1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
8651
8652
8653
8654
8655
8656
8657
8658
8659
8660
8661
8662
8663
8664
8665
8666
8667
8668
8669
8670
8671
8672
8673
8674
8675
8676
8677
8678
8679
8680
8681
8682
8683
8684
8685
8686
8687
8688
8689
8690
8691
8692
8693
8694
8695
8696
8697
8698
8699
8700
8701
8702
8703
8704
8705
8706
8707
8708
8709
8710
8711
8712
8713
8714
8715
8716
8717
8718
8719
8720
8721
8722
8723
8724
8725
8726
8727
8728
8729
8730
8731
8732
8733
8734
8735
8736
8737
8738
8739
8740
8741
8742
8743
8744
8745
8746
8747
8748
8749
8750
8751
8752
8753
8754
8755
8756
8757
8758
8759
8760
8761
8762
8763
8764
8765
8766
8767
8768
8769
8770
8771
8772
8773
8774
8775
8776
8777
8778
8779
8780
8781
8782
8783
8784
8785
8786
8787
8788
8789
8790
8791
8792
8793
8794
8795
8796
8797
8798
8799
8800
8801
8802
8803
8804
8805
8806
8807
8808
8809
8810
8811
8812
8813
8814
8815
8816
8817
8818
8819
8820
8821
8822
8823
8824
8825
8826
8827
8828
8829
8830
8831
8832
8833
8834
8835
8836
8837
8838
8839
8840
8841
8842
8843
8844
8845
8846
8847
8848
8849
8850
8851
8852
8853
8854
8855
8856
8857
8858
8859
8860
8861
8862
8863
8864
8865
8866
8867
8868
8869
8870
8871
8872
8873
8874
8875
8876
8877
8878
8879
8880
8881
8882
8883
8884
8885
8886
8887
8888
8889
8890
8891
8892
8893
8894
8895
8896
8897
8898
8899
8900
8901
8902
8903
8904
8905
8906
8907
8908
8909
8910
8911
8912
8913
8914
8915
8916
8917
8918
8919
8920
8921
8922
8923
8924
8925
8926
8927
8928
8929
8930
8931
8932
8933
8934
8935
8936
8937
8938
8939
8940
8941
8942
8943
8944
8945
8946
8947
8948
8949
8950
8951
8952
8953
8954
8955
8956
8957
8958
8959
8960
8961
8962
8963
8964
8965
8966
8967
8968
8969
8970
8971
8972
8973
8974
8975
8976
8977
8978
8979
8980
8981
8982
8983
8984
8985
8986
8987
8988
8989
8990
8991
8992
8993
8994
8995
8996
8997
8998
8999
9000
9001
9002
9003
9004
9005
9006
9007
9008
9009
9010
9011
9012
9013
9014
9015
9016
9017
9018
9019
9020
9021
9022
9023
9024
9025
9026
9027
9028
9029
9030
9031
9032
9033
9034
9035
9036
9037
9038
9039
9040
9041
9042
9043
9044
9045
9046
9047
9048
9049
9050
9051
9052
9053
9054
9055
9056
9057
9058
9059
9060
9061
9062
9063
9064
9065
9066
9067
9068
9069
9070
9071
9072
9073
9074
9075
9076
9077
9078
9079
9080
9081
9082
9083
9084
9085
9086
9087
9088
9089
9090
9091
9092
9093
9094
9095
9096
9097
9098
9099
9100
9101
9102
9103
9104
9105
9106
9107
9108
9109
9110
9111
9112
9113
9114
9115
9116
9117
9118
9119
9120
9121
9122
9123
9124
9125
9126
9127
9128
9129
9130
9131
9132
9133
9134
9135
9136
9137
9138
9139
9140
9141
9142
9143
9144
9145
9146
9147
9148
9149
9150
9151
9152
9153
9154
9155
9156
9157
9158
9159
9160
9161
9162
9163
9164
9165
9166
9167
9168
9169
9170
9171
9172
9173
9174
9175
9176
9177
9178
9179
9180
9181
9182
9183
9184
9185
9186
9187
9188
9189
9190
9191
9192
9193
9194
9195
9196
9197
9198
9199
9200
9201
9202
9203
9204
9205
9206
9207
9208
9209
9210
9211
9212
9213
9214
9215
9216
9217
9218
9219
9220
9221
9222
9223
9224
9225
9226
9227
9228
9229
9230
9231
9232
9233
9234
9235
9236
9237
9238
9239
9240
9241
9242
9243
9244
9245
9246
9247
9248
9249
9250
9251
9252
9253
9254
9255
9256
9257
9258
9259
9260
9261
9262
9263
9264
9265
9266
9267
9268
9269
9270
9271
9272
9273
9274
9275
9276
9277
9278
9279
9280
9281
9282
9283
9284
9285
9286
9287
9288
9289
9290
9291
9292
9293
9294
9295
9296
9297
9298
9299
9300
9301
9302
9303
9304
9305
9306
9307
9308
9309
9310
9311
9312
9313
9314
9315
9316
9317
9318
9319
9320
9321
9322
9323
9324
9325
9326
9327
9328
9329
9330
9331
9332
9333
9334
9335
9336
9337
9338
9339
9340
9341
9342
9343
9344
9345
9346
9347
9348
9349
9350
9351
9352
|
<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<head>
<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8" />
<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Man on the Other Side, by Ada Barnett</title>
<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" />
<style type="text/css">
body { margin-left: 8%; margin-right: 10%; }
h1 { text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: xx-large; }
h2 { text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: x-large; }
.pageno { right: 1%; font-size: x-small; background-color: inherit; color: silver;
text-indent: 0em; text-align: right; position: absolute;
border: thin solid silver; padding: .1em .2em; font-style: normal;
font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; }
p { text-indent: 0; margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; text-align: justify; }
.fss { font-size: 75%; }
.sc { font-variant: small-caps; }
.small { font-size: small; }
.lg-container-b { text-align: center; }
@media handheld { .lg-container-b { clear: both; } }
.lg-container-l { text-align: left; }
@media handheld { .lg-container-l { clear: both; } }
.lg-container-r { text-align: right; }
@media handheld { .lg-container-r { clear: both; } }
.linegroup { display: inline-block; text-align: left; }
@media handheld { .linegroup { display: block; margin-left: 1.5em; } }
.linegroup .group { margin: 1em auto; }
.linegroup .line { text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em; }
div.linegroup > :first-child { margin-top: 0; }
.linegroup .in2 { padding-left: 4.0em; }
.linegroup .in32 { padding-left: 19.0em; }
.linegroup .in4 { padding-left: 5.0em; }
.ol_1 li {padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em; }
ol.ol_1 {padding-left: 0; margin-left: 2.78%; margin-top: .5em;
margin-bottom: .5em; list-style-type: decimal; }
div.pbb { page-break-before: always; }
hr.pb { border: none; border-bottom: thin solid; margin-bottom: 1em; }
@media handheld { hr.pb { display: none; } }
.chapter { clear: both; page-break-before: always; }
.figcenter { clear: both; max-width: 100%; margin: 2em auto; text-align: center; }
.figcenter img { max-width: 100%; height: auto; }
.id001 { width:10%; }
@media handheld { .id001 { margin-left:45%; width:10%; } }
.ig001 { width:100%; }
.nf-center { text-align: center; }
.nf-center-c0 { text-align: left; margin: 0.5em 0; }
p.drop-capa0_0_6 { text-indent: -0em; }
p.drop-capa0_0_6:first-letter { float: left; margin: 0.100em 0.100em 0em 0em;
font-size: 250%; line-height: 0.6em; text-indent: 0; }
@media handheld {
p.drop-capa0_0_6 { text-indent: 0; }
p.drop-capa0_0_6:first-letter { float: none; margin: 0; font-size: 100%; }
}
.c000 { margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; }
.c001 { page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em; }
.c002 { margin-top: 2em; }
.c003 { margin-top: 4em; }
.c004 { margin-top: 4em; font-size: .9em; }
.c005 { page-break-before:auto; margin-top: 4em; }
.c006 { margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 0.25em; }
.c007 { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: 0.25em; margin-bottom: 0.25em; }
.c008 { margin-top: 1em; font-size: .9em; }
.c009 { margin-top: 2em; font-size: .9em; }
.c010 { font-size: .9em; text-indent: 1em; margin-top: 0.25em;
margin-bottom: 0.25em; }
.c011 { text-indent: 0; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 0.25em; }
.c012 { margin-top: 2em; font-size: .9em; text-indent: 1em; margin-bottom: 0.25em;
}
.c013 { margin-top: 2em; text-indent: 1em; margin-bottom: 0.25em; }
.c014 { border: none; border-bottom: thin solid; margin-top: 0.8em;
margin-bottom: 0.8em; margin-left: 35%; margin-right: 35%; width: 30%; }
.c015 { margin-top: 1em; }
div.tnotes { padding-left:1em;padding-right:1em;background-color:#E3E4FA;
border:1px solid silver; margin:2em 10% 0 10%; font-family: Georgia, serif;
}
.covernote { visibility: hidden; display: none; }
div.tnotes p { text-align:left; }
@media handheld { .covernote { visibility: visible; display: block;} }
.section { clear: both; page-break-before: always; }
.ol_1 li {font-size: .9em; }
@media handheld {.ol_1 li {padding-left: 1em; text-indent: 0em; } }
body {font-family: Georgia, serif; text-align: justify; }
.figcenter {font-size: .9em; }
div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always;
page-break-after: always;font-size: large; }
div.titlepage p {text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold;
line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 3em; }
.ph1 { text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; font-size: xx-large;
margin: .67em auto; page-break-before: always; }
h1.pg { font-size: 190%;
clear: both; }
h2.pg { font-size: 135%;
clear: both; }
h3,h4 { text-align: center;
clear: both; }
hr.full { width: 100%;
margin-top: 3em;
margin-bottom: 0em;
margin-left: auto;
margin-right: auto;
height: 4px;
border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */
border-style: solid;
border-color: #000000;
clear: both; }
</style>
</head>
<body>
<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 60331 ***</div>
<h1 class="pg">The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Man on the Other Side, by Ada Barnett</h1>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10">
<tr>
<td valign="top">
Note:
</td>
<td>
Images of the original pages are available through
the Google Books Library Project. See
<a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=R7QhAAAAMAAJ&hl=en">
https://books.google.com/books?id=R7QhAAAAMAAJ&hl=en</a>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p> </p>
<hr class="full" />
<p> </p>
<div class='titlepage'>
<div>
<h1 class='c001'>THE MAN ON THE OTHER SIDE</h1>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
<div><span class='small'>BY</span></div>
<div>ADA BARNETT</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/title.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>NEW YORK</div>
<div>DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY</div>
<div>1922</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
<div><span class='sc'>Copyright, 1922</span></div>
<div><span class='sc'>By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY. Inc.</span></div>
<div class='c002'>PRINTED IN U. S. A.</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
<div>DEDICATED</div>
<div>TO HIM</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“<em>Oh, I would siege the golden coasts</em></div>
<div class='line in2'><em>Of space, and climb high Heaven’s dome,</em></div>
<div class='line'><em>So I might see those million ghosts</em></div>
<div class='line in2'><em>Come home.</em>”</div>
<div class='line in32'><em>Stella Benson</em></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='CONTENTS' class='c005'>CONTENTS</h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c002'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>CHAPTER <a href='#I'>I</a></div>
<div class='line'>CHAPTER <a href='#II'>II</a></div>
<div class='line'>CHAPTER <a href='#III'>III</a></div>
<div class='line'>CHAPTER <a href='#IV'>IV</a></div>
<div class='line'>CHAPTER <a href='#V'>V</a></div>
<div class='line'>CHAPTER <a href='#VI'>VI</a></div>
<div class='line'>CHAPTER <a href='#VII'>VII</a></div>
<div class='line'>CHAPTER <a href='#VIII'>VIII</a></div>
<div class='line'>CHAPTER <a href='#IX'>IX</a></div>
<div class='line'>CHAPTER <a href='#X'>X</a></div>
<div class='line'>CHAPTER <a href='#XI'>XI</a></div>
<div class='line'>CHAPTER <a href='#XII'>XII</a></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='section ph1'>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
<div>The Man on the Other Side</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span>
<h2 id='I' class='c005'>CHAPTER I</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c006'>Ruth Courthope Seer stood on her
own doorstep and was content. She
looked across the garden and the four-acre
field with the white may hedge boundary. It
was all hers. Her eyes slowly followed the
way of the sun. Another field, lush and green,
sloped to a stream, where, if the agents had
spoken truth, dwelt trout in dim pools beneath
the willows. Field and stream, they too were
hers. Good fields they were, clover thick,
worthy fields for feed for those five Shorthorns,
bought yesterday at Uckfield market.</p>
<p class='c007'>The love of the land, the joy of possession,
the magic of the spring, they swept through her
being like great clean winds. She was over
forty; she had worked hard all her life. Fate
had denied her almost everything—father or
mother, brother or sister, husband or children.
She had never had a home of her own. And
now fate had given her enough money to buy
Thorpe Farm. The gift was immense, still
almost unbelievable.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_2'>2</span>“You perfectly exquisite, delicious, duck of
a place,” she said, and kissed her hand to it.</p>
<p class='c007'>The house stood high, and she could see on
the one hand the dust-white road winding for
the whole mile to Mentmore station; on the
other, green fields and good brown earth, woodland,
valley, and hill, stretching to the wide
spaces of the downs, beyond which lay the sea.
In 1919, the year of the Great Peace, spring
had come late, but in added and surpassing
beauty. The great yearly miracle of creation
was at its height, and behold, it was very good.</p>
<p class='c007'>In front of her sat Sarah and Selina. The
day’s work was over. They had watched seeds
planted and seeds watered. They had assisted
at the staking of sweet-peas and the two-hourly
feeding of small chicken. Now they demanded,
as their habit was, in short sharp barks of a
distinctly irritating nature, that they should be
taken for a walk.</p>
<p class='c007'>Sarah and Selina were the sole extravagance
of Ruth’s forty years of life. They had been
unwanted in a hard world. Aberdeens were
out of fashion, and their sex, like Ruth’s own
in the struggle for existence, had been against
them. So bare pennies which Ruth could ill
afford had gone to the keep of Sarah and
Selina, and in return they loved her as only a
dog can love.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span>Sarah was a rather large lady, usually of
admirable manners and behaviour. Only once
had she seriously fallen from grace, and, to
Ruth’s horror, had presented her with five black
and white puppies of a description unknown
before in heaven or earth. Moreover, she was
quite absurdly pleased with herself, and Selina
was, equally absurdly, quite unbearably jealous.</p>
<p class='c007'>Selina had never been a lady, either in manners
or behaviour. She was younger and
smaller than Sarah, and of infinite wickedness
both in design and execution.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth looked at them as they sat side by side
before her.</p>
<p class='c007'>“To the stile and back,” she said, “and you
may have ten minutes’ hunt in the wood.”</p>
<p class='c007'>The pathway to the stile led through a field
of buttercups, the stile into the station road.
That field puzzled Ruth. It was radiantly
beautiful, but it was bad farming. Also it was
the only bit of bad farming on the whole place.
Every other inch of ground was utilized to the
best advantage, cultivated up to the hilt, well-fed,
infinitely cared for.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth was not curious, and had asked no questions
concerning the late owner of Thorpe, nor
was any one of this time left on the farm. The
war had swept them away. But after two
months’ possession of the place, she had begun
<span class='pageno' id='Page_4'>4</span>to realize the extraordinary amount of love and
care that had been bestowed on it by some one.
In a subtle way the late owner had materialized
for her. She had begun to wonder why he had
done this or that. Once or twice she had caught
herself wishing she could ask his advice over
some possible improvement.</p>
<p class='c007'>So she looked at the buttercups and wondered,
and by the stile she noticed a hole in the hedge
on the left-hand side, and wondered again. It
was the only hole she had found in those well-kept
hedges.</p>
<p class='c007'>She sat on the stile and sniffed the spring
scents luxuriously, while Sarah and Selina had
their hunt. The may, and the wild geranium,
and the clover. Heavens, how good it all was!
The white road wandered down the hill, but
no one came. She had the whole beautiful
world to herself. And then a small streak came
moving slowly along the centre of the road.
Presently it resolved itself into a dog. Tired,
sore-footed, by the way it ran, covered with dust,
but running steadily. A dog with a purpose.
Sarah and Selina, scenting another of their
kind, emerged hot foot and giving tongue from
the centre of the wood. The dog—Ruth could
see now it was a Gordon Setter in haste about
his business—slipped through the hole in the
hedge, and went, trotting wearily but without
<span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>pause, across the buttercup field towards the
house. To Ruth’s amazement, Sarah and
Selina made no attempt to follow. Instead they
sat down side by side in front of her and proceeded
to explain.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth looked at the hole, wondering. “He
must have belonged here once, of course,” she
said, “I wonder how far he has come, the poor
dear.” She hurried up the slope, and reached
the house in time to hear Miss McCox’s piercing
wail rend the air from the kitchen.</p>
<p class='c007'>“And into every room has he been like
greased lightning before I could hinder, and
covered with dust and dirt, and me that have
enough to do to keep things clean as it is, with
those two dirty beasts that Mistress Seer sets
such store by. But it’s encouraging such things
she is, caring for the brutes that perish
more than for Christian men and women with
mortal souls——”</p>
<p class='c007'>Red of face, shrewish of tongue, but most
excellent as a cook, Miss McCox paused for
breath.</p>
<p class='c007'>“She do be wonderful set on animals,” said
the slow Sussex voice of the cowman. He settled
his folded arms on the kitchen window-sill.
A chat about the new mistress of Thorpe
never failed in interest. “But ’tis all right so
long as we understand one another.”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>Ruth passed his broad back, politely blind to
Miss McCox’s facial efforts to inform him of
her appearance in the background.</p>
<p class='c007'>The dog was now coming up the garden path
between apple-trees still thickest with blossom.
A drooping dejected dog, a dog sick at heart
with disappointment, a dog who could not understand.
A dusty forlorn thing wholly out of
keeping with the jubilant spring world.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth called to him, and he came, politely and
patiently.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh, my dear,” she said. “You have come
to look for some one and he is not here, and I
cannot help you.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She did what she could. Fetched some water,
which he drank eagerly, and food, which he
would not look at. She bathed his sore feet
and brushed the dust from his silky black and
tan coat, until he stood revealed as a singularly
beautiful dog. So beautiful that even Miss
McCox expressed unwilling admiration.</p>
<p class='c007'>Sarah and Selina behaved with the utmost
decorum. This was unusual when a stranger
entered their domain. Ruth wondered while
she brushed. It seemed they acknowledged
some greater right. Perhaps he had belonged
to the man who had so loved and cared for
Thorpe before she came. And he had left
all—and the dog.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>Presently the dog lay down in a chosen place
from which he could command a view of both
the front drive and the road from the station.
He lay with his nose between his paws and
watched.</p>
<p class='c007'>After supper Ruth Seer went and sat with
him. The stars looked down with clear bright
eyes. The night wind brought the scent of a
thousand flowers. An immense peace and
beauty filled the heavens. Yet, as she sat, she
fancied she heard again the low monotonous
boom from the Channel to which people had
grown so accustomed through the long war
years. She knew it could not really be; it was
just fancy. But suddenly her eyes were full of
tears. She had lost no one out there—she had
no one to lose. But she was an English woman.
They were all her men. And there were so
many white roads, from as many stations.</p>
<p class='c007'>The next morning the stranger dog had vanished,
after, so Miss McCox reported bitterly
at 6 <span class='fss'>A. M.</span>, a night spent on the spare-room
bed. It was a perfect wonder of a morning.
Even on that first morning when the stars
sang together it could not have been more wonderful,
thought Ruth Seer, looking, as she never
tired of looking, at the farm that was hers.
The five Shorthorns chewed the cud in the four-acre
field. The verdict of Miss McCox, the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>cowman and the boy, upon them was favourable.
To-morrow morning Ruth would have
her first lesson in milking. The Berkshire sow,
bought also at Uckfield market, had produced
during the night, somewhat unexpectedly, but
very successfully, thirteen small black pigs,
shining like satin and wholly delectable.</p>
<p class='c007'>The only blot on the perfection of the day
was the behaviour of Selina. At 11 <span class='fss'>A. M.</span> she
was detected by Miss McCox, in full pursuit of
the last hatched brood of chicken. Caught,
or to be fair to Selina, cornered, by the entire
staff, at 11.30, she was well and handsomely
whipped, and crept, an apparently chastened
dog, into the shelter of the house. There, however,
so soon as the clang of the big bell proclaimed
the busy dinner hour, she had proceeded
to the room sacred to the slumbers of
Miss McCox and, undisturbed, had diligently
made a hole in the pillow on which Miss McCox’s
head nightly reposed, extracting therefrom the
feathers of many chickens. These she spread
lavishly, and without favouritism, over the surface
of the entire carpet, and, well content,
withdrew silently and discreetly from the precincts
of Thorpe Farm.</p>
<p class='c007'>At tea time she was still missing, and Sarah
alone, stiff with conscious rectitude, sat in front
of Ruth and ate a double portion of cake and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>bread-and-butter. Visions of rabbit holes, steel
traps, of angry gamekeepers with guns, had
begun to form in Ruth’s mind. Her well-earned
appetite for tea vanished. Full forgiveness
and an undeservedly warm welcome awaited
Selina whenever she might choose to put in an
appearance.</p>
<p class='c007'>Even Miss McCox, when she cleared away
the tea, withdrew the notice given in the heat
of discovery, and suggested that Selina might
be hunting along the stream. She had seen the
strange dog down there no longer than an hour
ago.</p>
<p class='c007'>It seemed to Ruth a hopeful suggestion. Also
she loved to wander by the stream. In all her
dreams of a domain of her own always there
had been running water. And now that too
was hers. One of the slow Sussex streams moving
steadily and very quietly between flowered
banks, under overhanging branches. So quietly
that you did not at first realize its strength. So
quietly that you did not at first hear its song.</p>
<p class='c007'>It was that strange and wonderful hour which
comes before sunset after a cloudless day of
May sunshine, when it is as if the world had
laughed, rejoiced, and sung itself to rest in
the everlasting arms. There is a sudden hush,
a peace falls, a strange silence—if you listen.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth ceased to worry about Selina. She
<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>drifted along the path down the stream, and
love of the whole world folded her in a great
content. A sense of oneness with all that moved
and breathed, with the little brethren in hole and
hedge, with the flowers’ lavish gift of scent and
colour, with the warmth of the sun, a oneness
that fused her being with theirs as into one
perfect flame. Dear God, how good it all was,
how wonderful! The marshy ground where the
kingcups and the lady smocks were just now
in all their gold and silver glory, the wild
cherry, lover of water, still in this late season
blossoming among its leaves, the pool where
the kingfishers lived among the willows and
river palms.</p>
<p class='c007'>And, dreaming, she came to a greensward
place where lay the stranger dog. A dog well
content, who waved a lazy tail as she came.
His nose between his paws, he watched no
longer a lonely road. He watched a man. A
man in a brown suit who lay full length on the
grass. Ruth could not see his face, only the
back of a curly head propped by a lean brown
hand; and he too was watching something. His
absolute stillness made Ruth draw her breath
and remain motionless where she stood. No
proprietor’s fury against trespassers touched
her. Perhaps because she had walked so long
on the highway, looking over walls and barred
<span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>gateways at other people’s preserves. She
crept very softly forward so that she too could
see what so engrossed him. A pair of kingfishers
teaching their brood to fly.</p>
<p class='c007'>Two had already made the great adventure
and sat side by side on a branch stretching
across the pool. Even as Ruth looked, surrounded
by a flashing escort, the third joined
them, and there sat all three, very close together
for courage, and distinctly puffed with
pride.</p>
<p class='c007'>The parent birds with even greater pride
skimmed the surface of the stream, wheeled
and came back, like radiant jewels in the sunlight.
Ruth watched entranced. Hardly she
dared to breathe. All was very still.</p>
<p class='c007'>And then suddenly the scream of a motor
siren cleft the silence like a sword. Ruth
started and turned round. When she looked
again all were gone. Man, dog and birds.
Wiped out as it were in a moment. The birds’
swift flight, even the dog’s, was natural enough,
but how had the slower-moving human being
so swiftly vanished? Ruth looked and, puzzled,
looked again, but the man had disappeared
as completely as the kingfishers. Then she
caught sight of the dog. Saw him run across
the only visible corner of the lower field, and
disappear in the direction of the front gate.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>Towards the front gate also sped a small two-seated
car, down the long hill from the main
road which led to the pleasant town of Fairbridge.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth felt suddenly caught up in some sequence
of events outside her consciousness.
Something, she knew not what, filled her also
with a desire to reach the front gate. She ran
across the plank which bridged the stream at
that point, and, taking a short cut, arrived
simultaneously with the car and the dog. And
lo and behold! beside the driver, very stiff and
proud, sat Selina; the strange dog had hurled
himself into the driver’s arms, while, mysteriously
sprung from somewhere, Sarah whirled
round the entire group, barking furiously.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth laughed. The events were moving with
extraordinary rapidity.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Larry will have already explained my
sudden appearance,” said the driver, looking
at her with a pair of humorous tired eyes over
the top of the dog’s head.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh, is his name Larry?” gasped Ruth,
breathless from Selina’s sudden arrival in her
arms after a scramble over the man and a takeoff
from the side of the car; “I did so want to
know. Be quiet, Selina; you are a bad dog.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I must explain,” said the driver gravely,
“that I have not kidnapped Selina. We
<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>stopped to water the car at Mentmore, and she
got in and refused to get out. She seemed
to know what she wanted, so I brought her
along.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I am ever so grateful,” said Ruth; “she has
been missing since twelve o’clock, and I have
been really worried.”</p>
<p class='c007'>He nodded sympathetically.</p>
<p class='c007'>“One never knows, does one? Larry, you
rascal, let me get out. I have been worried
about Larry too. I only came home two hours
ago and found he had been missing since yesterday
morning. May I introduce myself? My
name is Roger North.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh!” exclaimed Ruth, involuntarily.</p>
<p class='c007'>It was a name world-famous in science and
literature.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes, <em>the</em> Roger North! It is quite all right.
People always say ‘Oh,’ like that when I introduce
myself. And you are the new owner of
Thorpe.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I am that enormously lucky person,” said
Ruth. “Do come in, won’t you? And won’t
you have some tea—or something? That
sounds rather vague, but I haven’t a notion as
to time.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Capital! Is that a usual habit of yours, or
only this once?” asked this somewhat strange
person who was <em>the</em> Roger North. “I don’t
<span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>know if you’ve noticed it, but most people seem
to spend their days wondering what time it
is! And I can drink tea at any moment, thanks
very much. Take care of the car, Larry.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Larry jumped on the seat, stretched himself
at full length and became a dog of stone.</p>
<p class='c007'>“The car belonged to his master,” explained
Roger North, as they went up the garden path.
“Larry and the car both came to me when he
went to France, and though the old dog has
often run over here and had a hunt round,
this is the first time he has not come straight
back to me.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“He arrived here about six o’clock last evening,”
said Ruth. “He hunted everywhere, as
you say, and then lay down and watched.
I gather he spent the night in the spare room,
but this morning he had disappeared, and I
only found him again half an hour ago down
by the stream. Quite happy apparently with
a man. I don’t know who the man is. He
was lying by the stream watching some kingfishers,
and then your car startled us all, and
I can’t think where he disappeared to.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North shook his head.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I don’t know who it could have been. All
the men Larry knew here left long ago, and he
doesn’t make friends readily.”</p>
<p class='c007'>The path to the house was a real cottage-garden
<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>path, bordered thickly with old-fashioned
flowers, flowers which must have grown
undisturbed for many a long year, only thinned
out, or added to, with the forethought born of
love. Memories thronged North’s mind as he
looked. He wondered what demon had induced
him to come in, to accept tea. It was unlike
him. But to his relief the new owner of
Thorpe made no attempt at small talk. Indeed,
she left his side, and gathered a bunch of the
pinks, whose fragrance went up like evening
incense to Heaven, leaving him to walk alone.</p>
<p class='c007'>For Ruth Seer sensed the shadow of a great
grief. It fell like a chill across the sunlight.
A sense of pity filled her. Fearing the tongue
of Miss McCox, which ceased not nor spared,
she fetched the tea herself, out on to the red-bricked
pathway, facing south, and proudly
called the terrace.</p>
<p class='c007'>Sarah and Selina had somehow crowded into
the visitor’s chair and fought for the largest
space.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I won’t apologize,” said Ruth. “That
means you are a real dog lover.”</p>
<p class='c007'>He laughed. “My wife says because they
cannot answer me! How did the little ladies
take Larry’s intrusion?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“They seemed to know he had the greater
right.”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>North dropped a light kiss on each black head.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Bless you!” he said.</p>
<p class='c007'>He drank his tea and fed the dogs shamelessly,
for the most part in silence, and Ruth
watched him in the comfortable certainty that
he was quite oblivious of her scrutiny. He interested
her, this man of a world-wide fame,
not because of that fame, but because her instinct
told her that between him and the late
owner of Thorpe there had been a great love.
When she no longer met the glance of the humorous,
tired eyes, and the pleasant voice, talking
lightly, was silent, she could see the weary
soul of the man in his face. A tragic face,
tragic because it was both powerful and hopeless.
He turned to her presently and asked,
“May I light a pipe, and have a mouch round?”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth nodded. She felt a sense of comradeship
already between them.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You will find me here when you come back,”
she said. “This is my hour for the newspaper.”</p>
<p class='c007'>But though she unfolded it and spread it out,
crumpling its pages in the effort, after the fashion
of women, she was not reading of “The Railway
Deadlock,” of “The Victory March of
the Guards,” or of “The 1,000–Mile Flight by
British Airship,” all spread temptingly before
her; she was thinking of the man who had
<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>owned Thorpe Farm, the man whom Larry and
Roger North had loved, the man who lived for
her, who had never known him, in the woods
and fields that had been his.</p>
<p class='c007'>The first evening shadows began to fall
softly; a flight of rooks cawed home across the
sky. The sounds of waking life about the farm
died out one by one.</p>
<p class='c007'>Presently Roger North came back and sat
down again, pulling hard at his pipe. His
strong dark face was full of shadows too.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I am glad you have this place,” he said
abruptly. “He would have been glad too.”</p>
<p class='c007'>And suddenly emboldened, Ruth asked the
question that had been trembling on her lips
ever since he had come.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Will you tell me something about him?”
she said. “Lately I have so wanted to know.
It isn’t idle curiosity. I would not dare to ask
you if it were. And it would be only some one
who cared that can tell me what I want to know.
Because—I don’t quite know how to explain—but
I seem to have got into touch, as it were,
with the mind of the man who made and loved
this place. At first it was only that I kept
wondering why he had done this or that, if he
would approve of what I was doing. But lately
I have—oh, how can I explain it?—I have a
sense of awareness of him. I <em>know</em> in some
<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>sort of odd way, what he would do if he were
still here. And when I have carried a thing
out, made some change or improvement, I know
if he is pleased. Of course I expect it sounds
quite mad to you. It isn’t even as if I had
known him——”</p>
<p class='c007'>She looked at North apologetically.</p>
<p class='c007'>“My dear lady,” said North gently, “it is
quite easily explained. You love the place very
much, that is easily seen, and you realized at
once that the previous owner had loved it too.
There was evidences of that on every hand.
And it was quite natural when you were making
improvements to wonder what he would
have done. It only wants a little imagination
to carry that to feeling that he was pleased
when your improvements were a success.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth smiled.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes, I know. It sounds very natural as
you put it. But, Mr. North, it is more than
that. How shall I explain it? My mind is in
touch somehow with another mind. It is like
a conscious and quiet effortless telepathy.
Thoughts, feelings, they pass between us without
any words being necessary. It is another
mind than mine which thinks, ‘It will be better
to put that field down in lucerne this year,’
when I had been thinking of oats. But I catch
the thought, and might not he catch mine?
<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>In the same way I feel when he is pleased;
that is the most certain of all.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Roger North shook his head.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Such telepathy might be possible if he were
alive,” he said. “We have much to learn on
those lines. But there was no doubt as to his
fate. He was killed instantaneously at Albert.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“You do not think any communication possible
after death?”</p>
<p class='c007'>There was a pause before North answered.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Science has no evidence of it.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I could not help wondering,” said Ruth
diffidently, and feeling as it were for her words,
“whether this method by which what he thinks
or wishes about Thorpe seems to come to me
might not possibly be the method used for communication
on some other plane in the place of
speech. Words are by no means a very good
medium for expressing our thoughts, do you
think?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Very inadequate indeed,” agreed North.
He got up as he spoke, and passed behind her,
ostensibly to knock the ashes out of his pipe
against the window-sill. When he came back
to his chair he did not continue the line of conversation.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You asked me to tell you something of my
friend, Dick Carey,” he said as he sat down.
“And at any rate what you have told me gives
<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>you, I feel, the right to ask. There isn’t much
to tell. We were at school and college together.
Charterhouse and Trinity. And we knocked
about the world a good bit together till I married.
Then he took Thorpe and settled down
to farming. He loved the place, as you have
discovered. And he loved all beasts and birds.
A wonderful chap with horses, clever too on
other lines, which isn’t always the case. A
great reader and a bit of a musician. He went
to France with Kitchener’s first hundred thousand,
and he lived through two years of that
hell. He wasn’t decorated, or mentioned in
dispatches, but I saw the men he commanded,
and cared for, and fought with. They knew.
They knew what one of them called ‘the splendid
best’ of him. Oh well! I suppose he was
like many another we lost out there, but for me,
when he died, it was as if a light had gone out
and all the world was a darker place.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Thank you,” said Ruth quite simply, yet
the words said much.</p>
<p class='c007'>There was a little pause, then he added:</p>
<p class='c007'>“He became engaged to my daughter just
before he was killed.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Ah!” The little exclamation held a world
of pain and pity.</p>
<p class='c007'>He felt glad she did not add the usual “poor
thing,” and possibly that was why he volunteered
<span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>further. “She has married since, but I
doubt if she has got over it.”</p>
<p class='c007'>It was some time before either spoke again.
Then Ruth said, almost shyly, “There is just
one thing more. The buttercup field? I can’t
quite understand it. It is bad farming, that
field. The only bit of bad farming on the
place.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“You did not guess?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“No.” Ruth looked at him, her head a little
on one side, her brow drawn, puzzled.</p>
<p class='c007'>“He kept it for its beauty,” said North. “It
is a wonderful bit of colour you know, that
sheeted gold,” he added almost apologetically,
when for a moment Ruth did not answer.</p>
<p class='c007'>But she was mentally kicking herself.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Of course!” she exclaimed. “How utterly
stupid of me. I ought to have understood.
How utterly and completely stupid of me. I
have never thought of what he would wish from
that point of view. I have been simply trying
to farm well. And I love that field for its beauty
too. Look at it in the western sunlight against
the may hedge.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“It was the same with the may hedges,” said
North. “A fellow who came here to buy pigs
said they ought to be grubbed up, they were
waste of land. He wanted railings. He
thought old Dick mad when he said he got his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>value out of them to look at, and good value
too.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I didn’t know about the hedges wasting
land,” said Ruth. “But I might have grubbed
up the buttercups.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She looked so genuinely distressed that North
laughed.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Don’t let this idea of yours get on your
nerves,” he said kindly. “Believe me it is
really only what I said, and don’t worry about
it. I am glad though that you love the place
so much. It would have hurt to have it spoilt
or neglected, or with some one living here who—jarred.
Indeed, to own the truth, I have been
afraid to come here; I could not face it. But
now”—he paused, then ended the sentence
deliberately—“I am glad.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Thank you,” she said again, in that quiet
simple way of hers, and for a while they sat on
in silence. The warmth was still great, the
stillness perfect, save for the occasional sleepy
twitter of a bird in its nest.</p>
<p class='c007'>Never since Dick Carey had been killed had
he felt so at rest. The burden of pain seemed
to drop away. The bitterness and resentment
faded. He felt as so often in the old days, when
he had come from some worry or fret or care
in the outer world or in his own home, to the
peace of the farm, to Dick’s smile, to Dick’s
<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>understanding. Almost it seemed that he was
not dead, had never gone away. And he
thought of his friend, for the first time since that
telegram had come, without an anguish of pain
or longing, thought of him as he used to, when
the morrow, or the next week at least, meant
the clasp of his hand, his “Hullo, old Roger,”
and the content which belongs to the mere presence
only of some one or two people alone in
our journey through life.</p>
<p class='c007'>He wisely made no attempt to analyse the
why and wherefore. He remembered with
thankfulness that he had left word at home that
he might be late, and just sat on and on while
peace and healing came dropping down like dew.</p>
<p class='c007'>And this quite marvellous woman never tried
to make conversation, or fussed about, moving
things. She just sat there looking out at the
spring world as a child looks at a play that
enthralls.</p>
<p class='c007'>She had no beauty and could never have had,
either of feature or colouring, only a slender
length of limb, a certain poise, small head and
hands and feet, and a light that shone behind
her steady eyes. A soul that wonders and
worships shines even in our darkness. She gave
the impression of strength and of tranquillity.
Her very stillness roused him at length, and
he turned to look at her.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>She met the look with one of very pure
friendliness.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I hope now I have made the plunge you will
let me come over here sometimes,” he said;
“somehow I think we are going to be friends.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I think we are friends already,” she said,
smiling, “and I am very glad. One or two of
the neighbours have called and asked me to tea
parties. But I have lived such a different life.
Except for those who farm or garden we haven’t
much in common.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“You have always lived on the land?” he
asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh <em>no</em>!” she laughed, looking at him with
amusement. “I lived all my life until I was
seventeen at Parson’s Green, and after that
in a little street at the back of Tottenham
Court Road, until the outbreak of war. And
then I was for four years in Belgium and Northern
France, cooking.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Good heavens! And all the time this was
what you wanted!”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes, this was what I wanted. I didn’t know.
But this was it. And think of the luck of getting
it!” She looked at him triumphantly.
“The amazing wonderful luck! I feel as if
I ought to be on my knees, figuratively, all the
time, giving thanks.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Of course,” said Roger North slowly.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>“That <em>is</em> your mental attitude. No wonder
you are so unusual a person. And how about
the years that have gone before?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I sometimes wonder,” she said, thinking,
“since I have come here of course, whether
every part of our lives isn’t arranged definitely,
with a purpose, to prepare us for the next part.
