook her head and smiled down on him as she rose.</p> - -<p>“You’ll have to let your friends settle whether they want to be taken or -not, Eddy.... Dear, kind, absurd boy, that’s been so good to me, I’m -going now. Goodbye, and get well.”</p> - -<p>Her fingers lightly touched his forehead, and she left him; left him -alone in a world become poor and thin and ordinary, shorn of some -beauty, of certain dreams and laughter and surprises.</p> - -<p>Into it came his mother.</p> - -<p>“Is Mrs. Le Moine gone, then, dear?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said. “She is gone.”</p> - -<p>So flatly he spoke, so apathetically, that she looked at him in anxiety.</p> - -<p>“She has tired you. You have been talking too much. Really, this mustn’t -happen again....”</p> - -<p>He moved restlessly over on to his side.</p> - -<p>“It won’t happen again, mother. Never again.”<a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br /><br /> -<small>CONVERSION.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">O<small>N</small> Midsummer Eve, which was the day before his marriage, Eddy had a -number of his friends to dinner at the Moulin d’Or. It had amused him to -ask a great many, and to select them from many different quarters and -sets, and to watch how they all got on together. For many of them were -not in the habit of meeting one another. The Vicar of St. Gregory’s, for -instance, did not, in the normal course of his days, as a rule come -across Billy Raymond, or Cecil Le Moine, with whom he was conversing -courteously across the table; Bob Traherne, his curate, seldom chatted -affably with Conservative young members of Parliament such as Nevill -Bellairs; Mrs. Crawford had long since irrevocably decided against -social intercourse with Eileen Le Moine, to whom she was talking this -evening as if she was rather pleased to have the opportunity; Bridget -Hogan was wont to avoid militant desirers of votes, but to-night she was -garrulously holding forth to a lady novelist of these habits who -resided<a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a> in a garden city; Eddy’s friend, the young Irish Unionist, was -confronted and probably outraged by Blake Connolly, Eileen’s father, the -Nationalist editor of the <i>Hibernian</i>, a vehement-tongued, hot-tempered, -rather witty person, with deep blue eyes like Eileen’s, and a flexible, -persuasive voice. At the same table with Bob Traherne and Jane Dawn was -a beautiful young man in a soft frilly shirt, an evangelical young man -who at Cambridge had belonged to the C.I.C.C.U., and had preached in the -Market Place. If he had known enough about them, he would have thought -Jane Dawn’s attitude towards religion and life a pity, and Bob -Traherne’s a bad mistake. But on this harmonious occasion they all met -as friends. Even James Peters, sturdy and truthful, forbore to show -Cecil Le Moine that he did not like him. Even Hillier, though it was -pain and grief to him, kept silence from good words, and did not -denounce Eileen Le Moine.</p> - -<p>And Eddy, looking round the room at all of them, thought how well they -all got on for one evening, because they were wanting to, and because -one evening did not matter, and how they would not, many of them, get on -at all, and would not even want to, if they were put to a longer test. -And once again, at this, that he told himself was not the last, -gathering of the heterogeneous crowd of his friends together, he saw how -right they all were, in their different ways and yet at odds. He -remembered how someone had said, “The interesting quarrels of the world<a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a> -are never between truth and falsehood, but between different truths.” -Ah, but must there be quarrels? More and more clearly he had come to see -lately that there must; that through the fighting of extremes something -is beaten out....</p> - -<p>Someone thumped the table for silence, and Billy Raymond was on his -feet, proposing their host’s health and happiness. Billy was rather a -charming speaker, in his unselfconscious, unfluent, amused, quietly -allusive way, that was rather talk than speechifying. After him came -Nevill Bellairs, Eddy’s brother-in-law to be, who said the right things -in his pleasant, cordial, well-bred, young member’s manner. Then they -drank Eddy’s health, and after that Eddy got on to his feet to return -thanks. But all he said was “Thanks very much. It was very nice of all -of you to come. I hope you’ve all enjoyed this evening as much as I -have, and I hope we shall have many more like it in future, after....” -When he paused someone broke in with “He’s a jolly good fellow,” and -they shouted it till the passers by in the Soho streets took it up and -sang and whistled in chorus. That was the answer they unanimously gave -to the hope he had expressed. It was an answer so cheerful and so -friendly that it covered the fact that no one had echoed the hope, or -even admitted it as a possibility. After all, it was an absurd thing to -hope, for one dinner-party never is exactly like another; how should it -be, with so much of life and death between?