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diff --git a/old/8805-h.htm.2021-01-28 b/old/8805-h.htm.2021-01-28 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a184227 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8805-h.htm.2021-01-28 @@ -0,0 +1,10303 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!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" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + From One Generation to Another, by Henry Seton Merriman + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's From One Generation to Another, by Henry Seton Merriman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: From One Generation to Another + +Author: Henry Seton Merriman + + +Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8805] +This file was first posted on August 10, 2003 +Last Updated: March 12, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FROM ONE GENERATION TO ANOTHER *** + + + + +Text file produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + FROM ONE GENERATION TO ANOTHER + </h1> + <h2> + By Henry Seton Merriman + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>FROM ONE GENERATION TO ANOTHER</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER I. THE SEED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER II. SUBURBAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER III. MERCURY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER IV. FREIGHTED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER V. AFTER NINETEEN YEARS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VI. FOR HIS COUNTRY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VII. ON THE ROOF OF THE WORLD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER VIII. RELIEVED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER IX. RE-CAST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER X. A LAST THROW </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XI. A CARPET KNIGHT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XII. BAD NEWS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIII. ON THIN ICE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XIV. THE CURSE OF A GOOD INTENTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XV. THE TOUCH OF NATURE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVI. THE SPIDER AND THE FLY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVII. TWO MOTIVES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XVIII. LIKE SHIPS UPON THE SEA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XIX. AT HURLINGHGAM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XX. IN A SIDE PATH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXI. ALONE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXII. ACROSS THE YEARS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIII. AND THE TIME PASSES SOMEHOW </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXIV. A STAB IN THE DARK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXV. FROM THE JAWS OF DEATH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVI. BALANCING ACCOUNTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVII. AT BAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXVIII. THE LAST LINK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXIX. SETTLED </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + FROM ONE GENERATION TO ANOTHER + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. THE SEED + </h2> + <p> + Il faut se garder des premiers mouvements, parce qu'ils sont presque + toujours honnétes. + </p> + <p> + “Dearest Anna,—I see from the newspaper before me of March 13, that + I am reported dead. Before attempting to investigate the origin of this + mistake, I hasten to write to you, knowing, dearest, what a shock this + must have been to you. It is true that I was in the Makar Akool affair, + and was slightly wounded—a mere scratch in the arm—but nothing + more. I have not written to you for some months past because I have been + turning something over in my mind. Anna, dearest, there is no chance of my + being in a position to marry for some years yet, and I feel it incumbent + upon me ...” + </p> + <p> + This letter, half written, lay on a camp table before a keen-faced young + officer. He ceased writing suddenly, and, leaping to his feet, walked to + the door of his bungalow, which was open to the four winds of heaven. In + doing this he passed from the range of the lazy punkah flapping + somnolently over table and bed. It may have been this sudden change to + hotter air that caused him to raise his hand to his forehead, which was + high and strangely rounded. + </p> + <p> + “By George!” he said, “suppose I do it that way!” + </p> + <p> + He walked rapidly backwards and forwards with the lithe actions of a man + of steel, a light weight, of medium height, keen and quick as a monkey. + His black eyes flitted from one object to another with such restlessness + that it was impossible to say whether he comprehended what he saw or + merely looked at things from force of habit. + </p> + <p> + He was dark of hair with a sallow complexion and a long drooping nose—the + nose of Semitic ancestors. A small mouth, and the chin running almost to a + point. A face full of interest, devoid of distinct vice—heartless. + Here was a man with a future before him—a man whose vices were all + negative, whose virtues depended entirely upon expediency. Here was a man + who could be almost anything he liked; as some men can. If expediency + prompted he could be a very depôt of virtues; for his body, with all the + warmer failings of that part of humanity, was in perfect control. On the + other hand, there was no love of good for goodness' sake—no + conscience behind the subtle eyes. All this, and more, was written in the + face of Seymour Michael, whose handwriting had dried some moments before + on the half-filled sheet of letter-paper. + </p> + <p> + He returned and stood at the table with slightly bowed legs—not the + result of much riding, although he wore top-boots and breeches as if of + daily habit—but a racial defect handed down like the nasal brand + from remote progenitors. He looked at letter and newspaper as they lay + side by side—not with the doubtfulness of warfare between conscience + and temptation, but with a calculating thoughtfulness. He was not + wondering what was best to do, but what the most expedient. + </p> + <p> + Those were troublesome times in India, for the Mutiny was not quelled, and + each mail took home a list of killed, slowly compiled from news that + dribbled in from outlying stations, forts, and towns. Those were days when + men's lives were made or lost in the Eastern Empire, for it seems to be in + Fortune's balance that great danger weighs against great gain. No large + wealth has ever been acquired without proportionate risk of life or + happiness. To the tame and timorous city clerk comes small remuneration + and a nameless grave, while to more adventurous spirits larger stakes + bring vaster rewards. The clerk, pure and simple, has, within these later + years, found his way to India, sitting side by side with the Baboo, and + consequently it is as easy to make a fortune in London as in Calcutta and + Madras. The clerk has carried his sordid civilisation and his love of + personal safety with him, sapping at the glorious uncertainty from which + the earlier pioneers of a hardier commerce wrested quick-founded fortunes. + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael had come into all this with the red coat of a soldier and + the keen, ambitious heart of a Jew, at the very nick of time. He saw at + once the enormous possibilities hidden in the near future for a man who + took this country at its proper value, handling what he secured with + coolness and foresight. He know that he only possessed one thing to risk, + namely, his life; and true to his racial instinct, he valued this very + highly, looking for an extortionate usury on his stake. + </p> + <p> + At this moment he was like Aladdin in the cave of jewels: he did not know + which way to turn, which treasure to seize first. + </p> + <p> + Anna—dearest Anna—to whom this half-completed letter was + addressed, was a person for whom he had not the slightest affection. At + the outset of his career he had paused, decided in haste, and had resolved + to make use of the passing opportunity. Anna Hethbridge had therefore been + annexed <i>en passant</i>. In person she was youthful and rather handsome—her + fortune was extremely handsome. So Seymour Michael went out to India + engaged to be married to this girl who was unfortunate enough to love him. + </p> + <p> + In India two things happened. Firstly, Seymour Michael met a second young + lady with a fortune twice as large as that of Miss Anna Hethbridge. + Secondly, the Mutiny broke out, and India lay before the ambitious young + officer a very land of Ophir. He promptly decided to cut the first string + of his bow. Anna Hethbridge was now useless—nay, more, she was a + burthen. Hence the letter which lay half-written on the table of his + bungalow. + </p> + <p> + He paused before this wrong to a blameless woman, and contemplated the + perpetration of a greater. He weighed pro and con—carefully + withholding from the balance the casting weight of Right against Wrong. + Then he took up the letter and slowly tore it to small pieces. He had + decided to leave the report of his death uncontradicted. It was morally + certain that five weeks before that day Anna Hethbridge had read the news + in the printed column lying before him. He resolved to leave her in + ignorance of its falseness. Seymour Michael was not, however, a selfish + man. All that he did at this time, and later in life—all the lives + that he ruined—the hearts he broke—the men he sacrificed were + not offered upon the altar of Self (though the distinction may appear + subtle), but sold to his career. Career was this man's god. He wanted to + be great, and rich, and powerful; and yet he was conscious of having no + definite use for greatness, or riches, or power when acquired. + </p> + <p> + Here again was the taint of the blood that ran in his veins. The curse had + reached him—in addition to the long, sad nose and the bandy legs. + The sense of enjoyment was never to be his. The greed of gain—gain + of any sort—filled his heart, and <i>ennui</i> secretly nestling in + his soul said: “Thou shalt possess, but not enjoy.” + </p> + <p> + He was conscious of this voice, but did not understand it then. He only + burned to possess; looking to possession to provide enjoyment. In this he + was not quite alone—with him in his error are all men and women. And + so we talk of Love coming after marriage—and so women marry without + Love, believing that it will follow. God help them! That which comes + afterwards is not even the ghost of Love, it is only Custom. This was the + spirit of Seymour Michael. He had already acquired one or two objects of a + vague ambition; and, possessing them, had only learnt to be accustomed to + them—not to value them. + </p> + <p> + There was no elation in the thought that he was freed from the encumbrance + of Anna Hethbridge by a chance misprint. Neither was there hesitation in + turning accident ruthlessly to his own advantage. There was only a steady + pressing forward—an unceasing, unwearying attention to his own gain. + </p> + <p> + In those days news travelled slowly, and the personal had not yet taken + precedence in journalism. In the anxiety for the State, the Individual was + apt to be overlooked. Seymour Michael counted on six months of oblivion at + the least—he hoped for more, but with characteristic caution acted + always in anticipation of the worst. + </p> + <p> + He had scarcely thrown the newspaper aside when a comrade entered the + bungalow carrying another copy of the same journal. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Michael,” exclaimed this man, “do you see that you're put in among + the killed?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied Seymour Michael, without haste, without hesitation. “I have + already written to contradict it. Not that there is any one to care + whether I am dead or alive. But it might do me harm in Leadenhall Street. + I can't afford to be dead even for a week when so much promotion is going + forward.” + </p> + <p> + This was artistic. Most of us forget to preserve our own characteristics + in diverging from the truth. The tangled web is only woven when <i>first</i> + we practise to deceive. Later on the facility is greater, the handling + superior, and the web runs smooth and straight. Seymour Michael was + apparently no novice at this sort of thing. He was even at that moment + making mental note of the fact that up-country mails were in a state of + disorganisation, and a letter which was never written may easily be made + to have miscarried later on. + </p> + <p> + But even he could not foresee everything—no one can. Not even the + righteous man, much less the liar. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say,” pursued the newcomer, “that you are not writing to + your family about it—only to the Company?” + </p> + <p> + “That is all.” + </p> + <p> + “Rum chap you are, Michael,” said the other, lighting a cheroot. + “Heartless beggar I take it.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. The simple fact is that I have no one to write to. I only + possess one or two distant relatives, and they would probably be rather + sorry than otherwise to have the report contradicted.” + </p> + <p> + The younger officer—a mere boy—with a beardless, happy face, + walked to the door of the bungalow. + </p> + <p> + “Of course there is always this in it,” he said carelessly. “By the time + the contradiction reaches home the news may be true.” + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael laughed lamely. A joke of this description made him feel + rather sick, for a Jew never makes a soldier or a sailor, and they are + rarely found in those positions unless great gain is holden up. + </p> + <p> + With this pleasantry the youth departed, leaving Michael to write the + letter which he had advised as written. As he drew the writing materials + towards him he cursed his brother officer quietly and politely for a + meddling young fool. He wrote a formal letter to the Company—the old + East India Company which administered an empire with ledger and daybook—calling + their attention to the mistake in the newspaper, and begging them not to + trouble to give the matter publicity, as he had already advised his + friends. + </p> + <p> + This done, he proceeded with the ordinary routine of his daily life. Such + men as this are case-hardened. They carry with them a conscience like the + floor of an Augean stable, but they know how to walk thereon. Moreover, he + was one of those who assign to their dealings with men quite a different + code of morals to that reserved for women. His was the code of “not being + found out.” Men are more suspicious—they find out sooner: <i>ergo</i> + the morals to be observed <i>vis à vis</i> to them are of a stricter + order. Railway companies and women are by many looked upon as fair game + for deception. Consciences tender in many other respects have a subtle + contempt for these two exceptions. Many a so-called honest man travels + gaily in a first-class carriage with a second-class ticket, and lies to a + woman at each end of his journey without so much as casting a shadow upon + his conscience. + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael carried this code to the farthest limit of safety. All + through the months that followed he went about his business with a clear + conscience and a heart slightly relieved by the removal of Anna Hethbridge + from his path to prosperity. He served his country and the Company with a + keenness of foresight and a soldierly exposure of the lives of others + which did not fail, in the course of time, to bring him in a harvest of + honours and rewards. Neither did he put his candle under a bushel, but set + it in the very highest candlestick available. + </p> + <p> + But, as has been previously stated, he could not foresee everything. He + did not know, for instance, that his cheroot-smoking subaltern—a + youth as guileless as he was indiscreet, for the two usually go together—possessed + a memory like a dry-plate. He did not foresee that a passing conversation + in an Indian bungalow might perchance photograph itself on the somewhat + sparsely covered tablets of a man's mind, to be reproduced at the wrong + moment with a result lying twenty-six years ahead in the womb of time. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. SUBURBAN + </h2> + <p> + <i>L'amour fait tout excuser, mais il faut être bien sûr qu'il y a de i + amour.</i> + </p> + <p> + Miss Anna Hethbridge loved Seymour Michael with as great a love as her + nature could compass. + </p> + <p> + When the news of his death reached her, at the profusely laden + breakfast-table at Jaggery House, Clapham Common, her first feeling was + one of scornful anger towards a Providence which could be so careless. + Life had always been prosperous for her, in a bourgeois, solidly wealthy + way, entirely suited to her turn of mind. She had always had servants at + her beck and call, whom she could abuse illogically and treat with an + utter inconsequence inherent in her nature. She had been the spoilt child + of a ponderous, thick-skinned father and a very suburban mother, who, out + of her unexpected prosperity, could deny her daughter nothing. + </p> + <p> + Three months after the receipt of the news Anna Hethbridge went down into + Hertfordshire, where, in the course of a visit at Stagholme Rectory, she + met and became engaged to the Squire of Stagholme, James Edward Agar. + </p> + <p> + A month later she became the second wife of the simple-minded old country + gentleman. It would be hard to say what motives prompted her to this + apparently heartless action. Some women are heartless—we know that. + But Anna Hethbridge was too impulsive, too excitable, and too much given + to pleasure to be devoid of heart. Behind her action there must have been + some strange, illogical, feminine motive, for there was a deliberation in + every move—one of those motives which are quite beyond the masculine + comprehension. One notices that when a woman takes action in this + incomprehensible way her lady friends are never surprised; they seem to + have some subtle sympathy with her. It is only the men who look puzzled, + as if the ground beneath their feet were unstable. Therefore there must be + some influence at work, probably the same influence, under different + forms, which urges women to those strange, inconsequent actions by which + their lives are rendered miserable. Men have not found it out yet. + </p> + <p> + Anna Hethbridge was at this time twenty-four years of age, rather pretty, + with a vivacity of manner which only seemed frivolous to the more + thoughtful of her acquaintances. The idea of her marrying old Squire Agar + within six months of the untimely death of her clever lover, Seymour + Michael, seemed so preposterous that her hostess, good, sentimental Mrs. + Glynde, never dreamt of such a possibility until, in the form of a fact, + it was confided to her by Miss Hethbridge, one afternoon soon after her + arrival at the rectory. + </p> + <p> + “Confound it, Maria,” exclaimed the Rector testily, when the information + was passed on to him later in the evening. “Why could you not have + foreseen such an absurd event?” + </p> + <p> + Poor Mrs. Glynde looked distressed. She was a thin little woman, with an + unsteady head, physically and morally speaking; full of kindness of heart, + sentimentality, high-flown principles, and other bygone ladylike + commodities. Her small, eager face, of a ruddy and weather-worn complexion—as + if she had, at some early period of her existence, been left out all night + in an east wind—was puckered up with a sense of her own negligence. + </p> + <p> + She tried hard, poor little woman, to take a deep and Christian interest + in the welfare of her neighbours; but all the while she was conscious of + failure. She knew that even at that moment, when she was sitting in her + small arm-chair with clasped, guilty hands, her whole heart and soul were + absorbed beyond retrieval in a small bundle of white flannel and pink + humanity in a cradle upstairs. + </p> + <p> + The Rector had dropped his weekly review upon his knees and was staring at + her angrily. + </p> + <p> + “I really can't tell,” he continued, “what you can have been thinking + about to let such a ridiculous thing come to pass. What are you thinking + about now?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear,” confessed the little woman shamedly, “I was thinking of Baby—of + Dora.” + </p> + <p> + “Thought so,” he snapped, with a little laugh, returning to his paper with + a keen interest. But he did not seem to be following the printed lines. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose she was all right when you were up just now!” he said + carelessly after a moment, and without lowering his paper. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear,” the lady replied. “She was asleep.” + </p> + <p> + And this young mother of forty smiled softly to herself as if at some + recollection. + </p> + <p> + This happiness had come late, as happiness must for us to value it fully, + and Mrs. Glynde's somewhat old-fashioned Christianity was of that school + which seeks to depreciate by hook or by crook the enjoyment of those + sparse goods that the gods send us. The stone in her path at this time was + an exaggerated sense of her own unworthiness—a matter which she + might safely have left to another and wiser judgment. + </p> + <p> + Presently the Rector laid aside the newspaper, and rose slowly from his + chair. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going upstairs, dear?” inquired his tactless spouse. + </p> + <p> + “Um—er. Yes! I am just going up to get—a pocket-handkerchief.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glynde said nothing; but as she knew the creak of every board in the + room overhead she became aware shortly afterwards that the Rector had + either diverged slightly from the path of which he was the ordained + finger-post, or that he had suddenly taken to keeping his + pocket-handkerchiefs in the far corner of the room where the cradle stood. + </p> + <p> + It will be readily understood that in a household ruled, as this rectory + was, by a sleepy little morsel of humanity, Anna Hethbridge was in no way + hindered in the furtherance of her own personal purposes—one might + almost add periodical purposes, for she never held to one for long. + </p> + <p> + The Squire was very lonely. His boy Jem, aged four, would certainly be the + happier for a mother's care. Above all, Miss Hethbridge seemed to want the + marriage, and so it came about. + </p> + <p> + If Anna Hethbridge had been asked at that time why she wanted it, she + would probably have told an untruth. She was rather given, by the way, to + telling untruths. Had she, in fact, given a reason at all, she would + perforce have left the straight path, because she had no reason in her + mind. + </p> + <p> + The real motive was probably a love of excitement; and Miss Anna + Hethbridge is not the only woman, by many thousands, who has married for + that same reason. + </p> + <p> + The wedding was celebrated quietly at the Clapham parish church. A + humiliating day for the stiff-necked old Squire of Stagholme; for he was + introduced to many new relatives, who, if they could have bought up + Stagholme and its master, were but poorly equipped with the letter “h.” + The bourgeois ostentation and would-be high-toned graciousness of the + ladies, jarred on his nerves as harshly as did the personal appearance of + their respective husbands. + </p> + <p> + Altogether it was just possible that Squire Agar began to realise the + extent of his own foolishness before the effervescence had left the + champagne that flowed freely to the health of bride and bride-groom. + </p> + <p> + The event was duly announced in the leading newspapers, and in the course + of a few days a copy of the <i>Times</i> containing the insertion started + eastward to meet Seymour Michael on his way home from India. + </p> + <p> + Anna Agar came home to Stagholme to begin her new life; for which peaceful + groove of existence she was by the way totally unfitted; for she had + breathed the fatal air of Clapham since her birth. This atmosphere is + terribly impregnated with the microbe of bourgeoisie. + </p> + <p> + But the novelty of the great house had that all-absorbing fascination + exercised over shallow minds by anything that is new. At first she + maintained excitedly that there was no life like a country life—no + centre more suited for such an ideal existence than Stagholme. For a time + she forgot Seymour Michael; but love is eminently deceitful. It lies in a + comatose silence for many years and then suddenly springs to life. + Sometimes the long period of rest has strengthened it—sometimes the + time has been passed in a chrysalis stage from which Love awakens to find + itself changed into Hatred. + </p> + <p> + Little Jem, her stepson—sturdy, fair, silent—was her first + failure. + </p> + <p> + “Come to your mother, dear,” she said, with unguarded enthusiasm one + afternoon when there were callers in the room. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot go to my mother,” replied the youthful James, with his mouth + full of cake, “because she is dead.” + </p> + <p> + There was an uncompromising matter-of-factness about this simple + statement, made in all good faith and honesty, which warned the second + Mrs. Agar to press the matter no farther just then. But she was so intent + upon exhibiting to her neighbours the maternal affection which she + persuaded herself that she felt for the plain-spoken heir to Stagholme, + that she took him to task afterwards. With great care and an utter lack of + logic she devoted some hours to the instruction of Jem in the somewhat + crooked ways of her social creed. + </p> + <p> + “And when,” she added, “I tell you to come to your mother, you must come + and kiss me.” + </p> + <p> + This last item she further impressed upon him by the gift of an orange, + and then asked him if he understood. + </p> + <p> + After scratching his head meditatively for some moments, he looked into + her comely face with very steady blue eyes and said: + </p> + <p> + “I don't think so—not quite.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” replied his stepmother angrily, “you are a very stupid little boy—and + you must go up to the nursery at once.” + </p> + <p> + This puzzled Jem still more, and he walked upstairs reflecting deeply. + Years afterwards, when he was a man, the sunlight falling on the wall + through the skylight over the staircase had the power of bringing back + that moment to him—a moment when the world first began to open + itself before him and to puzzle him. + </p> + <p> + It happened that at that precise time when Mrs. Agar was endeavouring To + teach her little stepson the usages of polite society, a small, keen-faced + man was standing near the table in the smoking-room in the Hotel Wagstaff + at Suez. He was idly turning over the newspapers lying there in the hopes + of finding something comparatively recent in date. + </p> + <p> + Presently he came upon a copy of the <i>Times</i>, with which he repaired + to one of the long chairs on that verandah overlooking the desert which + some of us know only too well. + </p> + <p> + After idly conning the general news he glanced at the births, deaths, and + marriages, and there he read of the recent ceremony in the parish church + of Clapham. + </p> + <p> + “D——n it!” he muttered, with that racial love of an expletive + which makes a Jew a profane man. + </p> + <p> + In addition to a strong feeling of wounded vanity that Anna Hethbridge + should so soon have forgotten him, Seymour Michael was distinctly + disappointed that this heiress should no longer be within his reach. The + truth was, that the young lady in India had transferred her valuable + affections, with all solid appurtenances attaching thereto, to a young + officer in the Navy who had been invalided at Calcutta. + </p> + <p> + To men who intend, despite all and at any cost, to get on in the world the + first failures are usually very bitter. It is only those who press + stolidly forward without expecting much, who profit from a check. Seymour + Michael was just the man to fail by being too acute, too unscrupulous. He + was usually in such a hurry to help himself that he never allowed another + the very fruitful pleasure of giving. + </p> + <p> + In India his zeal had led him into one or two small mistakes to which he + himself attached no importance, but they were remembered against him. He + had cruelly thrown aside Anna Hethbridge when a richer marriage offered + itself. Now he had missed both bone and reflection, and he sat with a + smile on his dark face, looking out over the dreary desert. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. MERCURY + </h2> + <h3> + <i>The evil is sown, but the destruction thereof is not yet come.</i> + </h3> + <p> + James Edward Makerstone Agar was not at the age of five the material from + which the heroes of children's stories are evolved. He was not a good boy, + nor a clean, nor particularly interesting. He was, however, honest—and + that is <i>déjà quelque chose</i>. He was as far removed from the + “misunderstood” type as could be wished; and he was quite happy. + </p> + <p> + Before his stepmother had laid aside the title and glory of a bride, he + had, by his deadly honesty, made her understand that even a child of five + requires what she could not give him—namely, logic. Had she been + clever enough to reason logically she might have undermined the little + fellow's innate honesty of character, despite the fact that he lacked a + child's chief incentive to learn from its mother, namely, the sympathy of + heredity. + </p> + <p> + Gradually and steadily Mrs. Agar “gave him up,” to make use of her own + expression. She was one of those women who either fear or despise that + which they do not understand. She could scarcely fear Jem, so she + persuaded herself that he was stupid and unattractive. At this time there + came another influence to militate against any excess of love between Jem + and his stepmother. It came to her, for he was ignorant of it. And this + was the knowledge that before long the little heir's undisputed reign in + the nursery would come to an end. + </p> + <p> + With a suburban horror of being a long distance from the chemist, Mrs. + Agar protested that she could not possibly remain at Stagholme during the + ensuing winter, and that her child must be born at Clapham. It was vain to + argue or reason, and at last the Squire was forced to swallow this second + humiliation, which was quite beyond his wife's comprehension. He only + dared to hint that all the Agars had seen the light at Stagholme since + time immemorial; but feelings of this description found no answering note + in her practical and essentially commonplace mind. So Mr. And Mrs. Agar + emigrated to Clapham, leaving Jem behind them. + </p> + <p> + It happened that a few days after their arrival at the stately house + overlooking the Common, a young officer called to see Mr. Hethbridge, who + was at that time one of the Directors of the East India Company. Now it + furthermore happened that this young soldier was he whom we last saw + smoking a cheroot in the doorway of Seymour Michael's bungalow in India. + As chance would have it, he called in the evening, and the estimable Mr. + Hethbridge, warmed into an unusual hospitality by the fumes of his own + port wine, pressed him to pass into the drawing-room and take a dish of + tea with the ladies. The subaltern accepted, chiefly because it was the + Director's self that pressed, and presently followed that short-winded + gentleman into the drawing-room—thereby shaping lives yet uncreated—thereby + unconsciously helping to work out a chain of events leading ultimately to + an end which no man could foresee. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, in reply to Mrs. Agar's question, “I am just back from + India.” + </p> + <p> + It happened that these two were left almost beyond earshot at the far end + of the room. The old people, among whom was Mrs. Agar's husband, were + settling down to a game of whist. Mrs. Agar was leaning forward with + considerable interest. This was not a mere passing curiosity to hear + further of a country and of an event which have not lost their glamour + yet. + </p> + <p> + The very word “India” had stirred something up within her heart of the + presence of which she had been unsuspicious. She was as one who, having a + closed room in her life, and thinking the door thereof securely barred, + suddenly finds herself within that room. + </p> + <p> + “Whereabouts in India were you?” she asked, with a sudden dryness of the + lips. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—I was north of Delhi.” + </p> + <p> + “North of Delhi—oh, yes.” + </p> + <p> + She moistened her lips, with a strange, sidelong glance round the room, as + if she were preparing to jump from a height. + </p> + <p> + “And—and I suppose you saw a great deal of the Mutiny?” + </p> + <p> + Even then—after many months, in a drawing-room in peaceful Clapham—the + young man's eyes hardened. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I saw a good deal,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar leant back in her chair, drawing her handkerchief through her + fingers with jerky, unnatural movements. + </p> + <p> + “And did you lose many friends?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered the young fellow, “in one way and another.” + </p> + <p> + “How? What do you mean?” She had a way of leaning forward and listening + when spoken to, which passed very well for sympathy. + </p> + <p> + “Well, a time like the Mutiny brings out all that is in a man, you know. + And some men had less in them than one might have thought, while others—quiet-going + fellows—seemed to wake up.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said; “I see.” + </p> + <p> + “One or two,” he continued, “betrayed themselves. They showed that there + was that in them which no one had suspected. I lost one friend that way.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + It was marvellous how the merest details of India interested this woman, + who, like most of us, did not know herself. Moreover, she never learnt to + do so thoroughly, thereby being spared the horrid pain of knowing oneself + too late. + </p> + <p> + “I made a mistake,” he explained. “I thought he was a gentleman and a + brave man. I found that he was a coward and a cad.” + </p> + <p> + Something urged her to go on with her pointless questions—the same + inevitable Fate which, according to the Italians, “stands at the end of + everything,” and which had prompted Mr. Hethbridge to bring this stranger + into the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + “But how did you find it out?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I did not do it all at once. I first began by a mere trifle. It + happened that this man was reported dead in the Gazette—I showed it + to him myself.” + </p> + <p> + The young officer, who was not accustomed to ladies' society, and felt + rather nervous at his own loquaciousness, kept his eyes fixed on his + boots, and did not notice the deathly pallor of Mrs. Agar's face, nor the + convulsive clutch of her fingers on the velvet arm of the chair. + </p> + <p> + She turned right round, with a peculiar movement of the throat as if + swallowing something, and made sure that the whist-players were interested + in their game. In that position she heard the next words. + </p> + <p> + “He did not even take the trouble to write home to his friends. I thought + it rather strange at the time, and told him so. Later on I heard the truth + of it. I heard him tell some one else that he was engaged to a girl in + England, and he thought it a very good way of getting out of the + engagement.” + </p> + <p> + “You heard him tell that, with your own ears?