It would help a bit through the bad times as
well as the good, if one knew it was so, don’t
you think?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I daresay,” Roger North answered vaguely,
as was his fashion, Ruth soon discovered, if
questioned on such things. “I wish you would
tell me something of yourself. What line you
came up along would really interest me quite
a lot. And it isn’t idle curiosity either.”</p>
<p class='c007'>There was a little silence.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I should like to tell you,” she said at length.</p>
<p class='c007'>But she was conscious at the back of her mind
that some one else was interested too, and it
was that some one else whom she wanted most
of all to tell.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>
<h2 id='II' class='c005'>CHAPTER II</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c006'>Ruth Seer’s father had been a clergyman
of the Church of England, and had
spent a short life in doing, in the eyes of his
family—a widowed mother and an elderly
sister—incredibly foolish things.</p>
<p class='c007'>To begin with he openly professed what were
then considered extreme views, and thereby
hopelessly alienated the patron of the comfortable
living on which his mother’s eye had
been fixed when she encouraged his desire to
take Holy Orders.</p>
<p class='c007'>“As if lighted candles, and flowers on the
altar, and that sort of thing, mattered two
brass farthings when £800 a year was at stake,”
wailed Mrs. Seer, to a sympathizing friend.</p>
<p class='c007'>Paul Seer then proceeded to fall in love, and
with great promptitude married the music mistress
at the local High School for Girls. She
was adorably pretty, with the temper of an
angel, and they succeeded in being what Mrs.
Seer described as “wickedly happy” in a state
of semi-starvation on his curate’s pay of £120
a year.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>They had three children with the greatest
possible speed.</p>
<p class='c007'>That two died at birth Mrs. Seer looked upon
as a direct sign of a Merciful Providence.</p>
<p class='c007'>Poor lady, she had struggled for so many
years on a minute income, an income barely
sufficient for one which had to provide for three,
to say nothing of getting the boy educated
by charity, that it was small wonder if a heart
and mind, narrow to start with, had become
entirely ruled by the consideration of ways and
means.</p>
<p class='c007'>And, the world being so arranged that ways
and means do bulk iniquitously large in most
people’s lives, obliterating, even against their
will, almost everything else by comparison, perhaps
it was also a Merciful Providence which
took the boyish curate and his small wife to
Itself within a week of each other, during the
first influenza epidemic. You cannot work very
hard, and not get enough food or warmth, and at
the same time hold your own against the Influenza
Fiend when he means business. So, at the
age of three, the Benevolent Clergy’s Orphanage,
Parson’s Green, London, S.E., swallowed
Ruth Courthope Seer. A very minute figure
all in coal black, in what seemed to her a
coal-black world. For many a long year, in
times of depression, that sense of an all pervading
<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>blackness would swallow Ruth up,
struggle she never so fiercely.</p>
<p class='c007'>Asked, long after she had left it, what the
Orphanage was like, she answered instantly and
without thought:</p>
<p class='c007'>“It was an ugly place.”</p>
<p class='c007'>That was the adjective which covered to her
everything in it, and the life she led there. It
was ugly.</p>
<p class='c007'>The Matron was the widow of a Low Church
parson. A worthy woman who looked on life
as a vale of tears, on human beings as miserable
sinners, and on joy and beauty as a distinct
mark of the Beast.</p>
<p class='c007'>She did her duty by the orphans according to
the light she possessed. They were sufficiently
fed, and kept warm and clean. They learnt the
three R’s, sewing and housework. Also to play
“a piece” on the piano, and a smattering of
British French. The Orphanage still in these
days considered that only three professions
were open to “ladies by birth.” They must
be either a governess, a companion, or a hospital
nurse.</p>
<p class='c007'>The Matron inculcated the virtues of gratitude,
obedience and contentment, and two great
precepts, “You must bow to the Will of God”
and “You must behave like a lady.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“The Will of God” seemed to typify every
<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>unpleasant thing that could possibly happen to
you; and Ruth, in the beginnings of dawning
thought, always pictured It as a large purple-black
storm-cloud, which descended on all and
sundry at the most unexpected moments, and
before which the dust blew and the trees were
bent double, and human beings were scattered
as with a flail. And in Ruth’s mind the storm-cloud
was peculiarly terrible because unaccompanied
by rain.</p>
<p class='c007'>With regard to the second precept, when
thought progressed still farther, and she began
to reason things out, she one day electrified the
whole Orphanage when rebuked for unladylike
behaviour, by standing up and saying, firmly
but politely, “If you please, Matron, I don’t
want to be a lady. I want to be a little girl.”</p>
<p class='c007'>But for the most part she was a silent child
and gave little trouble.</p>
<p class='c007'>Twice a year a severe lady, known as “your
Grandmother,” and a younger less severe lady,
known as “your Aunt Amelia,” came to see
her, and they always hoped she “was a good
girl.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Then Aunt Amelia ceased to come, for she had
gone out to India to be married, and “your
Grandmother” came alone. And then Grandmother
died and went to heaven, and nobody
came to see Ruth any more. Only a parcel
<span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>came, an event hitherto unknown in Ruth’s drab
little existence, and of stupendous interest. It
contained a baby’s first shoe, a curl of gold hair
in a tiny envelope, labelled “Paul, aged 2,” in
a pointed writing, a letter in straggling round
hand beginning “My dear Mamma,” another
letter in neat copper plate beginning “My dear
Mother,” and a highly coloured picture of St.
George attacking the dragon, signed “Paul
Courthope Seer,” with the date added in the
pointed writing.</p>
<p class='c007'>It was many years later that Ruth first understood
the pathos of that parcel.</p>
<p class='c007'>When she was seventeen the Committee found
a situation for her as companion to a lady. The
Matron recommended her as suitable for the
position, and the Committee informed her, on
the solemn occasion when she appeared before
them to receive their parting valediction, delivered
by the Chairman, that she was extremely
lucky to secure a situation in a Christian household
where she would not only have every comfort,
but even Every Luxury.</p>
<p class='c007'>So Ruth departed to a large and heavily furnished
house, where the windows were only
opened for a half an hour each day while the servants
did the rooms, and which consequently
smelt of the bodies of the people who lived in it.
Every day, except Sunday, she went for a drive
<span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>with an old lady in a brougham with both windows
closed. On fine warm days she walked
out with an old lady leaning on her arm. Every
morning she read the newspaper aloud. At
other times she picked up dropped stitches in
knitting, played Halma, or read a novel aloud,
by such authors as Rhoda Broughton or Mrs.
Hungerford.</p>
<p class='c007'>Any book less calculated to have salutary
effect on a young girl who never spoke to any
man under fifty, and that but rarely, can hardly
be imagined.</p>
<p class='c007'>If there had been an animal in the house, or
a garden round it, Ruth might have struggled
longer. As it was, at the end of three months
she proved to be one of the Orphanage’s few
failures and, without even consulting the Committee,
gave notice, and took a place as shop
assistant to a second-hand bookseller in a small
back street off the Tottenham Court Road.
And here Ruth stayed and worked for the space
of seventeen years—to be exact, until the year
of the Great War, 1914.</p>
<p class='c007'>The Committee ceased to take an interest in
her, and her Aunt Amelia, still in India, ceased
to write at Christmas, and Ruth’s last frail
links with the world of her father were broken.</p>
<p class='c007'>It was a strange life for a girl in the little
bookshop, but at any rate she had achieved
<span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>some measure of freedom, she had got rid of
the burden of her ladyhood, and in some notable
directions her starved intelligence was fed.</p>
<p class='c007'>Her master, Raphael Goltz, came of the most
despised of all race combinations; he was a
German Jew, and he possessed the combined
brain-power of both races.</p>
<p class='c007'>He had the head of one of Michael Angelo’s
apostles, on the curious beetle-shaped body of
the typical Jew. He was incredibly mean, and
rather incredibly dirty, and he had three passions—books,
music, and food.</p>
<p class='c007'>When he discovered in his new assistant a
fellow lover of the two first, and an intelligence
considerably above the average, he taught her
how and what to read, and to play and sing
great music not unworthily. With regard to
the third, he taught her, in his own interest,
to be a cook of supreme excellence.</p>
<p class='c007'>And on the whole Ruth was not unhappy.
Sometimes she looked her loneliness in the face,
and the long years struck at her like stones.
Sometimes her dying, slowly dying, youth called
to her in the night watches, and she counted the
hours of the grey past years, hours and hours
with nothing of youth’s meed of joy and love
in them. But for the most part she strangled
these thoughts with firm hands. There was
nothing to be gained by them, for there was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>nothing to be done. An untrained woman,
without money or people, must take what she
can get and be thankful.</p>
<p class='c007'>She read a great many both of the wisest and
of the most beautiful books in the world, she
listened to music played by the master hand,
and her skilled cooking interested her. As the
years went on, old Goltz left the business more
and more to her, spending his time in his little
back parlour surrounded by his beloved first
editions, which he knew better by now than to
offer for sale, drawing the music of the spheres
from his wonderful Bluthner piano, and steadily
smoking. He gave Ruth a sitting-room of
her own upstairs, and allowed her to take in
the two little dogs Sarah and Selina. On Saturday
afternoons and Sundays she would take
train into the country, and tramp along miles
with them in the world she loved.</p>
<p class='c007'>And then, when it seemed as if life were going
on like that for ever and ever, came the breathless
days before August 4, 1914, those days
when the whole world stood as it were on tiptoe,
waiting for the trumpet signal.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ah well! there was something of the wonder
and glory of war, of which we had read, about
it then—before we knew—yes, before we knew!
The bugle call—the tramp of armed men—the
glamour of victory and great deeds—and of sacrifice
<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>too,—of sacrifice too. The love of one’s
country suddenly made concrete as it were.
Just for that while, at any rate, no one thinking
of himself, or personal profit. Personal glory,
perhaps, which is a better matter. Every one
standing ready. “Send me.”</p>
<p class='c007'>The world felt cleaner, purer.</p>
<p class='c007'>It was a wonderful time. Too wonderful to
last perhaps. But the marks last. At any rate
we have known. We have seen white presences
upon the hills. We have heard the voices of the
Eternal Gods.</p>
<p class='c007'>The greatest crime in history. Yes. But we
were touched to finer issues in those first days.</p>
<p class='c007'>And then Raphael Goltz woke up too. He
talked to Ruth in the hot August evenings instead
of sleeping. Even she was astonished at
what the old man knew. He had studied foreign
politics for years. He knew that the cause
of the war lay farther back, much farther back
than men realized. He saw things from a wide
standpoint. He was a German Jew by blood
and in intellect, Jew by nature, but England
had always been his home. That he loved her
well Ruth never had any doubt after those
evenings.</p>
<p class='c007'>He never thought, though, that it would come
to war. It seemed to him impossible. “It
would be infamy,” he said.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>And then it came. Came with a shock, and
yet with a strange sense of exhilaration about
it. Men who had stood behind counters, and
sat on office stools since boyhood, stretched
themselves, as the blood of fighting forefathers
stirred in their veins. They were still the sons
of men who had gone voyaging with Drake
and Frobisher, of men who had sailed the seven
seas, and fought great fights, and found strange
lands, and died brave deaths, in the days when
a Great Adventure was possible for all. For
them too had, almost inconceivably, come the
chance to get away from greyly monotonous
days which seemed like “yesterday come back”;
for them too was the Great Adventure possible.
The lad who, under Ruth’s supervision, took
down shutters, cleaned boots, knives and windows,
swept the floors and ran errands, was
among the first to go, falsifying his age by two
years, and it was old Raphael Goltz, German
Jew, who even in those first days knew the war
as the crime of all the ages.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth was the next, and he helped her too;
while the authorities turned skilled workers
down, and threw cold water in buckets on the
men and women standing shoulder to shoulder
ready for any sacrifice in those first days, old
Raphael Goltz, knowing the value of Ruth’s
cooking and physical soundness, found her the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>money to offer her services free—old Raphael
Goltz, who through so many years had been so
incredibly mean. He disliked dogs cordially,
yet he undertook the care of Sarah and Selina
in her absence. To Ruth’s further amazement,
he also gave her introductions of value to leading
authorities in Paris who welcomed her
gladly and sent her forthwith into an estaminet
behind the lines in Northern France.</p>
<p class='c007'>Something of her childhood in the Orphanage,
and of the long years with Raphael Goltz, Ruth
told North, as they sat together in the warmth
and stillness of the May evening, but of the
years in France she spoke little. She had
seen unspeakable things there. The memory
of them was almost unbearable. They were
things she held away from thought. Beautiful
and wonderful things there were too, belonging
to those years. But they were still more impossible
to speak of. She carried the mark of
them both, the terrible and the beautiful, in her
steady eyes. Besides, some one else, who was
interested too, who was surely—the consciousness
was not to be ignored—interested too,
knew all about that. And suddenly she realized
how that common knowledge of life and
death at their height was also a bond, as well as
love of Thorpe, and she paused in her tale, and
sat very still.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>“And then?” said North, after a while.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I was out there for two years, without coming
home, the first time. There seemed nothing
for me to come home for, and I didn’t want to
leave. There was always so much to be done,
and one felt of use. It was selfish of me really,
but I never realized somehow that Raphael Goltz
cared. Then I had bad news from him. You remember
the time when the mobs wrecked the
shops with German names? Well, his was one
of them. So I got leave and came back to him.
It was very sad. The old shop was broken
to pieces, his books had been thrown into the
street and many burnt, and the piano, his beautiful
piano, smashed past all repair. I found
him up in the back attic, with Sarah and Selina.
He had saved them for me somehow. He
cried when I came. He was very old, you see,
and he had felt the war as much as any of
us.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Her eyes were full of tears, and she stopped
for a moment to steady her voice. “He bore
no malice, and three days after I got back he
died, babbling the old cry, ‘We ought to have
been friends.’</p>
<p class='c007'>“It was always that, ‘We ought to have been
friends,’ and once he said, ‘Together we could
have regenerated the world.’ He left everything
he had to me, over £60,000. It is to him
<span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>I owe Thorpe.” Her eyes shone through the
tears in them.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Come! and let me show you,” she said, and
so almost seemed to help him out of his chair,
and then, still holding his hand, led him through
the door behind them, along the passage into
the front hall. Here he stopped, and undoubtedly
but for the compelling hand would have
gone no farther. But the soft firm grip held,
and something with it, some force outside both
of them, drew him after her into the room that
once was his friend’s. A spacious friendly
room, with wide windows looking south and
west, and filled just now with the light of a
cloudless sunset.</p>
<p class='c007'>And the dreaded moment held nothing to fear.
Nothing was changed. Nothing was spoilt. He
had expected something, which to him, unreasonably
perhaps, but uncontrollably, would have
seemed like sacrilege; instead he found it was
sanctuary. Sanctuary for that, to him, annihilated
personality which had been the companion
of the best years of his life.</p>
<p class='c007'>Dick might have come back at any moment
and found his room waiting for him, as it had
waited on many a spring evening just like this.
His capacious armchair was still by the window.
The big untidy writing-table, with its many
drawers and pigeon-holes, in its place. The
<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>piano where he used to sit and strum odd bits of
music by ear.</p>
<p class='c007'>“But it is all just the same,” he said, standing
like a man in a dream when Ruth dropped
his hand inside the threshold.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I was offered the furniture with the house,”
she said, “and when I saw this room I felt I
wanted it just as it is. Before that I had all
sorts of ideas in my head as to how I would
furnish! But this appealed to me. There is
an air of space and comfort and peace about
the room that I could not bear to disturb. And
now I am very glad, because I feel he is pleased.
Of course, his more personal things have gone,
and I have added a few things of my own.
Look, this is what I brought you to see.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She pointed towards the west window, where
stood an exquisitely carved and gilded table of
foreign workmanship which was new to him,
and on it burnt a burnished bronze lamp, its
flame clear and bright even in the fierce glow of
the setting sun. Beside the lamp stood a glass
vase, very beautiful in shape and clarity, filled
with white pinks.</p>
<p class='c007'>North crossed the room and examined the
lamp with interest.</p>
<p class='c007'>“What does it mean?” he asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>“It is a custom of the orthodox Jews. When
anyone belonging to them dies, they keep a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>lamp burning for a year. The flame is never
allowed to go out. It is a symbol. A symbol
of the Life Eternal. All the years of the war
Raphael Goltz kept this lamp burning for the
men who went West. You see it is in the west
window. And now I keep it burning for him.
You don’t think <em>he</em> would mind, although my
poor old master <em>was</em> a German Jew, racially?”</p>
<p class='c007'>She looked up at North anxiously, as they
stood side by side before the lamp.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Not Dick—certainly not Dick!” said North.
Ruth heaved a sigh of relief.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You see, I don’t really know anything about
him except what I feel about the farm, and I
did want the lamp here.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“No, Dick wouldn’t mind. But you are mad,
you know, quite mad!”</p>
<p class='c007'>For all that his eyes were very kindly as he
looked down at her.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I expect it is being so much alone,” she said
tranquilly, stooping to smell the pinks.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Was Goltz an orthodox Jew then?” asked
North.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh no, very far from it. He wasn’t anything
in the least orthodox. If you could have
known him!” Ruth laughed a little. “But he
had some queer religion of his own. He believed
in Beauty, and that it was a revelation of
something very great and wonderful, beyond
<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>the wildest dreams of a crassly ignorant and
blind humanity. That glass vase was his.
Have you noticed the wonderful shape of it?
And look now with the light shining through.
Do you think it is a shame to put flowers in it?
But their scent is the incense on the altar.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh, that’s the idea, is it?” said North. He
spoke very gently, as one would to a child showing
you its treasures.</p>
<p class='c007'>“This place is full of altars,” said Ruth, her
eyes looking west. “Do you know the drive in
the little spinney? All one broad blue path of
hyacinths, and white may trees on either side.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh, that’s the idea, is it?” said North. He
in his voice—“you mean Dick’s ‘Pathway to
Heaven’!”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Did he call it that?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“He said it was so blue it must be.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes, and it seems to vanish into space between
the trees.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“As I must,” said North. “I have paid you
an unwarrantable visitation, and I shall only
just get home now before lighting-up time.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“You will come again?” said Ruth as they
went down the garden. “I want to show you
the site for my cottages. I <em>think</em> it is the right
one.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Cottages?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes, I am going to build three. My lawyer
<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>tells me it is economically an unsound investment.
My conscience tells me it has got to be
done, if I am to enjoy Thorpe properly. Two
couples are waiting to be married until the
cottages are ready, and one man is working here
and his wife living in London because there is
no possible place for them. I am giving him
a room here at present.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North raised his eyebrows.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Do you take in anybody promiscuously who
comes along?” he asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Well, this man went through four years of
the war. Was a sergeant, and holds the Mons
Medal and the D.C.M. He is a painter by trade,
and worked for Baxter, who is putting up a
billiard-room and a garage at Mentmore Court.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Mentmore Court?” North looked across at
the big white house on the hill. “Why, there is
a billiard-room and a garage there already.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I believe they are turning the existing billiard-room
into a winter garden, or something
of that sort. And they have six cars, so the
present garage is not big enough.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Your cottages will probably be of more use
to the country,” said North. “I hear he made
his money in leather, and his name is Pithey.
Do you know him?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Well, he took a ‘fancy’ to my Shorthorns,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>and walked in last week to ask if I’d sell. Price
was no object. He fancied them. Then he took
a fancy to some of the furniture and offered to
buy that, and finally he said if I was open to
take ‘a profit on my deal’ over the farm, he was
prepared to go to a fancy price for it.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North stopped and looked at her.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Are you making it up?” he asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth bubbled over into an irrepressible
laugh.</p>
<p class='c007'>“When he went away he told me not to worry.
Mrs. Pithey <em>was</em> coming to call, but she had been
so busy, and now those lazy dogs of workmen
couldn’t be out of the place for another month
at least.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“And my wife is worrying me to call on him,”
groaned North. “Halloo, where is Larry?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“He was there a moment ago; I saw him just
before you stopped, but I never saw him jump
out.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North called in vain until he gave a peculiar
whistle, which brought a plainly reluctant Larry
to view.</p>
<p class='c007'>“He doesn’t want to come with me,” said
North. “Get in, Larry.” And Larry obeyed
the peremptory command, while Ruth checked
an impulse to suggest that she should keep him.</p>
<p class='c007'>As the car started slowly up the hill he turned,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>laying his black and tan velvet muzzle on the
back of the hood. Long after they had vanished,
Ruth was haunted by the wistful amber
eyes looking at her from a cloud of dust.</p>
<p class='c007'>Slowly she went up home through the scented
evening. It had been a wonderful day. And
she had made a friend. It was not such an
event as it would have been before she went to
France, but it was sufficiently uplifting even
now. She sang to herself as she went. And
then quite suddenly she thought of the man in
the brown suit. “I wonder who he was, and
where he disappeared to,” she said to herself,
as she answered Miss McCox’s injured summons
to supper.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>
<h2 id='III' class='c005'>CHAPTER III</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c006'>“My dear Roger,” said Mrs. North, with
that peculiar guinea-hen quality in her
voice which it was her privilege and pleasure
to keep especially for her husband, “have you
nothing of interest to tell us? No one has seen
you since four o’clock yesterday afternoon. At
any rate, not to speak to.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North looked across the beautifully appointed
lunch-table at the ill-chosen partner of his joys
and sorrows, while the silence, which usually
followed one of her direct attacks on him, fell
upon the party surrounding it.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I see you brought Larry back with you,
and conclude you found him at Thorpe,” continued
Mrs. North, “and I suppose you saw
Miss Seer. As it is a moot point whether we
call on her or not, you might rouse yourself so
far as to tell us what you thought of her. I
am sure Arthur would like to hear too.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Very much! Very much!” said the fair,
cherubic-looking little man sitting on her right
hand. “Thorpe was such a pleasant house in
poor dear Carey’s time. It would be a serious
<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>loss if the new owner were impossible. I look
upon the changes in the neighbourhood very
seriously, very seriously indeed. I was only
thinking yesterday that of our old circle only
poor old Mentmore, the Condors, and ourselves
are left. The Court and Whitemead both
bought by newly rich people, whom I really
dread inspecting.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“The St. Ubes may be all right,” interpolated
Mrs. North. “I hear they made their money
doing something with shipping, and St. Ubes
does not sound a bad name.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“No,” allowed Mr. Fothersley. “No. Yet
I do not remember to have heard it before. It
has a Cornish sound. We must inquire. They
have not arrived yet, I gather, as the new servants’
wing is not ready. But the people at
the Grange, I fear, are not only Jews, but German
Jews! What a <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">milieu</span></i>! And we were
such a happy little set before the war, very
happy—yes.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“At any rate,” said the fourth member of
the lunch party, a very beautiful young woman,
the only child and married daughter of the
house, “they have all an amazing amount of
money, which I have no doubt they are prepared
to spend, and the German Jews I conclude you
will not take up. As for Thorpe, it is disgusting
<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>that anyone should have it. What <em>is</em>
the woman like, father?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh, all right,” said North. “She is looking
after the place well, and hasn’t been seized with
the present mania for building billiard-rooms
and winter gardens and lordly garages.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“But what is she <em>like</em>?” asked Mrs. North.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Is she a lady, or isn’t she? You can’t call
on a woman because she hasn’t built a winter
garden.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Why not?” returned her husband, in his
most irritating fashion.</p>
<p class='c007'>“By the way,” interposed Mr. Fothersley
adroitly, “I hear Miss Seer intends building
cottages. A thing I do not consider at all desirable.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Why not?” asked his host again.</p>
<p class='c007'>“We want nothing of that sort in Mentmore,”
said Fothersley decisively. “It is, in its way,
the most perfect specimen of an English village
in the country—I might say in England. Building
new cottages is only the thin end of the
wedge.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“They appear to be wanted,” said North,
pushing the cigars towards his guest.</p>
<p class='c007'>“That is the Government’s business,” answered
Mr. Fothersley, making a careful selection.
“And we may at least hope they will
<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>put them up in suitable places. Thank Heaven
the price of land here is prohibitive. There,
however, is the danger of these newly rich
people. They must spend their money somehow.
However, it may not be true. I only
heard it this morning.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Did she say anything about it, Roger?”
asked Mrs. North.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes she mentioned it,” answered North
curtly.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mrs. North made an exaggerated gesture of
despair as she struggled with a cigarette. She
had never succeeded in mastering the art of
smoking.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Are you going to tell us what we want to
know or not?” she asked, with ominous calmness.
“Do you advise calling on the woman,
or don’t you?”</p>
<p class='c007'>Here Violet Riversley broke in.</p>
<p class='c007'>“When will you learn to put things quite
plainly to father?” she asked. “You know he
can’t understand our euphuisms. I suppose it’s
one of the defects of a scientific brain.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She helped herself to a cigarette and held
it out to North for a light.</p>
<p class='c007'>“What we want to know, father, is just this.
Do you think Miss Seer is likely to subscribe
to the Hunt and various other things we are
interested in? If to this she adds the desire
<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>to entertain us, so much the better, but the
subscriptions are the primary things.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“No, no, my dear!” exclaimed Mr. Fothersley,
deeply pained. “That is just what I complain
about in you young people of the present
day. You have not the social sense—you——”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Dear Arthur,” Violet cut him short ruthlessly,
“don’t be a humbug with me. Your
Violet has known you since she was two years
old. Let us in our family circle be honest.
Lord Mentmore and the Condors called on the
Pithey people because Mr. Pithey has subscribed
liberally to the Hunt, and you and
mother have called because they did. Incidentally
they will probably give us excellent dinners.
All I can say is, I hope you will draw the
line at the German Jews, however much money
they have.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Well, Roger,” said Mrs. North, who had
kept her eyes fixed on her husband during
her daughter’s diversion, “shall I call or not?
Surely you are the proper person to advise me,
as you have met Miss Seer.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North frowned irritably.</p>
<p class='c007'>“No, I certainly should not call,” he said,
rising from the table. “She <em>is</em> a lady, but you
would have nothing in common, and I should
not think she has enough money to make it
worth while from the point of view Vi has put
<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>so delicately before us. That all right, Vi?”</p>
<p class='c007'>His daughter rose too, and slipped her arm
through his.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Quite good for you!” she said. “And now
come and smoke your cigar with me in the garden.
Arthur will excuse you.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Certainly! Certainly!” said Mr. Fothersley,
who sincerely liked both husband and wife
apart, and inwardly deplored the necessity that
they should ever be together. He recognized
the lack of fine feeling in the wife which so constantly
irritated the husband, but which did not
alienate Fothersley himself because his own
mind moved really on the same plane, in that he
cherished no finer ideals. He recognized, too,
the corresponding irritation North’s total lack
of the social instinct was to a woman of his
wife’s particular type. Pretty, vivacious, with
a passionate love of dress, show, and amusement,
Mrs. North would have liked to go to a
party of some sort, or give one, every day in the
year. She was an admirable and successful
hostess, and Mr. Fothersley was wont to declare
that Mentmore would be lost without Mrs.
North.</p>
<p class='c007'>They were great friends. Mr. Fothersley had
never seen his way to embark on matrimony.
At the same time he enjoyed the society of
women. As a matter of fact he was on terms
<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>of platonic, genuinely platonic, friendship, with
every attractive woman within reasonable reach
of Mentmore. Undoubtedly, however, Mrs.
North held the first place. For one thing the
Norths were his tenants, occupying the Dower
House on his estate. It was always easy to run
across to Westwood, hot foot with any little
bit of exciting gossip. They both took a lively
interest in their neighbours’ private affairs.
Violet Riversley had once said that if there
was nothing scandalous to talk about, they
evolved something, after the fashion of the
newspapers in the silly season. They both
loved, not money, but the things which money
means. To give a perfect little dinner, rich
with all the delicacies of the season, was to
them both a keen delight. He was nearly as
fond of pretty clothes as she was, and liked to
escort her to the parties, where she was always
the centre of the liveliest group and from
which North shrank in utter boredom. They
agreed on all points on matters of the day, both
social and political; he gathered his opinions
from <cite>The Times</cite> and she from the <cite>Daily Mail</cite>.
He looked upon her as an extremely clever and
intelligent woman. Also he was in entire
sympathy with her intense and permanent
resentment against her husband because he had
persisted in devoting to further chemical research
<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>the very large sums of money which his
scientific discoveries had brought him in from
time to time. The fact that, in addition to
these sums, he derived a considerable income
from a flourishing margarine factory started
by his late father’s energy and enterprise, of
which income she certainly spent by far the
larger portion, consoled her not at all. She
spent much, but she could very easily have
spent more. She too could have done with
four or five cars, she too could have enlarged
and expanded in various expensive directions,
even as these new <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">nouveaux riches</span></i>. Fothersley,
who devoutly held the doctrine that not
only whatsoever a man earned, but whatsoever
he inherited, was for his own and his family’s
benefit and spending, with a reasonable contribution
to local charities, or any exceptional
collection in time of stress authorized by the
Mayor, felt that Mrs. North’s resentment was
wholly natural. A yearly contribution of, say,
twenty-five guineas, to research would have
amply covered any possible claim on even a
scientist’s philanthropy in this direction, and
he had even told North so.</p>
<p class='c007'>Therefore it was only natural for Mrs. North
to turn to him, even more than to her other
friends, for sympathy and understanding.</p>
<p class='c007'>“There now!” she exclaimed as her husband
<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>left the room. “Can you imagine any man being
so disagreeable and surly? Just because
he was asked a perfectly natural question.
And I shall certainly call on the woman.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I believe she is quite possible from all I
have heard,” said Mr. Fothersley, adroitly
lighting Mrs. North’s cigarette, which had gone
out. “As you know, I mean to call myself, if
you would prefer to wait for my report.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Thank you. But may as well come with
you. I shall probably be a help, and you see
Roger says she is a lady, and, funnily enough,
he really knows. I expect she is as dull as
ditchwater; I hear she was something in the nature
of a companion before she came into some
money. But anything must be better than the
Pitheys.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She shuddered as she replenished Mr. Fothersley’s
wineglass.</p>
<p class='c007'>“They appear from all accounts to be very
bad,” sighed Mr. Fothersley.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I could bear their commonness,” said Mrs.
North, “one has got used to it these days, when
one meets everyone everywhere, but it is the
man’s self-satisfaction that is so overpowering.
However, I am depending on you to look after
him this afternoon. Roger won’t, and Violet
is nearly as bad. I don’t know if you have noticed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>it, but Violet is getting Roger’s nasty sarcastic
way of saying things, and she always
seems to back him up now against me.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Her pretty eyes were tearful, and Mr. Fothersley
looked distressed.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Dear Violet has never been the same since
poor Carey’s death,” he said.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mrs. North agreed. “And yet, as you know,”
she added, “I never really approved of the engagement.
Poor Dick was a dear—no one
could help liking him; but, after all, there was
no getting away from the fact that he was old
enough to be her father, and besides he was
not very well off, and owing to Roger’s folly,
wasting his money as he has, we could not have
made Violet a big allowance. Really, you know,
Fred is a much better match for her in every
way.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Quite, quite,” assented Mr. Fothersley.
“But there is no doubt she felt Carey’s death
very much at the time. I certainly have noticed
a difference in her since, which her marriage
has not dispelled. But indeed all the
young people seem altered since this terrible
war—there is—how shall I put it?—a want of
reticence—of respect for the conventions.”
Mr. Fothersley shook his head. “I regret it
very much—very much.”</p>
<p class='c007'>In the meantime North and his daughter had
<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>wandered out into the shade of the great beech-tree
which was the crowning glory of an exquisite
lawn. The garden was in full perfection
this wonderful May, and the gardeners were
busy putting the finishing touches before the
afternoon’s party. Not a weed or stray leaf
was to be seen. Every edge was clipped to
perfection. The three tennis courts were newly
marked out, their nets strung to the exact
height, while six new balls were neatly arranged
on each service line. Presently Mrs. North
would come out and say exactly where each
chair and table should go.</p>
<p class='c007'>Violet Riversley looked at the pretty friendly
scene with her beautiful gold brown eyes, and
the misery in them was like a devouring fire.
She was one of the tragedies of the war. She
could neither endure nor forget. With her
mother’s good looks, pleasure-loving temperament,
and quick temper, she had much of her
father’s ability. Spoilt from her cradle, she
had gone her own way and taken greedily of the
good things of this world with both hands, until
Dick Carey’s death had smitten her life into
ruins.</p>
<p class='c007'>She was twenty-four, and she had never before
known pain, sorrow or trouble. Always
she had had everything she wanted. Other
people’s griefs passed her by. She simply had
<span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>no understanding of them. She was not generous,
because she never realized what it was
to go without. And yet everyone liked and
many loved her. She was so gay and glad and
beautiful a thing.</p>
<p class='c007'>When she said good-bye to Dick Carey, she
was simply unable to grasp that he could be
taken from her, and when the news of his death
came she had passionately and vehemently
fought against the agony and pain and desolation
that came with it. She had genuinely
and really loved him, and nothing, absolutely
nothing, seemed left. There was no pleasure
any more in anything. That was what she could
not understand, could not cope with. Her conventional
faith fell from her, and she let it go
without a struggle. But her happiness she refused
to let go. She clung to it, or to the mirage
of it, savagely, desperately. Dick was
dead, yes, and she wanted him with a devouring
hunger. But all the other things were left.
Things she had loved. Things that had made
her happy. She would not let them go.</p>
<p class='c007'>After a brief space, in which the devils of
bitterness and resentment and impotent wrath
rent her in pieces, she took up her old life again,
with apparently added zest. Her friends said
“Violet was very plucky,” and no one was
astonished when after a year she accepted and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>married Fred Riversley. It was altogether a
more suitable match than one with poor Dick
Carey. Riversley was of more suitable age,
rich, devoted, and a good fellow, and as
North said to her best friends, “Violet was
never suited for the wife of a poor man.” Only
Roger North watched her anxiously at times.
She had been her mother’s child before, but
since Dick’s death she had turned more and
more to her father. Something of his dogged
patient strength of mind seemed to become
clear to her. Something of the courage with
which he faced life.</p>
<p class='c007'>She remembered a saying of his one day when
her mother had been flagrantly unjust and bitter
to him on some matter of expenditure, so that
even she had felt ashamed. Whatever her
father’s faults, his generosity was past question.
She had gone into the study and striven
to make amends, and he had looked at her with
those tired humorous eyes of his and said:</p>
<p class='c007'>“My dear, nothing can hurt you if you don’t
let it.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She seized on that as some sort of creed amid
the welter of all she had ever thought she believed.</p>
<p class='c007'>She would not let things hurt her, She
plunged more eagerly than ever into the amusements
of her world. After her marriage she
<span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>started and ran a smart officers’ hospital in
London. Mrs. Riversley’s name was on many
committees. She was a noted giver of the then
fashionable boy and girl dances. A celebrated
personage said she reminded him of a human
fire. There seemed a fever in her body, a restlessness
which never left her. Since the cessation
of hostilities this restlessness had increased,
or possibly now that others were ceasing
their activities it was more noticeable.</p>
<p class='c007'>While North sat smoking his cigar she fetched
a racquet and began to practice her service on
the court nearest him. She served over-hand
a swift hard service, and North watched the
long slim line of her figure, her exquisite poise,
as she swung her racquet above her head and
drove the ball home. It was typical somehow
of the driving force that seemed behind her
restlessness.</p>
<p class='c007'>Presently she stopped, and came and sat
down close beside him, and when he looked at
her he saw that her mask was down and the
tormented soul of her for a moment bare.</p>
<p class='c007'>“It all looks just the same as ever, doesn’t
it!” she said. “And we’ve got to get through
it somehow to the very end.</p>
<p class='c007'>“My dear,” began her father, and stopped.
A blank hideous horror of emptiness possessed
him. He shivered in the hot sunshine. There
<span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>was nothing to say. He had no comfort to give
her.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Heaven knows I’ve done my best,” she said.
“I swore I wouldn’t let Dick’s death spoil my
life. I married Fred because he could give me
everything else—everything but what was impossible,
and he’s a good fellow.” She paused,
then went on again, her voice very low and thin.
“There’s only one thing would do me any good—if
I could hurt those who’ve hurt me. That
God, who let all this happen. I’m not the only
one. That God they teach us is almighty, and
this is the best he can do for us. You don’t
believe He’s there at all, father—oh no, you
don’t—I’m not a fool! But I do, and I see
Him watching it all happening, <em>letting</em> it all
happen, according to plan, as those damned
Germans used to say. If only I could hurt them—hurt
them myself. If they had only one neck
that I could wring—with my own two hands—slowly—very
slowly—I think that would do me
good.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North pulled himself together.</p>
<p class='c007'>“How long have you been feeling like this,
Vi?” he asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Ever since they killed Dick,” she said dully,
as if the fire had smouldered down, after a
sudden sheet of flame. “I think I am made
up of hate, father. It’s the strongest thing in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>me. It’s so strong that I can’t love any more.
I don’t think I love Dick now. And Fred,
sometimes I hate Fred, and he’s a good fellow,
you know.”</p>
<p class='c007'>The words filled North with a vague uncanny
horror. He struggled after normal, everyday
words, but for a moment none came. He knew
the girl was overwrought, suffering from strain,
but what was it that had looked at him out of
those vehement, passionate eyes?</p>
<p class='c007'>“Look here, Vi,” he said at length, striving
to speak naturally, “you are just imagining
things. Can’t you take a pull on yourself and
go easy for a bit? You’re overdoing it, you
know, and these sort of ideas are the result.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I’m sorry, father.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She bent sideways, letting her head rest
against his shoulder, and seeking his hand, held
it close. Such a demonstration was foreign to
her with him. When she was small, some queer
form of jealousy on her mother’s part had come
between them. He felt shy and awkward.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I don’t know what made me break out like
that,” she went on. “I think it must have been
coming back here and seeing everything just
the same as it used to be before the war came.
Until to-day, when I’ve been down it’s been so
quiet and different, with no parties, and nothing
<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>going on. Now it’s gone back like everything
else is going back—only I cannot.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Nothing goes back, dear,” answered North.
“It’s not the same for anyone really. Not even
for the quiet young people who’ll come and
play here without a trouble as you used to.
But there’s always the interest of going forward.
If we’ve suffered, at least we’ve gained
experience from it, which is knowledge. And
there’s always some work to be done for every
season that could not be done sooner or later.