<a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a></p> - -<p>When the singing and the cheering and the toasting was over, they all -sat on and talked and smoked till late. Eddy talked too. And under his -talking his perceptions were keenly working. The vivid, alive -personalities of all these people, these widely differing men and women, -boys and girls, struck sharply on his consciousness. There were vast -differences between them, yet in nearly all was a certain fine, vigorous -effectiveness, a power of achieving, getting something done. They all -had their weapons, and used them in the battles of the world. They all, -artists and philosophers, journalists and politicians, poets and -priests, workers among the poor, players among the rich, knew what they -would be at, where they thought they were going and how, and what they -were up against. They made their choices; they selected, preferred, -rejected ... hated.... The sharp, hard word brought him up. That was it; -they hated. They all, probably, hated something or other. Even the -tolerant, large-minded Billy, even the gentle Jane, hated what they -considered bad literature, bad art. They not only sought good, but -eschewed evil; if they had not realised the bad, the word “good” would -have been meaningless to them.</p> - -<p>With everyone in the room it was the same. Blake Connolly hated the -Union—that was why he could be the force for Nationalism that he was; -John Macleod, the Ulsterman, hated Nationalists and Papists—that was -why he spoke so well on platforms for the Union; Bob Traherne hated<a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a> -capitalism—that was why he could fight so effectively for the economic -betterment that he believed in; Nevill Bellairs hated Liberalism—that -was why he got in at elections; the vicar of St. Gregory’s hated -disregard of moral laws—that was why he was a potent force for their -observance among his parishioners; Hillier hated agnosticism—that was -why he could tell his people without flinching that they would go to -hell if they didn’t belong to the Church; (he also, Eddy remembered, -hated some writers of plays—and that, no doubt, was why he looked at -Cecil Le Moine as he did;) Cecil Le Moine hated the commonplace and the -stupid—that was why he never lapsed into either in his plays; Mrs. -Crawford hated errors of breeding (such as discordant clothes, -elopements, incendiarism, and other vulgar violence)—that was why her -house was so select; Bridget Hogan hated being bored—that was why she -succeeded in finding life consistently amusing; James Peters hated men -of his own class without collars, men of any class without backbones, as -well as lies, unwholesomeness, and all morbid rot—that was probably why -his short, unsubtle, boyish sermons had a force, a driving-power, that -made them tell, and why the men and boys he worked and played with loved -him.</p> - -<p>And Arnold, who was not there but ought to have been, had hated many -things, and that was why he wasn’t there.</p> - -<p>Yes, they all hated something; they all rejected; all recognised without -shirking the implied negations<a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a> in what they loved. That was how and why -they got things done, these vivid, living people. That was how and why -anyone ever got anything done, in this perplexing, unfinished, -rough-hewn world, with so much to do to it, and for it. An imperfect -world, of course; if it were not, hate and rejections would not be -necessary; a rough and ready, stupid muddle of a world, an incoherent, -astonishing chaos of contradictions—but, after all, the world one has -to live in and work in and fight in, using the weapons ready to hand. If -one does not use them, if one rejects them as too blunt, too rough and -ready, too inaccurate, for one’s fine sense of truth, one is left -weaponless, a non-combatant, a useless drifter from company to company, -cast out of all in turn.... Better than that, surely, is any absurdity -of party and creed, dogma and system. After all, when all is said in -their despite, it is these that do the work.</p> - -<p>Such were Eddy’s broken and detached reflections in the course of this -cheerful evening. The various pieces of counsel offered him by others -were to the same effect. Blake Connolly, who, meeting him to-night for -the first time, had taken a strong fancy to him, said confidentially and -regretfully, “I hear the bride’s a Tory; that’s a pity, now. Don’t let -her have you corrupted. You’ve some fine Liberal sentiments; I used to -read them in that queer paper of yours.” (He ignored the fine Unionist -sentiments he had also read in the queer paper.) “Don’t let them run to -waste. You should go on<a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a> writing; you’ve a gift. Go on writing for the -right things, sticking up for the right side. Be practical; get -something done. As they used to say in the old days:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Take a business tour through Munster,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Shoot a landlord; be of use.’ ”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>“I will try,” said Eddy, modestly. “Though I don’t know that that is -exactly in my line at present ... I’m not sure what I’m going to do, but -I want to get some newspaper work.”