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and he seemed to think it a good joke.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar was shuffling about in the chair as if in pain. + </p> + <p> + Then she asked again in a strangely metallic voice, “Did he say that he—did + not love her?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the cad!” + </p> + <p> + “He cannot have been a nice man,” she said, with that evenness of + enunciation which betrays that the tongue is speaking without the direct + aid of the mind. + </p> + <p> + The young officer rose with a glance towards the clock. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, “he was not. He did other things afterwards which made it + quite impossible for a man with any self-respect whatever to look upon him + as a friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he,” asked Mrs. Agar, “say anything about her personal appearance? + Was it that?” + </p> + <p> + The subaltern looked puzzled. It was as well for Mrs. Agar that he was not + a man of deep experience. Instead of being puzzled he might suddenly have + seen clear. + </p> + <p> + “No—no,” he replied. “It was not that. It was merely a matter of + expediency, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + But, womanlike, Mrs. Agar did not believe him. She sat while he made his + farewell speech over the whist-table, but as he went to the door she rose + and followed him slowly. + </p> + <p> + In the hall she watched the servant help him on with his coat—her + features twisted into a stereotype smile of polite leave-taking. + </p> + <p> + “By the way,” she said, with a sickening little laugh, “what was the man's + name—your friend, whom you lost?” + </p> + <p> + “Michael—Seymour Michael.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Good-night—good-night.” + </p> + <p> + Then she turned and walked slowly upstairs. + </p> + <p> + We are apt to read indifferently of human ills, whether of the flesh or + the soul. We are apt to overlook the fact that what we read may apply to + us. Some of us even bear upon us the mark of hereditary disease and refuse + to believe in it. Then suddenly comes a day when a pain makes itself felt—a + dumb, little creeping pain, which may mean nothing. We sit down and, so to + speak, feel ourselves. Before long all doubt goes. We have it. The world + darkens, and behold we are in the ranks of those upon whom we looked a + little while back with a semi-indifferent pity. + </p> + <p> + It was thus with Mrs. Agar. As some play with nature, so had she played + with her own heart. She had heard of a consuming love which is near akin + to hatred. She had read of passion which is stronger than the strongest + worldliness. She had smilingly doubted the existence of the broken heart + pure and simple. And now she sat in her own room, numbly, blindly feeling + herself, like one to whom the first warning of an internal deadly disease + has been manifested. She was conscious of something within herself which + she could not get at, over which she had no control. + </p> + <p> + With quivering lips she sat and wondered what she could do to hurt this + man. She did not only want to inflict bodily pain, but that other gnawing + pain of the heart which she herself was now feeling for the first time. + And through it all there ran the one thought that he must die. It was + strange that hate should first teach her that love is a living, undeniable + reality in the lives of all of us. She had never realised this before. Her + bringing-up, her surroundings, all her teaching had been that money and a + great house, and servants, and carriages were the good things of this + life, the things to be sought after. + </p> + <p> + She had been conscious of a vague admiration for Seymour Michael, and that + was the full extent of her knowledge of herself. This admiration took the + worldly form of a conviction that he was destined one day to be a great + man, and she had a strongly developed, common-minded desire to be a great + lady. + </p> + <p> + There are some things in this life which to a moderate intelligence are + quite unmistakable. Most of us, having left childhood behind, recognise at + once an earthquake, and death. Love is as unmistakable when it really + comes. And Anna Agar, having suddenly learnt to hate Seymour Michael, knew + that she had loved him with that one all-absorbing love which comes but + once to a woman. + </p> + <p> + She was not a deep-thinking or a subtle woman. Her actions were usually + based upon impulse, and her one all-absorbing desire now was to see him, + to speak to him face to face. In this indefinite longing there was + probably a vulgar love of vituperation—the taint of her low-born + ancestors. + </p> + <p> + She wanted to shout and shriek her hatred into the evil face of the man + who had tricked her. She wanted to frighten him, to threaten, to lash him + with her tongue. For she was conscious all the while of her own inability + to harm him. Without defining the thought, her common-sense taught her one + lamentable, unjust fact; namely, that unless a woman is loved by the + object of her wrath she can hardly make him suffer. + </p> + <p> + She rose at last, and, lighting the candles on the writing-table, she + proceeded to write to Seymour Michael. Even in this epistle the natural + cunning of her nature appeared. + </p> + <p> + “DEAR SEYMOUR “—she wrote on a sheet of paper bearing the address of + the house in which she was staying, the roof under which Seymour Michael + had first paid his careless tribute to her wealth—“I learnt by + accident this evening that your regiment has returned to England. If you + are in London, I hope you will make time to come and see me. Come + to-morrow evening at four, if that time is convenient to you. ANNA.” + </p> + <p> + She purposely signed her Christian name only, purposely refrained from + vouchsafing any personal news. She did not know how much or how little he + might know. + </p> + <p> + Ringing for her maid, she sent the letter to the post, addressed to + Seymour Michael, at the Service Club, of which she knew him to be a + member. Then she went to bed to toss and turn all night. The doctors, + good, portly Clapham practitioners, had warned her in the usual way to + spare herself all bodily fatigue and mental worry for the sake of the + little one. It is so easy to urge each other to spare all mental worry, + and so eminently useful. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. FREIGHTED + </h2> + <p> + I shall remember while the light lives yet, And in the darkness I shall + not forget. + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael was no coward where hard words and no hard knocks were to + be exchanged. His faith in his own keenness of intellect and + unscrupulousness of tongue was unbounded. + </p> + <p> + He smiled when he read Anna Agar's letter over a dainty breakfast at his + club the next morning. The cunning of it was obvious to his cunning + comprehension, and the fact of her suppressing her newly-acquired surname + only convinced him that she knew but little about himself. + </p> + <p> + That same evening at four o'clock he presented himself at the lordly + hall-door of Mr. Hethbridge. Since first he had raised his hand to this + knocker, fingering his letter of introduction to the East India director, + Seymour Michael had learnt many things, but the knowledge was not yet his + that indiscriminate untruths are apt to fly home to roost. + </p> + <p> + Anna Agar had easily managed to send her mother out of the house; her + husband spent his days as far from Clapham as circumstances would allow. + She was seated on a sofa at the far end of the room when Seymour Michael + was shown in, and the first thing that struck her was his diminutiveness. + After the hearty country gentlemen who habitually carried mud into the + Stagholme drawing-room, this small-limbed dapper soldier of fortune looked + almost puny. But there is a depth in every woman's heart which is only to + be reached by one man. Whatever betide them both, that one is different + from the rest all through life. + </p> + <p> + Neither of these two persons spoke until the servant had closed the door. + Then, as is usual in such cases, the more indifferent spoke first. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you never write to me?” said Seymour Michael, fixing his mournful + glance on her face. + </p> + <p> + “Because I thought you were dead.” + </p> + <p> + “You never got my letter contradicting the report?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” she answered, with so cheap a cunning that it deceived him. + </p> + <p> + “And,” he went on, with the heartlessness of a small man, for large men + respect woman with a deeper chivalry than every puny knight yet compassed, + “and you did not trouble to inquire. You did not even give me six months' + grace to cool in my grave.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you send your letter?” she asked, with a suppressed excitement + which he misread entirely. + </p> + <p> + “By the usual route. I wrote off at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Liar! liar! liar!” she shrieked. + </p> + <p> + She had risen, and stood pointing an accusatory finger at him. Then + suddenly the dramatic force of the situation seemed to fail, and she burst + out laughing. For some seconds it seemed as if her laughter was getting + beyond her control, but at last she checked it with a gurgle. + </p> + <p> + The complete success of the trap which she had laid for him almost + disappointed her. Few things are more disappointing than complete success. + She hated him, and yet for the sake of the one gleam of good love that had + flickered once in her essentially sordid heart, she had nourished a vague + hope that he would clear himself—that at all events he would have + the cleverness to see through her stratagem. + </p> + <p> + “Liar!” she repeated. “In this room last night—not twenty-four hours + ago—Mr. Wynderton told me all about it. He said that you told + several men in his presence that you did not love me, and that your death + reported in the papers was the best way of breaking off the engagement.” + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael's eyes never wavered. For once they were still, with that + solemn depth of gaze which tells of the curse laid on a smitten, miserable + race. It was strange that before honest men and women his glance wavered + ever—he could never meet honest eyes; but looking at Anna Agar they + were as steady as those of a true man. + </p> + <p> + “Wynderton,” ho said, “the man whose promotion I stopped, by a report + against him for looting.” + </p> + <p> + When Nature makes a fool in the guise of a woman she turns out a finished + work. Mrs. Agar's eyes actually lighted up. Seymour Michael saw; but he + knew that he had no case. Nevertheless, in view of the Squire's advanced + age (a fact of which he had made sure), he attempted to carry through a + forlorn hope. + </p> + <p> + “And you believe this man before you believe me?” said Michael. It is + strange how often one hears the word “believe” on the lips of those whose + veracity is doubtful. + </p> + <p> + Now it happened that Mr. Hethbridge had spoken of Wynderton at breakfast + that morning in terms which left no doubt as to the untruth of the + statement just made in regard to him. But even this would have been passed + over by the woman who had a natural tendency towards falsehood herself, + had not Seymour Michael made a hideous mistake. A wiser man than any of us + has said that there is a time for all things. Most distinctly defined is + the time for making love. More men come to grief by making too much love + than too little. Seymour Michael, being heartless, deemed erroneously that + this was a propitious moment to essay the power which had once been his + over this woman. + </p> + <p> + He accompanied his reproachful speech with a tender glance, which in olden + times had never failed to call forth an answering look of love in her + eyes. Now, it suddenly aroused her to realise the extent of her hatred. In + some subtle way it humiliated her; for she looked back into the past, and + saw herself therein a dupe to this man. + </p> + <p> + “No!” she cried, and her raised voice had a sudden twang in it—suggestive + of the streets; of the People. “No—you needn't trouble to make soft + eyes at me. I know you now—I know that what that man said was true. + He called you a coward and a cad. You are worse! You are a Jew—a + mean, lying Jew.” + </p> + <p> + There are few greater trials to a man's dignity than vituperation from the + lips of a woman. She walked towards him, clumsily, menacingly and raised + her hand as if to strike him. + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael's brown face turned yellow beneath her blazing anger. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down!” he commanded, “and don't make a fool of yourself.” + </p> + <p> + He was mean enough to pay her back in her own coin—the paltry, + loud-ringing coin which is all that a woman has. + </p> + <p> + “I do not mean to wrangle,” he said coolly; “but I may as well tell you + now that I never cared a jot for you. I was laughing at you in my sleeve + all the time. I did not want you but your money. I concluded that the + money would be too dear at the price, so I determined to throw you over. + The way I chose to do it was as good as any other, because it saved me the + trouble of writing to you.” + </p> + <p> + Anna Agar had obeyed him. She was sitting down in a stiff-backed + arm-chair, looking stupidly at the pattern of the carpet as if it were + something new to her. Between physical pain and mental excitement she was + beginning to wander. She was the sort of woman to lose control over her + mind with a temperature of one hundred and one. + </p> + <p> + Michael looked keenly at her. He had a racial terror of physical ailment. + He saw that something was wrong, but his knowledge went no further. He had + never seen a woman faint, so limited had been his experience of the sex. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” he said consolingly, “it is all for the best. We made a mistake. + In a few years we shall look back to this, and thank Heaven for saving us + many years of unhappiness. We are not suited to each other, Anna. We never + should have been happy.” + </p> + <p> + It was characteristic of the man to be more afraid of a fainting fit than + of a broken heart. + </p> + <p> + He went to her side and stood, not daring to touch her, for fear of + arousing another of those fits of passion in her which neither of them + seemed to understand. At length she spoke in a singular monotonous tone + which an experienced doctor would have recognised at once as the speech of + a tongue unguided for the time being. She did not look up, but kept her + eyes fixed on the carpet as if reading there. + </p> + <p> + “Some day,” she said, “I will pay you back. Some day—some day. I do + not know how, but I feel that you will be sorry you ever did this.” + </p> + <p> + Twenty-five years afterwards these words came back to him in a flash. They + passed through his brain—conglomerate—in a flash, in a + hundredth part of the time required to speak them. + </p> + <p> + Even at the time of hearing them, spoken in that voice which did not seem + to belong to Anna Hethbridge at all, he turned pale. For all the hatred + that burnt within her like a fire smouldered in the deliberate tones of + her voice. Hatred and love can teach us more in a moment than the + experience of a lifetime; for through either of them we see ourselves face + to face. This hatred made Anna Agar in twenty-four hours, and the woman + thus created went through a lifetime unchanged. + </p> + <p> + Michael went towards the bell. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to ring,” he said, “for your maid.” + </p> + <p> + “Twice,” she muttered in the same vague way. + </p> + <p> + He obeyed her, ringing twice. + </p> + <p> + Presently the woman came. + </p> + <p> + “Your mistress,” said Michael in a low voice to her at the door, “has been + suddenly seized with faintness. I leave her to you.” + </p> + <p> + Without looking round he passed through the doorway and out into his own + self-seeking life. But Anna Agar's revenge began from that moment. To a + man of his nature, in whose veins ran the taint of a semi-superstitious + Oriental blood, there was a nameless terror in the hatred of a human + being, however helpless. Surely the hell of the coward will be a twilight + land of vague shadowy dangers ever approaching and receding. + </p> + <p> + In such a land Seymour Michael moved for some months, until he returned to + India; and there, in the daily round of a new life, he gradually learnt to + shake off the past. The world is very large despite chance meetings. It is + easy enough to find room for two even in the same county, with the + exercise of a little care. + </p> + <p> + Twenty-five years elapsed before these two met again, and then they only + had time to exchange a glance. By that time the result of their own + actions had passed beyond their control. + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael walked across the Common, which was in those days still + wild and almost beautiful; and on the whole he was pleased with the result + of this interview. He knew that it was destined to come sooner or later—he + had known that all along; and it might have been worse. It is + characteristic of an untruthful nature to be impervious to the shame of + mere detection. In Eastern countries the liar detected smiles in one's + face. Detection is to an Oriental no punishment; something more tangible + is required to pierce his mental epidermis. + </p> + <p> + Being quite incapable of a strong love this man was innocent of consuming + hatred. He therefore vaguely wondered whether the day might come wherein + he would once more lay siege to the affections of Anna Agar, a rich widow. + </p> + <p> + Had he seen the face of the woman whom he had just left as it lay at that + moment, hardly less pale than the pillow between the fluted mahogany + pillars of a huge four-post bed, he would not have understood its meaning. + He would never have divined that the dull gleam shining between her + half-closed eyelids was simple hatred of himself, that the restless, + twitching lips were whispering curses upon his head, that the half-stunned + brain was struggling back to circulation and thought for the sole purpose + of devising hurt to him. + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael, ignorant of all this, went peaceably back to his club, + where he dressed, dined, and proceeded to pass the evening at a theatre. + </p> + <p> + That night, while he was displaying his diamond studs in the stalls of + Drury Lane Theatre, was born into the world—long before his time—a + child, Arthur Agar, destined to walk the smoothest paths of life, + literally in silk attire; for he grew up to love such things. + </p> + <p> + But the ways of Nature are strange. She is very quiet; patient as death + itself. She holds her hand for years—sometimes for a generation—but + she strikes at last. + </p> + <p> + She is more cruel than man, or even than woman which is saying much, She + is the best friend we have, and the worst foe, for she never forgives an + outrage. + </p> + <p> + Nature raised her hand over this puny, whimpering child, Arthur Agar. She + never forgot a mother's selfish passion. She forgets nothing. When first + he opened his little pink lids upon the world he looked round with a + scared wonder in a pair of colourless blue-grey eyes; and that vague look + of expectation never left his eyes in later life. It almost seemed as if + the infant orbs could see ahead into the future—could discern the + lowering hand of outraged Nature. + </p> + <p> + This hand was suspended over the ill-fated, poorly-endowed head for years, + then Nature struck—hard. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. AFTER NINETEEN YEARS + </h2> + <h3> + A sharp judgment shall be to them that be in high places. + </h3> + <p> + “Yes, dear. I have great news for you to take back to your mother. Jem has + got his commission—in a Goorkha regiment!” + </p> + <p> + The lady who spoke leant back in her chair, half turning her head, but not + looking entirely round in the direction of the only other occupant of the + room—a girl of nineteen. + </p> + <p> + “In a Goorkha regiment, Aunt Anna?” repeated the girl; “what is that? It + sounds as if he would have to black his face and wear a turban. It + suggests curry and gymkhanas (whatever they may be) and pyjamas and + bananas and other pickles. A Goorkha regiment.” + </p> + <p> + There was a faint drop in her tone—on the last three words, which to + very keen ears might have signified reproach, but the hearer was not keen—merely + cunning, which is quite a different matter. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear. They tell me that these Indian regiments are much the best for + a young man who is likely to get on. There are so many more chances of + promotions and—er—er—distinction.” + </p> + <p> + The girl was standing by the open window, and she turned her head without + otherwise moving, looking at the speaker with a pair of exceedingly + discriminating eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Bosh, my dear aunt!” she whispered confidingly to the blind-cord. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” pursued the lady, with the eager credulity of her first mother, + ever ready to believe the last speaker when belief is convenient—“Yes. + Sister Cecilia tells me that all the great men began in the Indian + Service.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I wonder where they finished. Royal Academy—finishing Academy. + Regimentals and a gold frame—leaning heroically on a mild-looking + cannon with battles in the background.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear,” replied Mrs. Agar, who only half understood Dora Glynde at + all times; “it is such a good thing for Jem. Such a splendid opportunity, + you know!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” echoed the girl, with a twist of her humorous lips. “Splendid!” + </p> + <p> + She had turned again, and was looking out of the window across a soft old + lawn where two Wellingtonians towered side by side like sentries. Without + glancing in the direction of her companion she knew the expression of Mrs. + Agar's face, the direction of her gaze; the very thought in her shallow + mind. She knew that Mrs. Agar was sitting with her arms on the little + davenport, gazing rapturously at the photograph of an insipid young man + with a silk-faced smoking jacket; with clean linen, clean countenance, + clean hands, immaculate hair, and a general air of being too weak to be + mean. + </p> + <p> + “Sister Cecilia,” went on the elder lady, “seems to know all about it.” + </p> + <p> + It is useless to attempt concealment of the fact that at this juncture + Dora Glynde made a face—an honest schoolgirl behind-your-back Face—indicative + of supreme scorn for some person or persons unspecified. + </p> + <p> + Hers was a countenance which lent itself admirably to the purpose, with + lips full of humour, and capable, as such lips are, of expressing a great + and wonderful tenderness. The face, <i>du reste</i>, was that of a + healthy, fair-skinned English girl, liable to honest change from pale to + pink, according to the dictates of an arbitrary climate. Her eyes were of + a dark grey-blue, straightforward and steady, with a shadow of thought in + them which made wise people respect her presence. She was not painfully + beautiful, like the heroine of a novel—nor abnormally plain, like + the antitype who has found her way into fiction, and there (alone) brings + all hearts to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “Is Jem glad?” she asked cheerfully. “Is he thirsting for gore and glory?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, delighted! Arthur will be so pleased too. Dear boy, <i>he</i> is so + interested in soldiers, but of course he could not go into the army! He is + too delicate—besides, the life is rough, and the risks are very + great.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar was speaking with her head slightly inclined to one side, and + she never raised her adoring eyes from the photograph of the insipid young + man. Had she done so she would have seen a look of patient, if comic, + resignation come over the face of her youthful companion at the mention of + her son's name. + </p> + <p> + “I will tell mother,” said Dora Glynde, purposely ignoring Arthur Agar, + whose name was always dragged sooner or later into every conversation. + “Fancy Jem in a helmet, or a turban, with his face blacked! All the same, + if I were a man I should be a soldier. When does he go—to join his + regiment?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, almost at once.” + </p> + <p> + The girl winced, quietly, between herself and the blind-cord. + </p> + <p> + “And in the meantime,” she said lightly, “I suppose he is fully engaged in + buying swords and guns and bomb-shells, or whatever the Goorkhas use in + warfare.” + </p> + <p> + “He is coming home to-morrow for Sunday,” replied Jem Agar's stepmother + absently. She was thinking of her own son, and therefore did not hear the + quick sigh which was almost a gasp; did not note the sudden light in the + girl's eyes. + </p> + <p> + Dora Glynde was rather a solitary-minded young person. The only child of + elderly parents, she had never learnt in the nursery to indulge in the + indiscretions of confiding girlhood. She had the good fortune to be + without a bosom-friend who related her most sacred secrets to other bosom + friends and so on, as is the way of maidens. From her father she had + inherited a discriminating mind and a most admirable habit of reserve. She + was quite happy when alone, which, according to La Bruyère, is a great + safeguard against all evil. + </p> + <p> + She wanted to be alone now, and therefore passed out of the open window + with a non-committing “Good-bye, Aunt Anna!” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, dear,” replied the lady, awaking suddenly from a reverie. But + by the time she had turned round in her chair, the girl was gone. + </p> + <p> + Dora crossed the lawn, passing between the sentinel pines and crossing the + moat by the narrow footbridge. She climbed the railing with all the ease + of nineteen years and struck a bee-line across the park. She never raised + her eyes from the ground, never paused in her swinging gait, until she + reached the brown hush of the beechwood which divided the Rectory garden + from the southern extremity of the park. + </p> + <p> + Having climbed the railing again she sat on a mossy mound at the foot of a + huge beech tree. Her manner of doing so subtly indicated that she did not + only know the spot, but was in the habit of sitting there, possibly to + think. A youthful privilege of doubtful value, for, as we get busier in + life we have to do the thinking as we go along. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she muttered, “oh, how awful!” + </p> + <p> + A new expression had come over her face. She looked older, and all the + vivacity had suddenly left her lips. + </p> + <p> + While she was still sitting there the crisp sound of footsteps on the + fallen leaves approached through the wood. Looking up she saw her father, + following the winding path through the spinney towards his home. + </p> + <p> + A grave man was the Rector of Stagholme in his declining years; + hopelessly, wisely pessimistic, with sudden youthful returns of interest + in matters literary and theological. As he came he read a book. + </p> + <p> + Instantly the expression of Dora's face changed. She rose and went towards + him, smiling contemptuously towards his lowering gravity. He looked up, + gave a little grunt of recognition, and closed his book. + </p> + <p> + “Father,” she said, “I've just heard a piece of news.” + </p> + <p> + “Bad, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she answered, “I suppose we shall survive it. Jem has got his + commission, in a Goorkha regiment.” + </p> + <p> + “Goorkha regiment? Nonsense!” + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Anna has just told me so. She is very pleased, and seems prepared + for the—best.” + </p> + <p> + “That is the custom of fools, to be prepared for the best—only.” + </p> + <p> + The Rector gave a despairing shrug of the shoulders. He was a man who + allowed himself, after the manner of the ancients with whom he lived + mentally, a few gestures. He smoked a very expressive cigarette. He was + smoking one at this moment, and threw it away half consumed. This divine + was possessed of a rooted conviction that the Almighty made a great + mistake whenever He invested temporal power in a woman, whom he was + ungallantly inclined to classify under a celebrated dictum of Mr. + Carlyle's respecting the population of these happy Isles, who, truth to + tell, care not one jot what Mr. Carlyle may think of them. + </p> + <p> + The Reverend Thomas Glynde and his daughter walked all the way home + without exchanging another word. In the Rectory drawing-room they found + Mrs. Glynde, small, nervous, worried. She had evidently devoted + considerable thought and attention to the preservation of the hot buttered + toast. Poor humble little soul, she was quite content to minister to the + bodily requirements of her spouse, having long been convinced of the + inferiority of her own sex in every respect except a certain limited + knowledge of housekeeping matters. + </p> + <p> + She was vaguely conscious of inferiority to Dora from a literary point of + view, and talked with abject humility to her own daughter of all things + appertaining to books. But on all other points connected with the child of + her old age this quiet little woman was absolute mistress. Years before + the Rector had made a great mistake; he had, as the plain-spoken East + Burgen doctor put it, made an ass of himself on the matter of a childish + illness, thereby imperilling Dora's half-fledged little life. Mrs. Glynde + had then, like a diminutive tigress, stood up boldly before her awesome + lord and master, saying such things to him that the remembrance of them + made her catch her breath even now. From that time forth the Rector was + allowed to hold forth on symptoms to his heart's content, to take down + from his library shelf a stout misguided book of medical short-cuts to the + grave, but nothing more. + </p> + <p> + He never referred to the asinine business, and in the course of years he + forgave the doctor (having in view the fact that that practitioner had + been carried away by a right and proper sense of the importance of the + case), but he tacitly acknowledged that in the practice of + home-administered medical assistance, his knowledge was second to a + mother's instinct. + </p> + <p> + “It appears,” he said sharply, while he was stirring his tea, “that Jem + Agar has got his commission in a Goorkha regiment.” + </p> + <p> + Now Mrs. Glynde knew more about the organisation of the heavenly bands + than of the administration of the Indian army. She did not know whether to + rejoice or lament, and having been sharply pulled up—any time during + the last twenty years—for doing one or the other in the wrong place, + she meekly took soundings. + </p> + <p> + “What is that, dear?” she inquired. + </p> + <p> + “The Goorkhas are native Indian soldiers,” explained the Rector. “Very + good fellows, no doubt. They get all the hard knocks in small frontier + wars and none of the half-pence. What the woman can have been thinking of, + I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glynde was anxiously glancing towards Dora, who was nicking the nose + of a sportive kitten with the tassel of the tea-cosy. + </p> + <p> + “And will he go to India?” she asked, with laudable mental grovellings in + the mire of her own ignorance. + </p> + <p> + “Course he will.” + </p> + <p> + “And,” added Dora cheerfully, “he will come home covered with glory and + medals, with a weakness for strong pickles and hot language—I mean + hot pickles and strong language.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Mrs. Glynde rather breathlessly, “are they never stationed in + England?” + </p> + <p> + “No—never,” replied her husband snappishly. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glynde had a pink patch on each cheek—precisely on the spot + whore two such patches had appeared years ago when the doctor spoke so + strongly. Those patches were maternal, and only appeared when Dora's + affairs, spiritual or temporal, were concerned. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” put in Dora again, “but I have a sort of lurking + conviction that Jem will have to wear a turban and red morocco boots.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” pursued Mrs. Glynde, with that courage which cometh with a red + patch on either cheek, “I always thought these Indian regiments were meant + for people who are badly off.” + </p> + <p> + The Rector gave a short laugh. + </p> + <p> + “You are not so very far wrong, my dear,” he admitted. “And no one can say + that Jem is badly off. He will be very rich some day.” + </p> + <p> + The Rector assumed an air of superior discretion, to which he usually + treated his women-folk when he thought fit to consider that they were + touching on matters beyond their jurisdiction. + </p> + <p> + “Some more tea, please, mother,” put in Dora appropriately. “Excuse my + appetite. I suppose it is the autumn air.” + </p> + <p> + There was a short silence, during which Mrs. Glynde sought to propitiate + her angered spouse with sodden toast and a second brew of tea. + </p> + <p> + “I always said,” observed the Rector at last, “that your cousin was a + fool.” + </p> + <p> + And in some indefinite way Mrs. Glynde felt that she was once more + responsible. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. FOR HIS COUNTRY + </h2> + <p> + Shall I forget on this side of the grave? I promise nothing; you must wait + and see. + </p> + <p> + From the train arriving at East Burgen station at eight o'clock that same + evening there alighted a youth who seemed suddenly to have taken manhood + upon his shoulders. He stood on the platform and pointed out to a porter, + who called him Master James, a large Gladstone bag and a new sword-case. + </p> + <p> + Although he could have carried the luggage under one arm and the porter + under the other, he carefully refrained from offering to convey anything + except his own walking-stick. Such is the force of education. This boy had + been brought up to expect service. He was to be served all his life, and + so the sword-case had to be left to the porter whom he envied. + </p> + <p> + During the journey down—between the farthest-removed stations—the + sword had flashed more than once in the dim light of the carriage lamp. + Ah! those first swords! Not Toledo nor Damascus can produce their equal in + after years. + </p> + <p> + The porter, honest father of two private soldiers of the line himself, saw + it all—at once. He carried the sword-case with an exaggerated + reverence and forbore from remark just then. Afterwards, beneath the + station-lamp, he looked at the shilling—the first of its kind from + that quarter—with a pathetic, meaning smile. + </p> + <p> + It was Saturday night. The streets of East Burgen were rather crowded, and + Jem Agar—with elbows well in and the whip at the regulation angle + across old Lasher's face, who could not help squinting at the pendant + thong—shouted to the country-folk in a new voice of mighty deep + register. + </p> + <p> + He carried his boyish head stiffly, and had for ever discarded a turn-down + collar. At first he kept old Lasher at a respectful distance, asking in a + somewhat curt and business-like manner after the stables. Then gradually, + as they bowled along the country road in the familiar hush of an April + evening, he thawed, and proceeded to vouchsafe to that steady coachman a + series of very interesting details of military matters in general and the + Indian army in particular. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm sure, Mas—sir,” opined Mr. Lasher at length; “if there's + any one as has got into his right rut, so to speak, in this world, it's + you. I always said you was a born soldier.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah—then you've heard that I've got my commission?” inquired Jem + airily, as if he had had many such in bygone years. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, sir! Miss Dora it was that told me.” + </p> + <p> + Somehow this caused a little silence. + </p> + <p> + Truth to tell, Dora had lost her rank as the most beautiful and + accomplished maiden in Christendom. This situation was at that moment + occupied by a young person hight Evelina Louisa Barmond, sister to Billy + Barmond of the Hundred and second, a veteran fellow-soldier and comrade + who had jumped five feet six at the Sandhurst sports a year before. Miss + Evelina Louisa was twenty-four, five years Dora's senior, and only three + years and two months older than Jem Agar himself. He had spoken to her + twice, and thought about her in the intervals allowed by such weighty + matters as uniform and the new sword, which, however, required almost + constant consideration at that time. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Jem, with exaggerated nonchalance, “I am afraid I should + never be fit for anything else.” + </p> + <p> + Whereat Lasher laughed and touched his hat. He made it a rule to salute a + joke in that manner, either from a general respect for humour, or looking + at it in the light of a mental gratuity offered by his betters. + </p> + <p> + “There's one thing you can do, Master Jem, sir—leastwise, which you + can do as well as any man in the British army,” he said, with pardonable + pride, “and that is sit a 'orse.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks to you, Lasher,” Jem was kind enough to say with a flourish of his + whip. + </p> + <p> + The dignity was now ebbing fast, and by the time that the clever little + cob swung round the gate-post into the avenue of Stagholme, Jem and Lasher + were fully re-established on the old familiar footing. + </p> + <p> + There was a bright moon overhead, and at the end of the avenue beyond the + dip where the lake gleamed mysteriously, the gables and solid towers of + Stagholme stood peacefully confessed. + </p> + <p> + Jem Agar was firmly convinced that England only contained one Stagholme, + and perhaps he was right. Six miles from the nearest station, the great + house stands self-sufficient, self-contained. The moat, now dry and + cultivated, is still traceable, and requires bridging in two places. + Surrounded by vast park-like meadowland, where huge trees guard against + cutting wind or prying modern journalistic instinct, the house is only + approached by a private road. + </p> + <p> + Inside the gates of this road there is something ancient and feudal in the + very scent of the air. The tones of the big bell striking the hour over + the wide portico die away over the lands that still belong to Stagholme, + despite the vicissitudes through which all ancient families run. + </p> + <p> + Jem, however, whose childhood and youth had been passed amidst companions + with names as good as his, had learnt long ago to keep his pride to + himself. He was Jem Agar, and the family name seemed somehow to belong + exclusively to his father still, although that thorough old sportsman had + lain for three years and more beneath the quiet turf of the little + churchyard within his own park gates. + </p> + <p> + As he pulled up at the door this was thrown open, and within its frame of + light he saw the gracious form of his stepmother waiting to welcome him. + Behind her, in the shadow, and amidst the decoration of staghorns, ancient + pike and hanger, loomed a tall dark figure startlingly in keeping with the + semi-monastic architecture of the house. This was Sister Cecilia. She was + always thus—behind Mrs. Agar, with clasped hands and a vaguely + approving smile, as if Mrs. Agar conferred a benefit upon suffering + humanity by the mere act of existing. + </p> + <p> + A slightly bored expression came into Jem's patient eyes. It was not that + he had very much in common with his stepmother, although he had an honest + affection for her; but he instinctively disliked Sister Cecilia and all + her works. These latter were of the class termed “good.” That is to say, + this lady, the spinster daughter of a former rector in the neighbourhood, + considered that the earthly livery of a marvellous black bonnet which was + almost a cap, and quite hideous, justified a shameless interference in the + most intimate affairs of her neighbours, rich and poor. + </p> + <p> + Under the cover of charity she committed a thousand social sins. She + constituted herself mother-confessor to all who were weak enough to + confide in her or seek her advice, and in soul she was the most arrant + time-server who ever flattered a rich woman. + </p> + <p> + Jem distrusted her soft and “holy” ways, more especially her speech, which + had the lofty condescension of the saved towards the damned in + prospective. In his calmly commanding way he had, months before, forbidden + Dora Glynde to kiss Sister Cecilia, because that ostentatiously virtuous + person was in the habit of kissing the maids when she met them; and he + maintained that this Christian practice, if very estimable theoretically, + was socially an insult either to the mistress or the maid. + </p> + <p> + In view of the important changes in his own life which were about to + supervene, that is to say, firstly, his departure for India, and secondly, + his coming of age before he could hope to return from that land of + promise, he had counted on a quiet evening with his mother. Moreover, he + was vaguely conscious of the fact that a right-minded person would have + carefully abstained from accepting the most pressing invitation to form a + third that evening. + </p> + <p> + In view of this Jem Agar had recourse to the last refuge of the simple. He + retired within himself, and, so to speak, shut the door. He had dined with + these women before, and knew that the conversation would follow its usual + mazy course through a forest of cross-questions upon all subjects, and + notably upon those intimate matters which were essentially his own + business. + </p> + <p> + Sister Cecilia, good mistaken soul that she was, tried her best. She was + lively in a Sunday-school-tea style. She was by turns tender and warlike + as occasion seemed to demand; but no scrap or tittle of personal + information did she extract from Jem, stiffly on guard behind his high + collar. Mrs. Agar was excited and failed utterly to follow the wiser + footsteps of her bosom friends. She talked such arrant nonsense about + India, the Goorkhas, and matters military, that more than once Jem glanced + at the imperturbable servants with misgiving. + </p> + <p> + The next day was Sunday, and after morning service Jem eagerly accepted an + invitation to have supper at the Rectory after evening church. Sister + Cecilia was staying from Saturday till Monday, which alone was sufficient + reason for this young soldier to pass his last evening in Stagholme under + another than his own historic roof. With her in the house he knew that the + chances of serious conversation were small; for she encouraged such topics + as the possibility of sending fresh eggs packed in lime to the Goorkhas of + his prospective half-company. So Jem retired within himself, and finally + left England without having said many things which should have been said + between stepmother and son. + </p> + <p> + At the Rectory he found a very different atmosphere—that air of + cheerful intellectuality which comes from the presence of cultivated men + and women. + </p> + <p> + The Rector held strong views on the rare virtue of minding one's own + business, and in loyalty to such, deemed it right to refrain from + mentioning his opinion as to the wisdom of selecting a native branch of + the military service for the heir to Stagholme. + </p> + <p> + The supper passed pleasantly enough in the discussion of general topics + all bordering on the great question they had at heart. They were like + people seeking for each other in the dark around the edge of a pit—the + pit being India. Dora, and Dora alone, laughed and treated matters + lightly. Mrs. Glynde blundered several times, and stepping backwards over + an abyss of years, called the new soldier “darling” more than once. Twice + she required helping out by Dora, and on the second occasion something was + said which Jem remembered afterwards with a stolid British memory. + </p> + <p> + “Jem,” said the girl, buttering a biscuit with a light hand, “you should + write a diary. All great men write diaries which their friends publish + afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not think,” replied Jem, with that contempt for the pen which the + possession of a new sword ever justifies, “that writing a diary is much in + my line.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you can never tell till you try. Of course it would not be published + straight off. Some literary person would be hired to cross the t's and dot + the i's.” + </p> + <p> + There was a little pause. Dora glanced at Jem Agar, and something made him + say: + </p> + <p> + “All right. I'll try.” + </p> + <p> + “Who knows?” said the Rector, with a smile of indulgent affection. “There + may be great literary capacity lying dormant in Jem. The worst of a diary + is that one may come to look at it in after years, when one finds a very + different story has been written from what one intended to write.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Dora, lightly skipping over the chasm of gravity, “that is + Providence. We must blame Providence for these little <i>contretemps</i>. + Some one must be blamed, and Providence obviously does not mind.” + </p> + <p> + Jem laughed—somewhat lamely; but still it was a laugh. Supper was + despatched somehow—as last meals are. Some of us never forget the + flavour of those cups of tea gulped down in the gorgeous steamer-saloon + while the stewards get the hand luggage on board. It was a late meal on + Sunday evening at the Rectory, and the servants soon followed their + betters into the drawing-room for prayers. + </p> + <p> + Then the Rector lighted his last cigarette, and Mrs. Glynde began to show + symptoms of a patch of pink in either cheek. + </p> + <p> + At last Jem rose—awkwardly—in the midst of a sally from Dora, + who seemed afraid to stop speaking. + </p> + <p> + “Must be going,” he said; and he shook hands with the Rector. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glynde, with nervous deliberation, kissed him and squeezed his hand + jerkily. + </p> + <p> + “Dora—will open the door for you,” she said, with an apprehensive + glance towards her husband, who, however, showed no inclination to move + from his chair. + </p> + <p> + Dora not only opened the door, but left it open, and walked with him + across the lawn towards the stile. When they reached it there was a little + pause. He vaulted over and she quietly followed—without his + proffered assistance. + </p> + <p> + Then at last Jem spoke. + </p> + <p> + “You don't seem to care!” he said gruffly—with his new voice. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>don't!”</i> she whispered imploringly. + </p> + <p> + And they walked on beneath the murmuring trees where the yellow moonlight + stole in and out between the trunks. It was not cheerful. For when Nature + joins her sadness to the sad libretto of life she usually breaks a heart + or two. Fortunately for us we mostly act our tragedies in the wrong + scenery—the scenery that was painted for a comedy. + </p> + <p> + “I don't understand it,” said the girl at length. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it is in order to save money for Arthur.” + </p> + <p> + “If I don't, go,” replied Jem, “it will be a question of letting + Stagholme.” + </p> + <p> + Dora knew of the ancient horror of such a necessity, handed down from one + Agar to another, like a family tradition. Moreover, women seem to respect + men who have some simple creed and hold to it simply. Are they not one of + our creeds themselves, though by seeking for rights instead of contenting + themselves with privileges, some of them try to make atheists of us? + </p> + <p> + “So,” she said nevertheless, “you are being sacrificed to Arthur!” + </p> + <p> + He answered nothing, but he had forgotten for ever Miss Evelina Louisa + Barmond. + </p> + <p> + “When do you go?” asked Dora suddenly, with something in her voice which + no one had ever heard before. She was startled at it herself. + </p> + <p> + He waited until the soft old church bell finished striking ten, then he + answered: + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow!” + </p> + <p> + They had reached the farthest limit of the wood and stood at the park + railing. + </p> + <p> + “Then—,” she paused, and seemed to collect herself as if for a leap; + “then good-bye, Jem!” + </p> + <p> + He took the outstretched hand; his large grasp seemed to swallow it up. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye!” he said. + </p> + <p> + He climbed the rail without agility, paused for a moment, and the + moonlight happened to gleam on his face through the gently waving branches + as he looked down at her in dumb distress. + </p> + <p> + Then he turned and walked away across the shimmering grass. + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later Dora re-entered the drawing room. Her father and + mother were seated close together, closer than she had seen them for + years. Mrs. Glynde was pale, with two scarlet patches. + </p> + <p> + Dora collected her belongings, preparatory to going to bed. + </p> + <p> + “Jem,” she said quietly, “is absurdly proud of his new honours. It affects + his chin, which has gone up exactly one inch.” + </p> + <p> + Then she went to bed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. ON THE ROOF OF THE WORLD + </h2> + <h3> + The more a man has in himself, the less he will want from other people. + </h3> + <p> + “Here—hi!” + </p> + <p> + As no one replied to this summons either, by voice or approach, the young + man subsided into occupied silence. + </p> + <p> + He was a very large young man, with a fair moustache which looked almost + flaxen against the deep tan of his face. This last, like the rest of him, + was ludicrously typical of that race which has wandered farther than the + Jews, and has hitherto managed, like them, to retain a few of its + characteristics. The Anglo-Saxonism of this youth was almost aggressive. + It lurked in the neat droop of moustache, which was devoid of that untidy + suggestion of a beer-mug characterising the labial adornment of a northern + flaxen nation of which we wot. It shone calmly in the glance of a pair of + reflectively deep blue eyes—it threw itself at one from the pockets + of an old tweed jacket worn in conjunction with regulation top-boots and + khaki breeches. + </p> + <p> + Moreover, it gave birth to a quiet sense of being as good as any one else, + and possibly better, which sat without conceit on his brow. + </p> + <p> + It would seem that he really did not want to be answered just then, for he + did not raise a voice accustomed to dominate the clatter of horses' feet, + nor did he pass any comment on the carelessness or criminal absence of + some person or persons unknown. + </p> + <p> + He merely took up his pen again, and proceeded to handle that mighty + weapon with an awkwardness suggestive of a greater skill with another + instrument only less powerful. He was seated on two reversed buckets, + pyramidally balanced, at a small table which had the air of wide + capabilities in some other sphere of usefulness. There was a weird cunning + in the legs of this table indicative of subtle change into a camp-bed or + possibly a canoe. + </p> + <p> + The writing materials consisted of a vaseline bottle (fourpenny size) full + of ink, and two weary pieces of blotting-paper. The paper upon which he + was writing had a travelled and somewhat jaundiced air, the penholder was + of gold. In the furniture of the tent, as in the canvas thereof, there was + that mournful suggestion of better days which is held to be a virtue in + furnished apartments. But over all there hovered that sense of + well-scrubbed cleanliness which comes from the touch of a native military + servant. An indulgence in this habit of rubbing and scrubbing was indeed + accountable for much dilapidation; for that silent little Ghoorka man, Ben + Abdi, had rubbed and scrubbed many things not intended by an ingenious + camp-furnisher for such treatment. James Edward Makerstone Agar was + engaged in the compilation of a diary, which volume there is reason to + believe is still preserved in a woman's jewel drawer. + </p> + <p> + It has not run through any editions—indeed, no compositor's finger + has up to this time defiled its pages. This, in fact, was one of those + literary works, ground slowly out from the millstones of the brain, of + which the style fails to please the taste of the present day. To catch the + fancy of a slang-loving and thoughtless generation the writer must throw + off his works. This is an age of “throwing off,” and it is to be presumed + that future ages will throw the result away. One must be brilliant, + shallow, slightly unpleasant and very unwholesome, to acquire nowadays + that best of all literary reputations which leaveth a balance at one's + bank. + </p> + <p> + J.E.M. Agar—or “Jem” as his friends call him to his face and his + servants behind his back—Jem Sahib to wit—was no Pepys. His + literary style was disjointed, heavy, and occasionally illiterate. This + last peculiarity, by the way, is of no consequence nowadays, but it is + mentioned here for ulterior motives. In the pages of this little + black-bound volume there were no scintillating thoughts scribbled there + with suspicious neatness of diction, such as one finds in the diaries of + great men who, it would seem, are not above post-mortem vanity. The diary + was a chronicle of solid facts—Jem being essentially solid and a man + of the very plainest facts. + </p> + <p> + Speaking as an impartial critic, one would incline to the opinion that + Agar devoted too much thought to his work—in strong contrast, + perhaps, to the literary tendency of his day. He nibbled the leisure end + of his penholder too much, and allowed the business extremity thereof to + dry in inky conglomeration. The result was a distinct sense of labour in + the style of the work. After having called in vain, perhaps for + assistance, the scribe returned to the contemplation of his latest effort. + The book was one of Letts's diaries, three days in a page, which are in + themselves fatal to a finished style of literature. There is always too + much to say or too little. One's thoughts never fit the rhomboid + apportioned by Mr. Letts for their accommodation. Great men who have + thoughts when the diary is handy do not, of course, patronise Letts, + because he could not be expected to know when there would be a sunset + likely to stir up poetic reflections, or a moonrise comparable with the + cold light cast by some unsympathetic young woman's eyes upon the poet's + life. + </p> + <p> + For such men, however, as Agar, Mr. Letts is a guardian angel. The space + is there, and facts must be forthcoming to fill it. Agar was, and is still—thank + Heaven—a conscientious man. He had promised to keep this diary and + keep it he did. And surely he hath his reward—remembering the jewel + drawer. + </p> + <p> + At the moment under consideration he was filling in yesterday's rhomboid, + and paused at the conclusion of the following remarks: + </p> + <p> + “<i>Seven</i> A.M. Turned out, and shot a Ghilzai. Saw him sneaking up the + valley. Long shot—should put it down at a hundred and seventy-five + yards. Hit him in the stom—abd—chest. Looked like rain until + two o'clock. Then cleared up. Walter caught a mongoose and brought him in + with much triumph. He got conceited afterwards and slept on my bed till + kicked off by Ben Abdi. I see it's Sunday. Church four hundred odd miles + away.” + </p> + <p> + This, my masters, is not the stuff to quote <i>in extenso</i>, and yet in + its day this diary was cried over—before it was put away in the + jewel drawer. Truly women are strange—one can never tell how a thing + will present itself to them. Honest Jem Agar, nibbling his penholder and + jerking these lucid observations out of his military brain by mere force + of discipline, never suspected the heart that was in it all—that + minute particle of himself that lay in the blot in the corner carefully + absorbed by the exhausted blotting-paper. + </p> + <p> + “Sunday, egad!” he muttered, leaning his arms on the cunning table, and + gazing out across the pine-clad valley that lay below him in a deep blue + haze. + </p> + <p> + He stared into the haze, and there he saw those whom he called “his + people” walking across a neat English park toward a peaceful little + English church. To them came presently a young person; a young person clad + in pink cotton, who walked with a certain demure sureness of tread, as if + she knew her own mind and other things besides. Her path came into the + park from the left, and among the trees into which it disappeared behind + her there stood the red chimneys of a long low house. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly these visions vanished before something more tangible in the haze + of the valley. This was the flutter of a dirty white rag which seemed to + come and go among the fir trees. + </p> + <p> + Jem Agar rose from his temporary seat and walked to the door of the tent—exactly + two strides. A rifle lay against the canvas, and this he took up, slowly + cocking it without taking his eyes from the belt of fir trees across the + valley. + </p> + <p> + Presently he threw the rifle up and fired instantaneously. He had been + musketry instructor in his time and held views upon quick firing. The + smoke rose lazily in the ambient air, and he saw a figure all fluttering + rags and flying turban running down the slope away from him. At the same + moment there was a crashing volley, followed by two straggling reports. + The figure stopped, seemed to hesitate, and then slowly subsided into the + grass. + </p> + <p> + Agar put his head out of the tent and saw half a company of Goorkhas, keen + little sportsmen all standing in line at the edge of the plateau, + reloading. + </p> + <p> + This was the force at the disposal of Major J. E. M. Agar, at that time + occupying and holding for Her Majesty the Queen of England and Empress of + India a very advanced position on the northern frontier of India. And in + this manner he spent most of his days and some of his nights. In addition + to the plain Major he had several other titles attached to his name at + that time, indicative of duties real and imaginary. He was “deputy + assistant” several things and “acting” one or two; for in military titles + one begins in inverse ratio in a large way, and ends in something short. + </p> + <p> + Jem Agar was thought very highly of by almost all concerned, except + himself, and it had not occurred to him to devote much thought to this + matter. He was one of the very few men to whom a senior officer or a + pretty girl could say, “You are a nice man and a clever fellow,” without + doing the least harm. Men who thought such things of themselves laughed at + him behind his back, and wondered vaguely why he got promotion. It never + occurred to them to reflect that “old Jem” invariably acquitted himself + well in each new position thrust upon him by a persistently kind fortune; + they contented themselves with an indefinite conviction that each + severally could have done better, as is the way of clever young men. One + of the many mysteries, by the way, which will have to be cleared up in a + busy hereafter is that appertaining to brilliant boys, clever + undergraduates, and gifted young men. What becomes of them? There are + hundreds at school at this moment—we have it from their own parents; + hundreds more at Oxford and Cambridge—we have it from themselves. In + a few years they will be absorbed in a world of men very much inferior to + themselves (by their own showing), and will be no more seen. + </p> + <p> + Jem Agar had never been a clever boy. He was not a clever man. But—and + mark ye this—he knew it. The result of this knowledge was that he + did what he could in the present with the present, and did not + indefinitely postpone astonishing the universe, as most of us do, until + some future date. + </p> + <p> + At this time he was banished, as some would take it. Banished to the top + of a pass which was nought else than a footway between two empires. Forty + miles from men of his own race, this man was one of those who either have + no thoughts or no wish to impart them; for this racial solitude, which is + an emotion fully explored by many in India, in no way affected his nerves. + Some say that they get jumpy, others aver that they begin to lose their + national characteristics and develop barbarous proclivities, while one + Woods-and-Forests man known to some of us resigned because he had a + buzzing in the head during the long solitary, silent evenings. + </p> + <p> + Major Agar made no statements on this point, though he listened with + sympathy to the assertions of others. If the sympathy were subtly mingled + with non-comprehensive wonder, the seeker after a purer form of + commiseration attributed the alloy to natural density, and turned + elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + Accompanied by a handful of Goorkhas, Major J. E. M. Agar had occupied the + key to this narrow pass for more than a week, vaguely admiring the + scenery, illustrating upon living “running deer” in turbans his views upon + quick firing to his diminutive soldiers, who worshipped him as second only + to the gods, and possessing his soul with that trustful patience which is + rapidly becoming old-fashioned and effete. + </p> + <p> + During that same week the newspapers at home had been very busy with his + name. Some had gone so far as to lay before a greedy public a short and + succinct account of his life, compiled from the Army List and a + journalistic imagination, finishing the record on the Monday, six days + previously, with the usual three-line regret that England should in future + be compelled to limp along the path to glory without the assistance of so + brilliant a young officer. + </p> + <p> + Such a word as brilliant had never been coupled with the name of Jem even + by his best friend in earnest or his worst enemy in irony. Such sarcasm + were too shallow to be worth sounding even in disparagement. But we never + know what an obituary notice may bring. Not only had he been endowed with + many virtues, manly qualities, and the record of noble deeds, but more + substantial honours had been heaped upon his fallen crest or pinned upon + his breathless bosom. To some of his distant countrymen he was the proud + possessor of the Victoria Cross, awarded him post-mortem in the heat of + obituary enthusiasm by more than one local paper. To others he was held up + by what is called a Representative Press as a second Crichton. And all + this because he was dead. Such is glory. + </p> + <p> + All unconscious of these honours, honest Jem Agar sat in his little tent, + nibbling the end of his penholder—the gift, by the way, of his + father—and wishing that he had bought a Letts's diary with six days + in a page instead of three. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. RELIEVED + </h2> + <h3> + Well waited is well done. + </h3> + <p> + “Here—hi!” + </p> + <p> + This time some one heard him, and that small, silent man, Ben Abdi, stood + in the doorway of the tent at attention. + </p> + <p> + “Are you keeping a good look-out down the valley?” asked Major Agar. + </p> + <p> + “Ee yess, sar.” + </p> + <p> + “No signs of any one?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sar.” + </p> + <p> + Agar shut up the diary, which book Ben Abdi had been taught to regard as + strictly official, laid it aside, and passed out of the tent, the little + Goorkha following close upon his heels with a quick intelligent interest + in his every movement which somehow suggested a dusky and faithful little + dog. + </p> + <p> + For some moments they stood thus on the edge of the small plateau, the big + man in front, the little one behind—alert, with twinkling, beady + eyes. Behind them towered a bleak grey slope of bare rock, like a cliff + set back at a slight angle, so treeless, so smooth was the face of it. In + front the great blue-shadowed valley lay beneath them, stretching away to + the south, until in a distant haze the sharp hills seemed to close in and + cut it short. + </p> + <p> + Perched thus, as it were, upon the roof of the world, these two men looked + down upon it all with a calm sense of possession, and to him of the + dominant race standing there some thousands of miles from his native land—alone—master + of this great stretch of an alien shore, there must have come some passing + thought of the strangeness of it all. + </p> + <p> + There was something wrong—he knew that. His orders had been to press + forward and occupy this little ridge, which was vaguely marked on the + service maps as Mistley's Plateau, named after an adventurous soul, its + discoverer. He had been instructed to hold this against all comers, and if + possible to prevent communication between the two valleys, connected only + by this narrow pass. All this Agar had carried out to the letter; but some + one else had failed somewhere. + </p> + <p> + “It will be three days at the most,” his chief had said, “and the main + body of the advance guard will join you!” + </p> + <p> + Jem Agar had been in occupation a week, and it seemed that he and his + little band of men were forgotten of the world. Still this soldier held + on, saying nothing to his men, writing his intensely practical diary, and + trusting as a soldier should to the <i>Deus ex machina</i> who finally + allows discipline to triumph. He looked down into the valley, piercing the + shimmer of its hazes with his gentle blue eyes, looking to his chief, who + had said, “In three days I will join you.” + </p> + <p> + It was not the first time that Agar and the little non-commissioned native + officer, Ben Abdi, had stood thus together. They had taken their stand in + this same spot in the keen air of the early morning, with the white frost + crystallising the stones around them; in the glow of midday; and when the + moon, hanging over the sharp-pointed hills, cast the valley into an opaque + shade dark and fathomless as the valley of death. + </p> + <p> + Scanning the distant hills, Agar presently raised his eyes, noting the + position of the sun in the heavens. + </p> + <p> + “Have you tried the heliograph a second time this morning?” he asked + without looking round, which informality of manner warmed the little + soldier's heart. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sar. Three times since breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + It was the first time that Ben Abdi had found himself in a position of + some responsibility, in immediate touch with one of the white-skinned + warriors from over seas whose methods of making war had for him all the + mystery and the infinite possibilities of a religion. This silent looking + out for relief partook in some small degree of the nature of a council of + war. Jem Sahib and himself were undoubtedly the chiefs of this + expeditionary force, and to whom else than himself, Ben Abdi, should the + Major turn for counsel and assistance? The little Goorkha preferred, + however, that it should be thus; that Agar Sahib should say nothing, + merely allowing him to stand silent three paces behind. He was a modest + little man, this Goorkha, and knew the limit of his own capabilities, + which knowledge, by the way, is not always to be found in the hearts of + some of us boasting a fairer skin. He knew that for hard fighting, snugly + concealed behind a rock at two hundred yards, or in the open, with cunning + bayonet or swinging kookery, he was as good as his fellows; but for + strategy, for the larger responsibilities of warfare, he was well pleased + that his superior officer should manage these affairs in his quiet way + unaided. + </p> + <p> + During a luncheon more remarkable for heartiness of despatch than delicacy + of viand, James Edward Makerstone Agar devoted much thought to the affairs + of Her Imperial Majesty the Empress of India. After luncheon he lighted a + cheroot, threw himself on his bed, and there reflected further. Then he + called to him Ben Abdi. + </p> + <p> + “No more promiscuous shooting,” he said to him. “No more volley firing at + a single Ghilzai or a stray Bhutari. It seems that they do not know we are + here, as we are left undisturbed. I do not want them to know—understand? + If you see any one going along the valley, send two men after him; no + shooting, Ben Abdi.” + </p> + <p> + And he pointed with his cheroot towards the evil-looking curved knife + which hung at the Goorkha's side. + </p> + <p> + Ben Abdi grinned. He understood that sort of business thoroughly. + </p> + <p> + Then followed many technical instructions—not only technical in good + honest English, but interlarded with words from a language which cannot be + written with our alphabet for the benefit of such as love details of a + realistic nature. + </p> + <p> + The result of this council was that sundry little dusky warriors were busy + clambering about the rocky slope all that day and well into the short + hill-country evening, working in twos and threes with the <i>alacrity</i> + of ants. + </p> + <p> + Jem Agar, in his own good time, was proceeding to further fortify, as well + as circumstances allowed, the position he had been told to hold until + relief should come. In addition to the magic of the master's eye he lent + the assistance of his strong right arm, laying his lithe weight against + many a rock which his men could not move unaided. By the evening the + position was in a fairly fortified state, and, after a copious dinner in + the chill breeze that rushed from the mountain down to the valley after + sunset, he walked placidly up and down at the edge of the plateau, + watching, ever watching, but with calmness and no sign of anxiety. + </p> + <p> + Such it is to be an Englishman—the product of an English public + school and country life. Thick-limbed, very quiet; thick-headed if you + will!