That helps, I think.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Dear old father,” she said softly. “We
used not to be really great friends in the old
days. But now somehow you’re the only person
I find any comfort in. I think perhaps it is
because we are both putting up a hard fight.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Don’t forget the spice of life is battle, Vi,
as Stevenson has it. I’m inclined to think,
though”—he spoke slowly as one envolving a
thought new to him—“I’m inclined to think we
sometimes confuse bitterness and rebellion with
it. That’s not clean fighting. My dear, put
that hate you speak of away from you, if you
can—and have nothing to do with bitterness—they
are forces which can only make for evil.”</p>
<p class='c007'>There was a little pause.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I don’t think I can, father. It’s part of me.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>Sometimes I think it’s all me, and sometimes
I’m frightened.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Look here, Vi,” said North, struggling with
a disinclination to make the proposition that
was in his mind, a disinclination that he felt
was ridiculous, “I wish you would go over to
Thorpe and get to know Miss Seer.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Violet sat up and looked at him with wide-open
eyes.</p>
<p class='c007'>“But why? I should hate it!” she exclaimed.
“It would remind me—oh, of so many things!
It would make me feel even worse——”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Well, so I thought,” said North. “I can
tell you I dreaded going. But the old place is
full of a—a strange sort of rest. I didn’t realize
how full of bitterness and resentment I
had been until sitting there it all dropped away
from me. It was as if a stone had been rolled
away. I hadn’t realized how it was hurting
until it left off.”</p>
<p class='c007'>He spoke disjointedly, and as if almost
against his will. He was glad when the sound
of his wife’s and Mr. Fothersley’s approaching
voices made Violet release his hand and stand
up.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You think Thorpe would lay my devils too?”
she asked, looking down at him.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I think,” he said gravely, “it is worth trying.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>
<h2 id='IV' class='c005'>CHAPTER IV</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c006'>Mrs. North’s tennis party pursued its
usual successful career in the brilliant
sunshine, which, as Mr. Fothersley remembered,
always favoured her. Fred Riversley had
brought an unexpected carload of R. A. F.
boys down from London with him. This made
a tournament possible, as Mrs. North saw
at once. They drew partners with much fun
and laughter. Mr. Fothersley telephoned to
Fairbridge for a selection of prizes to be sent
out by the 4.30 bus. It was one of the charming
sort of things which Mr. Fothersley did. It
was more particularly nice of him on this particular
afternoon than usual, because, so far as
Mr. Fothersley was concerned, Mr. Pithey was
making it almost unbearable.</p>
<p class='c007'>He was a large, flat, pale yellow gentleman,
with a peculiarly penetrating metallic voice.
He had a very long nose, with a broad tip curving
upwards, and small keen eyes which darted
everywhere. Without the slightest hesitation
he took the place which from time immemorial
belonged to Mr. Fothersley at all Mentmore
<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>parties. Under the beech-tree, where by all
the rights of precedence Mr. Fothersley should
have led the conversation, Mr. Pithey’s metallic
voice held sway and drove all before it. In the
usual walk round the garden, always personally
conducted by Mr. Fothersley and his hostess,
Mr. Pithey laid down the correct lines on
which to bed out, to grow carnations, to keep
down weeds, or anything else that cropped up.
When Mr. Fothersley drew attention to the fact
that on any of the courts the final of the hard-fought
set was in progress, it was Mr. Pithey’s
voice that drowned all others as he shouted
“Well played!” and gave advice to all concerned.
In fact, Mr. Pithey dominated the
party.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mrs. Pithy, a small blue-faced lady, very expensively
dressed, sat in a comfortable basket
chair with her feet on a stool and, unless actually
asked a question, she spoke to no one except
her husband, whom she always addressed by
name. Bertie when she remembered, ’Erb
when she forgot.</p>
<p class='c007'>Even the arrival of Lady Condor, undoubtedly
the personage of the place, made no impression
on this strange couple’s evident conviction
that they were people of supreme importance
in the universe. Lady Condor could
have put the Old Gentleman himself in his place
<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>if the mood were on her, but on this occasion,
as it happened, she was frankly and evidently
entertained by the Pitheys. Mr. Fothersley
regretted it. Seldom had he looked out more
anxiously for the arrival of her wheeled chair
surrounded by its usual escort of five white
West Highlanders. Lady Condor always used
her chair, in preference to her car, for short
journeys, so that her dogs also might have an
outing. Seldom had he been more disappointed
in her, and Lady Condor was given to amazing
surprises. This was certainly one of them. Solemnly,
and as far as was possible in his manner
conveying the honour being conferred on
him, Mr. Fothersley led Mr. Pithey to Lady
Condor’s chair, so soon as she had been ensconced
by her hostess in a comfortable and
shady spot near the tea-tables and with a good
view of the tennis. Not that she ever looked
at it for more than a second at a time, she was
always too busy talking, but it was <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">de rigueur</span></i>
that she should have the best place at any entertainment.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mrs. Pithey, for the moment, it was impossible
to introduce, as it would plainly not occur to
her to leave her chair until she had finished her
tea for anybody, except, possibly, Mr. Pithey.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Fothersley effected Mr. Pithey’s introduction
admirably. The delicate shade of deference
<span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>in his own manner left nothing to be
desired.</p>
<p class='c007'>“May I be allowed to present Mr. Pithey,
dear Lady Condor?” he asked, deftly bringing
that gentleman’s large pale presence into her
line of vision.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Ah—how-d’ye-do? No, don’t trouble to
shake hands.” She waved away a large approach.
“You can’t get at me for the dogs.
And where are my glasses? Arthur, I have
dropped them somewhere. Could it have been
in the drive? No, I had them since. What! on
my lap? Oh yes—thank you very much.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She put them on and looked at Mr. Pithey,
and Mr. Pithey looked at her.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Do you
always take a pack of dogs about with you?”
Plainly Mr. Pithey disapproved. Jock and
Jinny, father and mother of the family, were
moving in an unfriendly manner round his feet.
“Just call them off, will you?”</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Fothersley awaited the swift and complete
annihilation of Mr. Pithey. It was a
matter of doubt if even Lady Condor could have
accomplished it; at any rate, she made no attempt.
She continued to look at him with what
might almost be described as appreciation in
her shrewd eyes under their heavy lids. Only
she did not call the dogs off.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>And then, to an amazed company of the Mentmore
élite, she gave Mr. Pithey her whole and
undivided attention for the space of nearly half
an hour.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Pithey gave his opinion as it was always
apparently his pride and pleasure to do, on
many and various things.</p>
<p class='c007'>“The old order changeth, yielding place to
new,” might have served for the text of Mr.
Pithey’s conversation.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Who’s been at the head of affairs in this
village <em>I</em> don’t know,” he said largely, “but
more rotten management, more want of enterprise,
more lack of ordinary sense, I’ve never
come across. Why, you see it everywhere!
Here’s the whole place without any light, unless
you call lamps and candles light, and a stream
running through the place. Water power at
your doors, by Jingo! And money in it too, or
I shouldn’t be taking it up. Ever been in Germany?”
He gulped down his third cup of tea,
and looked around at his now more or less interested
audience.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Well, they’ve got electric light in every
potty little village you go to, got it there still
at this minute, and”—Mr. Pithey laid a large
yellow hand on Lady Condor’s knee—“<em>cheaper</em>
than you can get it over here.”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>“One really can’t believe it!” exclaimed Mrs.
North. “Surely it’s not possible!”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Everything is possible,” said Lady Condor,
curiously examining Mr. Pithey’s hand through
her glasses.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I was over there, staying near Cologne on
business last week,” returned Mr. Pithey impressively.
“So I ought to know. And when
you know me better, Mrs. North”—Mr. Fothersley’s
shudder was almost audible—“you’ll
know I don’t talk without my book. I got nails
over there—metal, mind you—cheaper than you
can get ’em here. P’rhaps you won’t credit
that!”</p>
<p class='c007'>He helped himself to more cake, and started
afresh.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Now look at the farming round about here.
Rotten, that’s what it is, rotten! Never went
in for it myself before, but I know when a concern’s
run as it should be or not. There’s
only one farm in this district that’s real tip-top,
and that’s Thorpe. It’s a little bit of a place,
but it’s well run. Run by a woman too! But
she’s a fool. If you’ll believe me, I offered
her a twenty-five per cent. profit on whatever
the price she gave for that little place, and she
wouldn’t take it. Just have suited me to play
with. And there’s one or two things there I’d
<span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>like up at the Court. By the way, any gentleman
or lady here got some of those old lead
water tanks they’d like a fancy price for, because
I’m a buyer.”</p>
<p class='c007'>By this time the assembly under the beech-tree
was more or less paralysed, and Mrs. North
was wondering what madness had possessed her
to be the first to ask Mr. Pithey to meet Lady
Condor. But Lady Condor continued to beam;
not only to beam, but every now and then to
break into a chuckle. And yet this was not at
all the sort of thing one would have expected
to amuse her.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Old lead water tanks!” she repeated,
thoughtfully. “Dear Arthur, would you mind
putting Jock on my lap? Thank you so much.
And now Jinny! There, darlings! Don’t be
nervous, Mr. Pithey. They never really <em>bite</em>
unless you come too close. Let me see, where
were we? Oh—yes—tanks! No, I am afraid
I have none for sale just now.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“You see,” said Mr. Pithey confidentially,
“if I get the stuff off some of you old inhabitants
I know it’s the right sort, and I don’t mind
what I pay.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“If you go on talking much longer, Bertie,
you’ll be late for seeing the man who’s coming
about the butler’s place,” said Mrs. Pithey, suddenly,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>from her chair. She had just finished
her tea, and swept many crumbs from her lap
as she spoke.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Quite right, my dear! Quite right!” Mr.
Pithey rose as he spoke. “I’m never late for
an appointment, Mrs. North. Matter of conscience
with me, never mind who it’s with,
butler or duke.” It was characteristic of Mr.
Pithey that he put the butler first. “Well,
good-by to you all.” Mr. Pithey shook hands
largely all round, followed by Mrs. Pithey.
“Pleased to have met your Ladyship. Sorry
not to have seen your good husband, Mrs.
North. <em>The</em> man in this place, I reckon. That
margarine business of his is one of the best
managed in Leicester, and we don’t let flies
walk on us there, anyhow. He goes in for a
bit of science and writing as well, doesn’t he?
Good all round man, eh?”</p>
<p class='c007'>And, conscious of having been generally
pleasant, Mr. Pithey removed his large pale
presence to where his Rolls-Royce car awaited
him in the front drive.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I know you will forgive me, dear lady,”
said Mr. Fothersley, his voice trembling with
emotion, “if I do not see them off.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Indeed, yes!” exclaimed Mrs. North. The
allusion to the margarine factory had made her
hot all over. “What perfectly hateful people!
<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>He did nothing but talk, and she did nothing
but eat!”</p>
<p class='c007'>Lady Condor arose briskly from her chair,
scattering West Highlanders around her.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Where is Roger?” she demanded. “I am
going to be really clever if I can only concentrate
sufficiently to say what I mean. Don’t distract
my thoughts, any of you! But I must have
Roger! He is the only really brainy one among
us—at least, I mean he is the only one who’s
used his brains. I have naturally a very good
brain, but it is rusty from want of use. All
our brains are rusty. But what is it I want?
Oh yes—Roger. In his study, my dear? Let
us all go—yes. Where are my glasses, and my
gloves? Please put them in your pocket until
I go, Arthur. I cannot afford to lose them as
I used to do. Down, children! down!”</p>
<p class='c007'>She took Mrs. North’s arm, and with Mr.
Fothersley on her other hand and the dogs in
full chorus, started across the lawn toward the
house.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Well played, Violet! well played! The
child’s as good as ever at it. But where were
we going? Oh yes—I must have Roger. We
will surprise him through the window. He will
be very cross, but he won’t say anything because
it’s me. Ah—but there he is——”</p>
<p class='c007'>North’s long figure came out into the sunlight,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>and as he approached the group he had much
the air of a big schoolboy who had been playing
truant.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I apologize profusely,” he said. “My
intentions were of the very best. I intended to
come out to tea, but I happened on Mr. Pithey
in the hall, where he was endeavouring to purchase
Mansfield——”</p>
<p class='c007'>There was a chorus of exclamations.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Well, he was asking Mansfield to recommend
him a good butler for a gentleman’s establishment.
Salary no object, if man satisfactory.
I confess I ran away. Lady Condor, if you will
drink another cup of tea I should love to fetch
it for you, but it is plainly not my fault if you
will encourage my wife to entertain these
people.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“You would never entertain anybody if you
had your own way,” said his wife.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I would always entertain Lady Condor. Or
rather, I am always sure Lady Condor will entertain
me.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Well, I am delighted with Mr. Pithey,” announced
Lady Condor, reoccupying her chair,
and enjoying the sensation she created. “Yes.
In Mr. Pithey I see our—now what is the word
I want?—oh yes—our avenger! The people
have dethroned Us. They are taxing Us out of
existence. Condor told me this morning he must
<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>put the Cleve estate into the market. I shall
be lucky if I keep my diamonds, and poor Hawkhurst
will be lucky if he and his wife don’t end
in the workhouse. But where was I? I had
got it all in my head just now. If only I could
write it all down directly I think of it, I could
make my fortune as a writer of leaders in a
daily paper. Yes. They have dethroned Us,
and they will get Pitheys, dozens of Pitheys,
instead. We shall be ruined, obsolete, extinct,
but we shall be revenged. They will get Pitheys
in our place. Heaven be praised! The old
<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">nouveaux riches</span></i> were bearable. They had reverence,
they recognized their limitations, they
were prepared to be taught. Look at you dear
people, of course we have all known about the
margarine. And you, dear Nita, yours was wine—or
was it mineral water?—something to drink,
wasn’t it? We needn’t hide anything now,
because the Pitheys will strip everything bare.
If you dear things had come here with 2½d. a
year, and lived in a villa, we should never have
known you. And yet—yes, now I have it—yet
really and truly, Roger was the real aristocracy.
The aristocracy of brains. The margarine and
wine didn’t matter, nor did the money—at least,
I mean it ought not to have. I’m getting
terribly muddled! And where is my scarf?
Did I drop it when I got up? Oh, here it is.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>You see, We made the aristocracy of wealth.
We couldn’t resist the shoots in Scotland for
the boys, and the balls for the girls, and the
snug directorships on big companies. Yes—we
smirched our position—our grandfathers
and grandmothers would never have done
it. And now here we are positively being
patronized—yes, dear Arthur—patronized by
Pitheys. I think I have gone off on to another
tack. It was losing my scarf! But I am delighted
with Pithey. He will avenge Us on
the masses—Pithey the Avenger—yes. But I
should have put it much better if I could have
said it while he was here. Arthur, do look
more cheerful! Think of Pithey as the avenger.
It makes him so bearable. And I will have
that cup of tea, Roger!”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I cannot laugh,” said Mr. Fothersley. His
voice, even though addressing Lady Condor,
held a word of rebuke. “We should never
have called! It enrages me to think that we
should have submitted to such—such——”</p>
<p class='c007'>Words failed him. “However,” he added,
“we have reason to be thankful we did not call
on the St. Ubes. I gathered to-day that the
name, which might easily have misled us, was
originally <em>Stubbs</em>. I shall <em>not</em> call. These
Pithey people——”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>Again words failed him, and Lady Condor
chuckled.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Mrs. Pithey disapproves of me,” she announced.
“She is probably telling Mr. Pithey
that I paint. I must own it is very badly done
to-day; Mullins was in a temper. She always
makes me up badly when she is in a temper.
Now do let us enjoy ourselves! Let us forget
the Pithian invasion. Thank you—and some
cake—yes. And some one else must have some
tea to keep me company. Dear Nita—yes.
The poor hostess never gets enough tea. Now
this is cosy. And where are my glasses? I
have not <em>looked</em> at the tennis yet. And I know
it is very good. And I have not spoken to
dear Violet, or to Fred. And there, why surely
they are playing together. Did they draw
together? How strange! The child is lovelier
than ever. And now they have finished.
Bring them to have tea with me. What
is Fred now? A major! Isn’t it too ridiculous?
And I suppose those little boys you
have brought with you in R.A.F. uniforms are
Brigadier-Generals. And have you won the
tournament, my dears?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“No,” said Fred Riversley. He and Violet
had shaken hands and had waited till
Lady Condor stopped for breath. “No. I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>played very badly. Even Vi couldn’t pull me
through.”</p>
<p class='c007'>He was a fair heavily-built young man, and
while the ladies talked, all three seemingly
at once, for Lady Condor rarely ceased, he sat
down on the grass and was at once the centre
of attraction for the five dogs. When a momentary
pause occurred, he asked, “How’s Dudley?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Dudley,” said Lady Condor, “has got his
aluminium leg. It is really too wonderful.
You’d never guess it wasn’t a real live leg—unless
he tries to run, which of course he mustn’t
do. But everything else. And John, we had
letters from only yesterday. Russia—yes—and
Heaven knows when we’ll get him back.
And where is your Harry? Why, it seems
only yesterday he was retrieving tennis balls
in a sailor suit!”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Harry is stuck at Marseilles,” said Riversley,
“on his way to Egypt. Doesn’t know
what’s going to happen to him till Peace is
signed.”</p>
<p class='c007'>The little group fell on a sudden silence, a
silence that the steady thud of the tennis balls,
the call of the scores, the applause, did not
touch. A shadow seemed to cross the sunbathed
lawns and brilliant flower-beds. There
were others whom they all remembered, of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>whom no one would ever ask for news again.</p>
<p class='c007'>Riversley got up and carried the empty cups
back to the tea-table. Then he stood and
watched the tennis for a little space.</p>
<p class='c007'>His mind moved heavily, but he was conscious
that, in spite of all the momentum given
by a great reaction, it would not be so easy
as of old to make a business of pleasure.</p>
<p class='c007'>Presently he slipped away to the peace and
seclusion of his father-in-law’s study. It was
a long low room, lined from floor to ceiling with
books. North’s writing-table stood in one window,
the other opened on to the lawn, while a
further means of escape was afforded by a
second door at the end of the room opening
into his laboratory. In the great armchair
guarding the hearth slept respectively Larry
and Victoria, the little lady fox-terrier who
owned Roger North. Between Vic and Larry
there existed a curious compact, immovable apparently
as the laws of the Medes and Persians.
Each had a share of the room on which the
other never encroached, and Larry possessed
certain privileges, plainly conceded by Victoria,
with regard to North, beyond which he
never went. In all other matters the two were
fast friends, and had been so long before Larry
came to live at Westwood. Lady Condor’s
West Highlanders they tolerated in the garden,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>but never in the house. Both dogs greeted
Riversley with effusion, and the heavy, silent
young man sat with Victoria on his knee and
Larry at his feet, surrounding himself with
clouds of smoke and stroking the little sleek
head against his arm.</p>
<p class='c007'>Presently North joined him. “You are
staying the night?” he asked, accepting a proffered
cigar.</p>
<p class='c007'>“No.” Riversley emptied his pipe of ashes
and began to refill it.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I’ve made the excuse of business in London,”
he went on after that little pause. “I
think Vi wants a change from—everything.”</p>
<p class='c007'>There was another pause, but still North did
not speak. He understood this stolid and
apparently rather ordinary young man better
than most people did. He knew the difficulty
with which he spoke of things that touched
him deeply, things that really mattered. So he
lit his cigar and passed the light in silence,
and presently Riversley went on again.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You see, I still think Vi did the best thing
she could, under the circumstances, when she
married me,” he said, “but even so it has not
been the success I hoped it would have been.
There’s something wrong. Something more
than having to put up with me instead of a
chap like old Dick. It was a knock-down blow
<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>losing him, but Vi was damned plucky over that,
and it doesn’t account for——”</p>
<p class='c007'>“What?” asked North, sharply this time,
when the usual pause came.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I don’t know,” answered Riversley, stolid
as ever. “That’s what worries me. I can’t
put a name to it. But there’s something wrong.
Vi’s altered, and it isn’t for the better.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Altered?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Well, she looks at things differently—she’s
lost—oh, I don’t know.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“My dear fellow, can’t you be a little more
explicit?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“No. I’m a stupid sort of a fellow, or perhaps
I’d understand better what’s wrong. The
only thing definite that I can lay hold of is,
that she gets sudden spasms of hatred, and it’s—well,
it’s like looking into a red-hot hell. I
don’t know how else to describe it. She always
had a bit of a temper, you know, but this is
different. And”—his voice dropped a little
and lost its steadiness for a moment—“the
animals won’t go near her sometimes.”</p>
<p class='c007'>There was a queer strange silence for a
minute across which the laughter outside broke
like a jangling wire.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I expect she’s treated them unjustly,” said
North, conscious even as he spoke of the futility
of his reason.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>“Dogs never resent where they care,” said
Riversley briefly. “It’s not that. They—they
are afraid of her for some reason, and it’s
horribly uncanny sometimes. I thought perhaps
if she came down here without me, had a
rest from me you know, it would help her a
bit.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North nodded. “I think you are wise. I
hope it’s only a passing phase. She’s been
through a stiff time, and we are none of us yet
quite normal, I fancy.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“It isn’t as if she’d care for me,” Riversley
went on steadily. “I took my risk, and I’d
take it again, and I’m not blaming her, mind
you. And I’m only telling you about it because
she seems to hang on to you, and you’ll be able
to help her better if you know.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes, I understand that,” returned North.
He felt, as a matter of fact, particularly helpless.
What Riversley had just told him, coupled
with Violet’s outburst to himself that afternoon,
worried and disturbed him not a little.
He remembered those words of hers: “Sometimes
I am frightened.” The words overwrought,
hysterical, long-strained, jumbled in
his mind and brought no comfort. Then suddenly,
like a hand stretched out to a stumbling
man, came the thought of Thorpe, its radiant
peace, the steady eyes of Ruth Seer. And with
<span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>that came the thought of Dick Carey. He
looked across at Riversley.</p>
<p class='c007'>“There’s one thing I’d like to tell you,” he
said, “and that is, Dick wished Violet had
chosen you instead of himself. He felt somehow
that you were really better suited to her.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Riversley’s eyes met his in blank amazement.
“Dick thought that?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“He always felt he was too old for Vi. But
she was desperately in love with him, and he
knew it, and you know old Dick. Besides, Vi
could twist almost any man round her little
finger. But that he would have been glad if her
choice had fallen on you instead of himself, I
have no doubt whatever.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Riversley stood up, filling his chest with a
long breath. “Thank you for telling me,” he
said. “It’s a help.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“There’s one other thing I’d like to say,”
North went on, speaking rather hurriedly, “and
that is, see that you and Vi don’t get like myself
and her mother. Vi is like her in some ways,
and though no doubt I’ve been in fault too, and
we were always wholly unsuited, yet we began
under better conditions than you have. And
now we’ve got on each other’s nerves so much
that everything she says or does irritates me,
and vice versa. We <em>can’t</em> get right now if we
would. She thinks she’s fond of me still, because
<span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>it’s the correct thing to be fond of your
husband, but it’s far nearer hatred than love.
And I—have no delusions. And for God’s
sake, my boy, keep clear of following in our
footsteps.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“We come of a different generation, sir,”
said Riversley simply. “If we can’t hit it off,
we shall part. Only if there is trouble ahead
for her, and I am afraid there is, I’m right
there.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North looked at him with kindly eyes, but he
sighed. He knew only too well how the long
years of misunderstanding, and irritability, and
want of give and take, can wear out what at
first seemed such a wonderful and indestructible
thing.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Roger! Roger!” shrilled his wife’s voice
from the lawn. “Everyone is going. Aren’t
you coming to say good-bye?”</p>
<p class='c007'>She flashed on their vision as she called, her
face flushed with indignation under her beflowered
hat, her hands full of small boxes,
tissue paper and cotton wool.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I really do think you might help a little!
It looks so odd, and all my friends think you
peculiar enough already.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Brought back with a shock to the deadly
importance of the ordinary routine, North became
<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>flippant. “You don’t mean to say they
tell you so?” he asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>“It’s easy enough to guess what they must
think, without any telling,” retorted his wife.
“At any rate, if you can’t behave with common
civility yourself, you might let Fred come and
help me. Fred, I have arranged for cold supper
at 8.30. Will you come at once and look after
the friends you brought down, while Violet and
I change. And don’t, I beg you, for Violet’s
sake, get into the same ways as her father.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Riversley followed her meekly across the
lawn. “I’m really awfully sorry,” he apologized.
“Is there anything else I can do?”</p>
<p class='c007'>Then he stopped. His mother-in-law was
immersed in a group of her guests saying good-bye,
and his eyes had found the figure they
always sought. Outside the front door, Lady
Condor, her scarves, gloves, and glasses, were
all being packed carefully into her bath-chair,
and a little way down the drive was his wife.
In front of her, just out of arm’s length, were
the little pack of West Highlanders, barking
furiously. She stooped down, coaxing them to
come and be petted.</p>
<p class='c007'>He progressed across the lawn towards her
in his usual rather ponderous fashion, and
stood watching. All the light of the sun seemed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>for him to centre round that slim white figure.
It touched the smooth dark silk of her hair
with a crown of glory, and found no flaw in the
clear pale skin, the rose-red mouth. Those
slender hands held out to the dogs, he would
have followed them to the end of the earth.
He loved all of her, with every thing he had or
was.</p>
<p class='c007'>Presently she gave up her hopeless efforts,
and, standing to her full height, looked at him
across the still barking dogs.</p>
<p class='c007'>“They have forgotten me, the little pigs!”
she said. “They won’t even let me pat them.”</p>
<p class='c007'>But Riversley knew, even as dogs do not
resent where they love, neither do they forget.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>
<h2 id='V' class='c005'>CHAPTER V</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c006'>“If I were not a farmer, I would like to be
a master mason,” said Ruth Seer very
firmly.</p>
<p class='c007'>She was sitting by the roadside, watching
the workmen lay the foundation for her first
cottage. The process interested her enormously.
The master mason at intervals paused
in his work and instructed her as to its purport.
She was learning the use and meaning
of the square, the level, and the plumb-rule.
She was also enjoying herself quite a lot.</p>
<p class='c007'>Across her knees lay Bertram Aurelius. He
guggled cheerfully in answer, and bit her forefinger
vigorously with such teeth as he possessed.</p>
<p class='c007'>Bertram Aurelius had come into the world
without benefit of clergy. His father belonged
to the B.E.F., his mother was a between-maid,
and in the ordinary course of events he should
have gone to his own place. But values had
shifted considerably during the years of the
Great War, and in the year of Peace both male
babies, even though unauthorized, and between-maids,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>had come to be recognized as very distinctly
valuable assets.</p>
<p class='c007'>Gladys Bone, Bertram Aurelius’s mother,
aged eighteen, was pathetically anxious to
please, a trait which had probably assisted in
her undoing, and took the good advice meekly,
except where Bertram Aurelius was concerned.
Here the good ladies, who had with great difficulty
scraped together the money to start a
rescue home for unmarried mothers in Fairbridge,
reasoned with her in vain. She insisted
on his certainly somewhat startling
combination of names and persisted in calling
him by both. She was perfectly unashamed of
the fact that he had no authentic father.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Ain’t he beautiful?” seemed to appear to
her quite a sufficient answer to those who endeavoured
to present the subject in its proper
light. And, worst of all, she absolutely refused
to be separated from him.</p>
<p class='c007'>The little grey-haired, pink-cheeked spinster,
who practically settled such matters, was in
despair. In her inmost heart she sympathized
with Gladys, Bertram Aurelius being an infant
of considerable charm. At the same time she
realized that it was almost impossible to find
anyone mad enough to engage a housemaid, or
even a between-maid, with a baby thrown in.</p>
<p class='c007'>One day, however, when Bertram Aurelius
<span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>had reached the adorable age of ten months,
the unexpected happened. Little Miss Luce
travelled from London in the same carriage
with Ruth Seer, and getting into conversation,
told her the story of Gladys and Bertram
Aurelius Bone. At the moment Ruth was
meditating the possibility of getting a girl to
help Miss McCox without permanently destroying
the peace of Thorpe Farm. Gladys Bone
seemed the possibility. Never having lived,
save for her brief three months’ companionship,
in a well-regulated family, the accompanying
baby did not strike her as an impossibility,
but rather as a solution.</p>
<p class='c007'>Then and there on arriving at Fairbridge did
Miss Luce carry her off to see them both.</p>
<p class='c007'>Bertram Aurelius had eyes the colour of a
delphinium, a head of red down, and a skin like
strawberries and cream. He had little hands
that held you tight and pink toes which he curled
and uncurled. He crowed at Ruth and promptly
put her finger in his mouth.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Ain’t he beautiful?” said his small mother.</p>
<p class='c007'>“She is really an excellent worker,” said<a id='t87'></a> little
Miss Luce, when Gladys and Bertram Aurelius
had been dismissed. “And she will do anything
for anyone who is good to the baby. If
you think you <em>could</em> manage with him, possibly——?”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>She looked at Ruth anxiously.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth laughed. “My dear lady,” she said,
“I have just discovered that the one thing
wanted to make Thorpe perfect is a baby.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“But you have other servants,” suggested
Miss Luce. “I fear you may find them a difficulty.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Certainly Miss McCox’s attitude towards the
situation was more than doubtful, but Ruth had
learnt that a distinctly soft kernel existed somewhere
under the hard shell of an unattractive
personality. She thought of Bertram Aurelius’s
blue eyes and soft red head.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I think you must send Gladys out to Thorpe
to apply for the situation <em>with</em> Bertram Aurelius,”
she said.</p>
<p class='c007'>They looked at each other, and Miss Luce
nodded comprehensively. “He is a very attractive
baby,” she murmured.</p>
<p class='c007'>It was the next morning, while Ruth was revelling
in the arrival of delicious fluffy yellow
things in her fifty-egg incubator, that Miss
McCox emerged from the house, evidently
the bearer of news of importance.</p>
<p class='c007'>As always, she was spotlessly clean and almost
unbearably neat, and her clothes appeared
to be uncomfortably tight. Her collar was
fastened by a huge amber brooch, her waist-belt
by a still larger glittering metal buckle,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>both presents from the young man to whom
she had been engaged in her distant youth, and
who had died of what Miss McCox described
as a declining consumption. Out of the corner
of Ruth’s eye she looked distinctly uncompromising.</p>
<p class='c007'>“There’s a young woman come to apply for
the situation,” she announced.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Does she seem likely to be any good?”
asked Ruth, still busy with the incubator.</p>
<p class='c007'>“She’s got a baby,” said Miss McCox, who
always came to the point. “And she wants to
keep it.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“A baby?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“A baby,” repeated Miss McCox firmly. “A
baby as didn’t ought to have come, but it’s
there.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh!” said Ruth weakly. “Well, what do
you think about it?”</p>
<p class='c007'>Miss McCox fingered the amber brooch. This
Ruth knew to be a distinct sign of weakness.</p>
<p class='c007'>“The young woman’s civil spoken, and I
reckon there’s worse about <em>with</em> their ring on,”
she said darkly. “I’m willin’ to try her, if
you are.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth hid a smile among the yellow chicks.
The charm of Bertram Aurelius had worked.</p>
<p class='c007'>“But the baby?” she asked. “Can we possibly
manage with the baby?”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>“Why not?” returned Miss McCox sharply.
“Babies aren’t much trouble, God knows! It’s
the grown-ups make <em>me</em> sick!”</p>
<p class='c007'>So Bertram Aurelius came to live at Thorpe,
and was rapidly absorbed into the life on the
farm. He was a good and cheerful infant, and
anyone could take charge of him. He was
equally contented, whether viewing the world
over Ruth’s shoulder while she inspected the
farm, or in his cradle in the corner of the kitchen
listening to curious noises called singing,
which Miss McCox, to the amazement of the
whole establishment, produced for his benefit.
He would lie among the hay in a manger, even
as the Babe of all time, while Ruth and the
cowman milked, or on his crawler on the terrace,
guarded by Sarah and Selina, who took to him
much as if he had been one of those weird
black and white puppies of Sarah’s youthful
indiscretion. And Gladys, his mother, worked
cheerfully and indefatigably to please, sitting
at Miss McCox’s feet for instructions, and the
peace and comfort of Thorpe deepened and
broadened day by day.</p>
<p class='c007'>It was now near mid-June, and the fine
weather still held. Day after day broke to
unclouded sunshine, a world full of flowers and
the rhythmic life of growing things. The seeds
and baby plants cried for rain, the hay and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>fruit crops would suffer, but Ruth, her heart
torn both ways, could not regret. It was all
so beautiful, and when the rain came, who could
tell? It might be all the real summer weather
of the year, this wonderful May and June.</p>
<p class='c007'>To-day, little ever-so-soft white clouds broke
the clear blue of the sky, but there was still no
sign of change. The wild roses and the broom
were in perfection, and everywhere was the
honey and almond scent of gorse; the buttercup
glory was over but the ox-eyed daisies were
all out, turning their sweet moon faces to the
sun.</p>
<p class='c007'>From where she sat Ruth could see the rose-red
roofs of Thorpe with the white pigeons
drowsing in the heat. Her cottages were to be
equally beautiful on a smaller scale. She
dreamt, as she sat in the warmth and the sweetness,
with Bertram Aurelius cooing softly in her
lap, visualizing pictures such as were growing in
the minds of many in the great year of Peace,
seeing beautiful homes where the strong man
and the mother, with sturdy round-limbed
children, should live, where the big sons and
comely daughters should come in and out, in
the peace of plenty and to the sound of laughter.
It might all be so wonderful, for the wherewithal
is ours, is here with us. The good brown
earth, the sun and the rain, fire and water, all
<span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>the teeming life of nature, all ours to mould
into a life of beauty for ourselves and our
children.</p>
<p class='c007'>Dreams? Yes. But such dreams are the
seeds of the beautiful, which shall, if they find
soil, blossom into beauty in the time to come,
for the little children lying on our knees, clutching
at our hearts.</p>
<p class='c007'>Presently there intruded into Ruth’s dreams
the large presence of Mr. Pithey, and she discovered
him standing in the white dust of the
road in front of her. Disapproval and curiosity
both appeared together in his little sharp
eyes. According to Mr. Pithey’s ideas it was
distinctly unseemly for a person in Ruth’s position
to sit by the roadside “like a common
tramp,” as he expressed it to Mrs. Pithey later
on. To his mind, somehow, the baby in her lap
accentuated the unseemliness, and it made the
thing worse that she was both hatless and gloveless.
Had she been properly dressed for the
roads, the rest might have been an accident.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I should think you’d get a sunstroke, sitting
by the road like that without your hat,” he said.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Pithey himself was expensively dressed
in pale grey with a white waistcoat and spats.
On his head he wore a five-guinea panama, and
his general appearance forcibly reminded Ruth
<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>of an immaculately groomed large, pale yellow
pig. Her grey eyes smiled at him out of her
sun-browned face. She had a disarming smile.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I believe I was nearly asleep,” she said, and
dug her knuckles into her eyes much as a child
does.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Pithey softened. “What on earth are
you sitting there for?” he asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Just dreaming. But you mustn’t think I’m
an idler, Mr. Pithey. Even Pan sleeps at this
hour.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Her smile deepened, and Mr. Pithey softened
still more. He stepped out of the dust into
the grass, passing as he did so into a more
friendly attitude.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Pan?—that’s a queer name for a baby!”
he said.</p>
<p class='c007'>The smile became just the softest thing in
laughs. “Well, his proper name is Bertram
Aurelius. But Pan——” She held Bertram
Aurelius up the while he chuckled at her, striving
to fit his hand into his mouth. “Look at
his blue eyes, and his little pointed ears, and his
head of red down. Really Pan suits him much
better.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Um,” said Mr. Pithey. “Bertram is a good
sensible name for a boy, like my own, and not
too common. Better stick to that. So you’ve
<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>started your cottages. Well, you remember
what I told you. Don’t you think they’re going
to pay, because they won’t.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh yes, they’ll pay,” said Ruth. “Why,
of course they’ll pay!” There was mischief
in her eye.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Now look here,” said Mr. Pithey heavily.
“It’s no good talking to a woman; it’s in at
one ear and out of the other. But if you’ll walk
up to the house with me, I’ll put it down in
black and white. The return you’ll get for
your money——”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh, money!” interrupted Ruth. “I wasn’t
thinking of money.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Pithey heeled over, as it were, like a ship
brought up when sailing full before the wind.</p>
<p class='c007'>“If it’s damned rotten sentiment you’re
after,” he exclaimed, “well you can take my
word for it <em>that</em> doesn’t pay either!”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth looked up at him as he stood over her,
a very wrathfully indignant immaculate, pale
yellow pig indeed. She thought of his millions,
and the power they wielded and then of the
power they might wield if backed by any imagination.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Mr. Pithey,” she said, and her voice was
very low, and it had in it the sound of many
waters which had gone over her soul, “I have
<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>seen our dead men lie in rows, many hundreds,
through the dark night, waiting till the
dawn for burial; they did not ask if it paid.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Pithey shuffled with his big feet in the
grass. “That’s different,” he said, but his
little sharp eyes fell. “I should have gone
myself, but my business was of national importance,
as of course you know. Yes, that’s
different. That’s different.” He seemed to
find satisfaction in the words. He eyed Ruth
again with equanimity. “Of course you ladies
don’t understand, but you can’t bring sentiment
into business.”</p>
<p class='c007'>He puffed himself out. Again the phrase
pleased.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth rose to her feet. Even to her broad
charity he had become oppressively obnoxious.</p>
<p class='c007'>“How much did you offer me for Thorpe?”
she asked suddenly.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Pithey’s eyes snapped. “Twenty-five
per cent. on your money,” he said, “or I might
even go a bit higher as you’re a lady.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth tossed Bertram Aurelius over her
shoulder, laughing.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Do you know what has made Thorpe the
gem it is?” she asked. “Why, sentiment!
Unless you have some to spend on it, it wouldn’t
pay you to buy.”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>She nodded a farewell and left him with a
strangled “damn” on his lips. He yearned
after Thorpe. As a pleasure farm for himself
it left little to be desired.</p>
<p class='c007'>He expressed his feelings to Mrs. Pithey,
who, coming along presently in her Rolls-Royce,
with the two elder children in their best clothes,
picked him out of the dust and took him home
to tea.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Why, it must have been her I passed just
now!” she exclaimed. “There now, if I didn’t
think it was just a common woman, and never
bowed!”</p>
<p class='c007'>“A good thing too!” said Mr. Pithey majestically.