</p> - -<p>“That’s right. Write, the way you’ll have public interest stirred up in -the right things. I know you’re of good dispositions from what Eily’s -told me of you. And why you want to go marrying a Tory passes me. But if -you must you must, and I wouldn’t for the world have you upset about it -now at the eleventh hour.”</p> - -<p>Then came Traherne, wanting him to help in a boys’ camp in September and -undertake a night a week with clubs in the winter; and the elegant -C.I.C.C.U. young man wanted him to promise his assistance to a -Prayer-and-Total-Abstinence mission in November; and Nevill Bellairs -wanted to introduce him to-morrow morning before the wedding to the -editor of the <i>Conservative</i>, who had vacancies on his staff. To all -these people who offered him fields for his energies he gave, not the -ready acceptance he would have given of old, but indefinite answers.<a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a></p> - -<p>“I can’t tell you yet. I don’t know. I’m going to think about it.” For -though he still knew that all of them were right, he knew also that he -was going to make a choice, a series of choices, and he didn’t know yet -what in each case he would choose.</p> - -<p>The party broke up at midnight. When the rest had dispersed, Eddy went -home with Billy to Chelsea. He had given up the rooms he had shared with -Arnold in Soho, and was staying with Billy till his marriage. They -walked to Chelsea by way of the Embankment. By the time they got to -Battersea Bridge (Billy lived at the river end of Beaufort Street) the -beginnings of the dawn were paling the river. They stood for a little -and watched it; watched London sprawling east and west in murmuring -sleep, vast and golden-eyed.</p> - -<p>“One must,” speculated Eddy aloud, after a long silence, “be content, -then, to shut one’s eyes to all of it—to all of everything—except one -little piece. One has got to be deaf and blind—a bigot, seeing only one -thing at once. That, it seems, is the only way to get to work in this -extraordinary world. One’s got to turn one’s back on nearly all truth. -One leaves it, I suppose, to the philosophers and artists and poets. -Truth is for them. Truth, Billy, is perhaps for you. But it’s not for -the common person like me. For us it is a choice between truth and life; -they’re not compatible. Well, one’s got to live; that seems certain.... -What do <i>you</i> think?”<a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a></p> - -<p>“I’m not aware,” said Billy, drowsily watching the grey dream-city, “of -the incompatibility you mention.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t suppose you were,” said Eddy. “Your business is to see and -record. You can look at all life at once—all of it you can manage, that -is. My job isn’t to see or talk, but (I am told) to ‘take a business -tour through Munster, shoot a landlord, be of use.’ ... Well, I suppose -truth can look after itself without my help; that’s one comfort. The -synthesis is there all right, even if we all say it isn’t.... After -to-night I am going to talk, not of Truth but of <i>the</i> Truth; my own -particular brand of it.”</p> - -<p>Billy looked sceptical. “And which is your own particular brand?”</p> - -<p>“I’m not sure yet. But I’m going to find out before morning. I must know -before to-morrow. Molly must have a bigot to marry.”</p> - -<p>“I take it your marriage is upsetting your mental balance,” said Billy -tranquilly, with the common sense of the poet. “You’d better go to bed.”</p> - -<p>Eddy laughed. “Upsetting my balance! Well, it reasonably might. What -should, if not marriage? After all, it has its importance. Come in, -Billy, and while you sleep I will decide on my future opinions. It will -be much more exciting than choosing a new suit of clothes, because I’m -going to wear them for always.”</p> - -<p>Billy murmured some poetry as they turned up Beaufort Street.<a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“The brute, untroubled by gifts of soul,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Sees life single and sees it whole.<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Man, the better of brutes by wit,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Sees life double and sees it split.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>“I don’t see,” he added, “that it can matter very much what opinions one -has, if any, about party politics, for instance.”</p> - -<p>Eddy said, “No, you wouldn’t see it, of course, because you’re a poet. -I’m not.”</p> - -<p>“You’d better become one,” said Billy, “if it would solve your -difficulties. It’s very little trouble indeed really, you know. Anyone -can be a poet; in fact, practically all Cambridge people are, except -you; I can’t imagine why you’re not. It’s really rather a refreshing -change; only I should think it often leads people to mistake you for an -Oxford man, which must be rather distressing for you. Now I’m going to -bed. Hadn’t you better, too?”