—that is as may be—but with a nerve of iron, ready to + face the last foe of all—Death, without so much as a wink. + </p> + <p> + To his ear came at times the low cautious cry of some night-bird sailing + with heavy wing down to the haunt of mouse or mole; otherwise the night + was still as only mountain night-seasons are. Far down below him, the + jungle and forest were rustling with game and beasts of prey seeking their + meat from God, but the larger beasts of India, unlike their African + brethren, move in silence, stealthy yet courageous; and the distance was + too great for the quickly stifled cry of the victim of panther or tiger to + reach him. + </p> + <p> + When the moon rose he made the round of his pickets—a matter of ten + minutes—and then to bed. + </p> + <p> + On the morning of the ninth day he thought he detected signs of uneasiness + in the faces of the men. He found their keen little visages ever turned + towards him, watching his every movement, noting the play of every + feature. So in his simplicity he practised a simple diplomacy. He hummed + to himself as he went his rounds and while he sat over his diary. He only + knew one song—“A Warrior Bold”—which every mess in India + associated with old Jem Agar, for no evening was considered complete + without the Major's one ditty if he were present. He had stood up and + roared it in many strange places, quite without sentiment, without + self-consciousness, without afterthought. He never thought it a matter of + apology that he should have failed to learn another song. The smile with + which many ladies of his acquaintance sat down to play the accompaniment + <i>by heart</i> conveyed nothing to him. He did not pretend to be a singer—he + knew that one song, and if they liked it he would sing it. Moreover, they + did like it, and that was why they asked for it. It did some of them good + to see honest Jem get on his legs and shout out, in a very musical voice, + with perfect truth to air, what seemed to be a plain statement of his + creed of life. + </p> + <p> + So, far up on Mistley Plateau, nine thousand feet above the level of the + sea, Jem Agar advised his little dark-visaged fighters, <i>sotto voce</i>, + while he puzzled over his diary, that his love had golden hair, with eyes + so blue and heart so true, that none with her compared; moreover, that he + didn't care if death were nigh, because he had fought for love, and for + love would die. + </p> + <p> + It was not very deep or very subtle, but it served the purpose. It kept up + the hearts of his handful of warriors, who, in common with their chief, + had something child-like and simple in their honest, sporting souls. + </p> + <p> + Shortly after tiffin Ben Abdi came to the Major's tent, speaking hurriedly + in his own tongue. + </p> + <p> + One of the men had seen the sunlight gleam on white steel far down in the + valley. He had seen it several times—a long spiral flash, such as + the sun would make on a fixed bayonet carried over the shoulder. Such a + flash as this will carry twenty miles through a clear atmosphere; the spot + pointed out by the sharp-eyed Goorkha was not more than ten miles distant. + They stood in a group, this isolated little band, and gazed down into the + depth below them. They gazed in vain for some time, then a little murmur + of excitement told that the sun had glinted again on burnished steel. This + time there were several flashes close together. These were men marching + with fixed bayonets through an enemy's country. + </p> + <p> + “Heliograph,” said Agar quietly, without taking his eyes from the spot far + down in the valley; and soon the little mirror was flashing out its + question over the vale. After a few anxious moments the answering gleam + sprang to life among the trees far below. Agar gave a quick little sigh of + relief—that was all. + </p> + <p> + Then followed a short conversation flickered over ten miles of space. + </p> + <p> + “Are you beset?” asked the Valley, + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied the Hill. + </p> + <p> + “Is the enemy in sight?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied the Mountain, again, with a sharp click. + </p> + <p> + “Are you all well?” flashed from below. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” from above. + </p> + <p> + Then the “Good-bye,” and the glimmer of the bayonets began again. + </p> + <p> + Two hours later Major Agar drew his absurd little force in line, and thus + they received the relieving column, grimly conscious of dangers past but + not forgotten. + </p> + <p> + At the head of the new-comers rode a little man with a prominent chin and + a long drooping nose; such a remarkable-looking little man that the + veriest tyro at physiognomy would have turned to look at him again. His + black eyes, beaming with intelligence, moved so quickly beneath the steady + lashes that it was next to an impossibility to state what he saw and what + he failed to see. + </p> + <p> + He returned Agar's salute hurriedly, with a preoccupied air. He wore a + quiet uniform tunic almost hidden by black braiding, a pith helmet which + had seen brighter days and likewise fouler, and the leg that he threw over + his horse's head was cased in riding trousers and a neat little top-boot + of brown leather. + </p> + <p> + He slipped from the saddle with a litheness which contrasted strangely + with his closely cropped grey hair and white moustache and Imperial. He + walked towards Agar's tent after the manner of one who had sat in the + saddle for many hours. His spurs clanked with a sharp, business-like ring, + and his every movement had that neat finish which indicates the soldier + born and bred. + </p> + <p> + Wheeling round he faced Agar, who had followed him with a more leisurely + gait based on longer legs, looking up keenly into the quiet fair face. + Turning he shot his sword home into its scabbard with a click. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God,” he said, “you're safe!” + </p> + <p> + Agar awaited for further observations. This was not the man whom he had + expected, but another, far greater, far higher up in the military scale—a + man whom he had only met once before, and that at an official reception. + </p> + <p> + Seeing that his guest was unbuckling his sword, he presumed that the task + of continuing this conversation lay with himself. + </p> + <p> + “M' yes!” he replied, rubbing his pannikin out clean with the corner of a + towel, and proceeding to mix some brandy and water; “why?” + </p> + <p> + “Why!” answered the little man scornfully, “WHY! damn it, sir, Stevenor's + command has been cut off by the enemy in force—massacred to a man. + That is why I say 'Thank God, you're safe!' It is more than I expected.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. RE-CAST + </h2> + <p> + Our deeds still travel with us from afar, And what, we have been makes us + what we are. + </p> + <p> + There was a momentary pause; then Major Agar spoke. + </p> + <p> + “In that case,” he observed, “the British force occupying this country for + the last week has consisted of myself and thirty Goorkhas.” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely so! And it was by the merest chance that I found out that you + were here. It was only guesswork at the best. A bazaar report reached me + that poor old Stevenor had been cut to pieces. I hate blaming a dead man, + but I really don't know what he can have been about. He made some hideous + mistake somewhere. We buried him yesterday. On hearing the report, I + thought it better to come up myself, having a little knowledge of the + country. Brought two companies, and half a squadron to act as scouts. We + reached Barkoola yesterday, and found the poor chaps as they had fallen. + And some of those carpet-warriors at home say that a black man can't + fight! Can't he! Not so much brandy this time, please. Yes, fill it up.” + </p> + <p> + Agar set the regulation water-bottle down on his gifted table. + </p> + <p> + “I have the Devil's own luck!” he murmured. “While they were burying I + missed you from among the officers; and then it struck me that you might + have got away before the disaster. We counted the men, and found + thirty-four short, so we came on here. By God! what a chap Mistley was! We + came here without a check. His maps are perfect!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” admitted Agar, “that man knew his business!” + </p> + <p> + There was something in his tone that might have been envy or perhaps mere + admiration; for this man knew himself to be inferior in many ways to him + who had first crossed the mountain pass on which he stood. + </p> + <p> + “The worst of it is,” went on the great officer, “that you are telegraphed + home as killed.” + </p> + <p> + He paused on the last word, watching its effect. It would seem that, + behind the busy black eyes, there was the beginning of a thought hatched + within the grey close-cut head which, <i>en fait de têtes,</i> was without + its rival in the Empire. + </p> + <p> + “That is soon remedied,” opined the Major with a cheerful laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Ye—es!” + </p> + <p> + The great man was thoughtfully rubbing his chin with the tips of the first + and second fingers, drawing in his under lip at the same time, and + apparently taking pleasure in the rasping sound caused by the friction + over the shaven chin. + </p> + <p> + There is usually something written in the human countenance—some + single virtue, vice, or quality which dominates all petty characteristics. + Most faces express weakness—the faces that pass one in the streets. + Some are the incarnation of meanness, some pleasanter types verge on + sensuality. The face of the man who sat watching Agar expressed + indomitable, invincible determination, and <i>nothing else</i>. It was the + face of one who was ready to sacrifice any one, even himself, to a single + all-pervading purpose. In this respect he was a splendid commander, for he + was as nearly heartless as men are made. + </p> + <p> + The big fair Englishman who had occupied Mistley's Plateau for a week, + exactly one hundred and seventy miles from assistance of any description, + and in the heart of the enemy's country, smiled down at his companion with + a simple wonder. + </p> + <p> + “Got something up your sleeve, sir?” he inquired softly, for he knew + somewhat of his superior officer's ways. + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” replied the other curtly. “A trump card!” + </p> + <p> + He continued to look at Jem Agar with a cold and calculating scrutiny, as + a jockey may look at his horse or a butcher at living meat. + </p> + <p> + “It's like this,” he said. “You're dead. I want you to stay dead for a + little while—say six months to a year!” + </p> + <p> + Agar seated himself on the corner of the table, which creaked under the + weight of his spare muscular person, and then, true to his cloth, he + awaited further orders; true to his nature, he waited in silence. + </p> + <p> + After a short pause the other proceeded to explain. + </p> + <p> + “You frontier men,” he said, “are closely watched; we know that. There + will be great rejoicing over there, in Northern Europe, over this mishap + to Stevenor, although, God knows, he was not a very dangerous man. Not so + dangerous as you, Agar. They will be delighted to hear that you are out of + the way. Stay out of the way for a year, and during that twelve months you + will be able to do more than you could get done in twelve years when you + were being watched by them.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” answered Agar quietly. “Not dead, but gone—up country.” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely so; where they certainly will not be on the look-out for you.” + </p> + <p> + The bright black eyes were shining with suppressed excitement. The great + man was afraid that his tool would refuse to work under this exacting + touch. + </p> + <p> + “But what about my people?” asked Agar. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I will put that right. You see, they have got over the worst of it by + this time. It is wonderful how soon people do get over it. They have known + it for a week now, and have bought their mourning and all that.” + </p> + <p> + There came a look into Agar's face which the little officer did not + understand. We never do understand what we could not feel ourselves, and + it is not a matter of wonder that the lesser intelligence should foil the + greater in this instance. There was a depth in Jem Agar which was beyond + the fathom of his keen-witted companion. + </p> + <p> + “I am going home,” continued General Michael, “almost at once. The first + thing I do on landing is to go straight to your people and tell them. We + cannot afford to telegraph it. Telegraph clerks are only human, and it is + worth the while of the newspapers in these days of large circulation to + pay a heavy price for their news. We all know that some items, published + <i>can</i> only have been bought from the telegraph clerks.” + </p> + <p> + Agar was making a mental calculation. + </p> + <p> + “That means,” he said, “two months before they hear.” + </p> + <p> + The expression on the face of the little man was scarcely human in its + heartless cunning. + </p> + <p> + “Hardly,” he answered carelessly. “And when they hear the reason they will + admit that the result is worth the sacrifice. It will be the making of + you!—and of me!” added the black eyes with a secretive gleam. + </p> + <p> + “It is,” went on the General, “such a chance as only comes once to a man + in his lifetime. I wish I had had it at your age.” + </p> + <p> + The voice was a pleasant one, with that ring of friendliness and + familiarity which is usually heard in the tones of an educated Jew; for + General Michael was that rare combination, a Jew and a soldier. + </p> + <p> + “I don't like leaving them so long under the mistake,” answered Agar, half + yielding to authoritative persuasion, half tempted by ambition and a love + of adventure. “I don't like it, General. The straight thing would be to + telegraph home at once.” + </p> + <p> + In the wavering smile that crossed the dark face there was suggested a + fine contempt for the straight thing unaccompanied by some tangible + advantage. + </p> + <p> + “Who are they?” inquired the General almost affectionately. “Who are your + people?” + </p> + <p> + Agar walked to the tent door and looked out. There was some clatter of + swords going on outside, and as commander of this post it was his duty to + know all that was passing. He turned, and standing in the doorway, quite + filling it with his bulk, he answered: + </p> + <p> + “My father died three years ago. I have a step-mother and a step-brother, + that is all—besides friends.” + </p> + <p> + The General stooped to loosen the strap of his spur. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” he said in that attitude, “I know you are not a married man.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + Beneath the brim of the helmet, which he had not laid aside, the Jew's + keen black eyes were watching, watching. But they saw nothing; for there + is no one so impenetrable as a man with a clear conscience and a large + faith. + </p> + <p> + “My idea was,” continued General Michael, “that two, or at the most three, + people besides you and I be let into the secret.” + </p> + <p> + “Three,” said Agar, with quiet decision. + </p> + <p> + “Three?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The General tacitly allowed this point and passed on with characteristic + promptitude to another. + </p> + <p> + “Are you a man of property?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I inherit my father's place down in Hertfordshire.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you why I ask. There are those beastly lawyers to think of. At + your death it is to be presumed that the estate comes to your brother. The + legal operations must be delayed somehow. I will see to it,” he added in a + concise, almost snappish way. + </p> + <p> + Agar smiled, although he was conscious of a vague feeling of discomfort. + He was not a highly sensitive or a nervous man, and this feeling was more + than might have been expected to arise from an attendance, as it were, at + one's own obituary arrangements. The General seemed to be remarkably well + informed on these smaller points, and something prompted Jem Agar to ask + him if the idea he had just propounded was a suddenly conceived one. + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied the General with a singular pause. + </p> + <p> + “No, I once knew a man who did the same thing for a different purpose, but + the idea was identical. I do not claim to be the originator.” + </p> + <p> + “And there was no hitch? It was successful?” inquired Agar. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied the older soldier in a far-away voice, as if he had + mentally gone back to the results of that man's deception. “Yes, it was + successful. By the way, you say your people live down in Hertfordshire?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I once knew a girl—long ago, in my younger days—who married a + man called Agar, and went to live in Hertfordshire. The name did not + strike me until you mentioned the county. I wonder if the lady is now your + step-mother.” + </p> + <p> + “My step-mother's name was Hethbridge,” replied Jem Agar. + </p> + <p> + “The same. How strange!” said the General indifferently. “Well, she has + probably forgotten my existence these thirty years. She has one son, you + say?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Arthur. He is twenty-three—five years younger than myself.” + </p> + <p> + The shifty black eyes excelled themselves at this moment in rapidity of + observation. They seemed to be full of question, of many questions, but + none were forthcoming. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said General Michael indifferently. “He is,” pursued Jem Agar, “a + delicate fellow; does nothing; though I believe he is going to be called + to the Bar.” + </p> + <p> + The General, having passed most of his life in India, where men work or + else go home, did not take in the full meaning of this; but he was keen as + a ferret, and he saw easily that Jem Agar despised his step-brother with + that cruel contempt which strong men feel for weak. + </p> + <p> + “Mother's darling?” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that is about it,” replied Agar. He was too simple, too innately + upright and honest to perceive the infinite possibilities opened up by the + fact upon which General Michael had pounced. + </p> + <p> + “In case you decide to accept my offer,” the older man went on, “you would + wish your stepmother and step-brother to be told?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and one other person.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, and another person. You could not limit it to two?” urged the + General. + </p> + <p> + “No!” replied Agar with a decision which the other was wise enough to + consider final. Moreover, the General omitted to ask the name of this + third person, urged thereto by one of those strokes of instinct which + indicate the genius of the commander of men. + </p> + <p> + General Michael, moreover, deemed it prudent to carry the matter no + further at that moment. He rose from his seat on the bed, stretched his + lithe limbs, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, this won't do! We must get to work. I propose retreating to-morrow + morning at daylight.” + </p> + <p> + They passed out of the tent together and proceeded to give their orders, + moving in and out among the busy men. There was a subtle difference in + their reception which was perhaps patent to both, though neither deemed it + necessary to make any comment. Wherever Agar went the eager little black + faces of his Goorkhas met him with a smile or a grin of delight; when + General Michael passed by, the dusky features hardened suddenly to a + marble stillness, and the beady eyes were all soldier-like attention. + </p> + <p> + They feared and loved the one because they felt that there was something + in him which they could not understand; they feared and hated the other + because his nature was nearer to their own, and they defined the evil in + it. + </p> + <p> + Moreover, each had his reputation—that of General Michael dating + from the Mutiny; the other, a younger and a cleaner record. + </p> + <p> + It is considered the proper thing to talk in England of the unvoiced + millions of India. No greater mistake could be made. These millions have a + voice, but it does not reach to us because they do not raise it. They talk + with it among themselves. + </p> + <p> + They had talked of General Michael for thirty years, and all that there + was in him had been discussed to its very dregs. Thus their impenetrable + faces hardened when he passed, their shadowy secretive eyes looked beyond + him with a vacancy which was not the vacancy of dulness. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. A LAST THROW + </h2> + <p> + Get place and wealth; if possible, with grace; If not, by any means get + wealth and place. + </p> + <p> + Daylight broke next morning in a snow-storm, and a thin sprinkling lay + over all the hills, clothing them in spotless white. + </p> + <p> + General Michael was among the first astir, seeing in person to all the + details of the retreat. The men looked in vain towards the tent where + their late youthful leader had been wont to sit, nibbling the end of his + golden pocket-penholder, wrestling manfully in the throes of literary + composition. + </p> + <p> + When at last the order was given to strike tents the faces of the rank and + file fell like the face of one man. + </p> + <p> + Major James Edward Makerstone Agar had simply disappeared. His limited + baggage was attached to the smaller belongings of General Michael, and no + explanation was offered by that dreaded officer. To him the cold seemed to + be a matter of indifference; for he stood about watching every movement of + the men with a supreme disregard for the driving snow or the knife-like + wind that whistled over the northern scarp. + </p> + <p> + Under his calculating eye they worked to such effect that by nine o'clock + the little column was on the downward march. Again General Michael rode + through that lone, lorn country lying between India and Russia. Again his + melancholy face with keen but hopeless eyes passed through the darksome + valleys where, if legend be true, a race as old as his has lived since the + children of Abraham set forth to wander over the earth. + </p> + <p> + For twenty years this man had haunted these vales and hills, seeking, ever + seeking, his own aggrandisement and nothing else. Accounted a patriot, he + was no patriot; for the homeless blood was mingled in his veins. Held to + be a hero by some, he was none; for he hated danger for its own sake, just + as some men love it. + </p> + <p> + But his lines had been cast in this unpleasant place, from whence flight + or retreat was rendered almost impossible, by the laws of discipline and + the freak of circumstance. Despite his titles, in face of his great + reputation, he knew himself to be a failure, and as he rode southward + through the mountain barrier that frowns down over India he was conscious + of the knowledge that in all human probability he would never look upon + this drear land again. His time was up, he was about to be set on the + shelf, life was over. And he had all his powers yet—all his + marvellous quickness at the mastery of tongues, all the restless energy + which had urged him on to overrun the race, to dodge and bore and break + his stride instead of holding steadily on the straight course. + </p> + <p> + He it was who had discovered Jem Agar's talent for this rough, peculiar + soldiering of the frontier. He it was to whom the simple-minded young + officer had owed promotion after promotion. General Michael had fixed upon + Agar as his last hope—his last chance of doing something brilliant + in this deathly country, which moved with a slowness that nearly drove him + mad. + </p> + <p> + This last attempt was thrown down like a defiance in the face of Fortune; + but still the risk was not his own. It never had been. Men had been sent + to their certain death by this sallow-faced commander, for no other object + than his own aggrandisement. It would almost seem that a just Providence + had ever turned away in loathing from the schemes of this man who would + have all and risk nothing. + </p> + <p> + Should Jem Agar succeed in the dangerous secret mission on which he had + been sent by a subtle underhand pressure of discipline, the glory would + never be his. This, under the grasping fingers of General Michael, would + never appear to the world as the wonderful individual feat of an intrepid + man, but as a masterly stroke of strategy dealt by a great general. + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael had long ago found out that Jem Agar was the step-son of + the woman whom he had wronged in bygone years. But the name failed to + touch his conscience, partly because that conscience was not of much + account, and partly because time heals all things, even a sore sense of + wrong. Truth to tell, he had not thought much of Anna Agar during the last + twenty years, and the mere coincidence that this simple tool should be her + step-son was insufficient to deter him from making use of Agar. But with + that careful attention to detail which in such a man betrayed innate + weakness, he took care to make sure that Jem Agar had learnt nothing of + the past from the lips of his father's second wife. + </p> + <p> + General Michael did not disguise from himself the fact that the mission on + which he had despatched Jem Agar was what the life insurance companies + call hazardous. But he had lived by the sword, and that mode of gaining a + livelihood makes men wondrously indifferent to the lives of others. + Moreover, this was in a sense a speciality of his. He was getting hardened + to the game, and played it with coolness and precision. + </p> + <p> + All through that day the little band retreated through an enemy's country, + watchful, alert, almost nervous. There were absurdly few of them—a + characteristic of that frontier warfare which the sallow, silent leader + had waged nearly all his life. And in the evening there was not peace. + </p> + <p> + Fortune is a playful soul. She keeps men waiting a lifetime, and then, + when it is too late, she suddenly opens both her hands. Seymour Michael + had waited twenty years for one of those chances of easy distinction which + seemed to fall to the lot of all his comrades in arms. This chance was + vouchsafed to him on the last evening he ever passed in an enemy's country—when + it was too late—when that which he did was no more than was to be + expected from a man of his experience and fame. + </p> + <p> + The little band was attacked at sunset by the victorious savages who had + annihilated the advance column three days earlier, and with half the + number of men, fatigued and hungry, Seymour Michael beat them back and cut + his way to the south. He knew that it was good, and the men knew it. They + looked upon this keen-faced little man as something approaching a + demi-god; but they had no love for him as they had for Major Agar. The + knowledge was theirs that to him their lives were of no account—they + were not men, but numbers. He brought them out of a dire strait by sheer + skill, by that heartless grip of discipline which a true general exercises + over his troops even at that critical moment when a common death seems to + reduce all lives to an equal value. + </p> + <p> + But in the thick of it the Goorkhas—keen little Highlanders of the + Indian army—looked in vain for the fighting light in their leader's + eyes. They listened in vain for the encouraging voice—now low and + steady in warning, now trumpet-like and maddening with the infection of + excitement. + </p> + <p> + In the midst of that wild, apparently disorderly <i>mêlée</i> in the + narrow valley, while the hush of mountain sunset settled over the battle, + the leader sat imperturbable, cold, and infinitely wise. He was pale, and + his lips were quite colourless, but his eyes were vigilant, ready, + resourceful. An ideal general but no soldier. He played this game with a + skill that never faced the possibility of failure—and won. + </p> + <p> + Far overhead, many miles to the northward, a solitary wanderer heard the + sound of firing and paused to listen. He was a big man, worthy to be + accounted such even among the strapping mountaineers of that district, and + as he leant on the long barrel of his quaintly ornamental rifle his + sheepskin cloak fell back from a long sinewy arm of deep-brown hue. + </p> + <p> + As he listened to the far-off rumble of independent firing he muttered to + himself indications of anxiety. Strange to say, the eyes that looked out + over the hollow of the gorge-like valley were blue. They were, however, + hardly visible through the tangle of unkempt hair and raw wool that fell + over his forehead. The high sheepskin cap was dragged forward, and the + lower part of his face was almost hidden by the indiscriminate folds of + hood, cloak, and scarf affected by the shepherds hereabout. + </p> + <p> + James Agar was perfectly happy. There must have been somewhere in his + sporting soul that love of Nature which drives men into solitude—making + gamekeepers and fishermen and explorers of them. It was in this man's + character to wait passive until responsibility came to him, when he + accepted it readily enough; but he never went out to meet it. He was not + as the sons of Levi, who took too much upon themselves; but rather was he + happiest when he had only his own life and his own self to take care of. + </p> + <p> + Here he was now an outcast, an Ishmaelite, with every man's hand raised + against him. It was not the first time. For this quiet-going man had + unobtrusively learnt many tongues, and, while no one heeded him, he had + studied the ways of this Eastern land with no mean success. + </p> + <p> + He waited there during an hour while the firing still continued, and then, + when at last silence reigned again and the wind whispered undisturbed + through the dark pines, he turned his wandering footsteps northward to a + land where few white men have passed. + </p> + <p> + So night fell upon these two men thus hazardously brought together, and + every moment stretched longer the distance between them—James Agar + going north, Seymour Michael passing southward. + </p> + <p> + Agar wondered vaguely whether his toilsome diary would ever reach home, + but he was not anxious as to the result of the fight which had evidently + taken place in the valley. He too seemed to share the belief of all who + came in contact with him that General Michael could not do wrong in + warfare. + </p> + <p> + That night the Master of Stagholme laid him down to rest in the shadow of + a big rock, strong in himself, strong in his faith. And as he slumbered, + those who slumber not nor cease their toil by day or night sat with + crooked backs over a little ticking, spitting, restless machine that spelt + out his name across half the world. While the moon rose over the + mountains, and looked placidly down upon this strange man lying there + peacefully sleeping in a world of his own, two men who had never seen each + other talked together with nimble fingers over a thousand miles of wire. + And one told the other that James Edward Makerstone was dead. + </p> + <p> + The sleeper slept on. He smiled quietly beneath the moon. Perhaps he + dreamt of the home-coming, of that time when he could say at last, “I have + fought my fight, and now I come with a clear conscience to enjoy the good + things given to me.” He never dreamt of treason. He never knew that for + their own gain men will sacrifice the happiness of their neighbours + without so much as a pang of self-reproach. There are some people, thank + Heaven, who never learn these things, who go on believing that men are + good and women better all their lives. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. A CARPET KNIGHT + </h2> + <h3> + As children gathering pebbles on the shore. + </h3> + <p> + First door on the right after passing into New Court, Trinity College, + Cambridge, by the river door. It is a small door, leading directly on to a + narrow, winding stone staircase. For some reason, known possibly to the + architect responsible for New Court (may his bones know no rest!), the + ground-floor rooms have a door of their own within the archway. + </p> + <p> + On the first floor Arthur Agar, to use the affected phraseology of an + affected generation, “kept” in the days with which we have to deal. What + he kept transpireth not. There were many things which he did not keep, the + first among these being his money. In these rooms he dispensed an + open-handed, carefully considered hospitality which earned for him a + certain bubble popularity. + </p> + <p> + There are, one finds, always plenty of men (and women too) ready to lick + the blacking off one's boots provided always that that doubtful fare be + varied by champagne or truffles at appropriate intervals. Men came to + Arthur Agar's rooms, and brought their friends. Mark well the last item. + They brought their friends. There is more in that than meets the eye. + There is a subtle difference between the invitation for “Mr. Jones” and + the invitation for “Mr. Jones and friends”—a difference which he who + runs the social race may read. If Jones is worth his salt he will discern + the difference in a week. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come to Agar's,” one man (save the mark) would say to another. + “Ripping coffee, topping cigarettes.” + </p> + <p> + So they went; they drank the ripping coffee, smoked the topping cigarette, + and if they happened to be men of stomach ventured on a clinking cigar. + Moreover, they were made welcome. Agar was like a vain woman who loved to + see a full saloon. And he paid for his pleasure in more honourable coin + than many a vain woman has laid down since daughters of Eve commenced + drawing fops around them—namely, the adjectived items of hospitality + above mentioned. + </p> + <p> + It did not matter much who the guests were, provided that they filled the + diminutive room in those spaces left vacant by <i>bric-a-brac</i> and + furniture of the spindle-legged description. So the men came. There were + freshmen who fell over the footstools and bumped their heads against the + painted sabots on the wall containing ever-fresh flowers, as per florist's + bill; who were rather over-powered by the profusion of painted photograph + frames, fans, and fal-lals. There was the man who sang a comic song and + dined out on it at least twice a week. There was the calculating son of a + poor North-country parson, who liked coffee after dinner and knew the + value of sixpence. There was the man who came to play his own valse, and + he who came to hear his own voice, <i>und so weiter</i>. Do we not know + them all? Have we not run against them in after-life, despite many + attempts to pass by on the other side? The habitual acceptors of + hospitality have no objection to crossing the road through the thickest + mud. + </p> + <p> + “By their rooms ye shall know them,” might well, if profanely, be written + large over any college gate. Arthur Agar's rooms were worthy of the man. + There was, even on the little stone staircase, a faint odour of pastille + or scent spray, or something of feminine suggestion. The unwary visitor + would as likely as not catch some part of his person against a silk + hanging or a lurking <i>portière</i> on crossing the threshold; and the + impression which struck (as all rooms do strike) from the threshold was + one of oppressive drapery. A man, by the way, should never know anything + about drapery or draping. Such knowledge undermines his virility. This is + an age of undermining knowledge. We all, from the lowest to the highest, + learn many things of which we were better ignorant. The school-board + infant acquires French; Arthur Agar and his like bring away from Cambridge + a pretty knack of draping chair-backs. + </p> + <p> + There were little screens in the room, with shelves specially constructed + to hold little gimcracks, which in their turn were specially shaped to + stand upon the little shelves. There was a portentous standing-lamp, six + feet high in its bare feet, with a shade like a crinoline. There were + settees and <i>poufs</i> and <i>des prie-Dieu</i>, and strange things + hanging on the wall without rhyme, reason, or beauty. And nowhere a pipe, + or a tennis racket, or even a pair of boots—not so much as a single + manly indiscretion in the way of a cricket-bat in the corner, or a + sporting novel on the table. + </p> + <p> + In the midst of this the temporary proprietor of the rooms sat + disconsolately at an inlaid writing-table with his face buried in his arms—weeping. + </p> + <p> + The outer door was shut. Arthur Agar had sported his rare oak, not to work + but to weep. It sometimes does happen to men, this shedding of the idle + tear, even to Englishmen, even to Cambridge men. Moreover, it was + infinitely to the credit of Arthur Agar that he should bury his face in + the sleeve of his perfectly-fitting coat thus and sob, for he was weeping + (quietly and to himself) the advent of three thousand pounds per annum. + </p> + <p> + At his elbow lay a telegram—that flimsy pink paper which, with all + our progress, all our knowledge, the bravest of us fear still. + </p> + <p> + “Jem killed in India; come home at once.