And he said to Mrs. Pithey all the
things he would have said to Miss Seer if she
had given him a chance.</p>
<p class='c007'>Undisturbed by the omission, Ruth went
home across the flowered fields, but Mr. Pithey
himself oppressed her. It seemed grossly unfit,
somehow, that the life sacrifice of those dead
boys should result in benefit, material benefit at
any rate, to the Pitheys of the world; it shocked
even one’s sense of decency.</p>
<p class='c007'>But Bertram Aurelius’s head was very soft
against her throat as he dropped into sleep.
The sun was very warm, the almond and honey
scent of gorse was very sweet. Presently
<span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>she unruffled, and began to sing the song
which seemed to her to belong especially to
Thorpe:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c008'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“When I have reached my journey’s end</div>
<div class='line in4'>And I am dead and free,</div>
<div class='line in2'>I pray that God will let me go</div>
<div class='line in2'>Along the flowered fields I know</div>
<div class='line in4'>That look towards the sea.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c007'>So she came to the stile which led to the buttercup
field, crimson and white now with sorrel
and ox-eyed daisies. And standing among the
flowers was a slim figure, the figure of a woman
dressed all in white. Ruth stopped on the stile
to look. It was so beautiful in poise and outline,
it gave her that little delightful shock of
joy which only beauty gives. Backed by the
blue sky, bathed in the broad afternoon sunlight,
it was worthy even of her flower fields. Very
still the figure stood, gazing across those fields
that “looked towards the sea,” and just as still,
in a breathless pause, Ruth stood and watched
and wondered.</p>
<p class='c007'>For gradually she became aware of a strange
appearance as of fire surrounding the slim
figure. It was of oval shape, vivid scarlet in
colour, deepening at the base. Other colours
there were in the oval, but the fiery glow of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>red drowned them into insignificance. Ruth
shaded her eyes with her disengaged hand,
suspecting some illusion of light, but the oval
held its shape under the steady scrutiny, and
with a little gasp she realized that she was
looking at that which the ordinary physical
sight does not reveal. Vague memories of
things read in old books out of Raphael Goltz’s
library, descriptions of the coloured auric egg
which, invisible to the human eye, surrounds all
living forms, raced hurriedly through her mind,
but she had read of them more with curiosity
than with any thought that they would ever
come within the boundary of her own consciousness.
As she realized what the phenomenon
was, a growing shrinking from it, a sense of
horror, a feeling that there was something sinister,
threatening, in the fiery implacable red
of the appearance, came over her like a wave.
She was glad of Bertram Aurelius’s warm little
body against her own, and found she was fighting
a desire to turn back and retrace her steps.
A desire so wholly absurd on the face of it,
that she shook herself together and resolutely
moved forward. As she did so, the white figure
moved too, coming down the slope of the field
to meet her, and as it came the scarlet oval
faded, flickered, and, so far as Ruth was concerned,
seemed to go out. The ordinary everyday
<span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>things of life came back with a curious
dislocating jerk, and she found herself looking
into a very wonderful pair of golden-brown eyes
set in short, but oddly thick, black lashes, and
a light high voice spoke, a voice with sudden
bell-like cadences in it, so often heard in the
voice of French women. It was as attractive
as all the rest of Violet Riversley’s physical
equipment.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Is it Miss Seer? May I introduce myself?
I expect as Roger North’s daughter will be
simplest,” she said, holding out her hand
“Father dropped me here on his way to Fairbridge
with Lady Condor. They are both calling
here later to see you and pick me up, also
hoping for tea, father told me to say. Your
maid told me I should find you if I came down
this way. Do you mind that I have picked
some of your moon daisies? There are none
fine as grow in this field.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“No, no, of course not,” Ruth half stammered,
realizing for the first time that she carried
a sheaf of daisies in the bend of her arm.
Why, everything would have been hers but for
the chance of war. This was the woman who
was to have married Dick Carey. And somehow,
all at once, Ruth knew that this meeting
was not the ordinary everyday occurrence such
meetings mostly are. It had a meaning, a purpose
<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>of its own. She felt a sudden shrinking
of some inner sense, even as she had just now
felt a physical shrinking. She wanted to back
out of something, she knew not what, just as
she had had that ridiculous desire just now to
turn round and go the other way. And yet,
standing staring at her in this stupid dumb
way, she did not dislike Violet Riversley; far
from it. She was distinctly attracted by her,
and her beauty drew Ruth like a charm.</p>
<p class='c007'>It seemed quite a long time before she heard
her own voice saying, “Please pick—take—anything
you like.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Thanks ever so much,” said Mrs. Riversley.
She had turned to walk up the path. “I’m
just like a child. I always want to pick flowers
when I see them, and they seem to grow here
better than anywhere else I know. Mr. Carey
used to say he had squared the Flower Elementals.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She spoke the name quite simply and casually,
while Ruth was conscious of a ridiculous feeling
of shyness.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I think it quite likely,” she answered.
“Look at the wisteria.” They had reached
the ridge of the slope and could see where the
flowered fields merged into the garden proper.
“All along the top of the wall, against the blue.
I have never seen any so wonderful.”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>It was amazingly wonderful, but Mrs. Riversley
looked at it without any apparent pleasure.</p>
<p class='c007'>“It is ever so good of you to let me come and
invade you in this informal way,” she said,
with her little gracious social manner. “Father
said he was sure you would not mind. And
you won’t let me interrupt you, will you? You
work on the farm yourself, don’t you? It is
not just a pretence of farming with you.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I was just going to milk,” said Ruth, smiling.
“We are one hand short to-day, so if you
won’t mind my leaving you till teatime, and you
will just do exactly what you like, and pick
anything you like——”</p>
<p class='c007'>Then Violet Riversley did, for her, an unusual
thing. She slipped her hand into Ruth’s,
as a shy, rather lonely child might have done.
It was one of the moments when she was irresistible.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Let me come with you and watch,” she said.
“And why do you carry that big baby about?
Is it a good work?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“He’s the farm baby,” said Ruth, her eyes
twinkling. “And we found him under a gooseberry-bush.”</p>
<p class='c007'>They had reached the terrace, and the pigeons,
just awake from their midday slumber on
the sun-baked roof, came tumbling down, fluttering
round Ruth, searching the big pockets of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>her overall for corn, while Bertram Aurelius
vainly strove to catch a wing or tail.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mrs. Riversley stood at a little distance.
“My goodness, they are tame,” she exclaimed,
as the pretty chase for the hidden food went on.
“Just as tame as they were with——” She
stopped and looked round her. “It is extraordinary
how little the place has changed—and
it’s not pretending either—it really is just the
same here. The same old comfortable at-home
feeling. Did you know Mr. Carey by any
chance? No, I suppose not. But it’s funny—I
have something the same feeling with you
I always had with him, and with no one else
ever in the world. You rest me—you do me
good—you are something cool on a hot day. You
know, father felt it too, and he is not given to
feelings. Do get rid of that great fat lump.
Put him back under his gooseberry-tree. Then
we will go milking.” She advanced on Bertram
Aurelius threateningly. “Where <em>does</em> he go?”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth broke into laughter. “He will go in
the manger on the hay, or anywhere else that
comes handy. Or—but wait a minute—here
come the dogs.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Sarah and Selina were proceeding decorously
up the path from the front gate. To all appearances
they had been taking a little gentle exercise.
There was an air of meekness, an engaging
<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>innocence, about them which, to those who
knew them, told its own tale. They had undoubtedly
been up to mischief.</p>
<p class='c007'>“The dogs?” queried Mrs. Riversley.</p>
<p class='c007'>“They will look after him,” explained Ruth.</p>
<p class='c007'>She went into the house and brought out a
small wooden cradle on rockers. In this she
arranged Bertram Aurelius, who took the
change with his usual philosophy, waved his
bare pink legs with vigour, and strove to catch
the sunbeams flickering through the jasmine
leaves. The little dogs sat side by side, very
alert and full of responsibility.</p>
<p class='c007'>It was a picture full of charm, but Mrs. Riversley
held herself aloof, though she watched
the swift neat movement of Ruth’s work-worn
hands with interest until she joined her.</p>
<p class='c007'>Then she became for the next half-hour an
entirely delightful companion, talking gaily in
her pretty cadenced voice, flitting here and
there like some white bird about the big fragrant
cowshed, eager with the impulsive eagerness
of a child to show that she too knew how to
milk. Dick had taught her. She spoke of him
frequently and without self-consciousness. She
told Ruth many things that interested her to
know. And gradually the curious shell of hardness,
that apparent want of sympathy with all
the beautiful teeming life of the farm disappeared.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>She milked, to Ruth’s astonishment,
well and deftly. She understood much about
chicken and pigs. She held the down-soft
yellow ducklings in her shapely hands, and
broke into open enthusiasm over the little white
kid who ran with the herd.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I wonder,” she said, when the milking was
over and Ruth suggested tea, “I wonder if by
any chance our ‘house on the wall’ is still
there?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“You mean where the kitchen garden wall is
built out to meet the beech-tree, and the
branches are like three seats, the highest one
in the middle, and there are some shelves?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes—yes! and you can see all round and no
one can see you. Dick built it for us when we
were children—Fred, and I, and the Condor
boys. We were always here. We played at
keeping house up there, and Dick used to tell
us stories about all the animals—there was one
about a mouse family too—and about the Elementals.
The Water Elementals, who took
care of the river, and who brought the rain, and
the dew in the early summer mornings; they
were all like silver gossamer and white foam.
And the Earth Elementals, who looked after the
flowers’ food; and the Elementals of Fire.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She stopped suddenly and shivered. They
were crossing a corner of the orchard on their
<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>way to the kitchen garden, and, to Ruth’s astonishment,
she looked round her with something
like fear in her eyes.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Did you feel it get colder, quite cold,” she
said, “as we crossed the footpath just there?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I believe it did, now you say so,” said Ruth.
“You get those funny bands of colder air sometimes.
The ground dips too, under those apple-trees.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Violet shivered again. She looked at the
apple trees and the odd look of fear in her
eyes deepened. “Has anyone ever spoken to
you of a man called von Schäde, a German, who
used to stay here?” she asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>“No,” said Ruth, and wondered.</p>
<p class='c007'>“He asked me to marry him, just over there,
under that biggest tree. It was covered with
blossom then, and there were white butterflies
about. Oh, he frightened me!” Her voice rose
in a little cry. “He frightened me. I hate to
think of it even now. I felt as if he could make
me do it, whether I wanted to or no. He kissed
me—like no one had ever kissed me before—I
could have killed him, I hated him so. But
even then I was afraid he might make me do it.
I was afraid. I would not see him again alone,
and I never felt really safe till I was engaged
to Dick, and even then”—her voice dropped
very low—“I was glad when Karl was killed.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>Do you think it was very horrid of me? I
couldn’t help it. Sometimes, even now, I
dream in the night that he has never died, that
he has come back and can make me do what
he likes.” She shuddered. “I have to shake
myself quite wide awake before I know it is
only a beastly dream. And I haven’t Dick now
any more.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She looked back over her shoulder and
shivered again.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You are sure that cold feeling was just quite
ordinary?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Why, yes,” said Ruth. “What should it
be?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I don’t know. Let us get to the house on
the wall.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She hurried on, and her slender feet in white
went up the rough steps as one at home. She
stood for a few moments and looked round,
while the old memories of what seemed like
another life came thronging back. Then she
climbed up into the middle seat, and sat there,
gathering herself together as a child does when
it is concentrating deeply. In the flickering
shadow of the leaves above and around, her face
looked wan, mysterious almost, her strange
golden eyes curiously alive, yet gazing, it
seemed, into another world.</p>
<p class='c007'>Her seat in the circle looked out across the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>great endless valley stretching away to the west.
Immediately below was the big hay field, ready
now for cutting. It fell in a gentle slope to
the river, which, diving under the roadway by
the front gate, curved round the garden, and
broke out into a miniature pond at the bottom of
the field, before it vanished among the bracken
where the territory of Thorpe ended and the
great beautiful forest of the Condor estate commenced.
In the pond were water-lilies, rose-coloured
and white, and tall brown bulrushes,
all in their season of perfection. Most noticeable
in the noble stretch of landscape beyond
was a clump of beech-trees on the ridge of the
near side of the valley, lifted up sheer against
the height of the sky. They had caught for
many years the full blast of the winds coming
up from the north-east, and only the topmost
branches survived, leaving their straight exquisite
trunks bare. To-day, standing high
above the blue distances, in the shimmering
light and heat, they had about them more than
usual of majesty and mystery.</p>
<p class='c007'>Violet Riversley sat very still. The myriads
of summer leaves rustled softly; here and there
a bird sang. Presently she began to speak,
even as another bird might have begun to sing.</p>
<p class='c007'>“And it takes a long time to get the water-lilies
to grow, because they won’t come anywhere
<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>until they are sure you really love them,
not just want them for show. It’s the same
with the Madonna lilies. And they never make
mistakes. You’ve got really to love them.
And the water-lilies like bulrushes close at hand
for a bodyguard, because the water-lilies are of
royal birth. The Water Elementals told Dick
all this. And so the lilies grew, and I loved the
pink ones best, but he loved the white. And
the tops of the beech-trees with the long trunks
are where the Earth Elementals say their
prayers; they choose trees like that so that the
Earth children cannot climb up and disturb
them. If you disturb them when they are saying
their prayers they get cross, and then the
flowers come all wrong. Red roses with a green
spike in their hearts, and the lime flowers
covered with black. And all that shimmery heat
is like it is in the desert, all like that and no
green. Only here and there water in a grove
of palm-trees. And there is the wood where
the Winds live. They will all be at home to-day,
resting.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth held her breath while she listened, and
then the voice fell very softly into silence. And
quite suddenly there came a sudden shower of
big soft tears. They made blurred marks on
the lustrous white skin, and she looked at Ruth
<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>with dim wet eyes like a child who had been
naughty.</p>
<p class='c007'>Presently she got up and came and sat down
on the top of the wall facing the garden.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Come and sit here too,” she said, patting
the bricks beside her. “It’s quite comfy if you
put your heels back into the steps. There’s
just room for two. We used to watch for Dick
coming home from here—I and Fred and the
eldest Condor boy. He was killed at Messines—and
little Teddy Rawson, the Vicar’s son—he
was afraid of almost everything—mice and
ferrets—just like a girl—and he died a hero’s
death at Gallipoli. And Sybil Rawson—she
went as a nurse to Salonica, and was torpedoed
coming home, and drowned. Only Fred and I
left, and the two youngest Condors.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Again she fell on silence, and again Ruth held
her breath. She feared that any word of hers
might break the spell of this return to the past
days which were like another life.</p>
<p class='c007'>“The flowers grow for you too. They are
just as wonderful as ever,” Mrs. Riversley
went on again, after a little while. “And you
have got a blue border. Delphinium, anchusa,
love-in-the-mist, and the nemophila—all
of them. I wonder how you came to think of
that?”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>“There were some of the plants still left,
and I—somehow I think I guessed.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“And the birds? Are they still as tame?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“They were shy at first, but they are beginning
to come back.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“The robins used to fly in and out of the
house. And even the swallow and kingfishers
used to come quite close to Dick. If I was with
him I had to be quite still for a long time before
they would come.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth’s face lighted with a sudden thought.
“The kingfishers?” she said.</p>
<p class='c007'>“They are the shyest of all birds. I suppose
we humans have always tried to catch
and kill them for their plumage. Dick hated
that sort of thing.” Her face grew hard and
the strange fire burnt up again in her eyes.
“And then he was shot down himself—shot
down as we shoot any bird or beast.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She stopped suddenly, the words choked back
in her throat, as the Condor car came over the
bridge and pulled up at the gate.</p>
<p class='c007'>Then she slipped down from the wall and
stood looking up at Ruth. “Thank you for
letting me go round with you—and talk. It’s
been good.” She pushed up the heavy wave
of hair from her forehead under her wide-brimmed
hat. “It’s taken me back for a little,
to what life used to be, from what I am to what
<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>I was. And now let us go and pick up all the
things Lady Condor will drop.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Lady Condor’s cheerful chatter was already
with them.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Now have I got everything? Yes—no—where
is my handkerchief? Did I put it into
the pocket? The parcels can all stay. No one
will touch them. Oh, there it is! Thank you,
Roger.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She began to ascend the path, shedding a blue
chiffon scarf, which North retrieved as he followed
her.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh, there you are, Violet! And this is
Seer? An unpardonably late call, but I have
been taking the chair at a meeting to discuss
the Women’s Victory Memorial. We discussed
for hours—the weirdest ideas! And the heat!
At the Town Hall? Yes. Why are town halls
and hospitals always hideous? There can’t be
any necessity for it. Tea indoors, out of the
sun? How nice! I never do like tea out-of-doors
myself really, though sometimes I pretend
to. And the dear old room—almost just
like it used to be. I am glad, though it makes
me want to cry. Yes. But where was I? Oh
yes, the weirdest ideas. Even a crematorium
was suggested. No, I am not inventing, dear
Violet. The good lady had lost her husband
and was obliged to take him all the way to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>Woking. Most trying, of course! I was really
sorry for her. But seemed so odd for a
Victory Memorial. So we settled on a maternity
home, a quite excellent idea. Trenching
on the improper, of course. It brought the
fact of babies coming into the world into such
a very concrete form as it were. But so necessary
just now—and that they should have every
chance. So even the dear ladies who attend
St. Christopher’s Church agreed. We parted
in the utmost harmony. So pleasant—and so
unusual!”</p>
<p class='c007'>“And have you settled on a War Memorial?”
asked North, rescuing her handkerchief from
Selina’s clutches.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Not yet! And I see no prospect—we are
still talking. We <em>shall</em> until some adventurous
spirit among us says, ‘Well, something must be
<em>done</em>.’ Then we shall go the way of least resistance—always
so safe and so unoriginal. Another
of those delightful sandwiches, please.
Your own Devonshire cream, of course. Why
can’t my cook make Devonshire cream? But
where was I? Oh yes—the War Memorial.
Then we shall erect an artistically offensive
monument. Who invented that word, I wonder.
And did the word come from the monstrosity,
or after? But it is so descriptive of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>what it is. Yes. And what is your idea of
a good memorial, Miss Seer?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I have only one idea at present,” said Ruth,
smiling. “And that is cottages.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Quite a good one too,” said North. “Why
hasn’t anyone thought of it?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Much too obvious, my dear,” exclaimed
Lady Condor. “The people are shrieking to
be housed, so we shall build them a library—yes.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“And the Pithians will build themselves
winter gardens and billiard-rooms and marble
swimming-baths,” said Mrs. Riversley.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Pithians!” exclaimed Lady Condor. “Who
was it thanked someone else for a word!
Thank you, dear Violet. Did I invent it myself
the other day? How clever of me! Pithians—yes.
Democracy will kill privilege as it
did in France, but the Pithians arise on our
ashes—or should it be Phœnix? I am getting
dreadfully muddled—it comes from talking too
much. Roger, why don’t you talk, instead of
letting me monopolize Miss Seer and all the
conversation?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“My dear lady, the Pithian glory is but
for a moment. We are all converging to the
same heap of ashes with amazing velocity, and
what will arise from those ashes you must ask
a wiser man than I.”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>“You think seriously of the outlook?” asked
Ruth.</p>
<p class='c007'>North helped himself to more bread-and-butter.
“I don’t think,” he said. “It won’t
bear thinking of—when you can do nothing.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Then Lady Condor, for once, put a straight
question without continuation.</p>
<p class='c007'>“What do you think of things?” she asked,
looking at Ruth.</p>
<p class='c007'>The silence grew, in some odd way, tense,
while they all waited for the answer. It surprised
North to find that he was waiting for it
with something which distinctly approached
interest.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth Seer’s face looked troubled for a moment,
and the colour came sweeping into it like
a flood, and left her very white. When she
spoke she felt as if the words came, dragged
with difficulty, from some unknown consciousness.
And though the words she spoke, undoubtedly
she felt to be true, were a testimony
of her own faith, yet she had only that moment
known the truth she was stating.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I believe,” she said slowly, haltingly, but
with a strange intensity of conviction, “I believe
we are not alone. Things are in the hands
of the men who have given their lives so that
things should be different—better. Their influence
is here—all about us. They, with added
<span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>knowledge—guide—through our darkness. It
is their great reward.”</p>
<p class='c007'>There was another silence, and Ruth flushed
again painfully, under the scrutiny of three
pairs of eyes. “Where did you get that idea
from?” asked Lady Condor.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I don’t know,” she answered, then amended
her statement. “At least, I am not sure. But
I believe it is true.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I like it,” announced her Ladyship. “I
like it enormously—yes—quite enormously.
My poor dear Hartley! He was so keen on
everything, so interested in <em>this</em> old world. He
didn’t want rest in heaven—at twenty-four.
No—is it likely? And <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">les choses ne vont pas
si vite</span></i>. It isn’t in the nature of things they
should. Nature hasn’t great big gaps like that
with no sense in them. I don’t know, my dear,
if <em>I’m</em> talking sense, but I know what I mean,
and I’m sure it’s right. Yes—I like your idea.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“But that does not make it true. Some
people can believe anything they want to. I
can’t.” Mrs. Riversley moved impatiently
from her seat. “All we know is, they are gone,
so far as we are concerned; we cannot see or
touch or hold them any more. Why do you
discuss and imagine? They are gone.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Lady Condor shrank together at the words.
The wonderful vitality which enabled her to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>defy age and satiety failed for the moment.
She looked old and piteous.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes,” she said, “they are gone.” She
looked at North. “And you can tell us nothing—with
all your learning—with all your discoveries.
And the parsons talk of faith and hope.
Yes. But we have lost our first-borns.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North did not answer. He gathered her various
belongings and put them in her lap.
“There are one or two things I have to do to
the car,” he said.</p>
<p class='c007'>The door opened on to a clamour of dogs.
Sarah and Selina, shrill with welcome, barked
in chorus around Larry, who appeared to have
just arrived. “Now what the devil——” muttered
North to himself, while Larry smote him
with a feathered paw, and begged with wistful
eyes for pardon.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth sat very late out on her terrace that
night. The heavens were dark, but full of
stars. Their radiance filled all space. Who
and what was it had spoken those words this
afternoon, for neither the thought nor the words
had been her own? She believed it was a true
thought; something deeper than brain or understanding
knew it was true. And Ruth Seer sat
and prayed. Was she on the threshold of that
Open Doorway, which in all ages men have
sought and sought in vain? Had she somehow
<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>stumbled on something vast and beyond all
measure valuable? She knew how valuable,
she had seen the dead men lie in thousands
waiting burial, and heard with her soul the
tears of their women. Gone, as Violet Riversley
said, out of sight, or touch, or sound. And
yet surely a communion deeper and fuller
than sight, or touch, or hold, had sprung
up, was growing, between herself and one
of those dead men. A man unknown to her
on this physical plane. That was the crowning
wonder of this wonderful thing which
was happening. How had it come about?
What did it mean? And it was no thing apart
from this earthly life, from the little daily
round. It was no other world.</p>
<p class='c007'>The night deepened. A magic of starlight
lay on the farm, on the dull silver of the stream,
over the violet distances. The little farm she
loved, with all its sleeping creatures, belonged
to the wonderful whole, the great space, the
immensity of light, the glory and the mystery.</p>
<p class='c007'>The beauty of it all was like a draught of
wine, was like a silver sword, was like a harp of
gold.</p>
<p class='c007'>And suddenly a nightingale began to sing.
A small brown-feathered thing with that wonder
of sound in its tiny throat. And then it came.
Faith—Hope—they cannot pass the open door—only
<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>Love. And love not of one to another,
however deep, however true, but love of the
universal whole, that love which she and Dick
Carey had in common, focused as it were on
Thorpe. That was the password, that the key,
that the communion between the living and the
dead which she had found.</p>
<p class='c007'>And Larry, lying at her feet, for North had
let him stay, waved a slow-moving tail, and
dreamed, content.</p>
<p class='c007'>Up above, on the hill, the lights of the great
Pithian mansion, with all it symbolized, went
out one by one, and Ruth, who loved her England,
was not afraid.</p>
<p class='c007'>A deep sense of great responsibility remained.
If that which she had sensed was
really so, and she had neither then nor at any
later time any doubt of it, what had They, with
their wider knowledge, the great advance in
evolution which they who had made the supreme
gift of all they had on this physical plane must
surely have attained, what had They to build
the new order with save those who were left?
Living stones for the Great New Temple never
made with hands.</p>
<p class='c007'>The glory of it touched Ruth as with a sudden
blaze of light. The thought was like a bugle
call. To work with for them still. She had
only herself to offer. One small stone to shape
<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>for use, to make as perfect as might be. She
offered it under the starlit heavens with all her
heart. Life took on a new and more beautiful
meaning, any work of service a deeper, fuller
joy. It was still for, and with, Them.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>
<h2 id='VI' class='c005'>CHAPTER VI</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c006'>It was a few days later that Mr. Fothersley,
as was his frequent custom, emerged from
his front door at eleven o’clock, on his way to
the post. In his left hand he carried a sheaf
of letters for the twelve o’clock post out. As
he often said, it made “an object for his morning
stroll.” Not that Mr. Fothersley ever
really strolled. It would have been a physical
impossibility. His little plump legs always
trotted. They trotted now along the immaculate
gravel drive which curved between two
wide strips of smooth mown sward. On the
right hand the grass merged into a magnificent
grove of beech-trees, on the left it was fenced
by a neat iron railing, dividing it from what
the house agent describes as finely timbered
park-land. Behind him, with all its sun-blinds
down, the grey old house slept serenely in the
sunshine. The parterres were brilliant with
calceolaria, geranium, and heliotrope. Mr.
Fothersley rather prided himself on an early
<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>Victorian taste in gardening, and his herbaceous
borders, very lovely though they were,
dwelt in the kitchen garden region.</p>
<p class='c007'>Leigh Manor had belonged to Mr. Fothersley
from the day of his birth, which occurred
two months after the death of his father. That
gentleman had married late in life for the sole
and avowed purpose of providing his estate with
an heir, of which purpose his son most cordially
approved. At the same time he had never seen
his way to go so far himself. The Fothersleys
were not a marrying family. His mother, a
colourless person, of irreproachable lineage, and
a view of life which contemplated only two
aspects, the comfortable and the uncomfortable,
had lived long enough to see him well into the
forties, by which time he was as skillful as she
had been in the management of an establishment.
Everything continued to run in the same
perfect order, and Mr. Fothersley felt no more
inclined than during her lifetime to disturb the
smooth current of his pleasant life by embarking
on the very uncertain adventure of matrimony.
On this particular morning he paused
outside his own gate to look at the view—almost
the same view that was obtainable from the
“house on the wall” at Thorpe Farm. Ever
since he was a small child, Mr. Fothersley could
remember taking visitors to see “our view,”
<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>and he had, at an early age, esteemed it unfortunate
that none so good was to be obtained
from the grounds of Leigh Manor. He looked
out over the quiet scene. The great beautiful
valley, with the suggestion only of the sea beyond,
the dotted farmsteads, with here and
there some noble old mansion like his own secluded
among its trees, and, at his feet, little
Mentmore village, with its grey church tower,
half hidden in the hollow. It was typical of all
he held most dearly. A symbol of the well-ordered
ease and superiority of his position,
of the things which were indeed, though unconsciously,
Mr. Fothersley’s religion.</p>
<p class='c007'>In the grey church his forbears had, like himself,
sat with their peers, in the front pews,
while their dependents had herded discreetly
at the back behind the pillars. In these eminently
picturesque cottages, of two or three
rooms, dwelt families who, he had always taken
more or less for granted, regarded him and his
with a mixture of respect and reverence, just
touched—only touched—with awe. On the
whole most worthy and respectable people. Mr.
Fothersley was generous to them out of his
superabundance. He was indeed attached to
them; and although Mr. Fothersley prided himself
on moving with the times, it was plain that
any alteration in the admirable state of things
<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>existing in Mentmore would not only be a mistake,
but absolutely wrong.</p>
<p class='c007'>Therefore, on this fine June morning, Mr.
Fothersley was perturbed. The knowledge
that Mr. Pithey dwelt in the noble grey stone
house on the opposite hill, in the place of his
old friend, Helford Rose, spoilt “his view” for
him. And, for the first time, too, one of Ruth
Seer’s new cottages had become visible just
below his own pasture fields. The workmen
were putting on the roof. It was to Mr. Fothersley
an unseemly sight in Mentmore. Ruth had
done her best, she had spent both time and
money in securing material that would not spoil
the harmony or character of the little village,
but as Mr. Fothersley had said, it was the thin
end of the wedge.</p>
<p class='c007'>What was to prevent Mr. Pithey from scattering
some horrible epidemic of hideous utilitarian
domiciles broadcast over his wide estate?
Mr. Fothersley shuddered, and remembered
with thankfulness that they were not at present
a paying proposition.</p>
<p class='c007'>Still, he wished Miss Seer had not these queer
manias. Not that he disliked her—far from it.
Indeed, the little basket of his special early
strawberries, poised in his right hand, was on
its way to her. And he had even traced a distant
cousinship with her on the Courthope side.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>Since what was now familiarly known in his
set as the Pithian Invasion he considered her
a distinct asset at Thorpe.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I would not have had old Dick’s place vulgarized
for a good deal,” he said to himself as
he descended the hill. “And I know even he
did talk of building some cottages before the
war, poor dear fellow.”</p>
<p class='c007'>All the same, he did not feel in his usual
spirits, and presently, to add to his discomfort,
he passed the local sweep, window cleaner, and
generally handy man, who, instead of touching
his hat as of old, nodded a cheery, “Good-morning,
Mr. Fothersley! Nice weather,” to
him.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Fothersley did not like it. Most distinctly
it annoyed him! It had been one thing
to go and see Mankelow when he was wounded,
and a patient in the local V.A.D., and make
a considerable fuss over him, but that, as Mr.
Pithey was fond of saying, “was different.”
It was decidedly presuming on it for Mankelow
to treat him in that “Hail fellow, well met”
way.</p>
<p class='c007'>This brought to Mr. Fothersley’s mind the
threatening strikes among the miners, transport
workers, and what Mr. Fothersley vaguely
designated as “those sort of people.” He wondered
what would happen if all the sweeps went
<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>on strike. It was a most dangerous thing to
light fires with a large accumulation of soot up
the chimney—most dangerous.</p>
<p class='c007'>At this moment he nearly collided with Ruth
Seer, as she came swiftly round the Post Office
corner.</p>
<p class='c007'>They both stopped, laughed, and apologized.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I was just on my way to you with some of
our early strawberries,” said Mr. Fothersley,
exposing a corner of the contents of his
basket.</p>
<p class='c007'>“How very good of you!” exclaimed Ruth.
“And I do love them. Will you wait for me
one moment? I am going on my way to send a
telegram to Mr. North.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Now curiosity was the most prominent trait
in Mr. Fothersley’s funny little character, and
it was the naked and unashamed curiosity of
the small child. It might almost be looked on
as a virtue turned inside out, so real and keen
was his interest in his neighbors’ affairs, an
interest often followed by sympathy and help.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Telegraphing to North!” he exclaimed.
“What about?”</p>
<p class='c007'>No inhabitant of any length of time would
have been in the least astonished, but Ruth, for
a moment or two taken thoroughly aback, simply
stared at him. Then, somewhat late in the
day, it began to dawn on her that her telegram
<span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>to Roger North might possibly demand an explanation,
and one she had no intentions of
giving.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Telegraphing to North? What about?”
repeated Mr. Fothersley, his little pink face
beaming with kindly interest.</p>
<p class='c007'>The whole truth being out of the question,
there was nothing for it but as much as possible.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I want to see him to ask his opinion on a
matter of importance,” said Ruth.</p>
<p class='c007'>Astonishment mingled with the curiosity on
Mr. Fothersley’s speaking countenance. Many
things flashed through his mind in the minute
while he and Ruth again stared at each
other, the most prominent being the tongue of
the Postmistress and Mrs. North’s fiery jealousy.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Fothersley could remember terrible
times, when it had been aroused by lesser matters
than this telegram, aroused to such an extent
that all Mentmore had become aware of
it, and much unnecessary dirty linen washed
in public before the storm subsided.</p>
<p class='c007'>North himself on these occasions was, in Mr.
Fothersley’s language, difficult, most difficult.
He either teased his wife unmercifully, or lost
his temper and used bad language. The whole
affair was always, again in Mr. Fothersley’s
<span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>language, “regrettable, most regrettable,” while
the groundwork of the whole matter was, that
women bored North far more than they ever
amused him, so that if he did talk to one it was
noticeable.</p>
<p class='c007'>It was quite evident to Mr. Fothersley that
Miss Seer was wholly unconscious of anything
unusual in her action. This surprised him, for
he had understood she had been a companion,
and a companion’s knowledge of such things,
as a rule, passes belief.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth made a movement to pass on, the fatal
document in her hand. But it was one of those
moments when Mr. Fothersley was supreme.</p>
<p class='c007'>“My dear lady,” he exclaimed, “I am going
to Westwood so soon as I have deposited my
little offering on your doorstep. Allow me to
take the message for you.”</p>
<p class='c007'>With a deft movement the paper was in his
possession, was neatly folded and placed in
safety in his waistcoat pocket. His little plump
figure turned, plainly prepared to escort her
back to Thorpe.</p>
<p class='c007'>“The telegram will explain itself?” he asked,
“or shall I give any message?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I want to consult him about some happenings
on the farm,” answered Ruth. “Things I
should like to talk over with him with as little
delay as possible. Mr. North has been very
<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>kind, and, I think takes a real interest in
Thorpe.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“No doubt. No doubt.” Mr. Fothersley
acquiesced cordially. “He was poor Carey’s
most intimate friend. Though indeed we were
all his friends. A most lovable fellow. Indeed,
he was almost too kind-hearted. Anyone could
take him in—and did!” added Mr. Fothersley,
with warmth. “There was a German fellow,
very pleasant, I own, to meet, who used to stay
with him quite a lot at one time. I always felt
how, if they had invaded England, he would
have known every inch of the country round
here, for no doubt he took notes of everything,
as they always did. Funnily enough, he was
taken prisoner badly wounded by Dick’s own
regiment, and died at the clearing station, before
they could get him to a hospital.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth looked at the sunlit peace of the farm,
for they had reached the gate. She remembered
what Violet Riversley had told her. And
yet Dick Carey had cared for this man.</p>
<p class='c007'>“And they had parted here as friends,” she
said.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I believe Dick was quite cut up about it,”
said Mr. Fothersley. “Very odd. But poor
dear Dick was odd! No sense of proportion,
you know!”</p>
<p class='c007'>This was a favourite saying of both Mr.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>Fothersley’s and Mrs. North’s. It is doubtful
if either of them quite knew what they meant
by it, but it sounded well.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Fothersley repeated it over again, leaning
with his arms on the gate. “No sense of proportion.
A lovable fellow though, most lovable.
Many’s the time we’ve stood here, just as you
and I are standing, watching his birds. You
have the bird pool still, I see.” Mr. Fothersley
fumbled for his glasses. “Yes, and those
wretched little blue-tits everywhere—the worst
offenders in the garden. Even the blossom is
not safe from them. Madness to encourage
them with coconuts and bacon-rind. But as I
said, poor Dick——”</p>
<p class='c007'>By this time Mr. Fothersley had his glasses
firmly planted across the bridge of his nose.
He could see the pool plainly, and in addition
to several blue-tits, two round cherub faces,
open-mouthed, very still, hanging over the edge
of the bank.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Good heavens! What are those?” he exclaimed.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Only two small visitors of mine,” said Ruth,
smiling. “It is quite wonderful how still they
have learnt to be to watch the birds. They
live in Blackwall Tenements, and their only
playground there is a strip of pavement under
a dust shoot.”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>“Oh!” said Mr. Fothersley dubiously.
“Blackwall. That is somewhere in the City.”</p>
<p class='c007'>He was interrupted by a shrill, excited, plainly
female voice on its topmost note.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh, Tommy! ’e’s caught a f’y!”</p>
<p class='c007'>The next moment every bird had gone, while
the complete figures belonging to the moon faces
arose, as it were out of the ground. Both wore
knickers, both had short hair, but it was plainly
the master male who administered swift and
primitive punishment.</p>
<p class='c007'>“There, you’ve done it again!”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I forgot—I——” Sobs, bitter and violent,
stopped the lament.</p>
<p class='c007'>The boy pocketed his hands and moved off.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Jes’ like a woman,” he called over his
shoulder.</p>
<p class='c007'>The other small figure followed him at a humble
distance, wailing aloud till both disappeared
from view.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Fothersley shuddered.</p>
<p class='c007'>“How can you bear it?” he asked, his little
pink face really concerned. “Even Dick——”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Stopped short at Germans,” Ruth ended
for him. “Well, it has its compensations. And
after all, what <em>can</em> one do? I know that playground
under the dust soot! And I have all
this. One could not bear it, if one didn’t have
them down.”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>“How many?” asked Mr. Fothersley faintly.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth leant back against the gate and gave
way to helpless laughter, while Mr. Fothersley
prodded holes in the bank with his stick and
waited with dignity till she should recover. He
saw nothing to laugh at.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I beg your pardon,” said Ruth, hurriedly
suppressing what she felt from his manner was
most unseemly mirth. “I only have two at a
time,” she added appeasingly. “And they are
really very good on the whole.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I should relegate them to the back garden,”
said Mr. Fothersley decisively. “I remember
as a child even <em>I</em> was never allowed to run
wild where I pleased. Good heavens! what is
that noise?” He cocked an attentive ear, as a
sound, like nothing he had ever heard before,
made itself evident.</p>
<p class='c007'>At the same moment, over the crest of the
lawn appeared a wonderful procession. First
came the small female figure in knickers, brandishing
in her right hand a crimson flag, while
with the left she held a small tin trumpet to
her lips, with which at intervals she blew a
breathless note. The same which had attracted
Mr. Fothersley’s attention. Then, strapped into
his go-cart, and positively smothered in flags
and flowers, came Bertram Aurelius. Finally,
pushing the go-cart with somewhat dangerous
<span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>vigour, the small Lord of the Show. Around
the procession, leaping and barking, skirmished
Sarah and Selina, while beside the go-cart Larry
padded sedately, snuffing the air delicately, waving
a stately tail.</p>
<p class='c007'>The procession circled the lawn at the full
speed of the children’s small legs, dropped over
into the garden pathway and disappeared
towards the farmyard.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Fothersley softened. The scene had been
a pretty one.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Quite like one of the delightful illustrations
in the children’s books of to-day,” he said, smiling.