</p> - -<p>But Eddy had something to do before he went to bed. By the grey light -that came through the open window of the sitting-room, he found a pack -of cards, and sat down to decide his opinions. First he wrote a list of -all the societies he belonged to; they filled a sheet of note-paper. -Then he went through them, coupling each two which, he had discovered, -struck the ordinary person as incompatible; then, if he had no -preference for either of the two, he cut. He cut, for instance, between -the League of Young Liberals and the Primrose League. The Young Liberals -had it.<a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a></p> - -<p>“Molly will be a little disappointed in me,” he murmured, and crossed -off the Primrose League from his list. “And I expect it would be -generally thought that I ought to cross off the Tariff Reform League, -too.” He did so, then proceeded to weigh the Young Liberals against all -the Socialist societies he belonged to (such as the Anti-sweating -League, the National Service League, the Eugenics Society, and many -others), for even he could see that these two ways of thought did not go -well together. He might possibly have been a Socialist and a Primrose -Leaguer, but he could not, as the world looks at such things, be a -Socialist and a Liberal. He chose to be a Socialist, believing that that -was the way, at the moment, to get most done.</p> - -<p>“Very good,” he commented, writing it down. “A bigoted Socialist. That -will have the advantage that Traherne will let me help with the clubs. -Now for the Church.”</p> - -<p>The Church question also he decided without recourse to chance. As he -meant to continue to belong to the Church of England, he crossed off -from the list the Free Thought League and the Theosophist Society. It -remained that he should choose between the various Church societies he -belonged to, such as the Church Progress Society (High and Modernist), -the E. C. U. (High and not Modernist), the Liberal Churchmen’s League -(Broad), and the Evangelical Affiance (Low). Of these he selected that -system of thought that seemed to him to go most suitably with the -Socialism he was<a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a> already pledged to; he would be a bigoted High Church -Modernist, and hate Broad Churchmen, Evangelicals, Anglican -Individualists, Ultramontane Romans, Atheists, and (particularly) German -Liberal Protestants.</p> - -<p>“Father will be disappointed in me, I’m afraid,” he reflected.</p> - -<p>Then he weighed the Church Defence Society against the Society for the -Liberation of Religion from State Patronage and Control, found neither -wanting, but concluded that as a Socialist he ought to support the -former, so wrote himself down an enemy of Disestablishment, remarking, -“Father will be better pleased this time.” Then he dealt with the Sunday -Society (for the opening of museums, etc., on that day) as incongruous -with the Lord’s Day Observance Society; the Sunday Society had it. -Turning to the arts, he supposed regretfully that some people would -think it inconsistent to belong both to the League for the Encouragement -and Better Appreciation of Post Impressionism, and to that for the -Maintenance of the Principles of Classical Art; or to the Society for -Encouraging the Realistic School of Modern Verse, and to the Poetry -Society (which does not do this.) Then it struck him that the Factory -Increase League clashed with the Coal Smoke Abatement Society, that the -Back to the Land League was perhaps incompatible with the Society for -the Preservation of Objects of Historic Interest in the Countryside; -that one should not subscribe both to<a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a> the National Arts Collections -Fund, and to the Maintenance of Cordial Trans-Atlantic Relations; to the -Charity Organisation Society, and to the Salvation Army Shelters Fund.</p> - -<p>Many other such discrepancies of thought and ideal he found in himself -and corrected, either by choice or, more often (so equally good did both -alternatives as a rule seem to him to be) by the hand of chance. It was -not till after four o’clock on his wedding morning, when the -midsummer-day sunrise was gilding the river and breaking into the room, -that he stood up, cramped and stiff and weary, but a homogeneous and -consistent whole, ready at last for bigotry to seal him for her own. He -would yield himself unflinchingly to her hand; she should, in the course -of the long years, stamp him utterly into shape. He looked ahead, as he -leant out of the window and breathed in the clear morning air, and saw -his future life outspreading. What a lot he would be able to accomplish, -now that he was going to see one angle only of life and believe in it so -exclusively that he would think it the whole. Already he felt the -approaches of this desirable state. It would approach, he believed, -rapidly, now that he was no longer to be distracted by divergent -interests, torn by opposing claims on his sympathy. He saw himself a -writer for the press (but he really must remember to write no more for -the Conservative press, or the Liberal). He would hate Conservatism, -detest Liberalism; he would believe that Socialists alone were actuated -by their well-known sense of<a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a> political equity and sound economics. In -working, as he meant to do, in Datcherd’s settlement, he would