“Please don’t think me unsympathetic,
dear lady. A love of children is one of the most
beautiful traits in a woman’s character, and
philanthropy has also its due place. But do
not be carried away by too much enthusiasm.
Do have, as I used to say to poor Dick, a due
sense of proportion. Otherwise you will only
get imposed upon, and do no good in the long
run. Believe me, you have gone quite far
enough with these innovations, and do let it
stop there before you have cause for regret.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Fothersley paused and smiled, well
pleased with the turning of his phrases. Also
he felt his advice was good. Ruth acquiesced
with becoming humility, aware only of a little
running commentary which conveyed nothing
<span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>to her. Her mind was entirely absorbed with
the fact that Larry had accompanied the small
procession which had so swiftly crossed their
line of vision and disappeared—Larry, who
kept children severely in their place as became
a dignified gentleman of a certain age, and on
whom not even Selina’s wiliest enticement
produced the smallest effect.</p>
<p class='c007'>“No good ever comes of moving people out
of their natural surroundings,” continued Mr.
Fothersley, holding on his way with complete
satisfaction. “All men cannot be equal, and
it only makes them discontented with the state
of life in which it has pleased God to place
them. Personally I believe also they are quite
unable to appreciate better conditions. Why,
when——”</p>
<p class='c007'>And here, to the little man’s astonishment,
Ruth suddenly, and very vividly, turned on
him, shaking a warning finger in front of his
startled nose.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Mr. Fothersley, if you tell me that old story
about the chickens in the bathroom, I warn you
I am quite unable to bear it. I shall hold forth,
and either make you very cross with me or
bore you to death. I have lived amongst the
very poor, and between your view of them and
mine there is a great gulf fixed. I know what
you cannot know—their sufferings, their endurance,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>their patience. I would have every
child in London down here if I could—so there!
And they may love their squalor and filth, as
people here have said to me. It is all the home
they have ever known. It is the great indictment
against our civilization.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Then she stopped and suddenly smiled at him,
it was a smile that barred offence.</p>
<p class='c007'>“There, you see! Don’t start me off, whatever
you do!”</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Fothersley smiled back. “My dear lady,
I admire your kindness of heart. It is your
lack of any sense of proportion——”</p>
<p class='c007'>It was at this moment that Mr. Pithey appeared,
magnificent in a new tweed knickerbocker
suit of a tawny hue, with immaculate
gaiters, brown boots and gloves; a cap to match
the suit, upon his head; the inevitable cigar in
his mouth; looking incongruous enough, between
the wild rose and honeysuckle hedges.</p>
<p class='c007'>To discover a couple of anything like marriageable
age alone together, in what he called
“the lanes,” suggested one thing and one thing
only to Mr. Pithey’s mind. His manner assumed
a terrible geniality.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Now don’t let me disturb you,” he said,
waving a large newly gloved hand. “Just a
word with this lady, and I’m off.” He perpetrated
a wink that caused Mr. Fothersley to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>shut his eyes. “Two’s company and three’s
none, eh?”</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Fothersley opened his eyes and endeavoured
to stare him down with concentrated rage
and disgust. But Mr. Pithey held on his way,
undisturbed.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Wonderful how you meet everybody in this
little place! Just passed Lady Condor. Jove!
how that woman does cake her face with paint.
At her age too! What’s the use? Doesn’t
worry me, but Mrs. Pithey disapproves of that
sort of thing root and branches.”</p>
<p class='c007'>If Mr. Fothersley could have called down fire
from heaven and slain Mr. Pithey at that moment,
he would undoubtedly have done so; as it
was, he could only struggle impotently for words
wherewith to convey to him some sense of his insufferable
impertinence.</p>
<p class='c007'>And words failed him. His little round face
quivering with rage, he stammered for a moment
unintelligibly, making furious gestures with his
disengaged hand at the astonished Mr. Pithey.
Finally he turned his back and thrust the basket
of strawberries into Ruth’s hand.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Please send the basket back at your convenience,
Miss Seer,” he said. Even in that
moment he did not forget the importance of
the return of one of the Leigh Manor baskets.
“Good-morning.”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>“Touching little brute,” remarked Mr. Pithey
cheerfully, gazing after him. “What’s upset
him now? He’ll have an apoplectic fit if he
walks at that rate in this heat, a man of his
built and a hearty eater too!”</p>
<p class='c007'>Indeed poor Mr. Fothersley, by the time he
reached the Manor, between rage and nervousness,
for who could say what thoughts Mr.
Pithey’s egregious remarks might not have
given rise to in Miss Seer’s mind, was in a very
sad state.</p>
<p class='c007'>It was impossible to risk driving to Westwood
in an open car. He ordered the landaulette,
closed.</p>
<p class='c007'>It was necessary to go because he had Miss
Seer’s telegram to deliver. Also the desire was
strong upon him for the people of his own little
world, those who felt things as he felt them,
and saw things even as he saw them. He wanted
to talk over the various small happenings of
the morning with an understanding spirit; the
sweep’s familiarity, Miss Seer’s odd activities,
and last, but not least, Mr. Pithey’s hateful
facetiousness. Above all, though he hardly
knew it himself, he wanted to get with people
who were the same as people had been before
the war, to get away from this continual obtrusion
of an undercurrent of difference, of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>change, which so disquieted him, and he wanted,
badly wanted, comfort and sympathy.</p>
<p class='c007'>The Norths were by themselves, and proportionately
glad to see him. Violet had left, on
a sudden impulse, that morning, and fresh visitors
were not expected till the following week.</p>
<p class='c007'>The very atmosphere of Nita North comforted
the little man. The atmosphere of the
great commonplace, the unimaginative, the egotistic.
An atmosphere untouched by the war.
Peace descended on his troubled spirit as he
unfolded his table napkin and watched the
butler, in the very best manner of the best butler
lift the silver cover in front of Mrs. North from
the golden-brown veal cutlets, each with its
dainty roll of fat bacon, Mr. Fothersley’s favourite
luncheon dish, while North, who had his
moments of insight, said:</p>
<p class='c007'>“Some of the Steinberg Cabinet for Mr.
Fothersley, Mansfield.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Indeed, both the Norths saw at once that Mr.
Fothersley was not quite himself, that he had
been upset.</p>
<p class='c007'>It was impossible to tell the chief causes of
his annoyance before the servants, though, in
an interval, he commented on the familiar
behaviour of the sweep, and his views as to
the results of “the new independence” on the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>working classes, and the danger of strikes.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I have no patience with this pandering to
the lower classes,” said Mrs. North. “They
must be taught.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North, who was genuinely fond of little Mr.
Fothersley, did not ask “How?” as he had an
irritating habit of doing when he heard his wife
enunciate this formula.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Fothersley agreed. “Certainly, they
must be taught.”</p>
<p class='c007'>He was distinctly soothed. The Steinberg
Cabinet had not altered, indeed it had gained
in its power to minister. The objectionable
feeling that the foundations on which his world
was built were quivering and breaking up subsided
into the background, and by the time
the coffee came, and the servants departed, he
was his usual genial kindly little self, and could
even give a risible turn to his account of Mr.
Pithey’s impertinence.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I lost my temper and, I am afraid, practically
gibbered at him with rage,” he owned.
“I was hardly dignified. But that I should
live to hear that Marion Condor is disapproved
of by Mrs. Pithey!”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Insolent brute!” said Mrs. North, all unconscious
that her language was Pithian. “Can
nobody put him in his place?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“He must be taught,” suggested North
<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>wickedly. But, though his wife shot a doubtful
glance at him, Mr. Fothersley took the suggestion
in good faith.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I quite agree with you, Roger. The question
is, How? Unfortunately we have all
called.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“We could all cut him,” suggested Mrs.
North.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I don’t approve of cutting people, my dear
Nita. In a small community it makes things
very unpleasant and leads to such uncomfortable
situations.” Indeed, Mr. Fothersley had
more than once interposed in almost a high-handed
manner to prevent Mrs. North cutting
ladies of whom she thought she had reason to
be jealous. “No, I sincerely wish we had never
called, but having called, and indeed invited
these people to our houses, received them as
guests, I should deprecate cutting them. You
agree with me, Roger?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Certainly. The Pitheys would not care if
you did. Also he is the sort of man who
could worry you a good deal in the village if
he took it into his head to do so. Better keep
good terms with him if you can.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“What did Miss Seer say?” asked Mrs.
North.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I don’t remember her saying anything, but
I was so agitated. I didn’t, of course, even
<span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>look at her. You don’t think his remarks will
give rise to any ideas——” Mr. Fothersley
paused, looking from one to the other.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Good Lord, no!” said North.</p>
<p class='c007'>“How do you know?” asked his wife sharply.
“I should certainly advise Arthur to keep away
for the future.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North shrugged his shoulders as he rose from
the table.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I expect you will like your cigar in the
garden with Nita,” he said, pushing the box
across the table to his guest. “I’ve got some
letters to write.”</p>
<p class='c007'>When he reached his study he took Ruth’s
telegram out of his pocket-book and, lighting a
match, burned it very carefully to ashes.
“Bless their small minds,” he said.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>
<h2 id='VII' class='c005'>CHAPTER VII</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c006'>Ruth met North as he came up the garden
path.</p>
<p class='c007'>“So you have come this afternoon! I did
so hope you would.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“What is it?” he asked. “Nothing wrong
with the farm?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Wrong with the farm!” Ruth laughed.
“Now just <em>feel</em> it.”</p>
<p class='c007'>It was steeped in sunshine and the scent
of violas. On the garden wall the pigeons
cooed sleepily. From the river came the lilt of
a child’s laugh.</p>
<p class='c007'>“It feels all right,” said North gravely.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Just as happy and sound and wholesome as
can be,” she said. “I asked you to come because
something wonderful—I believe wonderful—has
happened. I felt I must tell you at
once. And I want to ask you things, want to
ask you quite terribly badly. Come up and sit
by the blue flower border. I have the chairs
there. It is at its very best.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“So you have kept that too,” said North,
even as his daughter had said.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>“It is one of the many beautiful things I
found here,” she answered. “The place is full
of thoughts just like that. I hope I have not
lost any, but if I have they will come back.”
She stopped to lift up some of the frail nemophilas.
Just so North had seen women arrange
their children’s hair.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Are not the delphiniums in perfection?
They always look to me as if they were praying.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Now years ago, standing in just that selfsame
spot, Dick Carey had said that very same thing.
It came back to North in a flash, and how he
had answered:</p>
<p class='c007'>“I should think those meek droopy white
things look more like it.”</p>
<p class='c007'>For a moment he hesitated. Then he gave
her the same answer.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh no!” she exclaimed. “To pray you
must aspire. And they must be blue.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Dick Carey had said, “Prayer is aspiration,
not humility. Besides, they’re not blue.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Again that sense of well-being which had belonged
to the companionship of his friend stole
over North. Again the bitterness and pain
seemed to fade and melt. The present took on
a new interest, a new understanding. He gave
himself up to it with a sigh of content as he
dropped into the chair by Ruth Seer’s side.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>The warmth of the June afternoon, the sleepy
murmur of the life of the farm, the hum of
bees, that wonderful blue, it was all part of it.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Now light your pipe and be very comfortable,”
she said, and left him alone while the
peace and beauty soaked in. Left him alone
for how long he did not know. When you touch
real rest, time ceases.</p>
<p class='c007'>Presently he re-lit the pipe which he had
lighted and left to go out.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Now,” he said, “tell me. I am ready to be
convinced of anything wonderful, just here and
now.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth smiled. She was sitting very still, her
elbow on her knee, her chin in the hollow of her
hand. A great content made her face beautiful.
Her grey eyes dwelt lovingly upon the
little world, which held so many worlds in its
circle. The laughter of the children came again
across the field. Then she began to talk.</p>
<p class='c007'>“It is so wonderful,” she said. “I can
hardly yet believe it can be true, which is
so foolish, because the truth undoubtedly <em>is</em>
wonderful beyond our conceiving. We only see
such little bits of it here, even the wisest of us.
And we will think it is the whole. When we
do see the whole, I think what will be the most
wonderful thing about it will be its amazing
simplicity. We shall wonder how we ever
<span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>groped about among so many seeming complications,
so much dirt and darkness.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She stopped for a few moments, and North
waited. He felt he was shrinking back into
himself, away from whatever might be coming.
Like many very intellectual persons, he was
inclined to resent what he could not account
for, and to be wholly unsympathetic, if not a
little brutal, towards it.</p>
<p class='c007'>Psychical investigation always had repelled
him. Repelled him only less, and in a different
way, than the search for knowledge among the
tortured entrails of friendly dogs. With the
great forces of nature he could fight cleanly,
and courageously, to harness them to the service
of man. They were enormously interesting,
amazingly beautiful. Powerful enough to protect
themselves if necessary. One wrested
their secrets from them at one’s own peril.
And the scientist who strives with the great
forces of nature has the mark of his craft
branded into his very soul. Its name is Truth.
To that mark, if he be a true scientist, he is
faithful absolutely, unswervingly. Indeed it
must be so. And, ever seeking the truth, the
true scientist knows that his discoveries are
ever only partial; that soon, even before his own
little day here is ended, will come new discoveries
which shall modify the old. So that he
<span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>will never say “I know,” only “I am learning.”
And now for the first time psychic investigation
was making its appeal to him, by the mouth
of Ruth Seer, in the name of Truth.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Very well, tell me,” he said, struggling with
his dislike. “I will cast from me, as far as
possible all preconceived objections, and, possibly,
prejudices. I will bring an open mind.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth turned, her whole face alight. “Ah,
that is just what I want! Only be as critical as
you will. I want that too. That is why I
wanted so much to tell you, because you will
bring a trained mind to bear on it all. Because
of that, and also because you are his friend, I
can speak about it to you. It would be very
difficult to anyone else.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She stopped, gathering herself up as it were,
before she started.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You remember the day you first came? To
fetch Larry?”</p>
<p class='c007'>North nodded.</p>
<p class='c007'>“We all forgathered together at the gate,
you and I and the dogs. I told you about Larry,
how he had come the night before, tired and
miserable, and hunted everywhere, and early in
the morning he had gone again, so far as I knew.
And just before you came I had found him down
by the stream, quite happy apparently, with a
man. I think I told you?”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>“Yes.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“The man was watching some kingfishers,
and I stopped to watch them too. Very still we
all were. I had never seen the birds close.
The man was lying on the grass, but he looked a
tall man. He wore a brown suit, rather shabby.
I could not see his face, only the back of his head
propped up on his hand. It was a long, thin
hand, very sunburnt. A well-shaped, sensitive
hand. And he had dark hair with a strong
wave in it. Though it was cut very short, the
waves showed quite plainly and evenly.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North had taken his pipe out of his mouth
now and was staring at it.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Then your motor siren startled us all, and
the man vanished as swiftly, it seemed, as the
birds. I wondered just a little—when I thought
of it after, where he could have got to—but not
for long. This morning I saw the same man
again. I was in the buttercup field, and he
was standing in the road in front of the new
cottages, looking at them. Again I could only
see his back, and he is very tall. He had no
hat on, and it was the same dark wavy hair.
You know the little pitch of hill that goes up
to the cottages? When I reached the bottom I
could see him quite clearly. He was pulling
Larry towards him by a handkerchief lead, and
then letting him go suddenly—playing with him,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>you know. And I could hear Larry snarling
as a dog does in play. Then Larry caught
sight of me and stopped to look. And when
he looked the man turned and looked at me
too——”</p>
<p class='c007'>She paused. The summer sounds of the farm
sang on, but it seemed that just around those
two there was a tense silence. North broke it.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Well!” he said, his voice harsh and almost
impatient.</p>
<p class='c007'>“He had a thin, very sunburnt face,”
Ruth went on, “lined, but with the lines that
laughter makes. Very blue eyes, the blue eyes
that look as if they had a candle lit behind them.
When he saw me he smiled. There was a flash
of very white teeth, and his smile was like a
sudden bright light.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North’s pipe dropped on to the flagged pathway
with the little dull click of falling wood.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth leant towards him; her voice dropped
almost to a whisper.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Was Dick Carey like that?” she asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes.” North met her eyes for the first time
since she had begun to tell him. The suggestion
of unwillingness to listen which had shown
in his manner from the first dropped from him.
“What happened next?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I don’t quite know how to describe it. He
did not fade or vanish or anything like that.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>He remained quite distinct, and that wonderful
smile still shone, but my sight failed. It
seemed to grow more and more dim until at last
I could not see him at all. I hurried, I even
tried to call out to him, but it was no good.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“But you were not blind; you could see everything
else?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes, when I looked for them I could. I
wish I could explain to you how it was. The
nearest I can get to it is, that his figure, while I
saw it, stood out more distinctly than anything
else. All the rest seemed in the background,
indistinct by comparison. Ah, I know—like—have
you ever noticed on a bright sunny day,
looking in a shop window, how suddenly the
things reflected are much clearer and more
visible than the things actually in the window?
They seem to recede, and the reflection is strong
and clear. Well, it was something like that.
As if one had two sights and one for the moment
overbore the other. I’m explaining badly,
but it’s difficult. At any rate he did not evaporate
or fade as they say these visions invariably
do. It was the sight failed me.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“That is enormously interesting,” said North
slowly.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You see,” said Ruth eagerly, “ever since I
came here this—this being in touch with Dick
Carey has been growing. It is becoming a wonderful
<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>experience; it seems to me of possibly
enormous value, but I don’t want to take it one
step beyond where it can reasonably and
legitimately be taken. I want the truth about
it. I want your brains, your intelligence, to
help me. I want you honestly and truly to
tell me just what you think of these happenings.
And I want to know whether you yourself have
had any sense of his presence here, even ever
so faint.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North recovered his pipe, re-lit it, and began
to smoke again before he answered. Indeed,
he smoked in silence for quite a long time.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I cannot deny the fact,” he said at length,
“that I have what perhaps should be described
as a prejudice against any supposed communication
with the dead. It has always been surrounded,
to my mind, with so much that is undesirable,
nor do I believe in any revelation save
that of science, and on these lines science has no
revelation. But there are two things here that
do force themselves on my consideration. One
is that you never knew Dick in the flesh, the
other that since you came here, not before, I
have myself felt, not a presence of any sort,
but the sense of well-being and content which
always belonged to my companionship with him.
And that I never feel anywhere but at Thorpe,
or at Thorpe except when you are with me. The
<span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>latter can be explained in various ways. The
former is rather different. Have you ever seen
a photograph of Dick, or has anyone described
him to you?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“No. I have never seen a photograph, and
no one has ever described his appearance to
me.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Then she smiled at him suddenly and delightfully.
“I am not a curious woman, but I am
human,” she said. “Before we go any further,
for pity’s sake describe Dick Carey to me, and
tell me if he was in the habit of leading Larry
by a pocket-handkerchief!”</p>
<p class='c007'>“You <em>have</em> described him,” said North, smiling
too. “Especially his smile. I am short-sighted,
but I could always tell Dick in a crowd
if he smiled, long before I could distinguish his
features. And he did lead Larry by his handkerchief.
It was a regular game between them.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Surely that is in the nature of proof!” exclaimed
Ruth.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Let us call it circumstantial evidence.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“But worth even your—a scientist’s—consideration?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Undoubtedly! By the way, what happened
to Larry?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“When I thought of him again it was some
little time later; he was going back to the house
<span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>across the field. And—and—oh, I know it
sounds mad—he was following somebody, and
so were Sarah and Selina. You know, don’t
you, what I mean? Dogs run quite differently
when they are out on their own. And I have
never known Sarah and Selina leave me to
follow anyone else before, in all their lives.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Any dog would follow Dick,” said North,
and then looked as if he would like to have
taken the words back, but she stopped him.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You promised,” she said. “And that, too,
is a piece of evidence. As I said, I don’t want
to push it a fraction of an inch beyond where
it will go. But think what it means? The
breaking down of that awful impassable wall
between the living and the dead. Think what
some knowledge, of the next step only, beyond
the Gateway of Death means.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Always supposing there is a next step,”
said North. “Again there is no evidence I can
accept. Though, mind you”—he was really in
earnest now—“I am not among those who are
content, indeed glad, that it should all end here.
This old universe is too interesting a riddle to
drop after a few years’ study.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Ah, do you know Walt Whitman’s lines?—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c008'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>“This day, before dawn, I ascended a hill and looked at the crowded Heaven.</div>
<div class='line'>And I said to my spirit,</div>
<div class='line'>When we become the enfolders of these orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of everything in them,</div>
<div class='line'>Shall we be filled and satisfied then?</div>
<div class='line'>And my spirit said, No, we but level that lift to pass and continue beyond.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c007'>North nodded. “That’s it! I’m out for that
right enough, if it’s going. I don’t say, mind
you, that I’m certain we don’t go on. I’m not
such a fool. But, to my mind, all the evidence
so far is the other way.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Have you ever tried to get evidence?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“No. All the methods appear to me to be
objectionable, very. Even over this—this possible
sight of yours—I don’t feel keen on the
idea that those who have gone are hanging
round their old homes, round us who cannot
cognize them.”</p>
<p class='c007'>He spoke haltingly, as if expressing himself
with difficulty. His unwillingness to discuss
these matters again became evident.</p>
<p class='c007'>“But surely time and space in the next world
will not exist as we understand them here, and
that must make an almost incalculable difference.
And when you think that so many
gave their lives for this world, isn’t it reasonable
to think that the work for some of them
may still be linked up with it? Do you remember
<span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>when you were talking of the outlook at
the present moment, and Lady Condor asked
me what I thought of it? And I said we were
not alone, that those who had died that things
might be better, they with their added knowledge—guided—helped—you
remember? Well,
that wasn’t <em>my own</em> idea somehow. It came to
me from somewhere else, quite suddenly, on
the moment, as it were. And I had to say it—though
I felt shy and uncomfortable. One does
not speak of these things to all the world. But
<em>some one</em> wanted me to say it—just then and
there.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She stopped, and in both their minds was a
vision of Violet Riversley’s beautiful angry unhappy
face.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I remember,” answered North. “And your
idea is that Dick’s mind can communicate with
yours by thought?”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth thought a little; her eyes looked out
without seeing.</p>
<p class='c007'>“It is not an idea,” she said at last. “I
know.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“And have you any idea or knowledge why it
should be so, seeing you never knew each other
in this life? If you had, and had loved very
deeply, it would be more comprehensible, though
less interesting from the point of view of proving
communication. As it is, there seems to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>me nothing sufficiently important to account for
it. Nothing beyond a certain likeness of
thought and interests.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth smiled. The interest had gripped him
again. He was thinking out aloud. She waited
until he looked at her.</p>
<p class='c007'>“What is your explanation?” he asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>And suddenly Ruth found it amazingly difficult
to explain. The memory of that velvet
night of stars, the message in the song of the
little brown bird, the revelation which had come
to her, swept over her again with a renewed
and surprising sweetness, but of words she
seemed bereft. Compared with the wonder and
beauty of the thought they seemed utterly inadequate
and hopeless. She put out both her
hands with a little foreign gesture of helplessness.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You have none?” he asked, and she caught
the disappointment in his voice, and looking at
him saw, as she had seen once before on his
first visit, the lonely tired soul of the man who,
losing Dick Carey, had lost much. And Dick
Carey was there, so very surely there.</p>
<p class='c007'>“It isn’t the personal love for one that really
brings together,” she said, her voice very, very
gentle. “It is the love for everything that has
life or breath. <em>That</em> love must be communion.
It makes you belong.”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>There was a little silence before she went on:</p>
<p class='c007'>“You see, I never had any one person to concentrate
on, unless it was old Raphael Goltz,
and looking back, I see now he was a cosmic sort
of person. He did really in some way grip
the whole of things, and it helped me more than
I had any idea of at the time. Then I cared
so much for all the men out in Flanders who
came in and out of my life so swiftly and spasmodically.
Then I came here, and found how
much I cared for all living things in the lower
worlds. And he is linked up too with them all,
because he cared so much. And we have both
by chance, whatever chance may be, focused
on Thorpe. Do you at all understand what I
mean?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes, after a fashion,” said North. “It’s like
watching some one dimly moving about in an
unknown, and to me a visionary, world. I own
you are right—he moved in it too; and I am
also ready to own it is possible because of my
own limitations that I can only regard it as
visionary.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Raphael had many books dealing with these
things,” said Ruth. “I feel so sorry now that
they did not interest me then. You see, I had
never lost anyone by death. I had no one to
lose. It was only out in France when the men
came in and drank my soup or coffee, and some
<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>slept like tired children, and others played a
game of cards, or talked to me of home, and we
all seemed like children of one family belonging
to each other. And in a few hours, perhaps
less, I would see one or more of them lying
dead—gone out like flames extinguished quite
suddenly. And I didn’t know what life or death
meant.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North nodded. “It hits one sometimes,” he
said.</p>
<p class='c007'>“And their people at home—I used to write
for some of those who were brought in to the
estaminet and died before they could get them
farther. One thought of them all the time.
Going on with their everyday life at home,
and waiting. That is why what has happened
to me here seems so amazingly important, why
its truth needs such close questioning, why I
so much want your help.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“For what it is worth it is at your disposal,
and”—he paused before he went on with decision—“I
own I am interested, as I have never
been before in so-called communication with
another world.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“There are some books here dealing with
psychic faculties. I found them on the top of
the oak bookcase. Mostly by German authors.
Would they have been Mr. Carey’s?”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>“More likely they belonged to a friend of his
who used to stay here.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh, the German friend!” exclaimed Ruth.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You have heard of him?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Mr. Fothersley spoke of him only this morning,
and your daughter mentioned him the other
day.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“He was an interesting personality, and very
strong on the point that there were extraordinary
powers and forces latent in man. I
never cared to discuss them with him. He went
too far, and looking back I think I almost unconsciously
dreaded his influence over Dick.
I don’t think I need have. Dick was, I recognize
it now, the stronger of the two.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“But he was interested in the same things?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Undoubtedly. Possibly I was jealous; I
preferred him to be interested in my particular
line of study. He <em>was</em> interested to a great extent
of course, but von Schäde’s lines of thought
appealed to him more. I remember the last
night von Schäde was here. It was in the June
of 1914. He had been paying Dick a long visit
and was leaving in the morning. It was the
sort of night when the world seems much bigger
than it does by day—a wonderful night.
The sky was thick with stars, and he stood just
over there with their light on his face, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>talked to us as if we were a public meeting.
He was a good-looking chap in a hard frozen
sort of style. Oliver Lodge had been speaking
to the Royal Art Society on the Sources of
Power, and it had got von Schäde on to his
hobby.</p>
<p class='c007'>“‘You talk of the power of atomic energy,
you scientists,’ he said; ‘it is as nothing compared
with the forces possessed by man in himself.
If we studied these, if we understood
these, if we knew how to harness and direct
them, there is nothing in heaven and earth we
should not be masters of. Men—we should be
gods! And you men with brains puddle about
among the forces of nature, blind and deaf to
the forces in man which could harness every
one of the forces of nature obedient to your
will, and leave the study of these things to hysterical
madmen and neurotic women. And
those who have some knowledge, who have the
gift, the power, to experiment with these forces
if they would, they are afraid of this and that.
My God, you make me sick!’</p>
<p class='c007'>“He threw out both his arms and his face
was as white as a sheet. Old Dick got up and
put his arm round the fellow’s shoulders.
Goodness knows what he saw in him! ‘We’ll
get the forces harnessed right enough, old
fellow, when we’re fit to use them,’ he said.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>“And they looked at each other for a full
minute, von Schäde glaring and Dick smiling,
and then von Schäde suddenly began to laugh.</p>
<p class='c007'>“‘Mostly I’m fond of you, Dick,’ he said,
‘but sometimes I hate you like the deuce!’</p>
<p class='c007'>“He went the next morning, and I was glad.
For another thing he fell in love with Vi, and
she was such a little demon to flirt that until
the last minute you never knew if she was serious
or not. Morally and socially he was irreproachable,
but—well, I didn’t like him!
I often wondered how he took the news of her
engagement to Dick.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“That happened after he left?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes. The second time Dick went out to
the front. He wasn’t a marrying man really.
But you know how things were then. Vi broke
down over his going, and he had always been
fond of her since she was a baby. But I don’t
think it would have been a success. I never
could picture old Dick as anything but a bachelor.”</p>
<p class='c007'>He stopped, for he saw she was not listening.
She was thinking hard. Her black brows bent,
her grey eyes almost as black beneath them.</p>
<p class='c007'>“That is very interesting,” she said presently,
speaking slowly, as one tracking an idea.
“Von Schäde must have known that Dick Carey
knew better how to exercise those latent powers
<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>than he did. They were both seeking the same
thing from different motives.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Explain, please.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth was silent again for a moment, still
thinking hard. “It’s not easy, you know,” she
said. “But this is the best I can do. They
were both scientists of the invisible, just as you
are a scientist of the visible, but Dick Carey
was seeking union with God and von Schäde
was seeking knowledge and power for himself.
Therefore they studied the unseen sources of
life and death by different methods, and Dick
Carey had got farther than von Schäde and
von Schäde knew it.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North shook his head. “Now you are wandering
in the mist so far as I am concerned,”
he said.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth sighed. “I explain badly, but then I
am only struggling in the mist myself. I wish
I had cared for these things when Raphael Goltz
was alive! So many things he said which
passed me by then come back to me now with
a new meaning. But there is one thing just
lately I have felt very strongly. When he was
in the physical body Dick Carey was a far more
wonderful man than any of you knew—except
probably von Schäde. Yes, you loved him I
know, the world is black without him, but you
didn’t think he was anything extraordinary.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>You are a great man and he was nobody, in the
eyes of the world. You don’t know even now
how wonderful he was. And now he has escaped
from this clogging mould, this blinding veil of
physical matter, he is, I firmly believe, making
this little corner of the earth, this little Sussex
farm, what every home and village the town
might be if we were in touch with the invisible
secret source of all.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She stopped, for she felt that North was not
following her any longer, was shrinking back
again.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh!” she cried, “why won’t you believe it is
worth your study at any rate?”</p>
<p class='c007'>North turned on her suddenly, harshly, almost
brutally.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I can’t,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t you see
it’s all shapeless, formless, to a mind like mine?
I want to believe. God! it would give one
an horizon beyond eternity; but you talk of
what to me is foolishness.”</p>
<p class='c007'>He looked at her with an immeasurable
dreariness of soul in his eyes, and very gently
she put her worn brown hand in his and held
it.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Listen,” she said, and her voice was deep
with sudden music. “The children come now.
You cannot keep them away. Something draws
them to Thorpe. The wild creatures one can
<span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>understand. It is sanctuary. But the children—it
must mean something.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“You are here.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She shrank back as if hurt. “No, oh no! It
is not me. It is something altogether beyond
me. Oh, do listen. They were always slipping
in, or standing by the gate with their little faces
peeping between the bars. Quite tinies some of
them, and I took them back to their homes at
first. I thought their mothers would be anxious.
And then—then I began to guess. So
now I have given them the field beyond the
stream and they come out of school hours.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“The lower field!” exclaimed North. “No
wonder you have taken Fothersley’s breath
away.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh, he does not know of that. Fortunately
he was here in the morning during school
hours, so he only saw the Blackwall children.
You see,” she added apologetically, “it is <em>such</em>
a child’s field, with the stream and the little
wood with blue-bells, and there are cowslips
in the spring and nuts in the autumn, and I
shall make hay as usual, of course. We cut
on Tuesday.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Don’t you find them very destructive?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“They haven’t trampled down a yard of
grass,” said Ruth triumphantly. “I gave them
a strip by the stream under the silver birches.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>The primrose bit, you know, and the wood.
And the hay is in a way their property. You
go and try to walk across it! You’ll have a
nest full of jackdaws at you!”</p>
<p class='c007'>“But the trees and flowers!”</p>
<p class='c007'>“That is just another thing,” she smiled at
him. “Oh, why won’t you believe? I have
had to teach them hardly anything. They
know. No branch is ever torn down. Never
will you find those pathetic little bunches of
picked and thrown-away flowers here. The
birds are just as tame. I teach them very little.
I’m afraid of spoiling my clumsy help. It is
so wonderful. They bring crumbs of any
special bit of cake they get, for the birds, and
plant funny little bits of roots and sow seeds.
Come down and see them with me. I don’t
take, or tell, other people. I am so afraid of
it getting spoilt.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North extracted his long frame from his
chair.</p>
<p class='c007'>“All right,” he said, with that odd smile of
his as of one humouring a child. “But you are
mad, you know, quite mad.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“You said that to me before.”</p>
<p class='c007'>And then North remembered suddenly that
he had often said it to Dick Carey.</p>
<p class='c007'>Their way led across the flower garden, and
under the cherry-orchard trees where the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>daisies shone like snow on the green of the
close-cut grass. Here they found Bertram Aurelius
lying on his back talking in strange language
to the whispering leaves above him, and
curling and uncurling his bare pink toes in the
dappled sunlight. His mother sat beside him,
her back against a tree trunk, mending the
household linen when she could keep her eyes
off him for more than a minute. The dogs fell
upon Bertram Aurelius, who took them literally
to his bosom, fighting them just as a little
puppy fights, and his mother smiled up at them
with her big blue eyes and foolish loose-lipped
red mouth.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Have you ever heard anything of the
father?” said North, when they were out of
earshot.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Killed at Bullecourt,” Ruth answered. “I
could not help feeling it was perhaps best. He
will be a hero to her now always.”</p>
<p class='c007'>The lower field was steeped in the afternoon
sunshine, and the children were chirping like
so many birds. Two sat by the stream blowing
dandelion clocks, which another small child
carried to them with careful footsteps, his
tongue protruding in the anxious effort to convey
the fragile globes in safety before they
floated away. Two bigger boys were planting
busily in a clearing in the wood. Another slept,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>seemingly just as he had fallen, with all the lissom
grace of childhood, and on the bank beside
him a small girl crooned to something she
nursed against her flat little chest.</p>
<p class='c007'>Roger North looked at the peaceful scene
with relief.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I believe I’d expect a sort of school feast,”
he said. “If you don’t break forth any more
violently than this, I’m with you. What are
the little beggars planting?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Michaelmas daisies. They should do there,
don’t you think? And we are trying lilies in
that far corner. The soil is damp and peaty.
We were too late for fruit trees this year but
I’ve great plans for autumn planting.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North, oddly enough, so it seemed to many,
was popular with children. He never asked
them endless questions, or if they wanted to
do this or that. He liked the little people, and
had discovered that at heart they were like
the shy wild things. Leave them alone and keep
quiet, and, ten to one, presently a little hand
will creep into yours.</p>
<p class='c007'>He let himself down on the bank near the
crooning child, in silence. She was a thin white
slip of a thing, with very fair hair and a pair
of big translucent eyes. It was an old doll
she was nursing, so old that its face had practically
disappeared, and a blank white circle
<span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>gazed to heaven from under a quite smart tam-o’-shanter.
She was telling some story apparently,
but only now and then were any words
intelligible.</p>
<p class='c007'>Presently she began to look at North sideways,
and her voice rose out of its low monotone
into a higher key. It was like the sudden
movement of a bird nearer to something or
some one whose <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">bona fides</span></i> it has at first mistrusted.</p>
<p class='c007'>The words she was crooning became more
intelligible, and gradually North realized, to
his astonishment, that she was repeating, after
her own fashion, the old Saga of Brynhild the
warrior maid whom Segurd found clad in helm
and byrne. A queer mixture of the ride of the
Valkyries, of Brynhild asleep surrounded by
the eternal fires. Brynhild riding her war-horse
on to the funeral pyre. Loki the Fire
God. Wotan with his spear. All were mixed
up in a truly wonderful whole. But still more
to his astonishment it was the sword which
appealed evidently above all to this small white
maiden. On the sword she dwelt lovingly, and
wove her tale around its prowess. And when
she had brought her recital to a triumphantly
shrill close at the moment when Siegmund
draws the sword from the tree, she turned and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>looked him full in the face, half shyly, half
triumphantly, wholly appealing. It was as if
she said, “What do you think of that now?”</p>
<p class='c007'>North nodded at her. “That’s first rate,
you know,” he said.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Which would you choose, if you had the
choice? Would you choose the ring or the
sword?” she asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Well, I’m inclined to think old Wotan’s
spear is more in my line,” said North in a tone
of proper thoughtful consideration. “It broke
the sword once, didn’t it? At least I believe
it did. But it’s rather a long time ago since I
read about these things. Do you learn them
at school?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“They aren’t lessons.” She looked at him
with some contempt. “They’re stories.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“It’s such a long time ago since anyone told
me stories,” said North apologetically. “I’m
afraid I’ve forgotten.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She looked at him with compassion, holding
the battered doll closer to her. Her eyes reminded
him of a rain-washed sky.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I tell Tommy lots of stories,” she said.</p>
<p class='c007'>Another child’s voice called to her from the
wood, “Moira, Moira,” and she fled away. It
was like the sudden flight of a bird.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Who is the child who tells her dolls the story
<span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>of the Ring?” he asked Ruth, when she rejoined
him. “She is rather like one of Rackham’s
Rhine Maidens herself, by the way.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Moria Kent? Isn’t she a lovely little thing?
Her mother is the village school-mistress.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Ah, that accounts for it I suppose,” said
North.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth opened her mouth to speak, and closed
it again. Instead of what she had meant to say,
she said, “Come, it is time for tea. And I have
ordered strawberries and cream.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>
<h2 id='VIII' class='c005'>CHAPTER VIII</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c006'>Roger North let himself down into the
cane deck-chair by his study window with
a sigh of relief. The wonderful weather still
held. It had been a hot morning, there were
people staying in the house—people who bored
North—and lunch had been to him a wearisome
meal. Everyone had consumed a great
deal of food and wine and talked an amazing
lot of nonsense, and made a great deal of noise,
and the heat had become unbearable.</p>
<p class='c007'>Here, though the warmth was great, the stillness
was perfect. The rest of the world had
retired to their rooms to change for the tennis
party in the afternoon. North felt he could
depend on at least an hour of quiet. Across
the rosebeds and smooth lawns he could see his
cattle lying in the tall grass under the trees.
He watched others moving slowly from shade
to shade—Daisy and Bettina, and Fancy—and
presently Patricia, the big white mother
of many pigs, hove in sight on her way to the
woods. For North was a farmer too, and loved
<span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>his beasts better, it must be owned, than he
loved his own kind.</p>
<p class='c007'>He cut a hole in the orange he had brought
from the lunch-table and commenced to suck
in great content. Like the ladies of Cranford
he considered there was no other way to
eat an orange. He also agreed with them that
it was a pleasure that should be enjoyed in
private.</p>
<p class='c007'>He gave himself up to the soothing peace
and rest of his cool shaded room. The friendly
faces of his beloved books looked down on him,
the fragrance of his roses came in, hot and
sweet, a very quintessence of summer. Patricia
had reached the wood now; he watched her
dignified waddle disappear in its green depths.
What a pleasant and beautiful world it all was,
except for the humans.</p>
<p class='c007'>He dropped the jangling remains of the irritating
lunch interval out of his consciousness,
and his mind drifted back to his morning’s
work, the conclusion of a week of observation,
of measurements, of estimating quantities, of
balancing relations. A week of the scientist’s all-absorbing
pursuit of knowledge, which had, as
his wife complained, made him deaf and dumb
and blind to all else. A disturbing fact in his
work was beginning to force itself upon him.
He was becoming more and more conscious
<span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>that, in spite of the exquisite delicacy of scientific
apparatus, observation was becoming increasingly
difficult. He could no longer make
the atom a subject of observation; it escaped
him. He was beginning to base his arguments
on mathematical formula. Even with the chemical
atom, four degrees below the ultimate physical
atom, he was beginning to reason, without
basing his reasons on observation, because
he could not observe; it was too minute, too fine,
too delicate—it escaped him. He had no instrument
delicate enough to observe. He had
come to a deadlock. The fact forced itself
upon him with ever-increasing insistence; he
could no longer deny it. He could carry some
of his investigations no farther without the aid
of finer, subtler instruments. His methods
failed him. Nor could his particular order of
mind accept the new psychology. He could not
investigate by means of hypnotism, or autoscopy,
or accept the strange new psychological
facts which were revolutionizing all the
old ideas of human consciousness, because he
could not get away from the fundamental fact
that science had no theory with which these
strange new things would fit, no explanation,
as he had said to Ruth Seer, which could arrange
them in a rational order. And, dreaming
in the warmth of the afternoon, with the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>fragrance and beauty of the wonderful universe
filtering into his consciousness, the idea
penetrated with ever-growing insistence: Had
the gods, by some wonderful chance, by some
amazing good fortune, placed in his hands, his,
Roger North’s, an instrument, finer, subtler,
more delicate, than any of which he had ever
dreamed, the consciousness that was materializing
as Ruth Seer? He seemed struggling
with himself, or rather with another self—a
self that was striving to draw him into misty
unreal things, and he shrank back into his world
of what seemed to him solid, tangible things,
things that he could touch and handle and prove
by measure and calculation and observation.
And then again the larger vision gripped him.
Was there indeed a finer, subtler, more wonderful
matter, waiting to be explored by different,
finer, subtler methods? What was it Dick Carey
and Ruth Seer cognized, contracted with outside
his ken? Could he be certain it did not exist?
“God! it would give you an horizon beyond
eternity,” he had said to Ruth Seer; that was
true enough—if the vision was true. Always
till now he had thought of any vision beyond
as a fable, invented by wise men to help lesser
men through what was after all but a sorry
business. And now, for the first time, it really
gripped him—what it would mean if it were
<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>not a fable, not a useful deception for weaker
men who could not face life as it really was.
God! it would give you an horizon beyond
eternity! The vision was as yet only a dim
muddle of infinite possibilities and Roger
North’s mind hated muddle. He was like the
blind man of Bethsaida who, when Christ
touched his eyes, looked up, and saw men, as
trees, walking.</p>
<p class='c007'>Suddenly he got up and moved a photograph
of Dick Carey that stood upon his writing-table,
moved it to an inconspicuous place on
the mantelshelf amongst other photographs.
Then he hesitated for a moment before he took
one of the others and put it on the writing-table.</p>
<p class='c007'>And this simple action meant that Roger
North had put on one side his shrinking from
the intangible and invisible and had started on
new investigations with new instruments for
observation.</p>
<p class='c007'>Then he went back to his chair and began a
second orange. Mansfield had just carried out
the croquet mallets and balls, and was arranging
for the afternoon games in his usual admirable
manner. North watched him lazily as
he sucked the orange, pleasantly conscious that
a new interest had gripped his life, his mind
already busy, tabulating, arranging the different
<span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>subtler matter he proposed to work with.</p>
<p class='c007'>It was here the door opened, and with the
little clatter and bustle which always heralded
her approach, his wife entered, curled, powdered
and adorned, very pretty and very smart,
for her afternoon party.</p>
<p class='c007'>A visit from her at this moment was altogether
unexpected. It was also unfortunate.</p>
<p class='c007'>It is doubtful if much had depended on it,
whether Mrs. North could have helped some
expression of her objection to orange-sucking
when indulged in by her husband. She came to
an abrupt halt in the doorway and looked much
as if there was a bad smell under her nose.</p>
<p class='c007'>There was an unpleasant pause. North, inwardly
fumed, continued to suck his orange.
He had, it is to be feared, the most complete
contempt for his wife’s opinion on all subjects,
and it irritated him to feel that she had nevertheless,
at times, a power which, it must be
confessed, she had used unmercifully in the
early days of their married life, to make him
feel uncomfortable.</p>
<p class='c007'>Finally he flung the orange at the wastepaper
basket, missed his aim, and it landed, the gaping
hole uppermost, in the centre of the hearth.</p>
<p class='c007'>“If you want to speak to me,” he said irritably,
“you had better come and sit down. On
the other hand, if you do not like my sucking
<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>an orange, you might have gone away till I
had finished.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I didn’t say anything,” said Mrs. North.</p>
<p class='c007'>She skirted the offending orange skin carefully
and arranged the fluffy curls at the back
of her neck in front of the glass. Then she sat
down and arranged the lace in front of her
frock.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I can’t think why you are always so disagreeable
now,” she complained at length.
“You used to be so fond of me once.”</p>
<p class='c007'>By this time the atmosphere was electric
with irritation. A more inopportune moment
for such an appeal could hardly have been
chosen.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I don’t suppose you have dressed early to
come down and tell me that,” said North. It
was not nice of him, and he knew it was not nice,
but for the life of him he could not help it. Indeed
it was only by a superhuman effort that
his answer had not verged on the brutal.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I came to talk to you about Violet, but it’s
so impossible to talk to you about anything.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Why try?” interposed North.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I suppose you take some interest in your
own child?” retorted Mrs. North. “I daresay
you have not noticed it, but she is looking
wretchedly ill.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North relapsed into silence and continued to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>watch Mansfield’s preparation on the lawn.</p>
<p class='c007'>“<em>Have</em> you noticed it?” asked his wife, her
voice shrill now with exasperation.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes,” said North.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Very well then, why can’t you take some
interest? Why can’t you ever talk things over
with me like other husbands do with their wives?
And it isn’t only that she looks ill; she’s altered—she
isn’t the same girl she was even a year
ago. And people remark on it. She isn’t popular
like she used to be. People seem afraid
of her.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She had secured North’s attention now. The
drawn lines on his face deepened. There was
anxiety as well as irritation in his glances.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Have you spoken to her? Tried to find out
what is wrong?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“No,” said Mrs. North. “At least I have
<em>tried</em>, but it’s impossible to get anything out of
her. It’s like talking to a stranger. Really,
sometimes I’m frightened of her. It sounds
ridiculous, of course, but there it is. And we
used to be such good friends and tell each other
everything.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I am afraid she has never really got over
Dick’s death,” said North, his manner appreciably
gentler. “And possibly her marriage
so soon after was not the wisest thing.”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>“You approved of it quite as much as I
did.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Certainly. I am not in any sense blaming
you. Besides, Violet did not ask either our
advice or our approval. My meaning rather
is, that possibly she is paying now for what
I own seemed to me at the time a quite amazing
courage.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“She confided in you all that dreadful time
far more than she did in me,” said Mrs. North
fretfully, and with her pitiful inability to meet
her husband when his natural kindness of heart
or sense of duty moved him to try to discuss
things of mutual interest with her in a friendly
spirit. “If you had not taken her away from
me then, it might have been different.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North shrugged his shoulders, and returned
to his contemplation of the croquet lawn and
Mansfield’s preparations. Violet had never
from her babyhood been anything but a bone
of contention, unless he had been content never
to interfere or express opinions contrary to his
wife’s.</p>
<p class='c007'>“What do you want me to do?” he asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Only show some natural interest in your
own child,” she retorted. “But you never can
talk anything over without being irritable.
And as to her marriage with Fred, we were
<span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>all agreed it was an excellent thing. Of course
if you haven’t noticed how altered she is, it’s
no good my telling you.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I have noticed it,” said North shortly.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Well, what do you think we had better do?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“You really want my opinion?”</p>
<p class='c007'>North had said this before over other matters.
He wrestled with the futility of saying it over
this. But he knew that his wife was a devoted,
if sometimes an unwise, mother, and he
had on the whole been very generous to her with
regard to their only child. He sympathized
with her now in her anxiety.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Of course I do,” she responded. “Isn’t it
what I’ve been saying all this time?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Then honestly I don’t see what either you
or I can do but stand by. She knows we’re
there right enough, both of us. She can depend
on Fred too, she knows that. But it seems to
me that until she comes to us we’ve got to leave
her alone to fight out whatever the trouble is
in her own way. I think you are right—there
<em>is</em> trouble. But we can’t force her confidence
and we should do no good if we did. I’m afraid
you won’t think that much help.” He looked at
her with some kindness. “But I believe it is
quite sound advice.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“It’s dreadful to feel like a stranger with
one’s own child,” complained Mrs. North. “It
<span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>makes me perfectly miserable. Of course I
don’t think a father feels the same as a
mother.”</p>
<p class='c007'>A shadow fell across the strip of sunlight
coming in from the window. A gay voice broke
the sequence of her complaint.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh, <em>here</em> you are!” it said.</p>
<p class='c007'>Both of them looked up hastily, almost guiltily.
Violet Riversley stood on the gravel pathway
outside. A gay and gallant figure, slim
and straight in her favourite white. The sun
shone on the smooth coiled satin of her dark
hair, on the whiteness of her wonderful skin.
Her golden eyes danced as she crossed the step
of the French window.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I felt in my bones you would be having a
party this afternoon,” she said. “So I put
Fred and myself into the car, and here we are!”</p>
<p class='c007'>She looked from one to the other and they
looked at her, momentarily bereft of speech.
For here was the old Violet, gay with over-brimming
life and mirth, the beautiful irresistible
hoyden of the days before the war, before
Dick Carey had died, suddenly back again as
it were. And now, and now only, did either
of them realize to the full the difference between
her and the Violet they had just been discussing.</p>
<p class='c007'>“What is the matter with you both?” she
<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>cried. “You look as if you were plotting dark
and desperate deeds! And Mansfield is nearly
in tears under the beech-tree because he can’t
arrange the chairs to his satisfaction without
you.” She looked at her mother. “He says”—she
looked at her father and bubbled with
mirth—“the trenches have spoilt his sense
of the artistic! And he says he is a champion
at croquet now himself. He won all the competitions
at V.A.D. hospital. Do you think
we ought to ask him to play this afternoon?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“My dear Violet——” began Mrs. North,
smitten by the horror of the suggestion.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Look here, Vi,” said North. On a sudden
impulse he put his long legs down from his deck-chair,
sat erect, and swept her gay badinage
aside. “We were talking about you.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Me!”</p>
<p class='c007'>She bent her straight black brows at him, a
shadow swept over her brilliance, she shivered
a little.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I suppose I have been pretty poisonous to
you lately.” She meditated for a moment.
Then her old irresistible mischievous smile
shone out. “But it’s nothing to what I’ve been
to poor Fred.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She ran her lithe fingers through North’s
grizzled hair and became serious again.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>“Dad and Mums, darlings, I don’t know
what’s been the matter with me—but I’ve been
in hell. I woke up this morning and felt like
Shuna-something’s daughter when the devil
was driven out of her. And I got up and
danced round the room in my nighty, because
the old world was beautiful again and I didn’t
hate everything and everybody. And don’t
talk to me about what I’ve been like, darlings—I
don’t want to think of it. All I know is,
it’s gone, and if it ever comes back——”</p>
<p class='c007'>She stopped and repeated slowly:</p>
<p class='c007'>“If it ever comes back——”</p>
<p class='c007'>Her slim erect figure shivered, as a rod of
steel shivers driven by electric force.</p>
<p class='c007'>Then she flung up a defiant hand and laughed.
The gay light laughter of the old Violet. “But I
won’t let it! Never again! Never, never,
never! Mums, come out and wrestle with
Mansfield’s lost artistic sense.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She lifted Mrs. North, protesting shrilly,
bodily out of her chair.</p>
<p class='c007'>“My dear Violet! Don’t! Oh, my hat!”
she cried, and retreated, like a ruffled bird, to
the looking-glass over the mantelshelf to rearrange
her plumage.</p>
<p class='c007'>Violet seized her father by both hands and
pulled him too out of his chair.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>“Come and play a game of croquet with me
before the guests come, Herr Professor,” she
said.</p>
<p class='c007'>It was her old name for him in the days when
Karl von Schäde had brought many German
expressions and titles into their midst. It
struck North with a curious little unpleasant
shock.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Why have you put poor Dick’s photo up
here?” asked his wife.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh, do leave my things alone!” exclaimed
North.</p>
<p class='c007'>His wife’s capacity for discovering and inquiring
into any little thing he did not want
to explain was phenomenal. It irritated him to
see her pick up the frame. It irritated him
that she would always speak of his dead friend
as “poor Dick.”</p>
<p class='c007'>The atmosphere disturbed by Violet’s sudden
radiant entrance became once more charged
with electric irritation.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mrs. North put down the frame with a little
click.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I thought it was some mistake of the servant’s,”
she said stiffly.</p>
<p class='c007'>Violet pulled her father out of the French
window. “Come, we have only time for half a
game now,” she said.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mrs. North followed.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>“Your Miss Seer is coming this afternoon,
Roger,” she said. “I do hope you won’t talk
to no one else, if you intend to appear at all.
It looks so bad, and only makes everyone talk!”</p>
<p class='c007'>With which parting shot she retreated towards
Mansfield and the chairs.</p>
<p class='c007'>Violet slipped her arm through her father’s
as they crossed the lawn. “She can’t help it,
daddy,” she said soothingly.</p>
<p class='c007'>North laughed, a short mirthless laugh.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I suppose not. Go ahead, Vi. I’ll take
blue.”</p>
<p class='c007'>They buried themselves in the game after
the complete and concentrated manner of the
real croquet player. Both were above the average,
and it was an infinite relief to North to
find Violet taking her old absorbing interest in
his defeat.</p>
<p class='c007'>Presently Fred Riversley wandered out and
stood watching them, stolid and heavy as usual,
but his nod to North held meaning, and a great
content. North was beginning to like this
rather dull young man in a way he would once
have thought impossible. He had been the
plainest, the least attractive, and the least interesting
of the group of brilliant children who
had grown up in such a bewilderingly sudden
way, almost, it seemed, on the declaration of
war, and of whom so few were left. North’s
<span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>mind drifted back to those days which seemed
so long ago, another lifetime, to those gay glad
children who had centred round his friend and
so been part of his own life. And then a sudden
nostalgia seized him, a sick sense of the purposeless
horror of life. And you cared—really
cared—if you made a bad shot at croquet, or
if your wife objected to your sucking oranges.
Mansfield, who had faced death by torture minute
after minute out there, was worried because
he could not arrange the chairs at a tennis
party. And those boys and the girl, little Sybil
Rawson, were all broken up, smashed out of
existence, finished. They had not even left any
other boys and girls of their own behind; they
were some of nature’s waste.</p>
<p class='c007'>He missed his shot, and Violet gave a cry
of triumph. It gave the game into her hands.
She went out with a few pretty finish
shots.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Not up to your usual mark that, sir!” said
Riversley.</p>
<p class='c007'>“No,” said North. “It was a rotten shot!”
And he <em>did</em> care. He was annoyed with himself.
“Rotten!” he said, and played the stroke
over again.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Absolutely unworthy!” laughed his daughter.</p>
<p class='c007'>She put out first one and then the other of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>her balls with deft precision and waved her
mallet to an approaching car.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Here are the Condors,” she said. “And
Condie himself! I haven’t seen him for ages,
the old dear!”</p>
<p class='c007'>She skimmed the lawn like a bird towards
the front door.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mansfield was tenderly assisting an enormously
stout gentleman to get out of the car
backwards.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Excellent, bombardier!” said the stout
gentleman. “Excellent. You have let me
down without a single twinge. Now they put
my man into the motor transport. Most unfortunate
for me. The knowledge of how to
handle a live bomb would have been invaluable.”</p>
<p class='c007'>He heaved slowly round in time to receive
Violet Riversley’s enthusiastic welcome. His
face was very round and full, the features, in
themselves good, partially buried in many rolls
of flesh, the whole aspect one of benign good
nature. Only an occasional penetrating flash
from under his heavy eyelids revealed the keen
intelligence which had given him no small reputation
in the political world.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Ah, little Vi! It’s pleasant to see you
again,” he said. “How are you, North?”
His voice was soft and thick, but had the beauty
of perfect pronunciation.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>It was the only sound ever known to check
his wife’s amazing flow of conversation. She
owned herself that it had been difficult, but she
had recognized the necessity early in their married
life.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You see, no one wanted to hear me talk if
they could hear him,” she explained. “Now it
has become a habit. Condor has only to say
‘Ah!’ and I stop like an automaton.”</p>
<p class='c007'>At this moment she was following him from
the car amid the usual shower of various belongings.
Violet and her husband assisted her
while North and Mansfield gathered up the
débris.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes, my dears, we have been to a meeting
as usual. Natural—I mean National Economy.
Condor made a really admirable speech, recommending
impossible things; excellent, of course—only
impossible! My glasses? Thank you,
Roger. Yes, isn’t the car shabby? I am so
thankful. A new Rolls-Royce has such a painfully
rich appearance, hasn’t it? And the old
ones go just as well, if not better. That scarf?
Um—yes—perhaps I will want it. Let us put
it into Condor’s pocket. A little more padding
makes no difference to him.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“When I was younger it used to be my privilege
and pleasure to pick up these little odds
and ends for my wife,” said Lord Condor,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>smiling good-naturedly, while his wife stuffed
the scarf into his pocket. “But alas! my figure
no longer permits.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I remember my engagement was a most trying
time,” said Lady Condor. “My dear
mother impressed on me that if Condor once
realized the irritation my untidiness and habit
of dropping my things about would cause him
in our married life, he would break it off.
What, Vi? Oh, damn the thing!”</p>
<p class='c007'>Violet Riversley, holding a gold bag which
had mysteriously dropped from somewhere,
went off into a helpless fit of laughter.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Don’t laugh, my dear. It is nothing to
laugh at. I do hope Mansfield did not hear!
One catches these bad habits, but I have not
taken to swearing. I do not approve of it for
women—or of smoking—do I, Condor? But
that wretched bag has spoilt my whole afternoon;
that is the fifth time it has been handed
to me. I could not really enjoy Condor’s
speech. Quite admirable—only no one could
possibly do the things he recommended. But
where was I? Oh yes—the bag—you see, I
bought it at Asprey’s! You know, in Bond
Street—yes. There was a whole window full
of them. How should it strike one that they
were luxuries, and that the scarcity of gold
was so great? One has got quite used to the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>paper money by now. And somehow it never
seems so valuable as real sovereigns. I am sure
our extravagance is due to this. It’s nearly as
bad as paying by cheque. But where was I?
Oh, my bag! You see, we all went to this meeting
to patronize National Economy. Most necessary,
Condor says, and we must all do our best.
But it really would have been better, I think,
if we had not all gone in our cars and taken our
gold bags. Everyone seemed to have a gold
bag—and aigrettes on their heads. I never
wear them myself. The poor birds—I couldn’t.
But I know they cost pounds and pounds, and
no one could call them necessities. Or the gold
bags of course, if gold is so very scarce. Ought
we to send them to be melted down? I will
gladly send mine into the lower regions. Just
as we were entering it plopped down on the step,
and you can imagine the noise it made, and a
quite poor-looking man picked it up and gave
it back to me. He had on one of the dreadful-looking
suits, you know, that they gave our
poor dear men when they were demobilized.
He was most pleasant, but what must he have
thought? And I could not explain to him about
the shop window-full because Condor was waiting
for me. And then, on the platform, just
as Condor was making one of his most telling
<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>points, it <em>clanged</em> down off my lap, and of
course it fell just where there was no carpet.
I tried to kick it under the chair, but little Mr.
Peckham—you know him, dear—would jump up
and make quite a show of it, handing it back to
me. No, don’t give it me again. Put it into
Condor’s pocket. But he has gone! To see
the pigs with Roger? Isn’t it wonderful the
attraction pigs have for men of a certain age!
My dear father was just the same, and he called
his pigs after us—or was it us after the pigs?—I
don’t quite remember which. And where is
your mother? Oh, I see—playing croquet with
Mrs. Ingram. My dear, did you ever see such
a hat! Like a plate of petrified porridge, isn’t
it? No, tell your mother not to come. I will
just wave my hand. Go and tell her not to stop
her game, dear Violet. And here is Arthur!
He has something important to tell me—I know
by his walk. Now let us get comfortable first,
and where we shall not be disturbed. Yes.
Those two chairs over there.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I do want a little chat if possible, Marion,”
said Mr. Fothersley. He retrieved a scarf
which had floated suddenly across his path, with
the skill born of long practice. “Yes, I will
keep it in case you feel cold.”</p>
<p class='c007'>He folded it in a neat square so that it could
<span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>go into his pocket without damage to either
scarf or pocket, and held the back of her chair
while she fitted herself into it.</p>
<p class='c007'>“A footstool? Thank you, Arthur. I will
say for Nita, she understands the art of making
her guests comfortable. Now at the Howles’
yesterday I had a chair nearly impossible to get
into and quite impossible to get out of! But
where were we? Oh yes—you have got something
you want to tell me. I always know by
your walk.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Fothersley was a little vexed. “I cannot
see how it can possibly affect my walk,
Marion.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“It is odd, isn’t it?” said her Ladyship
briskly. “It is just like my dear father. A
piece of news was written all over him until
he got rid of it. I remember when poor George
Somerville shot himself—my dear mother and
I were sitting on the terrace, and we saw my
father coming up from the village—quite a long
way off—you could not distinguish a feature—but
we knew at once he was bringing news—news
of importance. But where were we?”</p>
<p class='c007'>She stopped suddenly and looked at him with
the smile which had turned the heads of half
the gilded youth of fifty years ago.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I am a garrulous old woman, my dear
Arthur. You are anxious about something,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>and here am I worrying you with my silly
reminiscences—yes—now what is it? Tell me
all about it, and we will see what can be done.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I am certainly perturbed,” said Mr. Fothersley.
He smoothed down his delicate grey
waistcoat and settled himself back in his chair.
“I am afraid there is no doubt Nita is becoming
jealous of Miss Seer.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Good heavens! I would as soon suspect
that blue iris!”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Quite so! Quite so! But you know what
Nita is about these things. And, unfortunately,
it appears that Roger has been over to Thorpe
once or twice alone lately.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Perfectly natural,” said her Ladyship judicially.
“He would be interested in the farm
for Dick’s sake. I like to go there myself. She
hasn’t spoilt the place.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Nita called her ‘that woman’ to me just
now,” said Mr. Fothersley solemnly.</p>
<p class='c007'>Lady Condor raised her hand. “That settles
it, of course! And now, dear Arthur, what is
to be done? We really cannot have one of
those dreadful performances that have unfortunately
occurred in the past!”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I really don’t know,” said Mr. Fothersley.
He was divided between excitement and distress.
“It is quite useless to talk to either of
them. Nita generally consults me, but she
<span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>listens neither to reason nor advice. And
Roger only laughs or loses his temper.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes,” agreed Lady Condor. “I think it
depends on the state of his liver. And as for
poor Nita listening to reason on that subject—well—as
you say!”</p>
<p class='c007'>“If only she would not tell everybody it
would not be so terrible.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Ah, that is just the little touch of bourgeois,”
said Lady Condor. “It was wine,
wasn’t it? Or was it something dried? And
poor dear Roger is really so safe—yes—he
would be terribly bored with a real <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">affair de
cœur</span></i>. He would forget any woman for weeks if
he were arranging a combination of elements to
see if they would blow each other up. And if
the poor woman made a scene, or uttered a
word of reproach even, he would be off for
good and all—pouf—just like that. And what
good is that to any woman? I have told Nita
so, but it is no good—no! Now if she had
been married to Condor! Poor darling, he is
perfectly helpless in the hands of anything
in petticoats! It is not his fault. It is temperament,
you know. All the Hawkhursts
have very inflammable dispositions. And when
he was younger, women were so silly about
him! I used to pretend not to know, and I was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>always charming to them all. It worked admirably.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I always admired your dignity, dear
Marion,” said Mr. Fothersley.</p>
<p class='c007'>“<em>We</em> have always shielded our men,” said
Lady Condor, and she looked a very great lady
indeed.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Our day is passing,” said Mr. Fothersley
sadly. “I deplore it very much. Very much
indeed.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Fortunately”—Lady Condor pursued her
reminiscences—“Condor has a sense of humour,
which always prevented him making himself
really ridiculous: that would have worried me.
A man running round a woman looking like an
amorous sheep! Where are my glasses,
Arthur? And who is that girl over there, all
legs and neck? Of course the present style
of dress has its advantages—one has nothing
on to lose. But where was I? Something
about sheep? Oh yes, dear Condor. I have
always been so thankful that when he lost his
figure—he had a very fine figure as a young
man you remember—he gave up all that sort
of thing. You <em>must</em>, of course, if you have any
sense of the ridiculous. But about Roger and
Miss Seer. She is a woman with dignity. Now
where can she have got it from? She seems
<span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>to have been brought up between an orphan
clergy school and some shop—was it old furniture?—something
old I know. Not clothes—no—but
something old. And some one said she
had been a cook. But one can be anything these
days.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“She is of gentle birth,” said Mr. Fothersley.
“Her mother, I gather, was a Courthope, and
the Seers seem to be quite good people—Irish
I believe—but of good blood. It always tells.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“You never know which way,” said her Ladyship
sagely. “Now look at my Uncle Marcus.
Oh, there <em>is</em> Miss Seer. Yes—I really don’t
think we need worry. It would be difficult to
be rude to her. There, you see—dear Nita is
being quite nice! And Roger is quite safe with
Condor and the pigs.”</p>
<p class='c007'>It was indeed late in the afternoon before
North came upon Ruth, watching a set of tennis.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You don’t play?” he asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I never had the chance to learn any of the
usual things,” she said, smiling. “I’m afraid
I only came to-day with an ulterior motive. I
want you to show me a photograph of Dick
Carey.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“That, oddly enough, was also in my mind,”
he said, smiling too. “Come into my study and
find it for yourself.”</p>
<p class='c007'>He was conscious of a little pleasant excitement
<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>as they went, and also of a curious uncertainty
as to whether he wanted the experiment
to succeed or not.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth went in front of him through the French
window and stood for a while looking round her.
She was not a slow woman, but nothing she did
ever seemed hurried.</p>
<p class='c007'>“What a delicious room!” she said. “And
what a glory of books! And I do like the way
you have your writing-table. How much better
than across the window, and yet you get all the
light. I may poke about?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Of course.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She moved the writing-table and picked up
a quaint letter-weight with interest. The photograph
she ignored.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I love your writing-chair,” she said.</p>
<p class='c007'>“It was my grandfather’s. The only bit I
have of his. My parents cleared out the whole
lot when they married—too awful, wasn’t it?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“But your books are wonderful! Surely you
have many first editions here. Old Raphael
would have loved them.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“The best of my first editions are on the right
of the fireplace.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She turned, and then suddenly her face lit.
Lit up curiously, as if there were a light behind
it.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh!” she said quite softly, then crossed to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>the fireplace and stood looking at the photograph
he had moved that afternoon from the writing-table.</p>
<p class='c007'>She did not pick it up or touch it; only looked
at it with wide eyes for quite a long time.</p>
<p class='c007'>Then she turned to him.</p>
<p class='c007'>“That is the man I saw,” she said. “Now
will you believe?”</p>
<p class='c007'>And at that moment the Horizon beyond
Eternity did indeed approach closer, approach
into the realm of the possible.</p>
<p class='c007'>He admitted nothing, and she did not press it.
She sat down in the big armchair on the small
corner left by Larry, who was curled up in it
asleep. He shifted a little to make more room
for her and laid a gentle feathered paw upon
her knee.</p>
<p class='c007'>“That’s odd,” said North. “He won’t let
anyone else come near my chair when he’s in
it.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“He knows I’m a link,” said Ruth, smiling.
“I wish you could look on me as that too.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I do—but for purposes of research only.
You mustn’t drive me too quickly.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I won’t. Indeed I won’t.” She spoke with
the earnestness of a child who has asked a
favour. “I only want you just not to shut it
all out.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I’m interested, and that is as far as I can
<span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>go at present. I wondered if you would care
to read a bit of Dick’s diary which I have here.
It came to me with other papers, and there are
some letters here.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Oh!” The exclamation was full of interest
and pleasure.</p>
<p class='c007'>He gave her the small packet, smiling, and
she held it between both her hands for a moment
looking at it.</p>
<p class='c007'>“They will be very sacred to me,” she said.</p>
<p class='c007'>He nodded. “One feels like that. It is only
a small portion of a diary. I fancy he kept
one very intermittently. Dick was never a
writer. But the letter about von Schäde will
interest you.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth stood with her eyes fixed on the small
packet. “Could you tell me—would you mind—how
it happened?” she said.</p>
<p class='c007'>“A shell fell, burying some of his men. He
went to help dig them out. Another shell fell
on the same place. That was the end.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She looked up. Her eyes shone.</p>
<p class='c007'>“He was saving life, not taking it. Oh, I
am glad.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She put the packet into the pocket of her linen
skirt, gave him a little smile, and slipped away
almost as a wraith might slip. She wanted,
suddenly and overpoweringly, to get back to
Thorpe....</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>Lady Condor, enjoying, as was her frequent
custom, a second tea, said quite suddenly, in
the middle of a lament on the difficulty of obtaining
reliable cosmetics, “That is a clever
woman!”</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Fothersley, who was honestly interested
in cosmetics, tore his mind away from them
and looked round.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Who?” he asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Miss Seer. I have been watching, after
what you told me. You have not noticed? She
has been in Roger’s study with him, only about
ten minutes—yes—but she has done it without
Nita knowing. Look, she is saying good-bye
now. And dear Nita all smiles and quite
pleasant. Nita was playing croquet of course
but even then—— Perhaps it was just luck—but
quite amazing.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Fothersley agreed. “Most fortunate,”
he added.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You know, Arthur, she is not unattractive,”
Lady Condor continued. “By no means
in her <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">première jeunesse</span></i> and can never have
been a beauty. But there is something cool
and restful-looking about her which some men
might like. You never know, do you? I remember
once Condor was quite infatuated for
a few weeks, with a woman rather in the same
style.”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>“But I thought you didn’t think——” began
Mr. Fothersley.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Of course I don’t think—not really.” Lady
Condor watched Ruth’s farewells through her
glasses. “That’s what is so stupid about all
these supposed affairs of Roger’s. There never
is anything in them. So stupid——” She
stopped suddenly and looked sideways at him,
rather the look of a child found with a forbidden
toy.</p>
<p class='c007'>“But——” began Mr. Fothersley, and
stopped also.</p>
<p class='c007'>The two old friends looked at each other.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Arthur,” said Lady Condor. “I believe
you are as bad as I am. Yes—don’t deny it.
I saw the guilt in your eyes. So funny—just as
I discovered my own. But so nice—we can be
quite honest with each other.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“My dear Marion—I don’t——” Mr. Fothersley
began to protest.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Dear Arthur, yes—you do. We both of us
enjoy—yes—where are my glasses? What a
mercy you did not tread on them. But where
was I? Yes. We both of us enjoy these little
excitements. Positively”—her shrewd old face
lighted up with mischief—“positively I believe
we miss it when Roger is not supposed to
be carrying on with somebody. I discovered
it in a flash just this very moment! I do hope
<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>we don’t really hope there is something in it all
the time. It would be so dreadful of us.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Certainly we do not,” said Mr. Fothersley,
deeply pained but associating himself with her
from long habit. “Most certainly not! I can
assure you my conscience is quite clear. Really,
you are allowing your imagination to run away
with you. We have always done our best to
stop Nita creating these most awkward
situations.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes, of course we have,” said Lady Condor
soothingly. “I did not mean that. But now
where is Condor? Oh, he has walked home
across the fields. So good for his figure! I
wish I could do the same for mine. Yes, Nita
has been quite nice to Miss Seer, and now Violet
is seeing her off.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I am motoring back to town to-night,”
Violet Riversley was saying as she shut the
door of Ruth Seer’s little two-seater car, “or
I would like to come over to Thorpe. How is
it?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Just lovely,” said Ruth, smiling. “Be
sure and come whenever you can.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She had taken off the brakes, put out the
clutch and got into gear before Violet answered.
Then she laid her hand, as with a sudden impulse,
on the side of the car.</p>
<p class='c007'>“If one day I should—quite suddenly—wire
<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>to you and ask you to have me to stay—would
you?” she asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Why yes, of course,” said Ruth.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You might have other visitors—or be
away.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“No, I shall not have other visitors, and I
shall not be away.”</p>
<p class='c007'>The conveyances of other guests had begun to
crowd the drive, and Ruth had to give all her
attention to getting her car out of a gate built
before the day of cars. It was only when she
was running clear, down the long slope from
Fairbridge, that she remembered the curious
and absolute certainty with which she had answered
Violet Riversley’s question.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>
<h2 id='IX' class='c005'>CHAPTER IX</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c006'>The clouds of a thunderstorm were looming
slowly up as Ruth motored home, and soon
after she got back a sudden deluge swept over
Thorpe. In ten minutes the garden paths were
running with water unable to get into the sun-baked
ground and every hand on the farm was
busy getting young things into shelter.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I said we should have rain soon,” announced
Miss McCox, after the triumphant manner of
weather prophets, as she brought in Bertram
Aurelius, busy trying to catch the falling silver
flood with both hands.</p>
<p class='c007'>“He has never seen rain before to remember.
Think of it!” said Ruth. “And he isn’t a bit
frightened. Where are the other children?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“A little wet, more or less, will do <em>them</em> no
harm,” replied Miss McCox. “They’re more
in the river than out of it, I’m thinking, bringing
in mess and what not.” She handed Bertram
Aurelius, protesting for once vigorously,
through the kitchen window to his mother.
“It’s the young chicken up in the top field I’m
after,” she added.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>Ruth laughed as she picked up Selina’s shivering
little body which was cowering round
her feet, and ran for the river. She liked the
rush of the rain against her face, the eager
thirst of the earth as it drank after the long
drought, the scent of the wet grass. It was all
very good. And if it only lasted long enough,
it would make just all the difference in the world
to the hay crop. The thunder was muttering
along the hill-tops while she rescued the children
from the shelter of a big tree, helped Miss
McCox with the young chicken, and hurriedly
staked some carnations which should have been
done days ago; then she fled for the house,
barely in time to escape the full fury of the
storm.</p>
<p class='c007'>“The carnations could have been left,” said
Miss McCox, as she met her at the front door.
“There’s no sense in getting your feet soaked
at your age. I have a hot bath turned on for
you and if you don’t go at once it will be cold.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Bathed, dressed, and glowing with content
of mind and body, Ruth watched the end of
the storm from the parlour window. The big
clouds were drifting heavily, muttering as they
went, down towards the east, the rain still fell,
but softly now, each silver streak shining separately
in the blaze of sunlight from the west
and presently, as Ruth watched, a great rainbow,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>perfect and complete, arched in jewelled
glory the sullen blackness of the retreating
storm.</p>
<p class='c007'>After her dinner she took the packet Roger
North had given her, and sat holding it between
her hands in the big armchair by the window.
The beautiful gracious old room was filling with
the evening shadows, but here the light was
still clear and full. The sunset lingered,
although already the evening star was shining
brightly. Ruth sat there, as Dick Carey must
often have sat after his day’s work, looking
across his pleasant fields, dreaming dreams,
thinking long thoughts, loving the beauty of
it all.</p>
<p class='c007'>Here he must have thought and planned
for the good and welfare of the farm. The
crops and flowers and fruit, the birds and
beasts. And in those last days, of the children
who should come, calling him father, to own
the farm one day, and love it as he had loved
it.</p>
<p class='c007'>Masefield’s beautiful lines passed through
Ruth’s mind:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c008'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“If there be any life beyond the grave,</div>
<div class='line'>It must be near the men and things we love,</div>
<div class='line'>Some power of quick suggestion how to save,</div>
<div class='line'>Touching the living soul as from above.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>She sat very still; the lamp, symbol of the
Life Eternal, gleamed more brightly as the
shadows deepened. The glow in the west died
away, and the great stars shone with kindly
eyes, just as it must have shone on Dick Carey,
sitting there dreaming too, loving the beauty
of it all.</p>
<p class='c007'>And presently Ruth became conscious of
other things. Curious and poignantly there
grew around her, out of the very heart of the
stillness, the sense of a great movement of
men and things, the clash of warring instincts,
an atmosphere of fierce passions, of hatred and
terror, of tense anxiety, like an overstrained
rod that must surely break, and yet holds. A
terrible tension of waiting for something—something
that was coming—coming—something
that fell. She knew where she was now;
for, through all the drenched sweetness of the
fields and gardens, sickening, suffocating,
deadly, came the smell of the Great Battlefields
of the world. All of it was there—the
sweat of men, the sour atmosphere of bivouac
and dug-out, rotten sacking and wood, the fumes
of explosives, the clinging horror of gas,
the smell of the unattended death. It was all
there, in one hideous whole. Shuddering,
clutching the letters tightly with clenched hands
<span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>in her lap, Ruth was back there again; again
she was an atom in some awful scheme, again
she knew the dread approach. The wait....