be as -fanatically political as Datcherd himself had been. Molly might slightly -regret this, because of the different tenets of Nevill and the rest of -her family; but she was too sensible really to mind. He saw her and -himself living their happy, and, he hoped, not useless life, in the -little house they had taken in Elm Park Road, Chelsea (they had not -succeeded in ousting the inhabitants of the Osiers). He would be writing -for some paper, and working every evening in the Lea Bridge Settlement, -and Molly would help him there with the girls’ clubs; she was keen on -that sort of thing, and did it well. They would have many friends; the -Bellairs’ relations and connections were numerous, and often military or -naval; and there would be Nevill and his friends, so hard-working, so -useful, so tidy, so well-bred; and their own friends, the friends they -made, the friends they had had before.... It was at this point that the -picture grew a little less vivid and clearly-outlined, and had to be -painted in with great decision. Of course they came into the picture, -Jane and Billy and the rest, and perhaps sometime, when she and Molly -had both changed their minds about it, Eileen; of course they would all -be there, coming in and out and mixing up amicably with the Bellairs -contingent, and pleasing and being pleased by Nevill and his -well-behaved friends, and liking to talk to Molly and she to them. Why -not? Eileen had surely<a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a> been wrong about that; his friendships weren’t, -couldn’t be, part of the price he had to pay for his marriage, or even -for his bigotry. With a determined hand he painted them into the -picture, and produced a surprising, crowded jumble of visitors in the -little house—artists, colonels, journalists, civil servants, poets, -members of Parliament, settlement workers, actors, and clergymen.... He -must remember, of course, that he disliked Conservatism, Atheism, and -Individualism; but that, he thought, need be no barrier between him and -the holders of these unfortunate views. And any surprisingness, any lack -of realism, in the picture he had painted, he was firmly blind to.</p> - -<p>So Molly and he would live and work together; work for the right things, -war against the wrong. He had learnt how to set about working now; -learnt to use the weapons ready to hand, the only weapons provided by -the world for its battles. Using them, he would get accustomed to them; -gradually he would become the Complete Bigot, as to the manner born, -such a power has doing to react on the vision of those who do. Then and -only then, when, for him, many-faced Truth had resolved itself into one, -when he should see but little here below but see that little clear, when -he could say from the heart, “I believe Tariff Reformers, Unionists, -Liberals, Individualists, Roman Catholics, Protestants, Dissenters, -Vegetarians, and all others with whom I disagree, to be absolutely in -the wrong; I believe that I and those who think like<a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a> me possess not -merely truth but <i>the</i> truth”—then, and only then would he be able to -set to work and get something done....</p> - -<p>Who should say it was not worth the price?</p> - -<p>Having completed the task he had set himself, Eddy was now free to -indulge in reflections more suited to a wedding morning. These -reflections were of the happy and absorbing nature customary in a person -in his situation; they may, in fact, be so easily imagined that they -need not here be set down. Having abandoned himself to them for half an -hour, he went to bed, to rest before his laborious life. For let no one -think he can become a bigot without much energy of mind and will. It is -not a road one can slip into unawares, as it were, like the primrose -paths of life—the novelist’s, for example, the poet’s, or the tramp’s. -It needs fibre; a man has to brace himself, set his teeth, shut his -eyes, and plunge with a courageous blindness.</p> - -<p>Five o’clock struck before Eddy went to bed. He hoped to leave it at -seven, in order to start betimes upon so strenuous a career.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="c"><i>Jarrold & Sons, Ltd., Printers, The Empire Press, Norwich.</i></p> - -<p><a name="transcrib" id="transcrib"></a></p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="padding:2%;border:3px dotted gray;"> -<tr><th align="center">Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:</th></tr> -<tr><td align="center">I believe her mother neglected her when he was ill=> I believe her mother neglected her when she was ill {pg 130}</td></tr> -<tr><td align="center">omniverous=> omnivorous {pg 154}</td></tr> -<tr><td align="center">incompatability=> incompatibility {pg 250}</td></tr> -</table> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The making of a bigot, by Rose Macaulay - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAKING OF A BIGOT *** - -***** This file should be named 50953-h.htm or 50953-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/9/5/50953/ - -Produced by Suzanne Shell, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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