Great roaring echoes rolled up and filled all
space. Sounds crashed and shattered, rent and
destroyed.</p>
<p class='c007'>And then, through it all, Ruth felt—held it
as it were between the hands of her heart—something
so wonderful it took her breath away,
and she knew it for what it was, through all
the tumult, the horror, and the evil, the strong
determined purpose of a man for a certain
end. It grew and grew, in wonder and in
glory, until her heart could no longer hold it,
could no longer bear it, for it became the strong
determined purpose of many men for a certain
end. It joined and unified into a current of
living light and fire, and sang as it flowed, sang
so that the sounds of horror passed and
fled and the melody of its flowing filled all space,
the sound of the great Song of the Return.</p>
<p class='c007'>She was no longer a lonely atom in a scheme
she could not understand, no longer a stranger
and a pilgrim in a weary land, but part of
an amazing and stupendous whole, working in
unison, making for an end glorious beyond
conception. Limits of time and space were
wiped out, but when the strange and wonderful
happening had passed over, never then, or at
<span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>any later time, had she any doubt as to the
reality of the experience. She knew and understood,
though, with the Apostle of old, she could
have said, “Whether in the body or out of the
body I cannot tell.”</p>
<p class='c007'>But suddenly the body claimed her again, and
Ruth Seer did what was a very unusual thing
with her—she put her face between her hands
and cried and cried till they were wet with tears,
her whole being shaken as by the passing of a
great wind.</p>
<p class='c007'>When, some time later, she opened the packet
she found the few pages of diary much what
she had somehow expected. Just the short
notes of a man pressed for every minute of
his time, because every minute not given to
definite duty was spent with, or for, his men.
His love and care for them were in every line
of those hasty scraps of writing, kept principally,
it seemed to Ruth, so that nothing for
each one might be forgotten. It was that personal
touch that struck her most forcibly. Not
one of his men had a private trouble but he
knew it and took steps to help, not one was missing
but he headed the search party if prior
duties did not prevent, not one died without him
if it were in any way possible for him to be
there. That lean brown hand which she knew—had
seen—what a sure thing it had been to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>hold. From the little hastily scribbled scraps it
could be pieced together. That wonderful life
which he, and many another, had led in the
midst of hell. The light was fading when she
took the letter out of its thin unstamped envelope,
but Dick Carey’s writing was very clear,
each word somewhat unusually far apart.</p>
<div class='lg-container-l c009'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“<span class='sc'>Dear old Roger</span> (it ran),—</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c010'>“We have been badly knocked about, and are
here to refit. Seven of our officers killed and four
wounded; 348 out of 726 men killed and wounded—some
horribly maimed—my poor fellows. This is
butchery, not war. The Colonel was wounded early
in the day and I was in command. Kelsey is gone,
and Marriott, and little Kennedy, of those you knew.
Writing to mothers and wives is hard work. You
might go and see Mrs. Kelsey. She would like it. I
have not a scratch and am well, but the damnable
horror of this war is past belief. I have told Vi as
little as possible, and nothing of the following. Poor
von Schäde was brought into our lines, strangely
enough, last evening, terribly mutilated. They had
to amputate both legs and right arm at the clearing
station. I managed to get down after things were
over to see him. But he was still unconscious. We
are in a ruined château on the right of —— Forest.
There is a lake in which we can bathe—a godsend.</p>
<p class='c010'>“Just midnight; and while I write a nightingale is
singing. It goes on though the roar of the guns is
echoing through the forest like a great sigh, and even
<span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>the crash of an occasional shell does not disturb it.
I suppose born and bred to it. My God, what
wouldn’t I give to wake up and hear the nightingales
singing to the river at Thorpe and find this was only
an evil dream!</p>
<p class='c010'>“<em>20th.</em> Von Schäde is gone. I was with him at
the end, but it was terrible. I could not leave him
and yet perhaps it would have been better. He
seemed mad with hatred. Poor fellow, one can hardly
wonder. It was not only himself, so mutilated, but
he seemed convinced, certain, that they were beaten.
He cursed England and the English. Me and mine
and Thorpe. Even Vi. It was indescribably horrible.
The evil of this war incarnate as it were——”</p>
<p class='c011'>The letter broke off, and ended with the
scrawled initials</p>
<div class='lg-container-r c009'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Yrs., R. C.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c011'>and an undecipherable postscript:</p>
<p class='c012'>“Don’t tell Vi.”</p>
<p class='c013'>Had he been called away hurriedly by the
falling shell which had buried his men? The
envelope was addressed in another writing.
She felt it must have been so. Very swiftly he
had followed the man who had died cursing
him and his, out into the world where thought
and emotion, unclogged by this physical matter,
are so much the more powerful and uncontrolled.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>Had they met, these two strong spirits, moving
on different lines of force, working for different
ends? What had been let loose when Karl
von Schäde had died in that British clearing
station, cursing “England and the English,
me and mine and Thorpe. Even Vi.” The
great emotional forces, so much greater than
the physical body which imprisons them, what
power was there when freed; this hatred in a
man of great and cultivated intellect, whose
aim had been no mean or contemptible thing,
whose aim had been power, what was that force
on the other side of death? How much could
it accomplish if, with added knowledge, it so
willed?</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth shivered in the warm June night. A
sense of danger to the farm stole over her. A
warning of something sinister, impending,
brooding, as the great thunder-cloud had loomed
up before it burst. She stepped out over the low
window-ledge on to the terrace, looked across
the sleeping beauty before her. Still she held
the papers in her hand. A glimmering moon
was rising behind the trees, a little faint wind
whispered among the leaves. They made black
patterns on the silvered grass as it moved them
very gently. The wind fell, and with it a great
stillness. And out of the stillness came to Ruth
Seer a Word.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>She went back into the sitting-room, dark
now except for the light of the little lamp, and
knelt before it, and prayed.</p>
<p class='c007'>And her prayer was just all the love and
the pity she could gather into her heart for the
strong spirit that had gone out black, and bitter,
and tortured, and filled with hate. The spirit
that had been Karl von Schäde.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>
<h2 id='X' class='c005'>CHAPTER X</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c006'>Thorpe was rich with the autumn yield
before Violet Riversley claimed Ruth’s
promise. July had been on the whole a wet
month, providing however much-needed rain,
but the August and September of Peace Year
were glorious as the late spring, and at Thorpe
an abundant harvest of corn was stored by
the great stacks of scented hay. The apple and
pear trees were heavy with fruit. Blenheim
Orange and Ribston Pippin with red cheeks
polished by much sun; long luscious Jargonelles
and Doyenne du Comice pears gleamed yellow
and russet. The damson-trees showed purple
black amid gold and crimson plums. Mulberry
and quince and filbert, every fruit gave lavishly
and in full perfection that wonderful autumn;
and all were there. Dick Carey had seen to
that. The Blackwall children came and went,
made hay, picked fruit and reaped corn, as
children should. They gathered blackberries
and mushrooms and hazel nuts, and helped Ruth
to store apples and pears, and Miss McCox to
make much jam. Bertram Aurelius got on his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>feet and began to walk, to the huge joy of Sarah
and Selina. The world was a pleasant place.
Ruth moved among her children and animals
and fruit and flowers, and listened to her nightingales,
amid no alien corn, and sang the song
old Raphael Goltz had taught her long ago, in
a content so great and perfect that sometimes
she felt almost afraid that she would wake up
one morning and and it all a dream.</p>
<p class='c007'>“It’s just like a fairy-tale that all this should
come to me,” she said to Roger North.</p>
<p class='c007'>The cottages were finished and tenanted,
their gardens stored and stocked with vegetables
and fruit trees, and bright with autumn
flowers, from the Thorpe garden. Even Mr.
Fothersley was reconciled to their existence.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth had been to no more parties; the days
at home were too wonderful. She garnered
each into her store as a precious gift. But the
neighbours liked to drop in and potter round
or sit on the terrace. The place was undoubtedly
amazingly beautiful and perfect in its way.
The friendliness and trust of all that lived and
moved at Thorpe appealed even to the unreceptive.
Here there were white pigeons that fluttered
round your head and about your feet.
Unafraid, bright-eyed tiny beautiful birds came
close, so that you made real acquaintance with
those creatures of the blue sky, the leaf and the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>sunlight. So timid always of their hereditary
enemy through the ages, yet here the bolder
spirits would almost feed from your hand.
Their charm of swift movement, of sudden
wings, seen so near, surprised and delighted.
Their bright eager eyes looked at you as
friends. The calves running with their
mothers in the fields rubbed rough silken foreheads
against you; and gentle velvet-nosed
cart-horses came to you over the gates asking
for apples. The children showed you their
quaint treasures, their little play homes in the
trees and by the river. In their wood the
Michaelmas daisies, mauve and white and purple,
were making a brave show, and scarlet
poppies, bad farmers but good beauties, bordered
the pale gold stubble fields. Everywhere
was the fragrant pungent scent of autumn and
the glory of fruitful old Mother Earth yielding
of her wondrous store to those who love her
and work for it.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Pithey was fond of coming, and, still
undaunted, made Ruth fresh offers to buy
Thorpe.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You’ve got the pick of the soil here,” he
complained. “Now I’ve not a rose in my place
to touch those Rayon d’Or of yours. Second
crop too! And ain’t for want of the best
manure, or choosing the right aspect. My
<span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>man knows what he’s about too. Better than
yours does, I reckon. He was head man to the
Duke of Richborough, so he ought to.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth’s eyes twinkled.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Try giving them away,” she suggested.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Givin’ ’em away!” Mr. Pithey glared at
her.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Giving them away,” repeated Ruth firmly.
“Now sit down here while I tell you all about
it.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth herself was sitting on a heap of stubble
by the side of the corn field, with little Moira
Kent tucked close to her side.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Pithey had one of his little girls with him,
and both were dressed as usual in new and expensive
clothing. They looked at Ruth’s heap
of stubble with evident suspicion, then the
child advanced a step towards her.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Are you going to tell us a story?”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth smiled. “If you like I will,” she said.</p>
<p class='c007'>The child’s rather commonplace pert little
face broke into an answering smile. She took
out a very fine lace-bordered handkerchief and
spread it carefully on the ground. Then she
sat down on it with her legs sticking out in front
of her.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Pithey resigned himself to the inevitable,
and let his well-groomed heavy body gingerly
down too. During the wet weather of July
<span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>the little blue-faced lady had contracted pneumonia
and very nearly died. Racked with
anxiety, for family ties were dear to him, Mr.
Pithey’s inflation and self-importance had failed
him, and between him and Ruth a queer friendship
had arisen.</p>
<p class='c007'>“She cared—she really cared,” he explained
afterward to his wife.</p>
<p class='c007'>So Mr. Pithey showed himself to Ruth at his
best, and though perhaps it was not a very
handsome best, the direct result was a row of
cottages as a thank-offering.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Once upon a time,” began Ruth, “there was
a little Earth Elemental who had made the most
beautiful flower in all the world, or at least it
thought it was the most beautiful, so of course,
for it, it <em>was</em>.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“What is an Earth Elemental?” asked Elaine
Pithey.</p>
<p class='c007'>“The Earth Elementals are the fairies who
help make the plants and flowers.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“We don’t believe in fairies,” said Elaine
primly.</p>
<p class='c007'>“She’s a bit beyond that sort of stuff,” added
Mr. Pithey, looking at the small replica of himself
with pride.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Some people don’t,” answered Ruth politely,
watching the little blue butterflies among
the pale gold stubble, with lazy eyes. Almost
<span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>she heard echoes of elfin laughter, high and
sweet.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I’ve seen them,” Moira broke out very suddenly
and to Ruth’s astonishment. That Moira
“saw” things she had little doubt, but even
to her the little lady was reticent. Something
in the Puritan self-complacence had apparently
roused her in defence of her inner world.</p>
<p class='c007'>“What are they like then?” asked Elaine,
supercilious still, but with an undercurrent of
excitement plainly visible.</p>
<p class='c007'>“They’re different,” said Moira. “Some are
like humming-birds, only they’ve colours, not
feathers, and some are like sweet-peas made of
starlight. But some of them are just green and
brown—very soft.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“We took first prize for our sweet-peas at
the flower show,” announced Elaine suddenly
and aggressively.</p>
<p class='c007'>“As big again as any other exhibit they
were,” said Mr. Pithey, dusting the front of his
white waistcoat proudly. “You may beat us in
roses, but our sweet-peas are bigger, I’ll lay
half a crown.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Why don’t I see fairies any way, if you
do?” asked Elaine, returning to the attack now
she had asserted her superiority. But Moira
had withdrawn into herself, bitterly repentant
of her revelation.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>“Have you ever looked through a microscope?”
Ruth asked, putting a sheltering arm
round the small figure beside her.</p>
<p class='c007'>Elaine looked at her suspiciously.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You mean there’s plenty I can’t see,” she
said shrewdly. “But why don’t I see fairies
if she does?”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth smiled. “I am afraid as a rule they
avoid us as much as possible. You see, we
human beings mostly kill and torture and destroy
all the things they love best.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I don’t!”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth pointed to the tightly held bunch of
dying flowers in the child’s hand.</p>
<p class='c007'>“They’re only common poppies!” said Elaine
contemptuously.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth took them from her, and, turning back
the sheath of one of the dying buds, looked at
the perfect silken lining of it.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Some one took a lot of trouble over making
that,” she said. “But suppose you listen to
my story.” Moira’s small hot hand crept into
hers, and she began again.</p>
<p class='c007'>“There was once a little Earth Elemental
who had made the most beautiful flower in the
world. I think it was a crimson rose, and it
had all the summer in its scent. And the little
Elemental wondered if it was beautiful enough
for the highest prize of all.”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>“At Battersea Flower Show?” asked Elaine.</p>
<p class='c007'>“No. The highest prize in the world of the
Elementals is to serve. And one day a child
came and cut the rose very carefully with a
pair of scissors, and the Elemental was sad,
for it had made the flower its home and loved
it very much. But the child whispered to the
rose that it was going into one of the dark places
which men had made in the world, with no sunshine,
or summer, or joy, or beauty, to take
them a message to say that God’s world was
still beautiful, and the sun and stars still shone,
and morning was still full of joy and evening
of peace. Then the Elemental was not sorry
any more, for its rose had won the highest
prize.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Elaine’s Pithian armour had fallen from her;
out of the little pert face looked the soul of a
child. She had lost her self-consciousness for
the moment.</p>
<p class='c007'>“And what became of the Elemental?” she
asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>“The Elemental did not leave its home then.
It went with it. And when the rose had done its
work and slipped away into the Fountain of
all Beauty, the Elemental slipped away with it
too.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Where is the Fountain of all Beauty?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“In the Heart of God.”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span>Elaine looked disappointed. “Then it’s all
an alle—gory, I s’pose.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“No, it’s quite true, or at least I believe it
is. Mr. Pithey”—Ruth turned on him and her
grave eyes danced—“take a big bunch of your
best roses, a big bunch, mind, down to the Fairbridge
Common Lodging House for Women,
in Darley Street, and tell the Elementals where
you are taking them. It will stir them up no
end to give you better roses.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“The Common Lodging House!” Mr. Pithey
was plainly aghast. “Why, they’d think I
was mad, and ’pon my word and honour I
think you are—if you don’t mind my saying
so.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Not a bit. I get told that nearly every
day.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I’ll tell the Elementals, Daddy, and you
can take the roses, and then we’ll see,” announced
Elaine, who had been pondering the
matter.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mr. Pithey regarded her with pride. “Practical
that, eh?” he said. “Well, we’ll think
about it. But you’ll have to come along now or
we’ll be late for tea with mother. And
as to the roses, I’ll beat you yet. Elementals
all nonsense! Dung—good rich dung—that’s
what they want. You wait till next
year.”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>He shook hands warmly, and took his large
presence away.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth sent Moira home to tea, and wandered
up the hedgerow, singing to her self, while
Sarah and Selina hunted busily. On the terrace
she found Roger North. He looked worn and
ill and bad tempered. It was some time since
he had been to see her. His wife’s jealousy of
Ruth had culminated in a scene and he had a
dread of disturbing the peace of the farm. But
the silliness of the whole thing had irritated
him, and he was worried about Violet on whom
the strange black cloud had descended again
more noticeably than ever. Riversley had gone
to Scotland, writing him a laconic note, “I’m
better away—this is my address if you want
me.”</p>
<p class='c007'>He drank his tea for the most part in silence,
and when she had finished hers Ruth left him
and went about her work. North lit his pipe
and sat on smoking, while the two little dogs
fought as usual for the possession of a seat in
his chair, edging each other out. And presently
Bertram Aurelius came staggering out of the
front door and plump down on the ground before
him. His red hair shone like an aureole
round his head and he made queer and pleasant
noises, gazing at North with friendly and evident
recognition. Larry came padding softly
<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>up from his favourite haunts by the river and
lay watching them with his wistful amber eyes.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Thank God for the blessed things that don’t
talk,” said North.</p>
<p class='c007'>The deep lines on his face had smoothed out,
his irritation subsided, he no longer felt bad
tempered.</p>
<p class='c007'>When Ruth came back he smiled at her.
“Thank you, I’m better,” he said. “When I
arrived I wasn’t fit to ‘carry guts to a bear.’
You know Marryat’s delightful story, of course?
And how is the farm?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Can’t you feel?”</p>
<p class='c007'>She stood in the attitude of one listening.
And curiously and strangely there came to
North’s consciousness a something that all his
senses seemed to cognize and contract at once.
It was not a sound, it was not a vision, it was
not a sensation, though it combined all three.
Radiant and sweet and subtle, and white with
glory, it came and went in a flash. Was it only
a minute or eternity?</p>
<p class='c007'>“What was it?” His own voice sounded
strange in his ears.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth smiled. “You felt it?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I felt something. I believe you mesmerized
me, you witch woman.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She shook her head. “I couldn’t make anyone
<span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>feel that if I knew all the arts in the world.
Only yourself can find that for you.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“What was it, anyhow?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I think”—she paused a moment—“I think
it is getting into the Unity of All.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Where does the bad go to?”</p>
<p class='c007'>There was a moment’s silence between them.
But the world of the farm was alive with sound.
The pigeons’ coo, the call of the cowman to his
herd, the chuckles of the baby, accompanied
by the full evening chorus of birds.</p>
<p class='c007'>“There isn’t any bad in there,” said Ruth.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Your farm is bewitched,” said North. “I
might be no older than Bertram Aurelius talking
nonsense like this. Come down to earth, you
foolish woman. There’s a telegraph boy coming
up the drive.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth’s face clouded a little. “I have not
got over the dread of telegrams,” she said. “It
takes one back to those dreadful days——”</p>
<p class='c007'>She shivered as they waited for the boy to
reach them. He whistled as he came, undisturbed
by much clamour from Sarah and Selina;
they were old friends and he knew their ways.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth tore the envelope open, read the telegram,
and handed it to North. “May I come?”
were its three short words, and it was signed
“Violet Riversley.”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>“You will have her?” said North.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes, of course.” Ruth penciled her answer
on the prepaid form and handed it to the boy.</p>
<p class='c007'>North heaved a sigh of relief. “It’s good
of you. You know she has not been well.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth sat down and pointed to the other chair.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Tell me all you know. It may help.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North told her as well as he could. “It’s
all so indefinite and intangible,” he ended.
“Sometimes I wonder if her mind is affected
in any way. From the shock Dick’s death
was to her you know. That anyone should be
afraid of Vi! It seems ridiculous, remembering
what she was. She <em>isn’t herself</em>. That’s
the only way I can describe it to you. Upon my
word sometimes lately I’ve almost believed
she’s possessed by a devil. But if she comes
here—well, I don’t know why—but I think she
will get all right.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth did not answer at first. She sat thinking,
with her elbows on her knees, her face hidden
between her hands.</p>
<p class='c007'>That sense of danger to the farm had swept
over her again. A warning as of something impending,
brooding; looming up like a great
cloud on the edge of her blue beautiful sky.
Something strange and terrible was coming,
coming into her life and the life of the farm.
And she could not avert it, or refuse to meet
<span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>it. Whatever it was it had to be met and
fought. Would it be conquered? For it was
strong, terribly strong, and it was helped by
many. And while the moment lasted, Ruth
felt small and frightened and curiously alone.</p>
<p class='c007'>“What is the matter?” asked Roger North.
His voice was anxious, and when she looked
up she met his eyes full of that pure and honest
friendship which is so good a thing, and so rare,
between man and woman. Just so might he
often have looked at Dick Carey.</p>
<p class='c007'>She put out her hand to meet his, as a man
might do on a bargain. “We will do our best,”
she said.</p>
<p class='c007'>And she knew that <span class='fss'>WE</span> was strong.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>
<h2 id='XI' class='c005'>CHAPTER XI</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c006'>“Yes, I am quite satisfied with things on
the whole,” said Lady Condor. “Dear
Roger, you need not snort. Of course <em>you</em> are
a pessimist, so nice! One of the lucky people
who never expect anything, so are never disappointed.
Or you always expect everything bad,
is it? and you are never disappointed, because
you think everything is bad! It doesn’t sound
right somehow, but you know what I mean.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Certainly! It is quite clear,” said North,
with commendable gravity.</p>
<p class='c007'>They were both calling at Thorpe, one cold
afternoon early in October. Ruth had a big
log fire burning in the grate, in the room which
still seemed to belong to Dick Carey. Its
warmth mingled with the scent from big bowls-full
of late autumn roses, lent a pleasing illusion
of summer. Lady Condor, wonderful to behold
in the very latest thing in early autumn hats, on
which every conceivable variety of dahlia
seemed gathered together, sat by the fire talking
of many things.</p>
<p class='c007'>“So nice of you to understand!” she exclaimed,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>nodding at North genially. “That is
the charm of talking to some one with brains.
But where was I? Oh yes! I am quite satisfied
with things, because I see the end of this
horrible adoration of money. The Pithians
have far surpassed my wildest hopes. It has
become positively discreditable to be very
wealthy. At last everyone begins to realize how
truly vulgar has been their idea. I have always
resented this kow-towing down to money. It
gets the wrong people in everywhere, and no
wonder the country goes to the dogs, as my poor
dear father used to say. Now why have we
got Dunlop Rancid as our member? Because
he has brains to help govern? Certainly
not! He is our member because his father
made a large fortune in buttons—or was it
bones?—perhaps it was bone buttons. But
something like that. And he subscribed largely
to the party funds, so he represents us, and
when he took me into dinner last week he didn’t
know where King Solomon’s Islands were. Nor
did I! But of course that was different. My
dear”—she looked suddenly at Violet Riversley—“why
on earth don’t you make Fred stand
for Parliament? He has a fund of common
sense which would be invaluable to the country,
and he has only to write a big cheque for the
party funds and there he will be.”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>Violet Riversley was curled—almost crunched—up
in the armchair opposite her Ladyship.
She lifted her head when directly questioned
and laughed a little. It was not a nice laugh.
It fell across the warm sweet-scented room like
a note from a jarred string.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Why should one bother?” she said. “The
country is welcome to go to the dogs for all I
care. I’m sorry for the dogs, that’s all.”</p>
<p class='c007'>There was a little silence, a sense of discomfort.
The bitterness underlying the words
made them forceful—of account. Lady Condor
felt they were in bad taste, and North got up,
frowning irritably, and moved away to the
window. Violet, however, was paying no attention
to either of them. She was looking at
Ruth, with her golden eyes full of something
approaching malice.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You go on playing with your little bits of
kindness and your toys, and think everything
in the garden is lovely!” She laughed again,
that little hateful laugh. “And what do you
suppose is really going on all the time! You
human beings are the biggest fraud on the face
of the earth!”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth started a little at the pronoun. Her
serenity was disturbed; she looked worried.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You talk of righteousness, and justice, and
brotherhood, and all the rest of the rotten humbug,”
<span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>Violet Riversley went on, “and hold up
your hands in horror when other people transgress
against your paper ideals. But every
nation is out for what it can make, every people
will wade through oceans of blood and torture
and infamy if it thinks it can reap any benefit
from it. And why not? Survival of the fittest,
that is nature’s law. But why can’t you say so?
Instead of all this hypocrisy and pretence of
high morals. You make me sick! What possible
right have you to howl at the Germans?
You are all the same—England and France and
America—the whole lot of you. You have all
taken by force or fraud. You have all driven
out by arms and plots weaker peoples than yourselves.
I don’t blame you for that—weaker
people should go—it is the law of nature. But
don’t go round whining about how good you are
to them. You are just about as good to them as
you are to your animals or anything else weaker
than yourselves. Why can’t you have the courage
of your brutality, and your lust, and your
strength. It might be worth something then.
You might be great. As it is you are only
contemptible—the biggest fraud on the face of
creation.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She faltered suddenly, and stopped. Ruth’s
eyes had met hers steadily, all the time she had
been speaking; and now her hostess spoke slowly
<span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>and quietly, as one speaks to a little child when
one wants to impress something upon it.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Why do you talk like that, Violet Riversley?”
she asked. “You know you do not think
like that yourself.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North, standing by the window, watched, with
the fingers of a horrible anxiety gripping him.
His daughter’s face in the leaping firelight
looked like a twisted distorted mask. Lady
Condor, open-mouthed, comically perplexed,
stared from one to the other, for once speechless.</p>
<p class='c007'>“It is the truth.” Violet Riversley uttered
the words slowly, it seemed with difficulty.</p>
<p class='c007'>“<em>You</em> do not think so,” answered Ruth, still
as one who would impress a fact on a child.
Then she rose from her chair. “Come!” she
said, with a strange note of command in her
voice, “I know you will all like to walk round
the place before tea.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Violet passed her hand across her eyes, much
as a person will do when waking from the
proverbial forty winks. She stood up, and
shivered a little.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth was talking, after a fashion unusual to
her, almost forcing the conversation into certain
channels. “Yes, of course, you are very right,
Lady Condor,” she said. “No man can be
valued truly until you see what he can do just
<span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span>with his brain and his character and his own
two hands. Now I can give Violet a really fine
character for work. As a matter of fact I am
filled with jealousy. She can milk quicker than
I can. I think because she learnt when she was
quite young. Mr. Carey taught her.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Poor dear Dick! He did teach the children
such queer things,” said Lady Condor, allowing
herself to be assisted out of her comfortable
chair by the fire without protest. “But who
was it learnt to milk? Some one quite celebrated.
Was it Marie Antoinette? Or was it
Queen Elizabeth? It must be just milking time;
let us go, dear Violet, and see you milk. It
will interest us so much,” she added, with that
amazing tact which no one except those who
knew her best ever realized.</p>
<p class='c007'>Violet followed them into the garden without
speaking. Her eyes had a curious vacant look;
she moved like a person walking in her
sleep.</p>
<p class='c007'>Lady Condor took Ruth’s arm and dropped
behind the others on the way to the farmyard.
“My dear,” she said, “I don’t know what’s
the matter, but I see you wish to create a diversion.
Poor dear Violet, I have never heard
her talk such nonsense before. Rather unpleasant
nonsense too, wasn’t it? Can it be
she has fallen in love with one of those dreadful
<span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>Socialist creatures? I believe they can sometimes
be quite attractive, and the young women
of the present day are so <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">outré</span></i>, you never know
who or what they will take up with. Besides,
I believe they wash nowadays. The Socialists
I mean, of course. In my day they thought it
showed independence to appear dirty and without
any manners. So funny, was it not? But
I met one the other day who was charming.
Quite good looking and well dressed, even his
boots. Or, let me see, was he a Theosophist?
There are so many ‘ists’ now, it is difficult not
to get them mixed up. But where was I? Oh
yes—dear Violet! Where can she have got
those queer ideas from? I do hope she is not
attracted by some ‘ist.’ I so often notice that
when a woman gets queer opinions there is
either a man, or the want of a man, at the bottom
of it. And it cannot be the latter with
dear Violet. Ah, now here we are. Don’t the
dear things look pretty? And you have such
a lovely milking shed for them. Violet, you
really must show me how you milk. I should
like to begin myself. But don’t you have to
lean your head against the cow?—and it would
ruin my dahlias.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Come and see the real dahlias instead,”
said Violet, laughing. “Yours are the most
wonderful imitation I have ever seen. I don’t
<span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>believe you could tell them from the real ones.
Where did you get them? Madame Elsa?”</p>
<p class='c007'>Her voice and manner were wholly natural
again. North looked palpably relieved, but
when his daughter had disappeared with Lady
Condor towards the flower garden he turned
anxiously to Ruth.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Does she often talk like that?” he asked.
“It is so unlike her—so absolutely unlike—”
He stopped, his eyes searched Ruth’s, and for
a moment there was silence. “What is it?”
he asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>They were wandering now, aimlessly, back
to the house.</p>
<p class='c007'>“If I were to tell you what I think,” said
Ruth slowly, “you would call me mad.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“You don’t mind that.” He spoke impatiently.
“Tell me.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Not yet—wait. Did anything strike you
when she burst out like that just now?”</p>
<p class='c007'>North did not answer. He had ridden over
and still held his whip in his right hand. He
struck the fallen rustling leaves backwards and
forwards with it as he walked, with the sharp
whish expressive of annoyance and irritation.</p>
<p class='c007'>“You women are enough to drive a man crazy
between you,” he said.</p>
<p class='c007'>This being plainly no answer to her question
Ruth simply waited.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>“How often has she talked in that strain?”
North asked at length.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Twice only, before to-day.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“And you—call her back to herself—as you
did just now?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes.”</p>
<p class='c007'>They had reached the terrace, and he stood
facing her. He searched her eyes with his as
he had done before.</p>
<p class='c007'>“It is not possible,” he said, but the words
lacked conviction.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth said nothing. Her eyes were troubled,
but they met his steadily.</p>
<p class='c007'>Then at last North told her. “It might
have been Karl von Schäde speaking,” he
said.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Come indoors,” she said gently.</p>
<p class='c007'>He followed her into the warm rose-scented
room and sat down by the fire, shivering. She
threw more logs upon it, and the flames shot
up, many-hued, rose and amber, sea-green and
heliotrope.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Tell me what you think, what you know,”
said North.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth looked into the leaping mass of flame,
her face very grave. Her voice was very low,
hardly above a whisper.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I think the hatred in which Karl von Schäde
passed into the next world has found a physical
<span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>instrument through which to manifest here,”
she said.</p>
<p class='c007'>“And that instrument is—good God!”
North’s voice was sharp with horror. “It isn’t
possible—the whole thing is ridiculous. But go
on. I heard to-day. That has happened twice
before you say. You suspected then, of course.
Is there anything else?”</p>
<p class='c007'>And even as he spoke, things, little things,
that Violet had said and done, came back to him.
The shrinking of the dogs, his own words—“She
is not herself”—took on new meaning.</p>
<p class='c007'>“There is a blight upon the farm since she
came,” said Ruth. “The joy and peace are not
here as they were. Perhaps you would not
feel it, coming so seldom.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes, I noticed it. But Violet has not made
for peace of late. I thought it was just her
being here.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“The children don’t care to come as they
did, and there have been quarrels. The creatures
are not so tame. Nothing is doing quite
so well. These are little things, but taken all
together they make a big whole.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Anyway it’s not fair on you,” said North
shortly. “The place is too good to spoil, and
you——”</p>
<p class='c007'>In that moment, the supreme selfishness with
which he and his had used her for their own
<span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>benefit, as some impersonal creature, that could
not be weary or worried or overtaxed, came
home to him. He felt suddenly ashamed.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth smiled at him. “No,” she said. “The
farm, I, you, are all just instruments too, as
she has become, poor child. Only we are instruments
on the other side.” Her voice
dropped, and he leant forward to catch the
words. “Dick Carey’s instruments; we cannot
fail him.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Then you think——”</p>
<p class='c007'>“See!” She held herself together, after her
queer fashion, as a child does when thinking
hard. “You remember in the letter about von
Schäde, when Mr. Carey wrote: ‘he died cursing
England, the English, me and mine and
Thorpe. It was like the evil of this war incarnate.’
Do you think that force of emotion
perished with the physical, or do you think
the shattering of the physical left it free?
And remember too, Karl von Schäde had studied
those forces, had learnt possibly something
of how to handle them. Then Violet, Violet
whom he had loved, after his own fashion, and
to whom he would therefore be drawn——”</p>
<p class='c007'>“But if there is any justice, here or there,”
broke in North, “why should she become the
brute’s instrument?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Because she too was filled with hate. Only
<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>so could it have been possible. Think for a
minute and you will see.”</p>
<p class='c007'>In his youth, North had been afflicted with
spasms of stammering. One seized him now.
It seemed part of the horror which was piercing
the armour in which he had trusted, distorting
with strange images that lucid brain of his, so
that all clear train of thought seemed to desert
him. He struggled painfully for a few moments
before speech returned to him.</p>
<p class='c007'>“D—damn him. D—damn him. Damn
him,” he said.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth sprang up, and laid her hand across
his mouth. Fear was in her eyes. He had
never thought to see her so moved, she who was
always so calm, so secure.</p>
<p class='c007'>“For pity’s sake stop,” she said; “if you
feel like that you must go. You must not
come here again. You must keep away from
her. Oh, don’t you see you are helping him?
I ought not to have told you; I did not realize
it might fill you with hate too.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I’m sorry,” said North harshly. “I’m
afraid anything else is beyond me.”</p>
<p class='c007'>He had given up all attempt to insist that
it was impossible. The uncanny horror had
him in its grip. He felt that he had bidden
farewell to common sense.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth grew imperative. “For God’s sake,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>try!” she said. “Don’t hate. Don’t curse
him like that. Don’t you see—you cannot overcome
hate with hate; you can only add to it. I
find it so hard myself not to feel as you do.
But oh, don’t you see, all his life Dick Carey
must have loved, in a small far-off way of
course, as God loves. And everything that
lived and moved and breathed came within the
scope of his tenderness and his pity. And That
which was himself did not perish with the physical
either. That too is free—free and fighting.
You can only overcome hate with love.
But on a physical plane, even God Himself
can only work through physical instruments.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She stopped, and looked at North imploringly.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I have your meaning,” he said more gently.
Her sudden weakness moved him indescribably.</p>
<p class='c007'>“And the worst of it is,” she went on, “I
have lately lost that sense of being in touch
with him. You remember how I told you about
it. It came, I thought, through us both loving
the farm, but indeed I did know, in some strange
way, what he wanted done and when he was
pleased. You will remember I told you. If I
could feel still what was best to do, but it
is like struggling all alone in the dark! Only
one thing I know, I hold to. You cannot overcome
<span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>hate with hate. You can only overcome
hate with love. But the love is going out of
the farm. It was so full of it—so full—I could
hear it singing always in my heart. But now
there is something awful here. I can sense it
in the night, I can feel it in all sorts of ways.
The peace has gone that was so beautiful, the
radiance and the joy. And always now I have
instead the sense of great struggle, and some
evil thing that threatens.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“It is not fair on you or on the farm,” said
North, very gently now. “Violet ought to
leave.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I don’t know. Sometimes I have thought
so—and yet—I don’t know. I am working in
the dark. I know so little really of these things—we
all know so little.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Her presence is injuring the farm, or so it
seems. Indeed, it must be so. A human being
full of hate and misery is no fit occupant for
any home. Also we have no right——”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth looked at him, and again he felt
ashamed. “I beg your pardon,” he said.</p>
<p class='c007'>“We have the sort of right that you acknowledge,
I know, but I don’t think we should
claim it.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“She came to me, or rather, I think, to the
farm, to the nearest she could get to him. Or
<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>again, it might be the other force driving her.
I don’t know. But I can’t send her away. I
think of it sometimes, but I know I can’t.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“What is she like on the whole?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Dull and moody sometimes, wandering
about the place, hardly speaking at all. Once
or twice she stayed in her room all day and
refused all food. But at other times she will
follow me about wherever I go, clinging to me
like a child, eager to help. Sometimes she will
commit some horrible little cruelty, and be
ashamed of it afterwards and try to hide it.
If she could speak of it at all, confide in anyone
it would be better I think. But she does
not seem able to.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North sat staring into the fire with haggard
eyes, the deep lines of his face very visible as
the flames leapt and fell.</p>
<p class='c007'>“It will send her out of her mind if it goes
on,” he said at length.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth did not answer. Her silence voiced
her own exceeding dread; it seemed to North
terrible. If she should fail he knew that it
would be one of the worst things which had ever
happened to him. In that moment he knew
how much she had come to stand for in his
mind. He kept his eyes upon the fire and did
not look at her. He dreaded to see that fear
again in her eyes, dreaded to see her weak. It
<span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>was as if the evil of the world was the only
powerful thing after all. And he knew now
that he had begun to hope, things deep down
in his consciousness had begun to stir, to come
to life.</p>
<p class='c007'>But presently Ruth spoke again, and, looking
up, he met the old comforting friendliness
of her smile. Her serenity had returned. Her
face looked white and very worn, but it was
no longer marred with fear.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I am sorry,” she said, “and I am ashamed
to have been so foolish, to have let myself
think for a moment that we should fail.
Hate is very strong and very terrible; but love
is stronger and very beautiful. Let us only
make ourselves into fit instruments for its
power. We <em>must</em>. If Karl von Schäde lasts
beyond, so too, more surely still, does Dick
Carey. Why should we be afraid? Will you
give to Karl von Schäde the instruments for his
power and deny them to the friend you loved?
And is it so difficult after all? Think what he
must have suffered, his poor body broken into
pieces, his mind full of anguish that his country
was ruined, beaten, and full of the horrors
he had seen and which he attributed to us.
Think of those last awful hours of his, and have
you at least no pity? Try for it, reach out for
it, get yourself into that mind which you knew
<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>as Dick Carey. Take Karl van Schäde into it
too in your thought.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She stopped, her voice broken, but the light
that shone in her face was like a star.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I will try,” said Roger North.</p>
<p class='c007'>In the pause that followed the approaching
clatter of Lady Condor’s re-entry was almost
a relief. She brought them back into the regions
of ordinary everyday things. Violet, too,
was laughing, getting more like herself. The
tension relaxed.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Miss Seer, if I had planted my dahlias
among yours, really you would, never have
found it out. They are an amazing imitation—quite
amazing. Condor thinks my taste
in hats too loud. But if men had their way we
should all dress in black. So depressing!
Tea? I should love it. But no, I cannot stay.
I have a duty party at home. So dull, but Condor
is determined that Hawkhurst shall stand
for the Division now he is safely tucked away
in the other House himself. All the old party
business is beginning again, just as if there
had been no war, when we were all shrieking
‘No more party politics.’ ‘No more hidden
policies.’ So like us, isn’t it? I shall put
Caroline Holmes in the chair at all the women’s
meetings. She does so love it—and making
speeches. Yes. She is to marry her Major this
<span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>autumn, but she assures me it will not ‘curtail
her activities.’ Curtail! so nice! But where
was I? Oh yes, my tea-party, and I would so
much rather stay here. I remember I was just
going to be clever, and what happened? Oh,
we went out to see Violet milk, and we saw the
dahlias instead. Good-bye. Good-bye. And
come soon to see me.”</p>
<p class='c007'>So Lady Condor conveyed herself, talking
steadily, outside the sitting-room, with Roger
North in attendance carrying her various belongings.
But as she progressed across the
hall, and into her waiting car, she fell upon
a most unusual silence. It was not until she
was well settled in that she spoke again.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I don’t like Violet’s looks, Roger,” she said
then, her shrewd old eyes very kindly. “Why
are there no babies? There should always be a
nursery full of babies for the first ten years of
a woman’s married life. And where is Fred?
You should speak to him about it.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She waved a friendly hand at him, various
articles falling from her lap as she did so, and
the car rolled away.</p>
<p class='c007'>North gave a little snort of bitter laughter as
he turned back into the house. Fred? Fred
was eating his heart out, catching salmon in
Scotland; and Violet was at Thorpe, obsessed by
a dead man’s hatred. He was filled with all a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>man’s desire to cut the whole wretched business
summarily, but the thing had got him in its
devilish meshes, and there was no escape. He
stayed to tea because he felt he must help Ruth,
and yet with the uneasy consciousness that he
was doing rather the reverse. Violet had fallen
into one of the moody silences so common to her
now, and, after she had had her tea, went back
to her chair by the fire and a book. Ruth and
Roger talked of the farm intermittently and
with a sense of restraint, and presently Violet
tossed her book on to the opposite chair and left
the room.</p>
<p class='c007'>“What is she reading?” asked Roger.</p>
<p class='c007'>He crossed to the fire and picked the book up.
It was <cite>The Road to Self-Knowledge</cite>, by Rudolph
Steiner, and on the flyleaf, neatly written
in a stiff small writing, “K. von Schäde.”
Then Roger suddenly saw red. The logs still
burnt brightly in the grate, and with a concentrated
disgust, so violent that it could be felt,
he dropped the book into the heart of the flames
and rammed it down there with the heel of his
riding boot. The smell of burnt leather filled
the room before he lifted it, and watched, with
grim satisfaction, the printed leaves curl up in
the heat.</p>
<p class='c007'>He made no apology for the act, though presumably
the book was now Ruth’s property.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>“That will show you just how much help I’m
likely to be,” he said. “Always supposing that
you are right. And now I’d better go.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth smiled at him. The child in man will
always appeal to a woman. “Yes, go,” she
said. “I will let you know if there is anything
to tell.”</p>
<p class='c007'>North rode home with all the little demons of
intellectual pride and prejudice, of manlike contempt
for the intangible, whispering to him,
“You fool.”</p>
<p class='c007'>His wife made a scene after dinner about his
visit to the farm. She resented Violet having
gone there. It had aroused her jealousy, and
her daughter came under the lash of her tongue
equally with her husband. Then North lost his
temper, bitterly and completely; they said horrible
things to each other, things that burn in,
and corrode and fester after, as human beings
will when they utterly lose control of themselves.
It ended, as it always did, in torrents of
tears on Mrs. North’s side, which drove North
into his own room ashamed, disgusted, furious
with her and himself.</p>
<p class='c007'>He opened the windows to the October night
air. It was keen, with a hint of frost. The
thinned leaves showed the delicate tracery of
branches, black against the pale moonlit sky.
The stars looked a very long way off. Utterly
<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>sick at heart, filled with self-contempt for his
outbreak of temper, struggling in a miasma of
disgust with life and all things in it, he leant
against the window-sill; the keen cool wind
seemed to cleanse and restore.</p>
<p class='c007'>A little well-known whine roused him, to find
Vic scratching against his knee. He picked her
up, and felt the small warm body curl against
his own. She looked at him as only a dog can
look, and, carrying her, he turned towards the
dying embers of the fire and his easy chair.
Then he stopped, remembering, noticing, for the
first time, that Larry had not come back with
him.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>
<h2 id='XII' class='c005'>CHAPTER XII</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c006'>North did not visit the farm again. He
sent Ruth a brief line: “I am better
away.” That he made no apology and expressed
no thanks gave her the measure of his
trust in her and her friendship.</p>
<p class='c007'>She answered his brief communication by one
equally brief: “Try not to think of it at all if
you cannot think the right way.”</p>
<p class='c007'>So North buried himself in his work, forced
and drove himself to think of nothing else.
Slept at night from sheer weariness, and grew
more haggard and more silent day by day. At
least if he could not be on the side of the angels
he would not help the devils.</p>
<p class='c007'>The month was mostly wild and wet, with
here and there days of supreme beauty. It
was on one of these, the last day of October, that
Ruth and Violet went, as they often did, for a
long tramp through the wet woods and over the
wind-swept hills towards the sea. The atmosphere
was that exquisite clearness which often
follows much rain. The few leaves remaining
on the trees, of burnished golden-brown, came
falling in soft rustling showers with each gust
<span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>of the fresh strong wind. They had walked
far, so far that they had come by hill and dale
as the crow flies to where the fall of the ground
came so abruptly as to hide the middle distance,
and the edge of the downs, broken by its low
dark juniper-bushes, stood before them, clear-cut,
against the great sweep of coastline far
away beneath. Pale gold and russet, the flat
lands stretched, streaked with the sullen silver
of sea-bound river and stream, to where, like
a hard steel-blue line on the horizon, lay the sea
itself. And behind that straight line, black and
menacing, and touched with a livid ragged edge,
rolled up the coming of a great storm.</p>
<p class='c007'>It made a noble picture, and Ruth watched it
for a few moments, her face responding, answering
to its beauty. She loved these landscapes
of England, loved them not only with her
present self, but also with some far-away depth
of forgotten experience. And it seemed to her
that she loved with them also those “unknown
generations of dead men” to whom they had
been equally dear. For these few moments, as
she looked out over the edge of the downs, she
forgot the haunting evil which was darkening all
her days, forgot everything but the beauty of
great space, of the wild rushing wind, the freedom—the
escape.</p>
<p class='c007'>Odd bits of quotations came to her, as they
<span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>always did in these moments; one, more insistent
than the others, sang, put itself into music,
clear, bell-like, mysterious:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c008'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“When I have reached my journey’s end,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And I am dead and free.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c007'>And in that moment her sense of being in
touch with Dick Carey came back to her. Came
flooding in like a great tide of help and encouragement
and power.</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c008'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“And I am dead and free.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c007'>And yet people were afraid of death!</p>
<p class='c007'>The great winds came up from the sea across
the earth-scented downs, shouting as they came.
She loved them, and the big dark masses of
cloud. She could have shouted too, for joy of
that great sense of freedom, of power, of control,
because she was one with those magnificent
forces of nature. In her too was that strength
and freedom which bowed only to the One who
is All.</p>
<p class='c007'>The blood tingled in her veins; in the full
sweep of the wind she was warm—warm with
life. She forgot Violet Riversley cowering at
her side. Forgot the little dogs crouching,
tucked against her feet, and swept for one wild
moment out into the immensity of a great freedom.
Then, suddenly, the steel-blue line of sea
<span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>broke into white, the storm-clouds met and
crashed, and lightning, like the sharp thrust of a
living sword, struck across the downs, struck
and struck again. Heaven and earth and the
waters under the earth shuddered and reeled in
the grip of the storm, and Violet Riversley,
screaming with terror, fell on her knees by Ruth,
clasping her, crying:</p>
<p class='c007'>“Keep it away from me! Keep it away!
God! I can’t bear it any longer! Keep it
away!”</p>
<p class='c007'>And at her cry all the motherhood in Ruth’s
nature, never concentrated only on the few,
leapt into full life and splendour, spread its
white wings of protection. And away and beyond
her own love and pity she felt that of
another. Away and above her own fight was a
greater fight, infinitely greater. She picked the
girl up into the shelter of her arms, and her
whole heart cried out in a passion of pity. She
said odd little foolish words of tenderness, as
mothers will, for the form she held was as light
as that of a little child; just a shell it felt,
nothing more.</p>
<p class='c007'>And then, suddenly, the rain fell in one blinding
rushing flood, drenching the little group to
the skin, blotting out everything with its torrential
flow.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Ah, look!” said Ruth, almost involuntarily.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>A great flash of light had broken through from
the west, and against the violet black sky the
rain looked like a silver wall. It was amazingly,
even terribly, beautiful.</p>
<p class='c007'>“We are in for a proper ducking,” she said,
trying to regain the normal. “Wet to the skin
already, all of us. And Sarah and Selina
frightened to death, the little cowards! You’d
better keep moving, dear. Come along.”</p>
<p class='c007'>It seemed a weary way home. Never had
Ruth been more thankful for the presence of
Miss McCox in her household. Fires, hot baths,
hot coffee, all were ready; and she dried even
Selina, though surreptitiously, behind the
kitchen door that none might behold her weakness,
with her own hand. She put Violet to bed
after her hot bath, and ordered her to stay there.
Nothing but asserting herself forcibly kept Ruth
from a like fate.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Them as will be foolish, there is no reasoning
with,” said Miss McCox, with dignity, and
retreated to the kitchen muttering like the
storm.</p>
<p class='c007'>After a lull, it had returned again with renewed
force. The old house rocked as the great
wind hurled itself upon it, shrieking against the
shuddering windows as if demanding admittance.
Sheets of wild rain broke upon the panes,
and every now and then the thunder
<span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>crashed and broke and rent. After her dinner
Ruth went up and sat by the log fire in Violet’s
room. The pillow on which she lay was hardly
whiter than the girl’s face. Her great gold eyes
gazed out into the shadows blankly. Very
small and young and helpless she looked, and
Ruth’s heart ached for her. She chatted on
cheerfully, as she wove a woollen garment for
some little child of France with her ever-busy
fingers; chatted of the little things about the
farm; told little quaint stories of the animals
and flowers. Had she known it, just so had
Dick Carey often talked, in the winter evenings
over the fire, to the listening children. But
Violet Riversley just lay still, gazing into the
shadows, taking little notice. She made no allusion
to her violent attack of terror out in the
storm, and it grew on Ruth uncannily and horribly
that the girl who had clung to her, crying
for help, had slipped away from her again,
somewhere out into the darkness and silence,
torn from all known anchorage.</p>
<p class='c007'>The little dogs had remained in their baskets
downstairs; only Larry had followed her up,
and lay across the doorway, his nose upon his
paws, his eyes gleaming watchfully out of the
shadow. Every now and then, when the shattering
wind with increasing violence struck
against the house again and again and wailed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>away like a baffled spirit, he growled in his
throat as at a visible intruder.</p>
<p class='c007'>It was late before Ruth gathered her work up
and said good-night. She was honestly tired in
mind and body, but an unaccountable reluctance
to leave Violet held her. And yet the girl was
apparently less restless, more normal, than
usual. Tired out, like herself, surely she would
sleep. Her terror out in the storm seemed entirely
to have gone.</p>
<p class='c007'>So Ruth reasoned to herself as she went downstairs.</p>
<p class='c007'>In the sitting-room the little dogs slept
soundly in their baskets. The fire still burned,
a handful of warm red ashes. The whole place
seemed full of peace and comfort, in marked
contrast to the rush and wail of the storm outside.
Ruth crossed to the lamp to see that it
was in order, and moved about putting little
tidying touches to the room, as women do the
last thing before they go upstairs to bed. She
was fully alive to the fact that the three weeks
of Violet’s visit had been a heavy strain on her,
mentally and bodily. It would be quite easy
to imagine things, to let this knowledge that she
was fighting steadily, almost fiercely, against
some awful unseen force overwhelm her, to
drive her beyond the limits of what was sanely
and reasonably possible. With her renewed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>sense of awareness of Dick Carey’s presence
had come an indefinable yearning tenderness for
Violet Riversley which had been lacking before
in her kindly interest and friendship. To give
way to fear or dread was the surest way to fail
in both.</p>
<p class='c007'>She looked out at the night. By the light
streaming from the window she could see a
streak of rain-washed lawn, and, dimly, beyond,
the tortured branches of trees bowed and
strained under the whip of the wind. She drew
all the forces of her mind to the centre of her
being.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Lord of the heights and depths, Who dwellest
in all the Forms that Thou hast made.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She let the blind fall into its place and moved
back into the room. Larry had settled himself
in the big armchair which had been Dick Carey’s.
She stooped to stroke his head, and he looked
at her with eyes that surely understood.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Lord of the heights and depths, Who dwellest
in all the Forms that Thou hast made.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She kept the words and the thought in her
mind quite steadily. Almost as soon as she lay
down she passed into sleep, and dreamt—dreamt
that she was walking in the buttercup
field with Dick Carey and it was early morning
in the heart of the springtime. And he told her
many things, many and wonderful and beautiful
<span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>things, which afterwards she tried to recall and
could not. And then, suddenly, he was calling
to her from a distance, and she was broad wide
awake sitting up in bed, and Larry in the room
below barked fiercely, then was silent.</p>
<p class='c007'>The next instant she had thrown her dressing-gown
over her shoulders and was running bare-footed
across the landing and down the stairs.
Midway across the big old hall she stopped dead,
for on her had fallen, swiftly and terribly, that
old horror of her small childhood, a sense of all-pervading
blackness. It gripped her as forcibly
as it had done in those far-off days. Again she
was a small utterly helpless thing in its hideous
clutch. The light streaming from under the
sitting-room door accentuated the blackness,
gleamed evilly, assumed a sinister and terrible
importance.</p>
<p class='c007'>Almost she turned and fled—fled out of the
door behind her into the storm-swept night,
away to the clean air, to the darkness which was
full of beauty and healing. Not this—this that
stifled, and soiled, and buried. Away—anywhere—anyhow—from
what was behind that
flickering evil light, which made the hideous
blackness visible as well as tangible.</p>
<p class='c007'>Almost, but not quite. That which the long
years of patience and endurance had built into
her, held. Dick Carey had called to her. What
<span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>if he were in there, fighting, fighting against
odds. For the world was full of this Evil let
loose, the vibrations became palpable, engulfed
her, beat her down. For a moment that seemed
endless she fought for more than physical life.</p>
<p class='c007'>Then she moved forward again, and it was as
in dreams when feet are leaden-weighted and
we move them with an effort that seems past
our strength. But she did not hesitate again.
Steadily she opened the door. Dragging those
leaden feet she went in and closed it behind her.</p>
<p class='c007'>A blast of hot air met her, insufferably hot.
Some one had made up the fire again. Piled
high with logs it burnt fiercely. The room was
in disorder. In the far corner by the south
window the little dogs lay cringing with terror,
trembling, while before them Larry crouched,
his white fangs bare, his lips lifted till the gums
showed, his blazing eyes fixed on the figure in
the centre of the room—the figure of Violet
Riversley.</p>
<p class='c007'>Before her, piled on the floor, were various
articles, books and papers, gathered together
and heaped in the shape of a bonfire. At her
feet lay the bronze lamp. In her right hand she
held the wick, still alight. Curiously, the light
from the blazing logs played on the long folds
of her white gown. Almost it seemed as if she
were clothed in flame.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>It was more subconsciously than in any other
way that Ruth took in these details, for every
sense she had—and all had become most acutely
alive—concentrated on the terrific and hideous
fact that, enveloping Violet, encasing her as it
were, was a great outstanding Figure or Presence.
Fear gripped her to the soul like ice.
She could have screamed with very terror, but
she was beyond the use of the body, beyond, it
seemed, all help. For the entity that was not
Violet Riversley, very surely not Violet Riversley,
but a being infinitely stronger and more
powerful, looked at her with the eyes of a soul
self-tortured, self-maimed, and she saw in all
their terrific hideousness Hate and Revenge incarnate.</p>
<p class='c007'>And as she looked a worse horror gripped
her. The Thing was trying to master her, to
make her its instrument, even as it had made
Violet Riversley. The very hair of her head
rose upon it as she felt her grip on herself loosening,
weakening. Her individuality seemed to
desert her, to disintegrate, to disappear.</p>
<p class='c007'>It might have been a moment; it might have
been an eternity.</p>
<p class='c007'>Then, as from a long way off, she heard Larry
give a strange cry. Something between a howl
and a bay its vibration stirred the air through
miles. The cry of the wolf to the pack for help.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>The old dog had stood up, his jowl thrust forward,
his body tense, ready for the spring.</p>
<p class='c007'>With a final desperate effort, which seemed
to tear her soul out of her body, Ruth cried too—cried
to all she had ever thought or dreamed
or held to of Good; and in that moment her
awareness of Dick Carey suddenly became
acute. Afterwards, in her ordinary consciousness,
Ruth always found it impossible to recapture,
or in any way adequately to remember, the
sensations of the next overwhelming moment.
Not only were they beyond speech they seemed
beyond the grip of ordinary thought.</p>
<p class='c007'>After that moment of supreme terror, of incredible
struggle, with the acute return of her
awareness of Dick Carey, with some crash of
warring elements and forces, mingling as part
of and yet distinct from the raging of the outside
storm, she regained Herself. Was out as
it were, in illimitable space, fighting shoulder to
shoulder, hand to hand, one with Dick Carey.
One, too, with some mighty force, fighting gloriously,
triumphantly, surely; fighting through
all the Ages, through all the Past, on through
all the Future, beyond Space and beyond Time.</p>
<p class='c007'>Then, suddenly, she was carried out—in no
other way could she describe it afterwards—out
of the stress and the battle on a wave of very
<span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>pure and perfect compassion into the heart of a
radiance before which even the radiance of the
fullest sunlight would be as a rush candle.
And into that infinite radiance came too the
deadly hatred, the unspeakable malice, the craving
for revenge, the bitterness, the rebellion—came
and was swallowed up, purified, transmuted.
In a great and glorious moment she
knew that the Force was one and the same, and
that it is the motive power behind which makes
it Good or Evil.</p>
<p class='c007'>Then the outside storm concentrated and fell
in one overwhelming crash. The house rocked,
and rocked again. Ruth, mechanically stepping
forward, caught in her arms a body which
fell against her almost like a paper shell. Very
swiftly she carried it out into the hall. Her
normal senses were suddenly again acute; they
worked quickly. And on the stair, infinitely to
her relief, appeared the shining polished countenance
of Miss McCox. Her attire defied
description, and in her hands she held, one in
each, at the carry, the proverbial poker and
tongs. Behind her came Gladys, open-mouthed,
dishevelled, likewise fully armed, and accomplishing
a weird sound which appeared to be a
combination of weeping and giggling.</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth struggled with delightful and inextinguishable
<span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>laughter, which she felt might very
easily degenerate into hysterics, for she was
shaking in every limb.</p>
<p class='c007'>“No, no; it is not burglars!” she said. “Put
those things down, and take Mrs. Riversley.
She has been walking in her sleep, and I am
afraid has fainted. You know what to do. I
must telephone the doctor.”</p>
<p class='c007'>In her mind was the immediate necessity of
dealing with that sinister bonfire before it could
work damage, also before any eyes but her own
should see it.</p>
<p class='c007'>The lighted wick had fallen on to papers
sprinkled with the oil, and already, when she
returned to the sitting-room, little tongues of
flame were alight and a thin pillar of smoke
crowned its apex. She dealt swiftly with it with
the heavy rugs luckily to her hand, and when
the creeping fire was crushed out and stifled she
put the injured remains of treasured books and
ornaments hurriedly into the drawers of the big
bookcase. The damage to the carpet there was
no possibility of concealing, and after a moment
of thought she took one of the charred logs,
black and burnt out, and scattered it where the
pile had been. Then she took the wick in which
the light still burned, true symbol of the Life
Eternal, and restored it and the lamp to its own
<span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>place, drew back the curtains, and opened the
great window looking south.</p>
<p class='c007'>It was early morning. The storm was riding
away in broken masses of heavy cloud.
Drenched and dim, and covered with a rising
silver mist, the racked world rested in a sudden
calm. But the storm had left its traces in the
broken branches strewing lawn and garden and
field, and across the pathway a great elm-tree,
snapped half-way up the main trunk, lay with
its proud head prostrate, blocking the main
entrance.</p>
<p class='c007'>The coolness of the dawn touched like a benediction
Ruth’s tired face and black and bruised
hands. For a few moments she stood looking
up at the washed sky, the fading stars, while the
dogs nestled against her, craving for notice.
A great sense of life and happiness came flowing
into her, flowing like a mighty tide with
the wind behind it, and she knew that all was
well.</p>
<p class='c007'>She would have given a good deal to sit down
and cry, but there was much to be done. That
morning passed like a hurried nightmare, the
whole house pervaded with that painful agitation
which the shadow of death, coming suddenly,
brings, for Violet Riversley was
desperately and dangerously ill. She was in a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>high fever, wildly delirious, and Ruth found it
impossible to leave her. Miss McCox took command
in her absence, and moved about house
and farm a very tower of strength in emergency,
while Gladys haunted her footsteps, crying
at every word, as is the manner of her kind
in such moments. In the sitting-room, Roger
North and his wife, summoned by telephone,
waited while the doctor made his examination.
The room had been stiffly set in order by Miss
McCox’s swift capable hands. Over the
scorched and blackened patch on the carpet she
had set a table, nothing but a general air of
bareness and smell of burning remained to hint
of anything unusual. Both windows were
opened wide to the chill early morning air, and
Mrs. North crouched by the fire shivering.</p>
<p class='c007'>She was utterly unnerved and overcome.
The message had arrived just as she was dressing.
She had swallowed a hurried breakfast,
when, quite strangely, it did not matter that the
coffee was not so good as usual, and the half-dozen
notes and letters from various friends
were of no real concern whatever. She had
been engaged to lunch at the Condors. In the
afternoon she had promised to give away the
prizes at a Village Work Show. And into all
this pleasant everyday life had come, shattering
<span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>it all into little bits, the sudden paralyzing
fact that Violet had been taken dangerously ill
during the night.</p>
<p class='c007'>She and her husband had driven over in the
little car to find the doctor still in the sick-room.
Ruth was also there, and questioning Miss
McCox was much like extracting information
from the Sphinx.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I always disliked that woman; she has no
more heart than a stone,” Mrs. North complained
tearfully. “And I do think she ought
to tell Miss Seer we have arrived. It is dreadful
to be kept away from one’s own child like
this and not know what is happening.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Eliot will be down soon, I expect,” said
North. He was wandering aimlessly, restlessly,
about the room, for as the time lengthened
his nerves too grew strained with waiting.
What had happened? All sorts of horrible
possibilities pressed themselves upon him. If
only Ruth would come and he could see her
alone for a moment!</p>
<p class='c007'>He stopped in his restless pacing, and looked
down kindly at his wife’s shivering form.
“Shall I shut the windows?” he asked.</p>
<p class='c007'>“No,” she answered; “never mind. Oh,
Roger, do you think she will die? I can’t bear
it! Oh, why doesn’t he come?”</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>She got up and clutched her husband’s coat-sleeve,
hiding her face on his shoulder.
“Roger, I couldn’t bear her to die.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Never before had the great presence of Death
really come near to her, except to summon the
very old whose life had already almost passed
to the other side. And now, suddenly, like a
bolt out of a serene blue sky, it was standing
beside her, imminent, threatening, and, to her,
unspeakably terrible.</p>
<p class='c007'>Roger North put an awkward arm round her.
He felt uncomfortably stiff and useless, and
ridiculously conscious of the fact that she had
forgotten in her hurry and distress to take her
hair out of the curler at the back of her neck.</p>
<p class='c007'>He was honestly anxious to be sympathetic,
to be all that was kind and helpful. His own
anxiety racked him, and yet, absurdly enough,
that curler obtruded itself on his notice until
he found himself saying, “You have left one of
your curlers in.”</p>
<p class='c007'>He was acutely aware that it was about the
last thing he should have said and wholly unsuitable
to the moment, but his wife, fortunately,
took no such view.</p>
<p class='c007'>“It just shows the state of my mind!” she
exclaimed, trying with shaking fingers to disentangle
it. “I have never done such a thing
<span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>in my life before! What a mercy you noticed
it!”</p>
<p class='c007'>He helped her to get the little instrument out,
and put it in his pocket.</p>
<p class='c007'>There was the sound of a closing door above,
the hurried movement of feet, and Mrs. North
clutched her husband’s arm. They both looked
towards the door. But silence fell again, and
she began to cry.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Do you think she’s dying, Roger?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“No, no! Eliot would send for us, of
course.” He began his restless walk to and fro
again. “I wish we had got here before Eliot
did. You could have gone in with him then.”</p>
<p class='c007'>And here, at last, footsteps came down the
stairs, across the hall, the door opened, and the
doctor came in.</p>
<p class='c007'>He was an unusual man to find buried in a
country practice. A man of outstanding intellect
and of a very charming presence. Between
him and North a warm friendship existed.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Ah, you have come!” he exclaimed.</p>
<p class='c007'>He took Mrs. North’s hand and looked down
at her with exceeding kindness.</p>
<p class='c007'>“The child is very ill and I fear brain trouble,”
he said. “I gather she went for a long
walk yesterday and got drenched in the storm,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span>so it is possibly aggravated by a chill. Do you
know of any special worry or trouble?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Nothing whatever,” said Mrs. North decisively.
“Except, of course, poor Dick’s death.
She felt that very much at the time, and Roger
thinks she has never got over it, don’t you,
Roger?”</p>
<p class='c007'>Roger nodded. For a moment he considered
laying before his friend the abnormal situation
in which Ruth Seer believed, and which he himself
had come anyway to recognize as within
the realms of possibility. But the inclination
faded almost as soon as born. He had had no
speech yet with Ruth, nor did it seem fair to
Violet. Possibly, perhaps, some personal pride
held him.</p>
<p class='c007'>The doctor looked at him kindly. “Poor little
girl! Well, she made a brave fight, I remember.
Now, Mrs. North, no worrying.
How old is the child? Twenty-six? You can
get over anything at twenty-six! I’m sending
in a nurse, and that woman upstairs is worth
her weight in gold. You couldn’t have her in
better hands. Now you’d like to go up and have
a look at her. Don’t get worried because she
won’t know you; that’s part of the illness.”</p>
<p class='c007'>But outside he looked at Roger with an anxious
face.</p>
<p class='c007'>“She’s very ill, North,” he said. “It must
<span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>have been coming on for some time. The storm—yes—that
shook it up into active mischief, no
doubt. We’ll pull her through, I hope; but
would you like a specialist’s opinion? These
brain troubles are very obscure.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I leave it to you,” said North, his whole
being sick and empty.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Well, we’ll see how she goes on in the next
twenty-four hours.”</p>
<p class='c007'>He sped away, and Roger wandered aimlessly
about the farm, looking at the wreckage of the
storm, with Larry and the little dogs, conscious
in their dumb way that their beloveds were in
trouble, keeping at his heel.</p>
<p class='c007'>By one of those vagaries which make the English
climate so lovable in spite of its iniquities,
it was, after the day and night of storm and
rain, that very wonderful thing a perfectly
beautiful morning in November. The sun
shone with astonishing warmth, scattering great
masses of grey and silver cloud, against which
the delicate black tracery of bough and twig,
stripped of every lingering leaf, showed in exquisite
perfection.</p>
<p class='c007'>The farm was wide awake and astir with the
life of a new day. But Vi, little Vi, was lying
up there, at the Door of Death. Recollections
of her as a soft-headed, golden-eyed baby came
back to him; as a small child flitting like a white
<span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>butterfly about the garden; as a swift vision of
long black legs and a cloud of dark hair, running
wild with the boys; as the glorious hoyden who
had taken her world by storm in the days just
before the war. And now she lay there a
broken thing, tossed and driven to death in the
purposeless play of soulless and unpitying
forces. He ground his teeth in impotent rage,
overcome with a very anguish of helpless pain
and wrath. If only Ruth would come and tell
him what had happened!</p>
<p class='c007'>The cowman, who was helping the gardener
clear away the remains of the storm, came up
from the fallen tree and spoke to him. He was
sorry to hear there was illness at the house.
North thanked him mechanically and escaped
into the flower garden. The few remaining
flowers were beaten to the ground, their heads
draggled in the wet earth. He got out his knife
and began to cut them off and tidy up the border.
He could watch the house at the same
time. The minutes dragged like hours, and
then, at last, the door on to the terrace opened,
and Ruth came out.</p>
<p class='c007'>She looked round and, catching sight of him,
hurried by the shortest way, across the wet
grass, to meet him. His pain-ravaged face
smote her with a great pity. She held out both
her hands to meet his.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>“I could not come before,” she said. “She
is quieter now. Oh, do not feel like that! She
will get well. I know she will get well.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Where can we go to be alone?” he asked.
“I must hear what happened. It is that which
has been driving me mad.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Let us go and walk along the path under the
‘house on the wall,’” she said. “No one will
come there and it is sheltered and warm in the
sun.”</p>
<p class='c007'>And there, pacing up and down, she told him,
as well as she could, the happenings of the night
before.</p>
<p class='c007'>North ground his teeth. “She would be better
dead,” he said. “And yet——” He
looked at her, a new horror growing in his haggard
eyes, a question——?</p>
<p class='c007'>“She will not die,” said Ruth. “But don’t
you understand, don’t you believe, whether she
lives or dies the evil is conquered, is transmuted,
is taken in to the Eternal Good?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“No, I cannot believe,” said North harshly.
“I think you are playing with words. It seems
to me that only Evil is powerful. If anything
survives, it is that.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth looked at him with very gentle eyes.
“Wait,” she said. “Have just a little patience.
She will get well, and then you will believe.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I cannot believe,” said Roger North. The
<span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>words fell heavily, like stones. He paced restlessly
backwards and forwards, crunching the
wet gravel viciously under his feet.</p>
<p class='c007'>“The house might have been burnt down.
You—I suppose you think that was the object?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes, I think it must have been so. At any
rate one of them.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“That is the loathsome horror of it all!”
North burst forth savagely. “I believe just
enough, because in no other way can I account
for what has happened, to make me dread death
for her in a way I should never have dreaded it
otherwise. I have always looked on our personal
grief as fundamentally selfish.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Ruth was silent. He seemed beyond the
reach of help, and she would have given so much
to help him. That he, at any rate for the moment,
gave no thought to what she had been
through disturbed her not at all.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Listen,” she said presently. “You may
think it all imagination, or what people call
imagination, but if you could only have seen it,
as I did, you would know it was very, very real.
It was when I was alone with her waiting for
Doctor Eliot. I went to the window to pull the
blind down a little, and when I turned round
again—I saw”—she stopped, searching for adequate
words—“I saw what looked like a wall
<span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>of white light. I can’t describe it any other
way, though it was not like any light we know
of here, more wonderful, alive in some strange
way. It was all round her. No evil thing could
get through. I am so sure.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She looked at him with her heart in her eyes,
but Roger North shook his head.</p>
<p class='c007'>“It leaves me cold,” he said. “Is that why
you feel so sure she will get well?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“No. But I <em>am</em> sure; that is all I know.”</p>
<p class='c007'>And to that Ruth held through the days of
tense anxiety that followed, through the visit of
the specialist from London, who gave little hope,
through the despair of others. She moved
among them as one carrying a secret store of
strength. Mrs. North, pitiably broken up, clung
to her for help and comfort, but North, after the
talk in the garden, had withdrawn into himself
and kept aloof. The ravages day after day
marked on his face went to Ruth’s heart when
he came over to inquire. But for the moment
he was beyond her reach or help. Whatever
devils from the bottomless pit rent and tore his
soul during these dark days, he fought them
single-handed, as indeed, ultimately, they must
be fought by every man.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mrs. North and Fred Riversley stayed at
Thorpe.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>“Uncommonly decent of Miss Seer,” said Mr.
Pithey to his wife. “Turning her house into a
hotel as well as a hospital! That stuck-up little
Mrs. North, too. I’ve heard her say things
about Miss Seer that have put my bristles up.
Give me Lady Condor every time. Paint or no
paint!”</p>
<p class='c007'>But Mrs. Pithey had learnt things down in the
dark valley. She was not so censorious as of
old.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I don’t cotton to Mrs. North myself,” she
answered. “She’s a woman who overprices
herself. But she’s a mother, and Miss Seer
could do no less than take her in. You might
take down some of these best Musk Cat grapes
after tea, ’Erb. P’raps Mrs. Riversley could
fancy ’em.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Everyone indeed was very kind, but with the
exception of Lady Condor and Mr. Fothersley,
Ruth kept visitors away from Mrs. North.</p>
<p class='c007'>Fred Riversley had astonished everyone by
turning out a wonderful nurse, and what little
rest Violet had was in his strong arms, nursed
like a child. She seemed nothing more, and in
her delirium had gone back to the days of her
childhood and talked of little else, and more and
more happily as the time went by.</p>
<p class='c007'>“One might as well try to keep a snow
wreath,” he said one afternoon to Ruth, who
<span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>was giving him tea after his usual tramp round
the fields for some fresh air and exercise.</p>
<p class='c007'>Even as he spoke there was a little bustle and
scurry outside the door, and before it opened
Riversley was on his feet and moving towards
it.</p>
<p class='c007'>Mrs. North stood there, half laughing, half
crying. “Oh, she is better!” she cried. “She
has gone into a real sleep. Nurse says we may
hope. She will get well.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She dropped on to her knees by the fire and
buried her face against the cushions of the sofa,
sobbing and crying, while Riversley tore across
the hall and up the stairs two steps at a
time.</p>
<hr class='c014' />
<p class='c007'>It was early on the following morning that
Violet Riversley opened her eyes and looked at
her husband with recognition in them.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Dear old Freddy,” she said weakly.
“What’s the matter?”</p>
<p class='c007'>He put his arms round her with the tears running
down his cheeks, and she nestled to him like
a tired child and fell asleep again.</p>
<p class='c007'>When she woke the second time the room was
full of the pale November sunshine. She looked
round it curiously for a moment, then her mind
seemed to give up the effort to remember where
she was and she looked at him.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>“I do love you, Freddy,” she said.</p>
<p class='c007'>The morning sounds of the farm came in
through the open window and she smiled. “Of
course, I’m at Thorpe. I dreamt I was with
Dick.”</p>
<p class='c007'>Outside, Ruth went across the terrace to her
farm work. Her face was that of one who holds
secure some hidden store of happiness. She
sang to herself as she went:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c008'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“When I have reached my journey’s end,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And I am dead and free.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c007'>The words floated up clear and sweet through
the still air.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Dead and free.” Violet repeated them in
a small faint voice, and again Fear gripped
Riversley by the throat. He longed to hold her
more closely and dared not. There seemed no
perceptible substance to hold. His mouth went
dry while he struggled with his difficulty of
speech.</p>
<p class='c007'>“The journey is worth making too, Vi,” he
said.</p>
<p class='c007'>The husky strangled voice made its appeal.
She looked with more of understanding into his
bloodshot eyes, his haggard ravaged face, and
her own face became suddenly very sweet and
of a marvellous brightness.</p>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>“Yes,” she said, “the journey is worth making
too.”</p>
<p class='c007'>More distant came the sound of Ruth’s song:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c008'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“I pray that God will let me go</div>
<div class='line'>And wander with them to and fro,</div>
<div class='line'>Along the flowered fields I know,</div>
<div class='line in2'>That look towards the sea,</div>
<div class='line in2'>That look towards the sea.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c007'>The white pigeons swooped down about her.
The dogs, so long kept in to heel, rushed wildly
over the lawn and down to the river, uttering
sharp cries of joy. A robin, perched on the
coping of the old wall, sang sweet and shrill.
She looked out over her beloved fields, over the
long valley full of misty sunshine, and was content.
The farm was Itself again. She moved
on across the lawn leaving footprints on the
silver wet grass, to where, standing by the gate,
she saw Roger North.</p>
<p class='c007'>He turned at the sound of her coming, and she
called to him:</p>
<p class='c007'>“She has slept ever since I ’phoned to you.
She will get well.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Thank God!” he said, as men will in these
moments, whether they believe or no.</p>
<p class='c007'>His face was curiously alive, alight with some
great happening; there was an air of joyous
<span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>excitement about him. He moved towards her,
and smiled a little, rather shamefaced smile,
and the odd likeness to a schoolboy who is feeling
shy was very apparent. Then he blurted it
out.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I have seen him,” he said.</p>
<p class='c007'>“Ah!” The exclamation was a note of pure
joy. “Oh, tell me about it!”</p>
<p class='c007'>“He was leaning over the gate. He was
looking for me, waiting for me, just as he used
to do. And he looked at me with his dear old
grin. It was ever so real.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Yes. Yes.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“And he spoke. Just as you have told me.
It isn’t the same as speaking here. It’s something
like a thought passing——”</p>
<p class='c007'>He stopped, his face all alight. He looked
years younger. The heavy lines were hardly
visible.</p>
<p class='c007'>“I wish I had spoken. Somehow at the moment
I couldn’t.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“I know. One cannot. I believe it is because
of the vibrations. I suppose——” Ruth hesitated.
“Can you tell me?”</p>
<p class='c007'>“What he said? It—it seems so ridiculous.
One expected it would be something important,
something—well, different.”</p>
<p class='c007'>She laughed, looking at him with affection,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>with that wonderful look of pure friendliness.</p>
<p class='c007'>“But why should it?”</p>
<p class='c007'>He laughed too—joyously. As he had not
laughed since boyhood. Surely again the world
was full of wonder and of glory. Again all
things were possible, in the light of the Horizon
beyond Eternity.</p>
<p class='c007'>“He said—just as he used to, you know—‘Come
<em>on</em>, old Roger!’”</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr class='pb c015' />
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
</div>
<div class='tnotes'>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c005'>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE</h2>
</div>
<ol class='ol_1 c002'>
<li>Table of <a href='#CONTENTS'>Contents</a> added by transcriber.
</li>
<li>Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
</li>
<li>Retained anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
</li>
<li>P. <a href='#t87'>87</a>, changed '“She is really an excellent worker,” and
little Miss Luce' to
'“She is really an excellent worker,” said little Miss Luce'.
</li>
<li>The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.
</li>
</ol>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 60331 ***</div>
</body>
</html>
|