—AGAR.” + </p> + <p> + Honour to whom honour. Arthur Agar's only thought had been one of sudden + horror. He had read the telegram over twice before going out to close his + outer door. Then he came back and sat weakly down at the table where he + had written more scented notes than noted themes, deliberately, womanlike, + to cry. + </p> + <p> + To his credit be it noted that he never thought of Stagholme, which was + now his. He only thought of Jem—his no longer—Jem the + open-handed, elder brother who tolerated much and said little. Having had + everything that he wanted since childhood, Arthur Agar had never been in + the habit of thinking about money matters. His florist's bills (and + Cambridge horticulturists seem to water their flowers with Château + Lafitte), his confectioner's account, and his tailor's little note had + always been paid without a murmur. Thus, want of money—the chief + incentive to crime and criminal thought—had never come within + measurable distance of this gentle undergraduate. + </p> + <p> + Truth to tell, he had never devoted much thought to the future. He had + always vaguely concluded that his mother and Jem would “do something”; and + in the meantime there were important matters requiring his attention. + There was the <i>menu</i> to prepare for an approaching little dinner. + There was always an approaching dinner, and always a <i>menu</i> in + execrable French on a satin-faced card with the college arms in a coat of + many colours. There was the florist to be interviewed and the arrangement + of the table to be superintended; the finishing touch to be given to the + floral decoration thereof by the master-hand. + </p> + <p> + Jem's death seemed to knock away one of the supports of the future, and + Arthur Agar even in his grief was conscious of the impending necessity of + having to act for himself some day. + </p> + <p> + At length he lifted his head, and through the intricate pattern of the + very newest design in art muslins the daylight fell on his face. It was a + face which in France is called <i>chiffonné</i>; but the term is never + applied to the visage masculine. A diminutive and slightly <i>retrousse</i> + nose, gentle grey eyes of the drowning-fly description, and a sensitive + mouth scarcely hidden by a fair moustache of downward tendency. + </p> + <p> + Here was a man made to be ruled all his life—probably by a woman. + With a little more strength it might have been a melancholy face; as it + stood, it was suggestive of nothing stronger than fretfulness. There was a + vague distress in the eyes and in the whole countenance which mistaken and + practical souls would probably put down to a defective digestion or a + feeble vitality. More than one enthusiastic disciple of Aesculapius + studying at Caius professed to have discovered the evidence of some + internal disease in Arthur Agar's distressed eyes; but his complaint was + not of the body at all. + </p> + <p> + Presently the necessity for action forced itself upon his understanding, + and he rose with a jerk. It is worth noting that his first thought was + connected with dress. He passed into the inner room and there exchanged + his elegant morning suit for a black one, replacing a delicate heliotrope + necktie by another of sombre hue. He mentally reviewed his mourning + wardrobe while doing so, and gathered much spiritual repose from the + diversion. + </p> + <p> + In the meantime the Rector of Stagholme, having breakfasted, proceeded to + light a cigarette and open the <i>Times</i> with the leisurely sense of + enjoyment of one who takes an interest in all things without being keenly + concerned in any. + </p> + <p> + “God help us!” he exclaimed suddenly; and Mrs. Glynde, who alone happened + to be present, dropped a handful of housekeeping money on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, dear?” she gasped. + </p> + <p> + “There,” was the answer; “read that. 'Disaster in Northern India.' Not + there—higher up!” + </p> + <p> + In her eagerness Mrs. Glynde had plunged headlong into the consumption of + Wesleyan missionaries in the Sandwich Islands. Then she had to find her + glasses, and considerable delay was incurred by putting them on upside + down. All this while the Rector sat glaring at her as if in some occult + way she were responsible for the disaster in Northern India. + </p> + <p> + At last she read the short article, and was about to give a sigh of relief + when her eyes travelled to a diminutive list of names appended. + </p> + <p> + “What!” she exclaimed. “What! Jem! Oh, Tom, dear, this can't be true!” + </p> + <p> + “I have no reason,” answered the Rector grimly, “to suppose that it is + untrue.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glynde was one of those unfortunate persons who seem only to have the + power of aggravating at a crisis. In their way they are useful as serving + to divert the mind; but they usually come in for more than their need of + abuse. + </p> + <p> + The poor little woman laid the newspaper gently down by her husband's + elbow, and looked at him with a certain air of grandeur and strength. The + instinct that arouses the mother wren to peck at the schoolboy's hand at + her nest was strong in this subdued little old lady. + </p> + <p> + “Something,” she said, “must be done. How are we going to tell Dora?” + </p> + <p> + The Rector was a man who never went straight at the fence, before him. He + invariably pulled up and rode alongside the obstacle before leaping, and + when going for it he braced himself mentally with the reflection that he + was an English gentleman, and as such had obligations. But these + obligations, like those of many English gentlemen, ceased at his own + fireside. He, like many of us, was apt to forget that wife, sister, and + daughter are nevertheless ladies to whom deference is due. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—Dora,” he answered; “she will have to bear it like the rest of + us. But here am I with fresh legal complications laid upon me. I foresee + endless trouble with the lawyers and that woman. Why the Squire made me + his executor I can't tell. Parsons know nothing of these matters.” + </p> + <p> + With a patient sigh Mrs. Glynde turned away and went to the window, where + she stood with her back to him. Even to the duller masculine mind the + wonder sometimes presents itself that our women-folk take us so patiently + as we are. If Mrs. Glynde had turned upon her husband (who was not so + selfish as he would appear), presenting him forthwith in the plainest + language at her command with a piece of her mind, the treatment would have + been surprising at first, and infinitely beneficial afterwards. + </p> + <p> + The Reverend Thomas sat staring into the fire—a luxury which he + allowed himself all through the year—with troubled eyes. There was a + fence in front of him, but he could not bring himself up to it. In his + mistaken contempt for women he had never taken his wife fully into his + confidence in those things—great or small, according to the capacity + of the producing machine—which are essentially a personal property—namely + his thoughts. + </p> + <p> + All else he told her openly and at once, as behoved an English gentleman. + </p> + <p> + Should he tell all that he had hoped and thought and rethought respecting + Jem Agar and Dora? Should he; should he not? And the loving little woman + stood there almost daring to break the great silence herself; but not + quite. Strong as was her mother's heart, the habit of submission was + stronger. She longed, she yearned to hear the deeper, graver tone of voice + which had been used once or twice towards her—once or twice in + moments of unusual confidence. The Reverend Thomas Glynde was silent, and + the voice that they both heard was Dora's, singing as she came downstairs + towards them. It was only a matter of moments, and when we have no more + than that wherein to act we usually take the wrong turning. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glynde turned and gave one imploring look towards her husband. + </p> + <p> + At the same instant the door opened and Dora entered, singing as she came. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter?” she exclaimed. “You both look depressed. Stocks + down, or something else has gone up? I know! Papa has been made a bishop!” + </p> + <p> + With a cheery laugh she went to the table and took up the newspaper. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. BAD NEWS + </h2> + <h3> + Sa manière de souffrir est le témoignage qu'une âme porte sur elle-même. + </h3> + <p> + There was a horrid throbbing silence while Dora read, and her parents + calculated the seconds which would necessarily elapse before she reached + the bottom line. Such moments as these are scored up as years in the span + of life. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glynde did not know what she was doing. It happened that she was + trying to rub away a flaw in the window-glass with her pocket + hand-kerchief—a flaw which must have been an old friend, as such + things are in quiet lives. At this occupation she found herself when her + heart began to beat again. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” said Dora in a terribly calm voice, “that the <i>Times</i> + never makes a mistake—I mean they never publish anything unless they + are quite sure?” + </p> + <p> + Then the English gentleman of parts who ever and anon peeped out through + the veneer of the parson asserted himself—the English gentleman + whose sense of fair play and honour told him that it is better to strike + at once a blow that must be struck than to keep the victim waiting. + </p> + <p> + “Such is their reputation,” answered Dora's father. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glynde turned with that pathetic yearning movement of a punished dog + which waits to be called. But Dora had some of her father's sternness, her + father's good British reserve, and she never called. + </p> + <p> + Turning, she walked quietly out of the room. And all the light had gone + out of her life. So we write, and so ye read; but do we realise it? It is + not many of us who have suddenly to look at life without so much as a + glimmer in its dark recesses to make it worth the living. It is not many + of us who come to be told by the doctor: “For the rest of your existence + you must give up eyesight,” or, “For the remainder of life you must go + halt.” But these are trifles. Everything is a trifle, if we would only + believe it. Riches and poverty, peace and war, fame and obscurity, town + and country, England and the backwoods—all these are trifles + compared with that other life which makes our own a living completeness. + </p> + <p> + Silently she went, and left silence behind her. The Rector was abashed. + For once a woman had acted in a manner unexpected by him; for he was + ignorant enough of the world to keep up the old fallacy of treating women + as a class. True, it was Dora, whom he held apart from the rest of her + sex; but still he was left wondering. He felt as if he had been found + walking in a holy place with shoes upon his feet—those gross shoes + of Self with which most of us tramp through the world, not heeding where + we tread or what we crush. + </p> + <p> + One of the hardest things we have to bear is the helpless standing by + while one dear to us must suffer. When Mrs. Glynde turned round and came + towards her husband she had become an old woman. Her face had suddenly + aged while her frame was yet in its full strength, and such a change is + not pleasant to look on. + </p> + <p> + “Tom,” she said, in a dry, commanding voice, “you must go up to the Holme + at once and hear what news they have. There may be some chance—it + may please God to spare us yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered the Rector meekly; “I will go.” + </p> + <p> + While he was lacing his boots with all speed Mrs. Glynde took up the + newspaper again, and reread the brief account of the disaster. They were + spared comment; that blow came later, when the warriors of Fleet Street + set about explaining why the defeat was sustained and why it should never + have happened. In due course these carpet tacticians proved to their own + satisfaction that Colonel Stevenor was incompetent for the service on + which he had been dispatched. But the reek of printing-ink never was good + for the better feelings. + </p> + <p> + In due course the Rector set off across the park; very grave, and + distinctly aware of the importance of his mission. He had somewhere in his + composition a strong sense of the dramatic, to which the situation + appealed. He felt that had he been a younger man he would have stored up + many details during the morning's work worthy of reproduction in the + narrative form during years to come. + </p> + <p> + Before he reached the great house he was aware that the grim pleasure of + imparting bad news was not to be his, for the blinds were all lowered—a + detail likely to receive early attention in a feminine household, for it + is only men who can hear of a death without thinking of mourning and the + blinds. + </p> + <p> + The butler opened the door and took the Rector's hat and stick with a + silent <i>savoir-faire</i> indicative of experience in well-bred grief. + His chaste demeanour said as plainly as words that this was right and + proper, the Rector being no more than he expected. + </p> + <p> + “Where's your mistress?” asked Mr. Glynde, who had strong views upon + butlers in general and Tims in particular—said Tims being so sure of + his place that he did not always trouble to know it. + </p> + <p> + “Library, sir,” replied Tims in an appropriately sepulchral voice. + </p> + <p> + The Rector went to the library without waiting to be announced. He was a + man well versed in human nature, as most parsons are, and it is possible + that he had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Agar watching his advent from the + dining-room window. + </p> + <p> + The lady of the house was standing by the writing-table when he entered, + and beneath her ill-concealed excitement there was something subtly + observant, like the glance of an untruthful child, which he never forgot + nor forgave, despite his cloth and the impossibilities popularly expected + therefrom. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she exclaimed, “it is you. I have telegraphed for Arthur. I have—telegraphed + for Arthur.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + She gave a nervous, almost a guilty little laugh, and looked at him with + puzzled discomfort. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” he repeated, looking at her with a cold scrutiny much dreaded of + the parish ne'er-do-wells. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well,” she replied, “it is only natural that I should want him at + home in such a time as this—such a terrible affliction. Besides—” + </p> + <p> + “Besides,” suggested the Rector imperturbably, “he is now master of + Stagholme.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” she said, with a simulated surprise which would scarcely have + deceived the most guileless Sunday-school teacher. “I had not thought of + that. I suppose something must be done at once—those horrid lawyers + again.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes were dancing with breathless excitement. To this woman excitement + even in the form of a death was better than nothing. The bourgeois mind, + with its love of a Crystal Palace, a subscription dance, or even a + parochial bazaar, was unquenchable even after years of practice as the + county lady of position. + </p> + <p> + The Rector did not answer. He stood squarely in front of her with a + persistence that forced her to turn shiftily away with a pretence of + looking at the clock. + </p> + <p> + “This is a bad business,” he said. “That boy ought never to have gone out + there.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar had her handkerchief ready and made use of it, with as much + effect upon Mr. Glynde as might have been produced upon a granite sphinx. + There is no man harder to deceive than the innately good and conscientious + man of the world who has tried to find good in human nature. + </p> + <p> + “Poor boy!” sobbed the lady. “Dear Jem! I could not keep him at home.” + Thus proving herself a fool, and worse, before those wise eyes. + </p> + <p> + When occasion demanded Mr. Glynde could wield a very strong silence—stronger + than he thought. He wielded it now, and Mrs. Agar shuffled before it, her + eyes glittering with suppressed communicativeness. She was obviously + bubbling over with talk relevant and irrelevant, but the Rector had the + chivalry to check it by his cold silence. + </p> + <p> + After a pause it was he who spoke, in a quiet, unemotional voice which + aggravated while it cowed her. + </p> + <p> + “When did you hear this news?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, last night. It was so late that I did not send down. I—it was + so sudden. I was terribly upset.” + </p> + <p> + “M—yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I telegraphed to Arthur first thing this morning,” the mistress of + Stagholme went on eagerly, “and I was just going to write to you when you + came in.” + </p> + <p> + With that nervous desire for corroborative evidence which arouses the + suspicion of the observant whenever it appears, Mrs. Agar indicated the + writing-table with open blotter and inkstand. Instantly, but too late, she + regretted having done so, for a volume playfully called “Every Man his own + Lawyer” lay confessed beside the writing-case, and its home on the + bookshelf stared vacantly at them. + </p> + <p> + “And from whom did you hear it?” pursued the Rector, heartlessly looking + at the book with an air of recognition. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, from a Mr. Johnson—at the War Office, or the India Office, or + somewhere. I suppose I ought to write and thank him. Let me see—where + is the telegram?” + </p> + <p> + She shuffled among the papers on the writing-table, and made the hideous + mistake of pushing “Every Man his own Lawyer” behind the stationery case. + </p> + <p> + “Here it is!” she exclaimed at length. + </p> + <p> + It was a long document. Mr. Johnson, not having to pay for telegraphic + expenses out of his own pocket, had done his task thoroughly. He stated + clearly that the advance column under Colonel Stevenor, Major Agar, and + another British officer had been surprised and annihilated. There were no + particulars yet, nor could reliable details be expected, as it was quite + certain that not one man of the ill-fated corps had survived. General + Seymour, added the official, missing out in his haste the commanding + officer's surname, had promptly repaired to the scene of the disaster, to + punish the victors, and, if possible, recover the effects of the slain. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar was one of those persons who are incapable of reading a letter + or a telegram thoroughly. She was one of those for whose comprehension the + wrong end of the story must have been specially created. Had the official + put Seymour Michael's name in full, it is probable that in her infantile + excitement she would have failed to take it in or to connect it with the + man who had wronged her twenty years before. + </p> + <p> + She had not thought much about that little affair during late years, her + feeling for Seymour Michael having settled down into a passive hatred. The + longing to do him some personal injury had died away fifteen years before. + She was, as a matter of fact, quite incapable of a lasting feeling of any + description. Hers was a life lived for the present only. A tea-party next + week was of more importance to her than a change in fortune next year. + Some people are thus, and Heaven help those whose lives come under their + fickle influence! + </p> + <p> + The one permanent motive of her existence was her son Arthur—the + puny little infant who had been prematurely ushered into a world that + seemed full of hatred twenty years before—and even his image faded + from mind and thought before the short Cambridge terms were half expired. + </p> + <p> + At this moment she was thinking less of the death of Jem than of the + approaching arrival of Arthur. There must have been something wrong with + her mental focus, to which trifles presented themselves as of the first + importance, to the obliteration of larger matters. + </p> + <p> + “And this is all the news you have had?” inquired the Rector, rather + hurriedly. He saw Sister Cecilia coming up the avenue, and that lady was + for him the embodiment of the combination of those feminine failings which + aggravated him so intensely. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He moved towards the door, and standing there he turned, holding up a + warning finger. + </p> + <p> + “You must be very careful,” he said. “You must not consult any lawyer or + take any steps in this matter. So far as you are concerned the state of + affairs is unchanged. I, as the Squire's executor, am the only person + called upon to act in any way if that poor boy has died without making a + will. You must remember that your son is under age.” + </p> + <p> + With that he left her, rather precipitately, for Sister Cecilia, like all + busybodies, was a quick walker. + </p> + <p> + In a few moments Miss Cecilia Harbottle entered the library. She glided + forward as if afloat on a depth of the milk of human kindness, and folded + Mrs. Agar in an emotional embrace. + </p> + <p> + “Dear!” she exclaimed. “Dear Anna, how I feel for you!” + </p> + <p> + In illustration of this sympathy she patted Mrs. Agar's somewhat flabby + hands, and looked softly at her. She could hardly have failed to see a + glitter in the bereaved one's eyes, which was certainly not that of grief. + It was the gleam of pure, heartless excitement and love of change. But + Sister Cecilia probably misread it; for, like all excesses, that of + charity seems to dull the comprehension. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, dear,” she urged gently, “all about it.” + </p> + <p> + How many of us imagine the satisfaction of our own curiosity to be + sympathy! + </p> + <p> + So Mrs. Agar told her all about it, and presently they sat down, with a + view to fuller discussion. There was, however, a point beyond which even + Mrs. Agar would not go. This point Sister Cecilia scented with the + instinct of the terrier, so keen was her nose in the sniffing of other + people's business. When that point was reached a third time she gently led + the way over it. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she said, with a resigned glance at the curtain poles, “one + cannot help sometimes feeling that a wise Providence does all for the + best.” + </p> + <p> + Gratifying as this must have been to the power in question, no miraculous + manifestation of joy was forthcoming, and Mrs. Agar cunningly confined + herself to a non-committing “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + After a sigh, Sister Cecilia further expatiated. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot but think,” she said, “that Stagholme will be in better hands + now. Of course dear Jem was very nice, and all that—a dear, good + boy. But do you not think that Arthur is more suited to the position in + some ways?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he is,” allowed Mrs. Agar, with ill-concealed pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “He is,” continued Sister Cecilia, with a broader brush, “so refined, so + gentlemanly, so ideal a country squire.” + </p> + <p> + And after that she had no difficulty in supplying herself with + information. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. ON THIN ICE + </h2> + <p> + Treason doth never prosper. What's the reason? For if it prosper, none + dare call it treason. + </p> + <p> + Two days later a gentleman, whose clean-shaven face had a habit of beaming + suddenly into a professional smile, was seated at a huge writing-table in + his office in Gray's Inn, when a clerk announced to him the arrival of + Mrs. Agar, who desired to see him at once. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Rigg beamed instantaneously, and the clerk, who knew his master, + waited until the paroxysm had passed. In the meantime Mrs. Agar was fuming + in the waiting-room, wherein lay a copy of the <i>Times</i> and nothing + else. The window looked out upon the neatly kept but depressing garden, + where five antiquated rooks looked in vain for sustenance. Mrs. Agar + watched these intelligent birds, but all her soul was in her ears. She had + already set Mr. Rigg down in her own mind as a stupid because, forsooth, + he had dared to keep her waiting. + </p> + <p> + But the truth is that they are accustomed to ladies in Gray's Inn, + especially ladies in deep mourning, with a chastely important air which + seems to demand that advice and sympathy be carefully mingled. <i>Connues</i>, + these ladies whose deep crape and quite exceptional bereavement plead (not + always dumbly) for a special equity, home-made and superior to any law, + and infer that the ordinary foes are in their case more than any gentleman + would think of accepting. + </p> + <p> + The clerk presently passed into an inner room and fetched therefrom a tin + box, upon which were painted in dingy white the letters “J. E. M. A.,” and + underneath “Stagholme Estate.” This the embryo lawyer carefully wiped with + a duster, and set it up on some of its fellows immediately behind Mr. + Rigg. + </p> + <p> + There was no hurry displayed in this scenic arrangement. Mr. Rigg made a + practice of keeping ladies, especially those wearing crape, for a few + minutes in the waiting-room. It calmed them down wonderfully, and + introduced into their mental chambers a little legal atmosphere. + </p> + <p> + “Marks,” he said, when that youth was taking his last look round at the <i>mise + en scène</i> before, as it were, raising the curtain, “eh—er—just + go round to Corbyn's and get them to make up these pills.” + </p> + <p> + At the mention of the medicinal term he beamed, as if to intimate that + between themselves no secret need be observed that he, Mr. Rigg, was + subject to the usual anatomical laws of mankind. + </p> + <p> + “And—er—just call at the fishmonger's as you come back and get + a parcel for me, ordered this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” answered the faithful Marks, taking the prescription as if it + were a will or a transfer. + </p> + <p> + He knew his part so well that he moved towards the door and opened it as + if Mrs. Agar's existence and attendance in the waiting-room were matters + of the utmost indifference. + </p> + <p> + “Marks!” + </p> + <p> + The door was open, so that the lawyer's voice carried well down the + passage. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I will see Mrs. Agar now.” + </p> + <p> + And Mrs. Agar was shown in, all bustling with excitement. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Rigg,” she said, with some dignity, “has Mr. Glynde been here?” + </p> + <p> + The lawyer beamed again—literally all over his parchment-coloured + face, except the eyes, which remained grave. + </p> + <p> + “When, my dear madam?” he asked, as he brought forward a chair. + </p> + <p> + “Well, lately—since my son's death.” + </p> + <p> + The lawyer opened a large diary, and proceeded to trace back each day with + his finger. It promised to be a question of time, this ascertaining + whether Mr. Glynde had called within the last week. It was marvellous how + well this man of deeds knew his clients. Mrs. Agar had never persevered in + any inquiry or project that required time all through her life. Mr. Rigg, + behind his disarming smile, could see as far into a crape veil as any man. + </p> + <p> + “It must have been quite lately,” said Mrs. Agar, leaning forward and + trying visibly to read the diary. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Rigg turned back a few pages, as if to go over the ground a second + time. + </p> + <p> + “Let me see!” he said leisurely. “What was the precise date of the—er—sad + event?” + </p> + <p> + “Last Tuesday, the fourteenth.” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure,” reflected Mr. Rigg, fixing his eyes sadly on an engraving of + London Bridge in the seventeenth century—a spot specially reserved + for the sadder moments of probate and other testamentary work. “Very sad, + very sad.” + </p> + <p> + Then he rose with the mental brushing-away of unshed tears of a man who + has never yet had time in life for idle lamentation. He turned towards the + tin box, jingling his keys in a most practical and business-like way. + </p> + <p> + “And I presume,” he said, “that you have come to consult me about the late + Captain Agar's will?” + </p> + <p> + “Was there a will?” asked Mrs. Agar, with audible alarm. She had not + studied “Every Man his own Lawyer” quite in vain, although most of the + legal technicalities had conveyed nothing whatever to her mind. She did + not notice that her question regarding Mr. Glynde had never been answered. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Rigg turned upon her beaming. + </p> + <p> + “I have no will,” he answered. “I thought that perhaps you were aware of + the existence of one.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar's face lighted up. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said, with ill-concealed delight; “I am certain there is no + will.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! And why, my dear madam?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—oh, well, because Jem was just the sort of person to forget + such matters. Besides, when he left England he was under age.” + </p> + <p> + The lawyer was looking at her with his usual sympathetic smile spread over + his face like an actor's make-up, but his eyes were very keen and clever. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” he observed, “he may have made one out there.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not think that it is likely,” replied the lady, whose small thoughts + always came into the world in charge of a very obvious father in the shape + of a wish. “There are no facilities out there—no lawyers.” + </p> + <p> + “There are quite a number of lawyers in India,” said Mr. Rigg, with sudden + gravity. His face was only grave when he wished to fend off laughter. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” persisted Mrs. Agar, “I am <i>sure</i> Jem did not make a will.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Rigg bowed and resumed his seat. He took up a penholder and smiled, + presumably at his own sunny thoughts. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar was one of those fatuous ladies who think themselves capable of + tricking a professional man out of his fee. She had a vague notion that if + one asks a lawyer a question the price of his answer is at least six + shillings and eightpence. Up to this point in the interview she was + serenely conscious of having eluded the fee. + </p> + <p> + “I presume,” she remarked carelessly, in pursuance of this economical + policy, “that in such a case the property would go unconditionally to the + second son.” + </p> + <p> + “There are contingent possibilities,” replied the man of subterfuge + blandly. He did not mean anything at all, but shrewdly guessed that Mrs. + Agar would not credit him with so simple a design. + </p> + <p> + The lady smiled in a subtly commiserating manner, indicative of the fact + that on some family matters the ignorance of all except herself was + somewhat pitiful. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she said, “as regards the present case, I know perfectly well + that both Jem and his father would wish everything to go to Arthur.” + </p> + <p> + She was picking a thread from the corner of her jacket with an air of + nonchalance. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Rigg was silent. He had some thirty years before this period given up + attaching importance to the wishes of the deceased as interpreted by + disinterested survivors. + </p> + <p> + “And <i>I</i> should imagine that the necessary transfers—and—and + things would be much better put in hand at once. Delay seems to me quite + unnecessary.” + </p> + <p> + She paused for Mr. Rigg's opinion—quite a friendly opinion, of + course, without price. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” said that lawyer, driven into a corner at last, “but are you + consulting me on behalf of the late Squire's executor, Mr. Glynde, or on + your own account?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” replied Mrs. Agar, drawing herself up with a deprecating little + laugh, “I did not intend it to be a consultation at all. I happened to be + passing, that was all. You see, Mr. Rigg, Mr. Glynde does not know + anything about these matters. Clergymen are so stupid.” + </p> + <p> + “Seems to be afraid,” Mr. Rigg was reflecting behind his pleasant mask, + “of the young man coming alive again.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar was like a child in many ways, more especially in her unbounded + belief in her own cunning. She actually imagined herself to be a match for + this man, who had been trained in the ways of duplicity all his life. She + saw nothing of his mind, and fatuously ignored the fact that from the + moment she had entered the room he had begun the interview with a mental + hypothesis. + </p> + <p> + “This woman,” he had reflected, “has always hated her step-son. She got + him a commission in an Indian regiment for the primary purpose of getting + him out of the way while she saved money on her life-interest in the + estate for her second son. The secondary purpose was little more than a + hope. She hoped for the best. The best has come off, and she is not clever + enough to let things take their course.” + </p> + <p> + Every word Mrs. Agar had uttered, every silence, every glance had gone to + confirm the lawyer's opinion, and he sat pleasantly beaming on her. He did + not jump up and denounce her, for lawyers are scientists. As a doctor in + the pursuit of his science does not hesitate to handle foul things, to + probe horrid sores, so the lawyer must needs smirch his hands even to the + elbow in those moral tumours from whence emanate the thousand and one + domestic crimes which will ever remain just outside the pale of the law. + And in one as in the other the finer susceptibilities grow dull. The + doctor almost forgets the pain he inflicts. The lawyer gradually loses his + sense of right and wrong. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Rigg was an honest man—as honesty is understood in the law. He + was keenly alive to all the motives of this woman, who, in the law of + humanity, was a criminal. He had started from a lawyer's standpoint—<i>id + est</i>, personal advantage. “To whose advantage?” they ask, and there + they assign the action. But Mr. Rigg was also a good lawyer, and therefore + he kept his own counsel. + </p> + <p> + “Things must be allowed,” he said, “to take their course. You know, Mrs. + Agar, we are proverbially slow in moving, but we are sure.” + </p> + <p> + Now it happened that this was precisely the position assumed by Mr. + Glynde, whose respect for legal routine was enormous. He rarely moved in + any matters wherein the law could by hook or crook be introduced without + consulting Mr. Rigg, whom he vaguely called his “man.” And it was + precisely this delay that Mrs. Agar disliked. She had no definite reason + for so doing; but this stroke of good fortune presented itself to her mind + more in the light of an opportunity to be seized than as a just + inheritance to be thankfully received in its due time. + </p> + <p> + She was awake to the fact that Arthur was not the man to seize any + opportunity, however obviously it might be thrust into his grasp, and her + knowledge of the world tended to exaggerate its dishonesty in her mind. + </p> + <p> + Sister Cecilia and she had talked this matter over with that small modicum + of learning which is a dangerous thing, and they had arrived at the + conclusion that Mr. Glynde was not competent to carry out the duties thus + suddenly thrust upon him. Wrapped up as was her heart in the welfare of + her weakling son, the one lasting motive of her life had been to secure + for him the largest possible portion of earthly goods. Now that success + seemed to be within measurable distance, she gave way to the baneful panic + of the weak conspirator, and fancied that the whole world was allied + against her. + </p> + <p> + She could not keep her fingers off “Every Man his own Lawyer,” and + consulted that boon to the legal profession to such good effect that she + placed a handsome fee in the pocket of one of its brightest ornaments at + the earliest opportunity. Mr. Rigg continued to beam and to keep his own + counsel, merely notifying that things must be allowed to take their own + course, and presently he bowed Mrs. Agar out of his office, dissatisfied, + and with an uncomfortable feeling of having been somewhat indiscreet. + </p> + <p> + Arthur was waiting for her in a hansom cab in Holborn, and with a sigh of + relief they drove westward to a shop in Regent Street to order a supply of + the newest procurable mode of signifying grief on paper and envelopes. + Arthur Agar was an expert in such matters, and indeed both mother and son + were more at home in the graceful pastime of spending money than in the + technicalities of making or keeping the same. + </p> + <p> + Arthur was already beginning to taste the sweetness of his adversity, and + being intensely sensitive to the influence of those with whom he happened + to be at the moment, he was already beginning to look back with mild + surprise to the first burst of grief to which he had given way on hearing + that Jem was killed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. THE CURSE OF A GOOD INTENTION + </h2> + <h3> + <i>There is one that keepeth silence and is found wise.</i> + </h3> + <p> + Sister Cecilia received—nay, she almost welcomed—the news of + Jem Agar's death in an intensely Christian spirit. She looked upon it in + the light of a chastening-a sort of moral cold bath, unpleasant at the + time, but cleanly and refreshing in its effect. Intense goodness and + virtue of the jubby-jubby order seem frequently to produce this result. + Trouble—provided that it be not personal—is elevated to a + position which it was never intended to occupy by an all-seeing + Providence. There are some people who step into the troubles of others as + into the chastening bath above referred to, and splash about. They pretend + to feel deeply bereavements which cannot reasonably be expected to affect + them, and go about the world with a well-scrubbed air of conscious virtue, + saying in manner if not in words, “Look at me; my troubles compass me + about, but my innate goodness enables me to take them in the proper spirit + and to be cheerful despite all.” + </p> + <p> + This was precisely Sister Cecilia's attitude towards her small world of + Stagholme, after the news of the young Squire's death had cast a gloom + over the whole neighbourhood. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” she would say to some honest cottage mother who had more true + feeling in her rough little finger than Sister Cecilia possessed in her + whole heart. “These trials are sent to us for our good. The ways of + Providence are strange, Mrs. Martin—strange to us now.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, miss; that they be,” Mrs. Martin replied, looking at her with the + hard and far-seeing gaze of a poor mother who has known trouble in its + least romantic form. And Sister Cecilia, with that blindness which comes + from systematically closing the eyes to the earthly side of earthly + things, never realised that the small change of sympathy is often slightly + aggravating. + </p> + <p> + At this period she took to calling Jem Agar her “poor boy.” The grave + seems to have the power of completely altering the past, and with persons + of the stamp of Sister Cecilia death appears not only to wipe out all sin, + but to impair the memory of the living to such an extent that the + individuality of the deceased is no longer recognisable. + </p> + <p> + Jem never had in any sense of the word been her boy. His feelings for her + had passed from the distrust of childhood to the lofty contempt of a + schoolboy for all things preternaturally virtuous, finally settling down + into the more tolerant contempt of manhood. The dead, however, have + perforce to accept much affection which they scornfully refused in life. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Jem!” said Sister Cecilia to Mrs. Agar the day after that lady's + visit to Gray's Inn. “I always thought that perhaps he and dear Dora would + come to—to some understanding.” + </p> + <p> + She stirred her tea with patient, suffering head inclined at a resigned + angle. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think there <i>was</i> any understanding between them?” inquired + Mrs. Agar. + </p> + <p> + “Well—I should not like to say.” + </p> + <p> + Which, being translated, meant that she would like to say, but did not + know. + </p> + <p> + It had always been a pet scheme of Mrs. Agar's that Dora should marry + Arthur; firstly, because she would have nearly two thousand pounds a year + on the death of her parents; and, secondly, because she was a capable + person with plenty of common-sense. These two adjuncts—namely, money + and common-sense—Mrs. Agar wisely looked for in candidates for the + flaccid hand of her son. + </p> + <p> + “I will try and find out,” said Sister Cecilia after a pause. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar said nothing. She was meditating over this last stroke of fate + in favour of her scheme, and her thoughts were disturbed by that distrust + in the continuance of good fortune which usually spoils the enjoyment of + the unscrupulous in those good things which they have obtained for + themselves. + </p> + <p> + So Sister Cecilia took it for granted that she was doing the will of the + mistress of Stagholme when she wrote a note that same evening inviting + Dora to have tea with her the following afternoon. + </p> + <p> + At the hour appointed Dora arrived, and was duly shown into the little + cottage drawing-room, of which the decoration hovered between the avowedly + devout and the economo-aesthetic. + </p> + <p> + Sister Cecilia swept down upon her with a speechless emotion which, in the + nature of things (and Sister Cecilia), could not well be of long duration. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” she whispered, “God will give you strength to bear this awful + trial.” + </p> + <p> + Dora recovered her breath and re-arranged her crushed habiliments before + inquiring, with just sufficient feeling to save her from downright + rudeness, “What is the matter; has something else happened?” + </p> + <p> + Sister Cecilia drew back. She was vaguely conscious of having run mentally + against a brick wall. There was something new and unusual about Dora which + she could not understand—something, if she could only have seen it, + suggestive of the quiet, strong man in whose honour the whole parish wore + mourning. But Sister Cecilia was not a subtle woman. She had had so little + experience of the world, of men and of women, that she fell easily into + the error of thinking that they were all to be treated alike and with + equal success by little maxims culled from fourpenny-halfpenny devotional + books. + </p> + <p> + “No, dear,” she exclaimed; “I was referring to our terrible loss. My heart + has been bleeding for you—” + </p> + <p> + “It is very kind, I'm sure,” said Dora quietly; “I forgot that I had not + seen you since the news reached us.” + </p> + <p> + It is probable that her self-control cost her more than she suspected. Her + lips were drawn and dry. She wore a thick veil, which she carefully + abstained from lifting above the level of her eyes. “I am sure,” moaned + Sister Cecilia, “it has been a most trying time for us all. I wonder that + Mrs. Agar has borne up so bravely. Her health is wonderful, considering.” + </p> + <p> + Dora sat looking straight in front of her. She was withdrawing her gloves + slowly. Her face was that of a person whose mind was made up for the + endurance of an operation. + </p> + <p> + The twaddling voice, the characteristic reference to health, were + intensely aggravating. There are some women who talk of their own health + before the dead are buried. They do not seem to be able to separate grief + from bodily ill. Clad in crape, they rush to the seaside, and there, + presumably because grief affects their legs, they hire a man to wheel + themselves and Sorrow in a bath-chair. Why—oh, why! does bereavement + drive women into bath-chairs on the King's Road, or the Lees, or the Hoe? + </p> + <p> + “Wonderful!” said Dora. + </p> + <p> + Sister Cecilia, busying herself with the teapot, proceeded to blow her own + trumpet with the bare-facedness of true virtue. + </p> + <p> + “I have been with her constantly,” she said. “I think it is better for us + all to tell of our grief; I think that we are given speech for that + purpose. For although one may only be able to offer sympathy and perhaps a + little advice, it is always a relief to speak of one's sorrow.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it is,” admitted Dora from her strong-hold of reserve, “for + some people.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes!” exclaimed Sister Cecilia, all heedless of the sarcasm. For + extreme charity is proof against such. It covers other things besides a + multitude of sins. Wielded foolishly it runs amuck like a too luxuriant + creeper, and often kills commonsense. “And that is why I asked you to + come, dear. I thought that you might want to confide in some one—that + you might want to unburden your heart to one who feels for you as if this + sorrow were her own—” + </p> + <p> + “Only one piece of sugar, thank you,” interrupted Dora. “Thank you. No. + Bread and butter, please. It is very kind of you, Sister Cecilia. But, you + see, when I have any unburdening to do there is always mother, and if I + want any advice there is always father.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear. But sometimes even one's parents are not quite the persons to + whom one would turn in times of grief.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” observed Dora, without much enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + Unconsciously Sister Cecilia was doing the very best thing possible for + Dora, She was arousing in her the spirit of antagonism—hardening a + stricken heart, as it were, by a fresh challenge. She was teaching Dora to + fight for what we learn to deem most sacred—namely, the right to + monopolise our own thoughts and feelings. Sister Cecilia is not, one may + assume, the only good woman in the world who cannot draw a definite line + between sympathy and mere curiosity. With many the display of sympathy is + nothing but a half-conscious bait to attract a shoal of further details. + </p> + <p> + Self-reliance was lurking somewhere in this girl's character, but it had + never been developed by the pressure of circumstances. Reserve she had + seen practised by her father, but the actual advantages thereof were only + now beginning to be apparent to her. The body, we are told, adapts itself + to abnormal circumstances; so is it with the mind. Already Dora was + beginning, as they say at sea, to find her feet; to take that stand amidst + her environments which she was forced to hold, practically alone, + thereafter. + </p> + <p> + And Sister Cecilia, with that blind faith in a good motive which gives + almost as much trouble as actual vice, floundered on in the path she had + mapped out for herself. + </p> + <p> + “You know, dear,” she said, looking out of the window with a sentimental + droop of her thin, inquisitive lips, “I cannot help feeling that this—this + terrible blow means more to you than it does to us.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” inquired Dora practically. + </p> + <p> + Sister Cecilia was silent, with one of those aggravating silences which do + not allow even the satisfaction of a flat contradiction. A meaning silence + is a coward's argument. She was beginning to feel slightly nervous before + this child, ignorant that childhood is not always a matter of years and + calendar months. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” asked Dora again. + </p> + <p> + Sister Cecilia looked rather bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear, I thought perhaps—I always thought that my poor boy + entertained some feeling—you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied Dora, borrowing for the moment her father's most crushing + deliberation of manner, “I cannot say I do. When you say your 'poor boy,' + are you referring to Jem?” + </p> + <p> + Sister Cecilia assented with a resigned nod worthy of the very earliest + martyr. + </p> + <p> + “Then, as every one has discovered so many virtues in him—quite + suddenly—we had better emulate one of them, and have at the least + the good feeling to hold our tongues about any feelings he may have + entertained. Do you not think so, Sister Cecilia?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear, I only thought to act as might be best for you,” said the + well-intentioned meddler, with the drawl of the professionally + misunderstood. + </p> + <p> + “I have no doubt of that,” returned Dora, with an equanimity which was + again strangely suggestive of Jem Agar. “But in future you will be + consulting my welfare much more effectively by refraining from action on + my behalf at all.” + </p> + <p> + “As you will, dear; as you will,” in the hopeless tone of age, experience, + and wisdom forced to stand idle while youth and folly rush headlong down + the hill. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” returned Dora calmly; “I know that, thank you. And now, I think, we + had better change the subject.” + </p> + <p> + The subject was therefore changed; but Sister Cecilia, having, as it were, + whetted her appetite for details, was not at her ease with other food for + the mind, and presently Dora left. + </p> + <p> + The girl went back into her small world with a new knowledge gained—the + knowledge that in all and through all we are really quite alone. There can + be only one companion, and if that one be absent, there are only so many + talking-machines left to us. And many of us pass the whole of our lives in + conversation with them. So it is; and we know not why. + </p> + <p> + In a subtle way she felt stronger for this little tussle—a fight is + always exhilarating. She felt that from henceforth the memory of Jem was + hers, and hers alone, to defend and to cherish. It was not much of a + consolation. No. But then this is a world of small mercies, where some of + us get an hour or some mean portion of a day when we want a lifetime. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. THE TOUCH OF NATURE + </h2> + <p> + A sense, when first I fronted him, Said, “Trust him not!” + </p> + <p> + After successfully carrying through the purchase of mourning stationery + and attending to other important items connected with sorrow in its + worldly shape, Arthur Agar went back to Cambridge. There was enough of the + woman in his nature to enable him to cherish grief and nurse it lovingly, + as some women (not the best of them) do. In this attitude towards the + world there was none of that dogged going about his business which + characterises the ordinary man from whose life something has slipped out. + </p> + <p> + He wandered by the banks of the Cam with mourning in his mien, and his + cherished friends took sympathetic coffee with him after Hall. They spoke + of Jem with that fervid admiration which University men honestly feel for + one a few years their senior who has already “done something.” + </p> + <p> + “A ripping soldier” they called him and some of them entertained serious + doubts as to whether they had done wisely in choosing the less glorious + paths of peace. And Arthur Agar settled down into the old profitless life, + with this difference—that he could not dine out, that he used + blackedged notepaper, and that his delicate heliotrope neckties were + folded away in a drawer until such time as his grief should be assuaged + into that state of resignation technically called half-mourning. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon well towards the end of the term Arthur Agar's “gyp” crept + in with that valet-like confidential air which seems to be bred of too + intimate a knowledge of the extent of one's wardrobe. + </p> + <p> + “There is a gentleman, sir,” he said, “as wants to see you. But in no wise + will he give his name, which, he says, you don't know it.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he selling engravings?” asked Arthur. + </p> + <p> + The “gyp” looked mildly offended. As if he didn't know that sort! + </p> + <p> + “No, sir. Military man, I should take it.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur Agar had met the Scotch Balaclava veteran in his time too. He + hesitated, and the “gyp,” who felt that his reputation was at stake, + spoke: + </p> + <p> + “He is eminently a gentleman, sir,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, show him up.” + </p> + <p> + A moment later a man who might have been the wandering Jew <i>fin de + siècle</i> stood in the doorway. His smart military moustache was small + and evidently trimmed, his face was sunburnt, and in his eyes there + gleamed the restlessness of India. + </p> + <p> + He bowed, and awaited the exit of the man. Then, coming forward, he was + able for the first time to see Arthur Agar's face distinctly, and his + glance wavered. + </p> + <p> + At that moment Arthur Agar was staring at him with something in his face + that was almost strong. When this man had entered the room, Arthur felt + his heart give one great bound which almost choked him. There was a + strange physical feeling of vacuity in his breast which seemed to paralyse + his breathing powers, and his temples throbbed painfully. + </p> + <p> + Arthur Agar's life had been passed in eminently pleasant places. The seamy + side of existence had always been carefully hidden from his eyes. He + therefore did not recognise this strange sense which had leapt into his + being—the sense of superhuman, physical, mortal revulsion. + </p> + <p> + He was divided between two instincts. One side of his nature urged him to + shriek like a woman. Had he followed the other, he would have rushed at + this man, whom he had never seen before, seeking to do him bodily harm. He + would not have paused to reason that in anything like a struggle he would + stand no chance against the sinewy, dark-eyed soldier who stood watching + him. For there are moments even in this age of self-suppression when we do + not pause to think, when he who cannot swim will leap into deep water to + save another. + </p> + <p> + This sudden unreasoning hatred, so foreign to his gentle nature, seemed to + stagger Arthur Agar as the sudden intimation of some mortal disease + lurking in his own being would have done. He gripped the back of the + spindle-legged chair, and could find no word to say. The stranger it was + who spoke. + </p> + <p> + “I presume,” he said, with a pleasant smile, in a voice so musical that + his hearer breathed suddenly as if his head had been lifted from water, “I + presume that you are Mr. Arthur Agar?” + </p> + <p> + While he spoke he looked past Arthur, out of the silken-draped window. He + did not seem to like the glance of this young man, for even the most + practical of us have a conscience at times. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The new-comer laid his walking-stick on the table, and turned to make sure + that the door was closed. + </p> + <p> + “I knew your step-brother,” he explained, “Jem Agar, in India.” + </p> + <p> + Then the instinct of the gentleman and the host asserted itself over and + above the throbbing hatred. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Will you sit down?” + </p> + <p> + The stranger took the proffered chair and laid aside his hat. But neither + of them was at ease. There was a subtle suggestion that they had met + before and quarrelled—vague, unreasoning, quite impossible if you + will; but it was there. They were as men meeting again with a past between + them (too full of strong passions ever to be forgotten) which each was + trying in vain to ignore. + </p> + <p> + “I have brought home a few belongings of his,” the stranger went on to + explain. “Just a port-manteau with some clothes and things.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, and drew a small packet from the pocket of a covert-coat which + he carried over his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Here,” he went on, “are some papers of his—a diary and one or two + letters. The rest of the things are at my hotel in town.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur took the packet, and, still in the same dreamy, unreal way, opened + it. He turned to the last entry—dated six weeks back. + </p> + <p> + “Got out of bed at five, but nothing to be seen in the valley. I feel a + bit chippy this morning. If nothing turns up to-day shall begin to feel + uneasy. The men seem all right. They are plucky little fellows.” + </p> + <p> + There was a self-consciousness about Jem Agar's diary, a selection of the + right word, which conveyed nothing to Arthur. But it fell into other hands + later on, where it was understood better. + </p> + <p> + General Michael was watching the undergraduate with the same critical + attention which he had brought to bear on the writer of the diary not two + months before. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see much of your step-brother?” he asked abruptly, feeling his + way towards his purpose. + </p> + <p> + Arthur looked up. He was getting accustomed to the loathing that he felt + for this man, as one gets accustomed to an evil odour or a physical pain. + </p> + <p> + “I saw enough of him to be very fond of him,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “And your mother—was she attached to him? Excuse my asking; I have a + reason.” + </p> + <p> + The little pause was enough. Seymour Michael had expected as much. + </p> + <p> + He had never forgiven Mrs. Agar the insults she heaped upon his head in + the drawing-room of Jaggery House. It is very difficult to bring shame + home to a Jew, and on that occasion this son of the modern Ishmaelites had + been thoroughly ashamed of himself. The sting of that past ignominy was + with him still, and would remain within his heart until such time as he + could revenge himself. + </p> + <p> + With that mean, underhand watchfulness for an opportunity which is almost + excusable in one of the unfortunates against whom every man's hand is + raised to-day, he had never parted with his thirst for revenge. The moment + seemed propitious. It was within his power to lay for Anna Agar one of + those spiteful feminine traps of which a woman can only fully appreciate + the sting. + </p> + <p> + He determined to leave Mrs. Agar in ignorance of the real facts respecting + her step-son. His vengeance was to allow her to rejoice—almost + openly, as she did—in the stroke of fortune by which her own son, + Arthur, had become possessed of Stagholme. He knew the woman well enough + to foresee that in a hundred ways she would heap up ignominy, meanness, + deception, which would crumble in one vast wreck about her head when Jem + Agar returned. + </p> + <p> + It was a vengeance worthy of the man, and spiteful enough to be fully + comprehended by its victim. But, like others handling petards, Seymour + Michael grew somewhat careless, and forgot that the wrong man is sometimes + hoist. + </p> + <p> + He knew his position well enough to make all safe as regarded Jem Agar on + his return. It was absolutely necessary to tell Arthur Agar—necessary + for his own safety in the future. The other two persons to whom the secret + was to be imparted were Mrs. Agar and Dora Glynde. From Mrs. Agar Seymour + Michael determined to withhold the news for his own reasons. Dora was to + be kept in the dark because she was a woman, and therefore unsafe. + </p> + <p> + This was the plan in its original shape with which Michael sought out + Arthur Agar at his rooms in college at Cambridge. It was further assisted + and elaborated by a circumstance which the originator could scarcely have + been expected to foresee—the fact of Arthur Agar's love for Dora, + which was at this time beginning to take to itself a definite existence. + It began, as all love does, with a want more or less elevated according to + the nature of the wanter. Arthur Agar required some one for whom to buy + those small and feminine luxuries which he could not for manly shame + purchase to himself. He delighted in spending money in those + establishments tersely called <i>magasins de luxe</i> in the country from + whence their contents do emanate. He therefore got into the habit of + “picking up little things” for Dora, with the result that she in her turn + picked up that very small object, his heart. + </p> + <p> + Michael had seen enough of Arthur Agar during this short interview to + endow him with the same need of contempt which he had entertained towards + Anna Agar, the mother. The strong personal resemblance, the obvious + weakness of the boy's face, and, above all, that sense of having the upper + hand, which makes brave men out of cowards, gave him confidence. It seemed + that he had only to play the cards thrust into his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I knew,” he pursued, “Jem Agar very well. He was a peculiar man: very + quiet, very reserved, and just the man to make a difficult position rather + more difficult.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur's intelligence was not keen enough to follow the drift of this + remark. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said gently. + </p> + <p> + “He hinted to me once or twice,” went on Seymour Michael, “that things + were not very harmonious at home.” + </p> + <p> + “I was not aware of it,” answered Arthur, whose innate gentlemanliness + told him that this should be held sacred ground. + </p> + <p> + The General shifted his position. + </p> + <p> + “He was a first-rate soldier,” he said warmly. + </p> + <p> + It was obvious to both that they were not getting on. Something seemed to + hold them both back, paralysing the <i>savoir-faire</i> which both had + acquired in their intercourse with the world. Seymour Michael was puzzled. + He was not afraid of this boy. He knew himself to be stronger—capable + of over-mastering him entirely. But for the first time in his life he felt + awkward and ill at ease. + </p> + <p> + Arthur Agar only wanted this man to go. He felt that he could forego the + news which he must undoubtedly be in a position to give if only he could + be rid of this hated presence. At moments the loathing came to him again, + like a cold hand laid upon his heart. + </p> + <p> + “Were you with him,” inquired the undergraduate, “at the time of his—death?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I was at head-quarters, forty miles to the rear.” + </p> + <p> + There was a little pause, then suddenly Seymour Michael leant forward with + his two hands on the table that stood between them. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Agar,” he said, “are you able to keep a secret?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so,” answered Agar apprehensively. + </p> + <p> + “Then I am going to tell you something which you must swear by all that + you hold most sacred to keep a strict secret until such time as I give you + leave to reveal it.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur looked at him with a vague fear in his face. It seemed suddenly as + if this man had always been in his life—as if he would never go out + of it again. + </p> + <p> + “I am not sure that I care to hear it,” he wavered. + </p> + <p> + “You must hear it. Almost the last words that Jem Agar spoke to me were + requesting me to tell you this.” + </p> + <p> + “You promise that that is true?” + </p> + <p> + Arthur was surprised at his own suspicions. It was so unlike him, whose + nature, too weak to compass vice, had never allowed the suspicion of vice + or deceit in others to trouble him. + </p> + <p> + “I promise,” replied Seymour Michael. + </p> + <p> + Arthur gathered himself together for an effort. His distrust of this man + was almost a panic. + </p> + <p> + “Then tell me,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Michael leant back in his chair, fixing his pleasant eyes on Arthur's pale + face. + </p> + <p> + “The estate is not yours,” he said. “Your step-brother, Jem Agar, is not + dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Not dead!” repeated Arthur, without any joy in his voice. “Not dead! Then + who are you? Tell me who you are!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! That I cannot tell you.” + </p> + <p> + And Seymour Michael sat smiling quietly on Anna Agar's son. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. THE SPIDER AND THE FLY + </h2> + <p> + How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds Makes ill deeds done! + </p> + <p> + He is a wise liar who makes use of the truth at times. Seymour Michael was + clever enough to stay his fantastic tongue in his further explanation to + Arthur Agar. + </p> + <p> + “It is a long story,” he said, “and in order to fully state the case to + you I must go into some matters of which perhaps you have heard little. Do + you happen to be anything of a politician? Are you, I mean, interested in + foreign affairs?” + </p> + <p> + Arthur confessed that he knew nothing of foreign affairs, a fact of which + Michael had become fully aware on entering the narrow-minded, + characteristic room. + </p> + <p> + “You perhaps know,” Seymour Michael went on, in a tone of which the + sarcasm was lost upon its victim, “that Russia is living in hopes of some + day possessing India?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—ah—yes!” + </p> + <p> + Arthur Agar was obviously not at all interested. There were so many things + of a similar nature to be remembered—things which did not really + interest him—and those nearer home had precedence in his mind. He + knew, for instance, that Trinity Hall lived in hopes of heading the river + that year, and that the Narcissus Club were going to give a + narcissus-coloured dance in May week, at which entertainment even the + jellies were to be yellow. + </p> + <p> + The General now launched into an explanation, couched carefully in + language suitable to his hearer's limited knowledge of the facts. + </p> + <p> + “Russia,” he said, “is now so large that, unless they make it larger still + and get tropical resources to draw upon, it will fall to pieces. They want + India. Some day there will be a fight, a very large fight. But not yet. In + the meantime it is a question of learning every inch of that country where + the battle-fields will be, and every thought in the minds of those men who + will look on at the fight. I—” + </p> + <p> + He paused, recollecting that the fame of his own name might have + penetrated even to this out-of-the-way spot. “Some of us have been at this + all our lives. Over there, on the Frontier, there are certain numbers of + us, on both sides, playing a very deep game. Your brother is one of the + players, a prominent man on the field; a half-back, one might call him.” + </p> + <p> + There was a strong temptation to continue the allegory—to say that + he himself was goal-keeper; but Seymour Michael was one of the few men who + can in need make even their own vanity subservient to convenience. + </p> + <p> + “We watch each other,” he went on, “like cats. We always know where the + others are, and what they are doing. Your brother was one of the most + closely watched by the other side. For some time we have been aware of an + influence at work with a tribe of Hillmen who have hitherto been friendly + to us, and we have not been able to find what this influence is, or how it + is brought to bear upon them. We were so closely watched that we could not + penetrate to the affected country. But at last the chance came. Your + brother was gazetted as killed. We allowed the report to remain + uncontradicted. We let the other side think that Jem Agar was dead, and + therefore incapable of doing any more harm, and now he has gone up into + that country to find out what they are after.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur nodded. + </p> + <p> + “I see,” he said. He was rather vague about it all, and had not quite + realised yet that this was all true, that this man whom he still hated and + distrusted without any apparent reason was real and living, speaking to + him in real waking life and not in a dream. Moreover, he had not nearly + realised that Jem was alive. The evidence of his own black clothes, of the + sombre-edged stationery, of his mourning habit of life this term, was too + strong upon a mind like his to be suddenly thrown aside. Perhaps he had + discovered that the consolation of inheritance was greater than was at + first apparent. In six weeks he had slipped very comfortably into Jem's + shoes, and it seemed only right and proper that his life should have a + background of the noble proportions of Stagholme. Also, now Stagholme + meant Dora; for he was worldly-wise enough to know that his own personal + value in the world's estimation had undergone a great change in six short + weeks. He knew that the man with the money usually wins. + </p> + <p> + It would almost seem that Seymour Michael divined his thoughts, at least + in part. + </p> + <p> + “There are two reasons,” he went on to say, “why absolute secrecy is + necessary; first, for Agar's own sake. He is, of course, in disguise. No + one suspects that he is there, and that is his only safeguard in the + country where he is. Secondly—but I want your whole attention, + please.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am listening.” + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael leant forward and emphasised his remark by tapping on the + table with his gloved finger. + </p> + <p> + “The mission is so extremely dangerous that it comes almost to the same + thing.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” inquired Arthur Agar, whose gentle intellect only + compassed subtleties of the drawing-room type. + </p> + <p> + “I mean that Jem Agar is almost as good as a dead man, although he was not + killed at Pregalla.” + </p> + <p> + The man who had wept in this same room six weeks before looked up with a + gleam of something very like hope in his troubled eyes. Such is the power + of love. For Arthur Agar had not been ignorant of the probability that in + his step-brother, once dead but now living, he had had a rival. Sister + Cecilia had seen to that. + </p> + <p> + “But when shall we know? When will he come back?” inquired he. And Seymour + Michael, the subtle, began to see his way more clearly. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not for six months, probably not for nine.” + </p> + <p> + One may take it that no man is sent into the world a ready-made scoundrel. + It all depends upon the circumstances of life. No one is safe right up to + the end, and events may combine to make the very best of us into that + thing which the world calls a villain. + </p> + <p> + Arthur Agar, all inexperienced, weak, hereditarily handicapped, suddenly + found himself on the balance. And the scales were held, not by the hand of + Justice, blind and clement, but by Seymour Michael, very open-eyed, with a + keen watchfulness for his own purpose; biassed; unscrupulous. It must be + admitted that circumstances were against Arthur Agar. + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing to be done,” added Seymour Michael, with a smile which + his companion could not be expected to fathom, “but to keep very quiet, + and to make the best of your opportunities while you occupy the position + of heir.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur smiled in a sickly way. He felt suddenly as if this man could see + right through him, and all the while he hated him. Seymour Michael meant + “debts”—it was only natural that one of his race should think of + money before all things—Arthur's thoughts were fixed on Dora. And + guiltily he imagined himself to be detected. + </p> + <p> + “You will be doing no harm to Jem,” said the tempter, with his pleasant + laugh. “You are called upon to act the part well for his sake.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es, I suppose I am,” answered Arthur. “And I must tell no one?” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely no one.” + </p> + <p> + Despite his credulous nature, Arthur Agar was singularly suspicious on + this occasion. + </p> + <p> + “Are these Jem's own instructions?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “His own instructions,” replied Seymour Michael callously. + </p> + <p> + Arthur paused in deep reflection. It was evident, he argued to himself, + that Jem could not have cared for Dora, or he would never have left her in + ignorance of the truth. If, therefore, during Jem's absence, he could win + Dora for himself, he could not in any way be accused of wronging his + step-brother. And we all know that a conscience which argues with itself + is lost. + </p> + <p> + “To make things easier for us both,” pursued Seymour Michael, “I propose + that this interview remain a strict secret between ourselves, and for that + purpose I have suppressed my own name. It is a fairly well-known name. I + may mention that in guarantee of good faith. As, however, you do not know + me, it will be easier for you to suppress the fact that we have ever met.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur almost laughed at these last words. It seemed as if he had known + this man all his life—as if his whole existence had merely been a + period of waiting until he should come. + </p> + <p> + “And my mother must not know?” he said. He kept harking back to this + question with a singular persistence. There are a few men and many women + for whom a secret is a responsibility to be transferred to the first-comer + without hesitation. One half of the world takes pleasure in divulging a + secret—for the other half it is positive pain to keep one. + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael never dreamt that the secret might be in unsafe hands. To + a secretive man like himself the incapacity to keep a counsel never + suggested itself. There is no doubt that where we all err is in + persistently judging others by ourselves. Arthur Agar was keenly aware of + his own incompetence in many things—he was one of those promising + undergraduates who hire a man to water six small plants in a window-box. + Incompetence was by him reduced to a science. There were so many things + which he could not do, that he was forced to find occupations for a very + extensive leisure, and these were usually of the petty accomplishment + order, which are graceful in young girls and very disgraceful in young + men. + </p> + <p> + Now the doctrine of incompetence is a very dangerous one. Already in the + criminal courts we are beginning to hear of men and women who do not feel + competent to keep the law. There were many laws of social procedure and a + few of schoolboy honour which Arthur Agar felt to be beyond him, and he + considered that in making confession he was acquiring a right to + absolution. + </p> + <p> + He did not tell General Michael that he was not good at keeping secrets, + chiefly because that gentleman was not of the trivial confession type; but + he made a mental reservation. + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael had risen and was walking backwards and forwards slowly + between the window and the door. He seemed quite at home in the small + room, and his manner of taking three strides and then wheeling round + suggested the habit of living in tents. + </p> + <p> + “What you must say is that you have received your brother's effects,” he + said. “If they ask from whence—from the War Office. I am the War + Office to all intents and purposes. The affair is almost forgotten. All + the details have been published—the usual newspaper details, with + Fleet Street local colouring. You should have no difficulty.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered Arthur meekly, but with another mental reservation. + </p> + <p> + “There are, of course, certain legal formalities in progress,” went on the + General, “relative to the estate. Those must be allowed to go on. We may + trust the lawyers to go slowly. And afterwards they can amuse themselves + by undoing what they have done. That is their trade. Half of them make a + living by undoing what the others have done. You are ...” + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael so far forgot himself as to pause and make a mental + calculation. Arthur saw him do it and never thought of being surprised. It + seemed quite natural that this man should possess data upon which to base + mental calculations. + </p> + <p> + “... not twenty-one yet?” Michael finished the sentence. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “So that, you see, they cannot make over the estate to you before the time + your brother comes or—should—come—back.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur understood the emphasis perfectly this time. He was getting on. + </p> + <p> + “There are,” continued Michael, who was eminently methodical, “a few + military formalities, which have had my attention. In fact, I think that + everything has been attended to. In case you should require any + information, or perhaps advice, write to C 74, Smith's Library, Vigo + Street. That is the address on that envelope.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur rose too. The thought that his visitor might be about to depart + thrilled through him with the warmth of relieved suspense. + </p> + <p> + “For your own information,” said Michael, looking straight into the + wavering, colourless eyes, “I may tell you that in my opinion—the + opinion of an expert—this expedition is exceedingly hazardous. We—we + must be prepared for the worst.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur Agar turned away. He had felt the deep eyes probing his very soul—looking + right through him. A sickening sense of weakness was at his heart. He felt + that in the presence of this man he did not belong to himself. + </p> + <p> + “You mean,” he muttered awkwardly, “that Jem will never come back?” + </p> + <p> + “I think it most probable. And then—when we have to abandon all + hope, I mean—we shall be glad that we kept this thing to ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael held out his hand, and pressed the boy's weak fingers in a + careless grip. Then he turned, and with a short “Good-bye” left him. + </p> + <p> + Arthur stood looking at the closed door with the frightened eyes of a + woman. He looked round at the familiar objects of his room—the + futile little gimcracks with which he had surrounded an existence worthy + of such environments—the invitation cards on the draped mantelpiece, + the little glass vases of fantastic shape with a single bloom of + stephanotis, the hundred and one fantasies of a finicking generation + wherein Art sappeth Manhood. And his eyes were suddenly opened to a new + world of things which he could not do. He gazed—not without a vague + shame—into a perspective of incompetencies. + </p> + <p> + In the <i>laissez-aller</i> of the unreflective he had assumed that life + would be a continuance of small pleasures and refined enjoyments, little + dinners and pleasant converse, Dora and a comfortable home, mutual mild + delight in flowers and table decoration. Into this assumption Seymour + Michael had suddenly stepped—strong, restless, and mysterious—and + Arthur became uneasily conscious of possibilities. There might be + something in his own life, there might even be something within himself, + over which he could have no control. There was something within himself—something + connected with the man who had gone, leaving unrest behind him, as he left + it wherever he passed. What was this? whither would it lead? + </p> + <p> + Arthur Agar rang the bell, and kept the “gyp” in the room on some trivial + pretext. He was afraid of solitude. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. TWO MOTIVES + </h2> + <p> + Making vain pretence Of gladness, with an awful sense Of one mute shadow + watching all. + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! the girl is happy enough!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Glynde jerked his newspaper up and read an advertisement of steamships + about to depart to the West Coast of Africa. His wife—engaged in + cutting out a scarlet flannel garment of diminutive proportions (an + operation which she made a point of performing on the study table)—gave + two gentle snips and ceased her occupation. + </p> + <p> + She looked at the back of her husband's head, where the hair was getting a + little thin, and said nothing. No one argued with the Reverend Thomas + Glynde. + </p> + <p> + “The girl is happy enough,” he repeated, seeking contradiction. There are + times when an autocrat would very much like to be argued with. + </p> + <p> + “She is always lively and gay,” he continued defiantly. + </p> + <p> + “Too gay,” Mrs. Glynde whispered to the scissors, with a flash of the only + wisdom which Heaven gives away, and it is not given to all mothers. + </p> + <p> + The winter had closed over Stagholme, the isolating, distance-making + winter of English country life, wherein each house is thrown upon its own + resource, and the peaceful are at rest because their neighbours cannot get + at them. + </p> + <p> + Dora was out. She was out a good deal now; exceedingly busy in good works + of a different type from those affected by Sister Cecilia. The winter air + seemed to invigorate her, and she tramped miles with a can of soup or an + infant's flannel wrapper. And always when she came in she was gay, as her + father described it. She gave amusing descriptions of her visits among the + cottagers, retailed little quaint conceits such as drop from rustic lips + declared unto them by their fathers from the old time before them, and in + it all she displayed a keen insight into human nature. At times she was + brilliant; which her father noticed with grave approval, ignorant or + heedless of the fact that brilliancy means friction. Happy people are not + brilliant. + </p> + <p> + She suddenly developed a taste for politics, and read the newspaper with a + keen interest. Several half-forgotten duties were revived, and their + performance became a matter of principle. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Glynde did not notice these subtle changes. Old men are generally + selfish, more so, if possible, than young ones, and Mr. Glynde was + eminently so. He only saw other people in relationship to himself. He + looked at them through himself. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glynde had taken the opportunity of a “cutting out” to mention that + she thought a change would do Dora good. During the three months that had + elapsed since the announcement of Jem's death, Stagholme had necessarily + been a somewhat dull abode. The winter had not come on well, but in fits + and starts, with trying winds and much rain. She said these things while + she cut into her roll of red flannel—the scissors seemed to give her + courage. + </p> + <p> + The Rector of Stagholme had awful visions of a furnished house at Brighton + or a crammed hotel on the Riviera. + </p> + <p> + “Where do you want to go to?” he inquired, with a gruffness which meant + less than it conveyed. + </p> + <p> + “To town, dear.” + </p> + <p> + Now Mr. Glynde loved London. + </p> + <p> + In the meantime Dora was standing at the gate of the gamekeeper's little + cottage-garden which adjoined the orchard at Stagholme. There were certain + women with whom Sister Cecilia did not “get on,” and these were by tacit + understanding relegated to Dora. This same inability to “get on” was one + of the crosses which Sister Cecilia carried in a magnified condition + through life. The gamekeeper's wife was one of the failures—a hardy + mother of several hardy little embryo gamekeepers, who held that she knew + her own business of motherhood best, and intimated as much to Sister + Cecilia. + </p> + <p> + Dora went there very frequently, and the pathos of her way with little + children is one of the things which cannot be touched upon here. It is + possible that she went there because the cottage was near the Holme, and + the way took her past the great house. She had never laid aside her old + girlish habit of passing through the rooms, unannounced, to exchange a few + words with Mrs. Agar. It was not that she held that lady in great + veneration or respect; but in the country people learn to take their + neighbours as they are, remembering that they are neighbours. + </p> + <p> + She went through the orchard and in at the side-door, which stood always + open to the turn of the handle. She had fallen into a singular habit of + always using this entrance, and of glancing as she passed at the + stick-rack, where a rough mountain-ash was wont to stand—a stick + which Jem had cut, while she stood by, years before. There was, perhaps, + something characteristically suggestive of Jem in this stick—something + strong and simple. She was not the person to indulge in sentimental + thoughts; she could not afford to do that, Indeed, she often looked into + the stick-rack without thinking, but she never passed it without looking. + </p> + <p> + In the library she found Mrs. Agar, talking to her maid, who withdrew with + a pinched salutation. Mrs. Agar was one of those unfortunate women who + level all ranks in their sore need of a listener. The expression of her + face was decidedly lachrymose. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Arthur!” she exclaimed. “Dora, dear, something so dreadful has + happened!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” returned Dora, with the indifference of one who has tasted of the + worst. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Arthur has received Jem's papers and diaries and things, and I can + see from his letter that it has quite upset him. He is so sympathetic, you + know.” + </p> + <p> + Dora had turned quite away. She usually carried a stick in her country + rambles, and it seemed suddenly to have suggested itself to her to lay + this on a table near the door. The stick fell off again, and some moments + elapsed while she picked it up from the floor. When she turned, her veil + had slipped from the brim of her hat down over her face. + </p> + <p> + “But it could not have been a surprise to him,” she said quietly. “He must + have known that there would probably be something of the sort sent home.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes. But you know, dear, how keenly he feels everything. These + highly-strung, artistic temperaments—but I need not tell you; you + know Arthur almost as well as I do.” + </p> + <p> + Dora answered nothing. It was not the first time that Mrs. Agar had + charged some remark with that weight of significance which, in her + vulgar-minded subtlety, she considered delicate and exceptionally clever. + And each time that Dora heard it she was conscious of a vague discomfort, + as at the approach of some danger, of some interference in her life which + would be too strong for her to resist. It was one of those mean feminine + thrusts to parry which is to acknowledge, to ignore is to admit fear. + </p> + <p> + “Has he sent them on to you?” she asked after a little pause, resisting + only by a great effort the temptation to look towards the writing-table. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” was the reply. “It appears that they have been in his possession + for some time. He kept them back for some reason—I cannot think + why.” + </p> + <p> + Providence is sometimes unexpectedly kind. Had Mrs. Agar been a different + woman, had she, perhaps, been a better woman, less aggravating, more + discreet, more honourable, she would not have done at this moment + precisely that which Dora was silently praying that she would do. + </p> + <p> + “Here,” continued the mistress of Stagholme, going to the writing-table, + “is his diary; perhaps you would care to look through it? Poor Jem! I am + afraid it will not be very interesting.” + </p> + <p> + Dora took the little dark-coloured book almost indifferently. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” she said. “It was always an effort to him to write the very + shortest letter, was it not? Papa would like to see it, I know, if I may + show it to him.” + </p> + <p> + Being rather taller than Mrs. Agar, she could see over that lady's + shoulder as she stood turning over with some curiosity a score or so of + bundles evidently containing letters. + </p> + <p> + “These,” said Mrs. Agar, “seem to be letters; probably our letters to him. + Shall we burn them?” + </p> + <p> + Dora reflected for a moment. She knew that many of the bundles must + contain letters from herself to Jem—letters which could have been + read from the housetops without conveying anything to the populace. But + some of them—almost between the lines—had been intended to + convey, and had conveyed, something to Jem. She reflected—without + anger, as women do on such matters—that if curiosity moved her, Mrs. + Agar would not scruple to open all these letters and read them. The + packets had evidently not been opened, and a momentary feeling of grateful + recognition of Arthur's gentlemanly honour passed through her mind. There + was about the faded papers that dim, mysterious odour which ever clings to + packages that have been packed in India. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, “let us burn them.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar seemed to hesitate for a moment, but it was only for effect. She + dreaded the packages, for one of them might contain the will which haunted + her. + </p> + <p> + And so these two women, so very different, from such very different + motives, carried the letters to the fire, and there they burnt them. In + the curling flames Dora saw her own handwriting. She could not understand + the suppressed excitement of Mrs. Agar's manner; she only knew that the + mistress of Stagholme seemed to be afraid of looking at the burning + papers. + </p> + <p> + When all was consumed both women heaved a sigh of relief. + </p> + <p> + “There,” said Mrs. Agar, “I am glad we have been able to save poor Arthur + that. These things are so very painful.” + </p> + <p> + Dora looked rather as if she could not understand why the painful things + of life should be harder for Arthur to bear than for other people. But she + said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “He will be glad,” continued Mrs. Agar, “to hear that it was you who + helped me. I know he would rather that it had been you than any one.” + </p> + <p> + All this with the horrid meaning, the sly significance, of her kind; for + there are women for whom there is absolutely nothing sacred in the whole + gamut of human feelings. There are women who will talk of things upon + which the lips of even the most depraved men are silent. + </p> + <p> + And with it there was nothing that Dora could take exception to—nothing + that she could answer without running the risk of bringing upon herself + questions to which she had no reply. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she said cheerfully, “it is done now, so we can dismiss it from + our minds. Of course you know that mother is getting out of hand + altogether. I cannot hold her in. Her plans are simply kittenish. She + wants to take a flat in town for two months, to take Boulton and one maid, + to hire a cook, and to go generally to the bad.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar's eyes glistened. She liked to hear of other people seeking + excitement because she felt more justified in doing so herself. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I think she is very sensible. I am sure you all want a change. I + feel I do. It is so depressing here all alone with one's thoughts. Sister + Cecilia was just saying the other day that I ought to go away to Brighton + or somewhere—that I owed it to Arthur.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see why you should not pay it to yourself, whoever you owe it + to,” said Dora. “This is an age of going away for changes. Life is like + old Martin's trousers—so patched up with changes that the original + pattern has disappeared.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear,” replied Mrs. Agar, with a vague laugh. In conversation with + Dora she invariably felt clumsy and unable to protect herself, like a + stout fencer conscious of many vulnerable outlying points. She did not + understand this girl, and never knew which was carte and which tierce. “So + you are going away?” + </p> + <p> + “I expect so. Mother usually carries through her little schemes, and in + his inward soul papa is rather a fast old gentleman. He loves the + pavement, and—I don't object to the shops myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you will like it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes!” replied Dora, rising to go. “Like Mr. Martin, I am not sure that + the old pattern is worth preserving.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I could go with you,” said Mrs. Agar, holding up her cheek in an + absent way for the farewell kiss; “I have not been to town for ages.” + </p> + <p> + “Last week,” amended Dora mentally. + </p> + <p> + “Why not come too?” she said aloud, gathering together stick, basket, and + gloves. + </p> + <p> + “There is Arthur,” replied the lady. “I am afraid he will not care to + leave home just now, after so great a blow.” + </p> + <p> + “All the more reason why he should go to town for a little and forget—himself.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar smiled sadly and waited for further persuasion. She had fully + made up her mind to go to Brighton, but was anxious first that the whole + parish should press her to do so against her will. + </p> + <p> + “It will be very nice,” continued Dora, “to have you to help me to keep my + flighty progenitors in order. Now I <i>must</i> go.” + </p> + <p> + With a nod and a light laugh she closed the library door behind her, + having apparently forgotten the sadder events of the visit. But in her + basket she had the diary. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. LIKE SHIPS UPON THE SEA + </h2> + <h3> + Be as one that knoweth, and yet holdeth his tongue. + </h3> + <p> + “And, of course, you know every one in the room?” Dora was saying to her + cousin as the orchestra struck suddenly into “God bless the Prince of + Wales.” + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious, no!” Miss Mazerod replied; and both young ladies stood up + to curtsey to the Royal party. + </p> + <p> + It was the great artistic <i>soirée</i> of the year, and crowds of + nobodies jostled each other in their mad desire to deceive whosoever might + be credulous into the belief that they were somebodies. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Dora, when they were seated again, and the strains of + the Welsh air had been suppressed “by desire,” “they may be very great + swells; I have no doubt they are in their particular way; but they do not + look it.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Mazerod looked round critically. + </p> + <p> + “Some of them,” she said, “are frame-makers, a good many of them, with big + bills in high places. Others are actresses—very great actresses off + the stage. Do you see that tall girl there, with a supercilious expression + which she does not know is apt to remind one of a housemaid scorning a + milkman's love on the area steps? She is a great actress, who will not + take small engagements, and is not offered large ones. She is an actress + 'pour se faire photographier.'” + </p> + <p> + “And this is the cream of London society?” said Dora, looking round her + with considerable amusement. + </p> + <p> + “Society,” returned her cousin, “is not allowed to stand for cream now. It + is stirred up with a spoon, silver-gilt, and the skim milk gets hopelessly + mixed up with the cream. That young man who is now talking to the actress + person is not what he looks. He is, as a matter of fact, the scion of a + noble house, who models in clay atrociously.” + </p> + <p> + “And the gorgeous person he is turning his back upon?” + </p> + <p> + “One of his models.” + </p> + <p> + “Of clay?” + </p> + <p> + “Essentially so.” + </p> + <p> + And Miss Mazerod broke off into a happy laugh. Hers was not the bitterness + of plainness or insignificance, but something infinitely more suggestive. + It was, indeed, not bitterness at all, but light-hearted contempt, which + is, perhaps, the deepest contempt there is. + </p> + <p> + “Who is the wretched woman with no backbone draped in rusty black?” asked + Dora. + </p> + <p> + “My dear! That is one of the great lady artists of the age. She lectures + to factory girls or something, and she paints limp females snuffling over + tiger-lilies. Her ideal woman has that sort of droop of the throat—I + imagine she-tries to teach it to the factory. She objects to backbone.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Mazerod, who possessed a very firm little specimen of the adjunct + mentioned, drew herself up and smiled commiseratingly. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Dora, “I feel quite consoled about my sketches.” + </p> + <p> + For the first time Miss Mazerod looked serious. + </p> + <p> + “Dora,” she said, “I often wonder whether it would be profane to mention + in one's prayers a little gratitude for not having an artistic soul. There + are lots of women like that in the world, especially in London. They + pretend that they think themselves superior to men, but they know in their + hearts that they are inferior to women. For they have not something that + women ought to have—No, Dolly, no brown studies here; you must not + dream here!” + </p> + <p> + Dora, with a light laugh, came back from her mental wanderings to find + herself looking at a face which caught her attention at once. It was the + face of a man—brown, self-contained, with unhappy eyes and a long + drooping nose. + </p> + <p> + “Who is <i>that</i> man?” she inquired at once. “Now, he is quite + different from the rest. He is about the only person who is not furtively + finding out how much attention he has succeeded in attracting.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that is a man with a purpose.” + </p> + <p> + “What purpose?” inquired Dora. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know; I shouldn't think any one knows.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>He</i> knows,” suggested Dora. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, <i>he</i> knows.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Mazerod was looking at the mechanism of her fan with a demure + expression on lips shaped for happiness. A dark young man was elbowing his + way through the mixed crowd towards them. + </p> + <p> + “What is his name?” asked Dora, who was still looking at the man with a + purpose. + </p> + <p> + “General Seymour Michael.” + </p> + <p> + “The Indian man?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + There was a little pause, during which Miss Mazerod glanced in the + direction of the younger man, who had been detained by a stout lady with a + purple dress and a depressed daughter. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to know him,” said Dora. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing easier,” replied her cousin, still absorbed in the fan. “I know + him quite well.” + </p> + <p> + “He is looking at you now.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Mazerod looked up and bowed with a little jerk, as if she felt too + young to be stately; one of those bows that say “Come here.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment the younger man came up and shook hands effusively with + Dora, slowly with Miss Mazerod. + </p> + <p> + “Jack,” said that young lady, “I have just beamed on General Michael, who + is behind you. I want to introduce him to Dora.” + </p> + <p> + Jack seemed to think this an excellent idea, and stepped aside with + alacrity. + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael came forward with his pleasant smile. He certainly was one + of the most distinguished-looking men in the room, with a brilliant ribbon + across his breast, and that smart, well-brushed general effect which + stamps the successful soldier. + </p> + <p> + “When did you come back to England?” inquired Edith Mazerod, whose father + had worked with this man in India. + </p> + <p> + “I—oh! I have been home six months,” he replied, shaking hands with + a subtle <i>empressemant</i> which was more effective than words. + </p> + <p> + “On leave?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Laid on the shelf.” + </p> + <p> + He stood upright, drawing himself up with ironical emphasis, as if to show + as plainly as possible that there were many years of life and work in him + yet. + </p> + <p> + Edith Mazerod laughed, the careless passing laugh of inattention. + </p> + <p> + “Dora,” she said, “may I introduce General Michael? My cousin.” + </p> + <p> + She rose, and Seymour Michael prepared to take the vacant seat. The youth + called Jack was making signs with his eyebrows, and in attempting to + decipher his meaning she forgot to mention Dora's name. + </p> + <p> + “You will be sorry for this,” said Seymour Michael, sitting down. “You + will not thank your cousin.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” inquired Dora, prepared to like him, possibly because he had a + brown face and wore his hair cut short. + </p> + <p> + “Because,” he replied, “I am hopelessly new to this work.” + </p> + <p> + “So am I,” replied Dora; “I don't even know what pictures to look at and + what to ignore. So I dare not look at the walls at all.” + </p> + <p> + “That is precisely my position, only I am worse. You know how to behave in + polite circles; I don't. You have a slightly tired look, as if this sort + of thing wearied you by reason of its monotony.” + </p> + <p> + “Have I? I am sorry for that.” + </p> + <p> + “No, there is no reason to be sorry. They all have it.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” protested Dora, “I am not one of them. I am only aping the Romans.” + </p> + <p> + “You do it well; I shall study your method. You do it better than Edith + Mazerod.” + </p> + <p> + “Edith is young—hopelessly, enviably young. Do you know them well?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I knew them in India.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course; I forgot.” + </p> + <p> + He turned and looked at her sharply. Sometimes his own reputation, far + from being a happiness, gave him cause for misgiving. A man with an + unclean record cannot well be sure that all the details he would wish + suppressed have been suppressed. There was a little pause, during which + they both watched the self-satisfied throng moving in and out, here and + there, full of a restless desire to be observed. + </p> + <p> + It was Seymour Michael who spoke first. True to his mixed blood, he sought + to make himself safe. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me,” he said, “but Edith Mazerod did not mention your name; may I + ask it?” + </p> + <p> + “Dora Glynde!” + </p> + <p> + She saw him start. She saw a sudden wavering gleam in his eyes which in + another man she would have set down to fear. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Dora Glynde,” he repeated; and the expression of his face was so + serene again that the look which had passed away from it began already to + present itself to her memory as a conception of her own brain. + </p> + <p> + “When I was younger and shyer,” he said, with a singular haste, “I was + afraid to ask a lady her name when I did not catch it, and—and I + frequently regretted not having had the courage to do so.” + </p> + <p> + She recollected it all afterwards—every word, every pause. But then, + as so frequently happens, knowledge aided her memory, and added + significance to every detail. + </p> + <p> + “Are you staying with the Mazerods?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am being shown life. I am doing a season. To-night is part of my + education. To-morrow, I believe, we go to Hurlingham; the next day to a + charity bazaar, and so on. I believe I am getting on very well. Aunt Mary + is pleased with me. But I still stare about me, and show visible + disappointment when I am presented to a literary celebrity or some other + person of newspaper renown.” + </p> + <p> + “Celebrities in the flesh <i>are</i> disappointing.” + </p> + <p> + “Not only that, but I find that many of them are just a little common. Not + quite what we in the country call gentlemen.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Miss Glynde, you forget that Art rises superior to class + distinctions.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but artists don't; and artists' wives don't rise at all. I think you + are to be congratulated. In your profession there are fewer persons + 'superior to class distinction.'” + </p> + <p> + This was a subject which Seymour Michael dreaded. He was ignorant of how + much Dora might know. He had suspected from the first that Jem Agar's + desire that she should know the truth had been a mere matter of sentiment; + but the fact of meeting her at this public festivity, gay and in colours, + shook this theory from its foundation. He disliked Edith Mazerod, because + he suspected that his own early career had probably been discussed in her + hearing, and her easy lightness of heart was to him as incomprehensible as + it was suspicious. Dora he rather feared without knowing why. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you know India well?” she said, looking straight in front of + her. + </p> + <p> + “Too well,” was the reply, with a sharp sidelong glance. + </p> + <p> + He was right. At that moment Dora might have been one of these <i>habituées</i> + of rout and ballroom. She was very pale and looked tired out. + </p> + <p> + “I went out there thirty years ago,” he continued, “into the Mutiny. From + that time to this India has been killing my friends.” + </p> + <p> + There was a little pause. She knew that in the natural course of events it + was almost certain that this man knew Jem personally. It would have been + easy to mention his name; but the wound was too fresh, her heart was too + sore to bear the sting of hearing him discussed. + </p> + <p> + For a second Seymour Michael hovered on the brink. His lips almost framed + the name. Good almost triumphed over evil. + </p> + <p> + And the girl sitting there—broken-hearted, quiet and strong, as only + women can be—never knew how near she was. Sometimes it seems as if + the cruelty of fate were unnecessary, as if the word too little or the + word too much, which has the power to alter a whole life, were withheld or + spoken merely to further a Providential experiment. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Michael, “I hate India.” + </p> + <p> + And the spell was broken, the moment lost for ever. Seymour Michael had + kept silence, and elsewhere, perhaps, at that very moment his doom was + spoken. Who can tell? We are offered chances—we are, if you will, + the puppets of an experiment—and surely there must be a moment which + decides. + </p> + <p> + Dora was conscious of having miscalculated her own strength. She had led + him on to the dangerous ground, but it was with relief that she saw him + step back. She did not dare to lead him to it again. + </p> + <p> + It was not long before he left her, on the timely arrival of another + friend. + </p> + <p> + The introduction brought about by Miss Mazerod did not seem to have been + an entire success, for they parted gravely and without a word expressing + the hope of meeting again. And yet Dora liked him, for he was strong and purposeful, + such as she would have had all men. She wanted to know more of him. She + wanted to be admitted further into the knowledge which she knew to be his. + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael was conscious of a feeling of discomfort, no less + disquieting by reason of its vagueness. He had a nervous sensation of + being surrounded by something—something in the nature of a chain, + piecing itself together, link by link—something that was slowly + closing in upon him. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. AT HURLINGHGAM + </h2> + <h3> + I must be cruel only to be kind. + </h3> + <p> + It is not your deep person who succeeds in carrying out a set purpose, but + one who is just profound enough to be fathomed of the multitude. For, + after all, the multitude is ready enough to help, in a casual, parenthetic + way, in the furtherance of a design; and a little depth, serving to + flatter that vanity which taketh delight in a sense of superior + perspicacity, only adds to the zest. There are plenty of people ready to + pull on a rope or shove at a wheel, but there are more eager to do so if + they are offered the direction of affairs. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glynde was one of those easily-fathomed persons who often succeed in + their designs by the very transparency of their method. She had come to + London with the purpose of leaving Dora there under the care of her sister + Lady Mazerod, and before she had talked to that amiable widow for half an + hour the design was as apparent as if it had been spoken. + </p> + <p> + In due course Dora and Miss Mazerod renewed a childish love, and at the + end of April Mr. And Mrs. Glynde went back to Stagholme alone. It is + probable that neither Mrs. Glynde nor Providence could have chosen a + better companion for Dora at this time than Edith Mazerod. There was a + breezy simplicity about this young lady's view of life which seemed to + have the power of simplifying life itself. There are some people like this + to whom is vouchsafed a limited comprehension of evil and an unlimited + belief in good. A very shrewd author, who is, perhaps, not so much read + to-day as he ought to be, said that “to the pure all things are pure.” He + often said less than he meant. For he knew as well as we do that the + pure-minded are just so many moral filters who clear the atmosphere and + take no harm themselves. + </p> + <p> + Dora Glynde required some one like this; for she had, as the French say, + “found herself.” The little world of Stagholme—the world of this + Record—was intensely human. There was nobody very good in it and + nobody very bad. Jem, with that quicker perception of evil which is wisely + included in the mental outfit of men, had warned her against Sister + Cecilia. And she had begun to understand his meaning now. Mrs. Agar she + had found out for herself. Her father she respected and loved, but she had + reached that age wherein we discover that father and mother are but as + other men and women. Her mother she loved with that half-patronising + affection which is found where a daughter is mentally superior. + </p> + <p> + The only person whom she had ever really respected and looked up to + without reserve was Jem. + </p> + <p> + Altogether life was too complicated, subtle, difficult, hopeless, when + Edith Mazerod came into it, and by her presence seemed to clear the + atmosphere of daily existence. + </p> + <p> + At first the constant round of visiting and gaiety was a supreme effort; + then came tolerance, and finally that business-like acceptance which is + mistaken by many for enjoyment. The human machine is not constructed to go + always at high pressure, either in happiness or in misery. We cannot exist + all day and all night with a living care on our shoulders—the + greatest misery slips off-sometimes. With men it can be lubricated by hard + work, and likewise by alcohol, but the latter method is not always to be + advised. With women there is much consolation to be extracted from a new + dress or several new dresses and a hat. Even a new pair of gloves may help + a breaking heart, and a glass of bitter beer taken at the right moment + (with or without faith) has power to change a man's view of life. + </p> + <p> + So Dora, who had at no time been tragic, began to find that Academy <i>soirées</i> + and similar entertainments assisted her in preserving towards the world + that attitude which she had elected to assume. And if there be any who + blame her, they are at liberty to do so. It is not worth while to pause + for the purpose of writing—on the ground or elsewhere—for + their edification. + </p> + <p> + Only one such alleviation did she repent of in after life. The day after + the Academy <i>soirée</i> the Mazerods took her to Hurlingham. And + Hurlingham became one of the pages of her life which she would have wished + to tear completely out. + </p> + <p> + When they drove in through the simple gateway and round by the winding + drive, it was evident that a great afternoon was to be expected. The + blue-and-white club flag fluttered over a pavilion crammed from roof to + terrace. The teams were already out in their bright colours, curveting + about, each with a practice ball, on their stiff little ponies, moving + with that singular cramped action only seen on the polo ground. + </p> + <p> + It was one of those brilliant days in early May when only gardeners, + grumbling, talk or think of rain. A few fleecy white clouds seemed + painted. So motionless were they, on the sky, reproducing the Hurlingham + colours far above the ground. A gentle breeze coming up from the river + brought with it the odour of lilac and budding things. + </p> + <p> + The chairs were crowded with a well-dressed throng, the larger majority of + which seemed to be unaware that polo was the object of the afternoon. + </p> + <p> + The Mazerods and Dora had scarcely taken chairs when Arthur Agar presented + himself. His tailor had apparently told him that after a lapse of six + months it was permissible to assume habiliments of a slightly resigned + tenour. His grey suit was one of the most elegant on the ground, his Suède + gloves fitted perfectly, his tie was unique. And Arthur Agar was as happy + as the best-dressed girl there. + </p> + <p> + The reception accorded him was not exactly enthusiastic. Having in view + the fact that the young man called Jack was entirely satisfactory, Lady + Mazerod treated all other young men with indifference. Edith despised + Arthur Agar because Jack was athletic in his tendencies; and Dora was + sorry to see him, because she had not answered his three last letters. + There were also numerous small but expensive presents for which she had + failed to tender thanks. + </p> + <p> + Unfortunately the young man called Jack turned up at tea-time, carrying + one of the heavy chairs, which never fail to spoil the gloves of some of + us, with unconscious ease. Owing to the activity and enterprise of this + young gentleman, tea was soon procured, and consequently despatched before + the interval was over and before the band had wet its whistle with + something of a different nature from that in vogue on the lawn. A stroll + through the gardens was proposed, and Lady Mazerod sent the young people + off alone. There was no choice; but Dora had probably no thought of making + a choice, had such been offered to her. She, like many another young lady, + erred in placing too great a confidence in her own powers of staving + things off. + </p> + <p> + There was no doubt whatever about Edith and the energetic John. They led + the way round by the river path and the tennis-courts with a sublime + disregard for the eye of the multitude, leaving Dora and Arthur to follow + at such speed as their discretion might dictate. + </p> + <p> + Before they had left the tennis-lawn Arthur plunged. It may have been the + desperation of diffidence, or perhaps that the new grey suit and the + unique tie lent him confidence. One sees a young lady completely carried + off her mental status by the success of a dress or the absence of a + dreaded competitor, and Arthur Agar had enough of the woman in him to give + way to this dangerous vertigo. + </p> + <p> + “Dora,” he said, “you have not answered my last three letters.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” she replied, “because they struck me as a little ridiculous.” + </p> + <p> + “Ridiculous!” he repeated, with such sincere dismay that she was moved to + compassion. “Ridiculous, Dora, why?” + </p> + <p> + His horror-struck, almost tearful voice gave her a pang of self-reproach, + as if she had struck some defenceless dumb animal. + </p> + <p> + “Well, there were things in them that I did not understand.” + </p> + <p> + “But I could make you understand them,” he said, with a sudden + self-assertion which startled her. The weakest man is, after all, a man—so + far as women are concerned. + </p> + <p> + “I think you had better not,” she said, hurrying her steps. + </p> + <p> + But he refused to alter his pace, and he disregarded her warning. + </p> + <p> + “They meant,” he said, “that I wanted you to know that I love you.” + </p> + <p> + There was a little pause. Dora was struck dumb by a chill sense of + foreboding. It was like a momentary glance into a future full of trouble. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry,” she said, “for that. I hope—that you may find that it + is a mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “But it is not a mistake. I don't see why it should be one.” + </p> + <p> + Dora paused. She was afraid to strike. She did not know yet that it is + less cruel to be cruel at once. + </p> + <p> + “It is best to look at these things practically,” she said. “And if we + look at it practically we shall find that you and I are not at all likely + to be happy together.” + </p> + <p> + “However I look at it, I only see that I should never be happy without + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, Arthur, you are not looking at it practically.” + </p> + <p> + “No, and I don't want to,” he replied doggedly. + </p> + <p> + “That is a mistake. A little bit of life may not be practical, but all the + rest of it is; and for the gratification of that little bit, there is all + the rest to be lived through.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur looked puzzled. He rearranged the orchid in his coat before + replying. He had found time to think of the orchid. + </p> + <p> + “I don't understand all that,” he said. “I only know that I love you, and + that I should be miserable without you. Besides, if that little bit is + love—I suppose you admit there is such a thing as love?” + </p> + <p> + Dora winced. She was looking through the trees across the peaceful evening + river. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered gently. “I suppose so.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur Agar had been brought up in an atmosphere of futile discussion, but + he had never wanted anything in vain. There are women—fools—who + dare to bring up children thus in a world where wanting in vain is the + chief characteristic of daily life. Arthur was ready enough to go on + discussing his future thus, but never doubted that it would all come to + his desire in the end. He was like a woman in so much as he failed to + understand an argument which he could not meet. + </p> + <p> + They walked on amidst the flowering shrubs, and Dora was filled with a + disquieting sense of having failed to convince him. + </p> + <p> + “I do not want to hurry you,” said Arthur presently, with a maddening + equanimity. “You can give me your answer some other time.” + </p> + <p> + “But I have given it now.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur was engaged in taking off his hat to a passing lady, and made no + acknowledgment of this. + </p> + <p> + “Everybody at home would be pleased,” he observed, after a pause occupied + by the adjustment of his hat. “They all want it.” + </p> + <p> + It was not that he refused to take No when it was given to him, but rather + that he did not recognise it, never having encountered it before. + </p> + <p> + They were now coming round by the pigeon-shooting enclosure, and the + strains of the band announced that the interval for tea had elapsed. + </p> + <p> + In the distance Lady Mazerod and Edith, attended by the indefatigable + Jack, were keeping a chair for Dora. She slackened her pace. To her the + knowledge had come that the difficulties of life have usually to be met + single-handed. She was not afraid of Arthur, but this was a distinct + difficulty because of the influence he had at his back. + </p> + <p> + “Arthur,” she said, “I think we had better understand each other <i>now</i>. + It may save us both something in the future. I cannot help feeling rather + sorry that I must say No. Every girl must feel that. I do not know from + whence the feeling comes. It is a sort of regret, as if something good and + valuable were being wasted. But, Arthur, it <i>is</i> No, and it must + always be No. I am not the sort of person to change.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” he replied, <i>en vrai fils de sa mère</i>, “that there is + some one else?” + </p> + <p> + He turned as he spoke, but Dora's parasol was too quick for him. + </p> + <p> + “Please do not let us be like people in books,” she said. “There is no + necessity to go into side issues at all. You have asked me to marry you. I + can never marry you. There is the whole question and the whole answer. I + say nothing to you about finding somebody worthier, or any nonsense of + that sort. Please spare me the usual—impertinences—about there + being somebody else.” + </p> + <p> + The word found its mark. Arthur Agar caught his breath, but made no + answer. + </p> + <p> + They were among the well-dressed throng now crowding back to the chairs. + </p> + <p> + When Arthur had handed Dora over to the care of Lady Mazerod he lifted his + hat and took his departure with that perfect <i>savoir faire</i> which was + his <i>forte</i>. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. IN A SIDE PATH + </h2> + <p> + “To sum up all, he has the worst fault-a husband can have, he's not my + choice.” + </p> + <p> + There is something doubtful in a love-making that is in more than two + pairs of hands. This is a day of syndicates. The strength that lies in + union is cultivated nowadays with much assiduity. But in matters of love + the case is not yet altered, and never will be. It is a matter for two + people to decide between themselves, and all interference is mistaken and + deplorable. It is usually, one notices, those persons who are incapable of + the feeling themselves who seek to interfere in the affairs of others. + </p> + <p> + That one of the principals should seek aid in such interference proves + without appeal that he does not know his business. Such aid as this Arthur + Agar had sought. He had, as Dora suspected, written to his mother, with + full particulars of the conversation beneath the Hurlingham trees. He had + laid before her many arguments, which, by reason of their effeminacy, + appealed to her illogical mind, proving that Dora could not do better than + marry him. The arrangement, he argued, was satisfactory from whatever + point of view it might be taken; and, finally, he begged his mother to try + and succeed where he had failed. He did not propose that Mrs. Agar should + appeal to Dora; not because such a course was repellent, but merely + because he knew a better. He suggested that Mrs. Agar should sound Mr. + Glynde upon the matter. + </p> + <p> + This suggestion was in itself a stroke of diplomacy. The astute have no + doubt found out by this time that the Reverend Thomas Glynde loved money; + and a man who loves money has not the makings of a good father within him, + whatever else he may have. Whether Arthur was aware of this it would be + hard to say. Whether he had the penetration to know that, in the nature of + things, Mr. Glynde would urge Dora to marry Arthur Agar and Stagholme, + without due regard to her own feelings in the matter, is a question upon + which no man can give a reliable opinion. Certain it is that such a course + was precisely what the Reverend Thomas had marked out for himself. + </p> + <p> + He had an exaggerated respect for money and position—a title was a + thing to be revered. Clergymen, like artists, are dependent on patronage, + and must swallow their pride. It is therefore, perhaps, only natural that + Mr. Glynde should be quite prepared to make some sacrifice of feeling or + sentiment (especially the feeling and sentiment of another) in order to + secure a position. + </p> + <p> + Arthur Agar simply followed the spirit of the age. He could not succeed + alone, and therefore he proceeded to form a syndicate to compel Dora to + love him, or in the meantime to marry him. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Sister Cecilia to Mrs. Agar, when the matter was first + under discussion, “she would soon learn to care for him. Women <i>always</i> + do.” + </p> + <p> + Which shows how much Sister Cecilia knew about it. + </p> + <p> + “And besides, I believe she cares for him already,” added Mrs. Agar, who + never did things by halves. + </p> + <p> + Sister Cecilia dropped her head on one side and looked convinced—to + order. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” pursued Mrs. Agar vaguely, “I am very fond of Dora; no one + could be more so. But I must confess that I do not always understand her.” + </p> + <p> + Even to Sister Cecilia it would not do to confess that she was afraid of + her. + </p> + <p> + The interview was easily brought about. Mrs. Agar wrote a note to the + Rector and asked him to luncheon. The Rector, who had not had many legal + affairs to settle during his uneventful life, was always pleased to be + consulted upon a subject of which he knew absolutely nothing. Besides, + they gave one a good luncheon at Stagholme in those days. + </p> + <p> + “I have had a letter from dear Arthur,” said Mrs. Agar, at a moment which + she deemed propitious, namely, after a third glass of the Stagholme brown + sherry. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I hope he is well. The boy is not strong.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he is quite well, thank you. But of course he has had a great shock, + and one cannot expect him to get over it all at once.” + </p> + <p> + The Rector did not hold much by sentiment, so he contented himself with a + grave sip of sherry. + </p> + <p> + “And now I am afraid there is fresh trouble,” added Mrs. Agar. + </p> + <p> + “Been running into debt?” suggested Mr. Glynde. + </p> + <p> + “No, it is not that. No, it is Dora.” + </p> + <p> + “Dora! What has Dora been doing?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar was polishing the rim of a silver salt-cellar with her + forefinger. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she said, “I have seen it going on for a long time. My poor + boy has always—well, he has always admired Dora.”' + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and of course I should like nothing better. I am sure they would be + most happy.” + </p> + <p> + The Rector looked doubtful. + </p> + <p> + “We must not forget,” he said, “that Arthur is constitutionally delicate. + That extreme repugnance to active exercise, the love of ease and—er—indoor + pursuits, show a tendency to enfeeble the organisation which might—I + don't say it will, but it might—turn to decline.” + </p> + <p> + “But the doctors say that he is quite strong. Everybody cannot be robust + and—and massive.” + </p> + <p> + She was thinking of Jem, against whom she had always borne a grudge, + because his inoffensive presence alone had the power of making Arthur look + puny. + </p> + <p> + “No; and of course with care one may hope that Arthur will live to a ripe + old age,” said the Rector, who was only coquetting with the question. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar played with a biscuit. She had a rooted aversion to the query + direct. + </p> + <p> + “I should have thought,” she said, “that you or her mother would have seen + that such an attachment was likely to form itself.” + </p> + <p> + The truth was that the Reverend Thomas did not devote very much thought to + any subject which did not directly influence his own well-being. He had at + one time thought that an attachment between Jem and Dora might + conveniently result from a childhood's friendship, but Arthur had not + entered into his prognostications at all. He rather despised the youth, as + much on his own account as that he was Anna Agar's son. + </p> + <p> + “Can't say,” he replied, “that the thing ever entered my head. Of course, + if the young people have settled it all between themselves, I suppose we + must give them our blessing, and be thankful that we have been saved + further trouble.” + </p> + <p> + He thought it rather strange that Dora should have fixed her affections on + such an unlikely object as Arthur Agar; but it was part of his earthly + creed that the feelings of women are as incomprehensible as they are + unimportant. Which, by the way, serves to show how very little the Rector + of Stagholme knew of the world. + </p> + <p> + “But,” protested Mrs. Agar, “they have <i>not</i> settled it between + themselves. That is just it.” + </p> + <p> + “Just what?” + </p> + <p> + “Just the difficulty.” + </p> + <p> + Immediately Mr. Glynde's face fell to its usual degree of set depression. + </p> + <p> + “What do they want me to do?” he inquired, with that air of resignation + which is in reality no resignation at all. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Mrs. Agar volubly, “it appears that Arthur spoke to Dora at + Hurlingham, and for some reason she said No. I can't understand it at all. + I am sure she has always appeared to like him very much. It may have been + some passing fancy or something, you know. When she is told that it would + please us all, perhaps she will change her mind. Poor Arthur is terribly + cut up about it. Of course a man in his position does not quite expect to + be treated cavalierly like that.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Glynde smiled. Behind the parson there was somewhat even better; there + was a just and honest English gentleman, which, in the way of human + species, is very hard to beat. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid Arthur will have to manage such affairs for himself. When a + girl is settling a question involving her whole life she does not usually + pause to consider the position of the man who asks her to be his wife. He + would have no business to ask her had he no position, and the rest is + merely a matter of degrees.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you don't care about the match?” said Mrs. Agar, to whose mind the + earliest rudiments of logic were incomprehensible. + </p> + <p> + “I do not say that,” replied the Rector, with the patience of a man who + has had dealings with women all his life; “but I should like it to be + understood that Dora is quite free to choose for herself. I am willing to + tell her that the match would be satisfactory to me. Arthur is a + gentleman, which is saying a good deal in these days. He is affectionate, + and, so far as I know, a dutiful son. I have little doubt he would make a + good husband.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar wiped away an obvious tear, which ran off Mr. Glynde's mental + epidermis like water off the back of the proverbial fowl. This also he had + learnt in the course of his dealings with the world. + </p> + <p> + “He has been a good son to me,” sniffed the fond and foolish mother. + </p> + <p> + Neither of these persons was capable of understanding that “goodness” is + not all we want in husband or wife. These good husbands—heaven help + their wives!—break as many hearts as those who are labelled by the + world with the black ticket. + </p> + <p> + “Then I may tell Arthur that you will help him?” said Mrs. Agar, with a + sudden access of practical energy. + </p> + <p> + “You may tell him that he has my good wishes, and that I will point out to + Dora the advantages of—acceding to his desire. There are, of course, + advantages on both sides, we know that.” + </p> + <p> + As usual, Mrs. Agar overdid things. The airiness of her indifference might + have deceived a child of eight, provided that its intellect was not <i>de + première force.</i> + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es,” she murmured, “I suppose Dora would bring her little—eh—subscription + towards the household expenses. Sister Cecilia gave me to understand that + there was a little something coming to her under her mother's marriage + settlement.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar was not clever enough to see that she had made a mistake. The + mention of Sister Cecilia's name acted on the Rector like a mental douche. + He was just beginning to give way to expansiveness—probably under + the suave influence of the brown sherry—and the name of Sister + Cecilia pulled him together with a jerk. The jerk extended to his + features; but Mrs. Agar was one of those cunning women whom no man need + fear. She was so cunning that she deceived herself into seeing that which + she wished to see, and nothing else. + </p> + <p> + “All that,” said the Rector gravely, “can be discussed when Arthur has + persuaded Dora to say Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He was in the position of an unfortunate person who, having come into + controversy with the police, is warned that every word he says may be used + in evidence against him. He had been reminded that every detail of the + present conversation would be repeated to Sister Cecilia, with + embellishments or subtractions as might please the narrator's fancy or + suit her purpose. + </p> + <p> + “A dangerous woman” he called Sister Cecilia in his most gloomy voice, and + a parson must perforce fear dangerous women. That is one of the trials of + the ministry. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar laughed in a forced manner. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she said—she had a habit of beginning her remarks with + these two words—“of course, we need not think of such questions yet. + I am sure all <i>I</i> want is the happiness of the dear children.” + </p> + <p> + “Umph!” ejaculated Mr. Glynde, who was not always a model of politeness. + </p> + <p> + “That, I am sure,” continued Mrs. Agar, with a dabbing + pocket-handkerchief, “is the dearest wish of us all.” + </p> + <p> + “When does the boy come home?” inquired the Rector. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, in a week. I am so longing for him to come. He has to go to town to + get some clothes, which will delay his return by one night.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he doing any good this term?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar looked slightly hurt. + </p> + <p> + “Well, he always works very hard, I am only afraid that he should overdo + it. You know, I suppose, that he did not get through his examination this + term. Of course it is no good <i>my</i> saying anything, but I am quite + convinced that they are not dealing fairly by him. I have seen some of + those examination papers, and some of the questions are simply spiteful. + They do it on purpose, I know. And Sister Cecilia tells me that that <i>does</i> + happen sometimes. For some reason or other—because they have been + snubbed, or something like that—the masters, the examiners, or + whatever they are called, make a dead set at some men, and simply keep + them back. They don't give them the marks that they ought to have. Why + should Arthur always fail? Of course the thing is unfair.” + </p> + <p> + This theory was not quite new to the Rector. He had given up arguing about + it, and usually took refuge in flight. He did so on this occasion. But as + he walked home across the park, smoking a cigarette, he reflected that to + the owner of Stagholme such a small matter as a college career was, after + all, of no importance. These broad acres, the stately forests, the grand + old house, raised Arthur Agar above such considerations, indeed above most + considerations. And Mr. Glynde made up his mind to put it very strongly to + Dora. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. ALONE + </h2> + <h3> + The name of the slough was Despond. + </h3> + <p> + When Dora returned to Stagholme a fortnight later she was relieved to find + that Arthur had not yet come down from Cambridge. + </p> + <p> + It is a strange thing that in the spring-time those who are happy—<i>pro + tempore</i>, of course, we know all that—are happier, while those + who carry something with them find the burden heavier. Stagholme in the + spring came as a sort of shock to Dora. There were certain adjuncts to the + growth of things which gave her actual pain. After dinner, the first + night, she walked across the garden to the beechwood, but before long she + came back again. There is a scent in beech forests in the spring which is + like no other scent on earth, and Dora found that she could not stand it. + </p> + <p> + Her father and mother were sitting in the drawing-room with open windows, + for it was a warm May that year. She came in through the falling curtains, + and something warned her to keep her face averted from the furtive glance + of her mother's eyes. She had learnt something of the world during her + brief season in town, and one of the lessons had been that the world sees + more than is often credited to it. + </p> + <p> + “The worst,” she said cheerfully, “of a season in town is that it makes + one feel aged and experienced. Middle age came upon me suddenly, just now, + in the garden.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Glynde was looking at her almost critically over his newspaper. + </p> + <p> + “How old are you?” he asked curtly. + </p> + <p> + “Twenty-five.” + </p> + <p> + In some indefinite way the question jarred horribly. Dora was conscious of + a faint doubt in the infallibility of her father's judgment. She knew that + in a worldly sense he was more experienced, more thoughtful, cleverer than + her mother, but in some ways she inclined towards the maternal opinion on + questions connected with herself. + </p> + <p> + At this moment Mrs. Glynde was called from the room, and went reluctantly, + feeling that the time was unpropitious. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Glynde's life had been eminently uneventful. Prosperous, happy in a + half-hearted, almost negative, way, somewhat selfish, he had never known + hardship, had never faced adversity. It is such men as this who love what + they call a serious talk, summoning the subject thereof with exaggerated + gravity to a study, making a point of the <i>mise en scène</i>, and + finally saying nothing that could not have been spoken in course of + ordinary conversation. + </p> + <p> + Dora detected the odour of a serious talk in the atmosphere, and she found + that something had taken away the awe which such conversations had + hitherto inspired. It may have been the season in town, but it was more + probably that confidence which comes from the knowledge of the world. + There were things in life of which she consciously knew more than her + father, and one of these was sorrow. There is nothing that gives so much + confidence as the knowledge that the worst possible has happened. It + raises one above the petty worries of daily existence. + </p> + <p> + Dora knew that her acquaintance with sorrow was more intimate, more + thorough, than that of her father, who sat looking as if the hangman were + at the door. She awaited the serious talk with some apprehension, but none + of that almost paralysing awe which she had known in childhood. + </p> + <p> + “I am getting an old man,” he said, with supreme egotism, “and you cannot + expect to have me with you much longer.” + </p> + <p> + “But I do expect it,” replied Dora cheerfully. “I am sorry to disappoint + you, papa, but I do expect it most decidedly.” + </p> + <p> + This rather spoilt the lugubrious gravity of the situation. + </p> + <p> + “Well, thank Heaven! I am a hearty man yet,” admitted the Rector rather + more hopefully; “but still you cannot expect to have your parents with you + all your life, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it is wiser not to look too far into the future,” replied Dora, + warding off. + </p> + <p> + “I should look much more happily into the future,” replied the Rector, + with the deliberation of the domestic autocrat, “if I knew that you had a + good husband to take care of you.” + </p> + <p> + In a flash of thought Dora traced it all back to Arthur, through Mrs. + Agar; and her would-be lover fell still further in her estimation. He + seemed to be fated to show himself at every turn the very antitype to her + ideal. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” she laughed, “but suppose I got a bad one? You are always saying + that marriage is a lottery, and I don't believe the remark is original. + Suppose I drew a blank; fancy being married to a blank! Or I might do + worse. I might draw minus something—minus brains, for instance. They + are in the lottery, for I have seen them, nicely done up in faultless + linen—both blanks and worse.” + </p> + <p> + She turned away towards the window, and the moment her face was averted it + changed suddenly. The face that looked out towards the beech-wood, where + the shadows were creeping from the darkening east, was piteous, + terror-stricken, driven. + </p> + <p> + It is an ever-living question why people—honest, well-meaning + parents and others—should be set to ride rough-shod over all that is + best and purest in the human mind. + </p> + <p> + The Rector went on, in his calmly self-satisfied voice, with a fatuous + ignorance of what he was doing which must have made the very angels wince. + </p> + <p> + “A great many girls,” he said, “have thrown away a chance of happiness + merely to serve a passing fancy. Mind you don't do that.” + </p> + <p> + She gave a little laugh, quite natural and easy, but her face was grave, + and more. + </p> + <p> + “I do not think there is any fear of that,” she replied lightly. “You must + confess, papa, that I have always displayed a remarkable capacity for the + management of my own affairs—with the assistance of Sister Cecilia, + <i>bien entendu</i>.” + </p> + <p> + This was rather a forlorn hope, but Dora was driven into a corner. The + Rector was in the habit of preaching a good methodical sermon, and usually + finished up somewhere in the neighbourhood of the text from whence he + started. He allowed himself to deviate, but he never turned his back upon + his text and went for a vague ramble through scriptural meadows, as some + have been heard to do. He deviated on this occasion for a moment, but + never lost sight of the main question. + </p> + <p> + “Sister Cecilia,” he said, “is a busybody, and, like all busybodies, a + fool. It is always people who cannot manage their own affairs who are so + anxious to help their neighbours. I have no doubt that you are as capable + of looking after yourself as any girl; but, child, you must remember that + experience goes a long way in the world, and in the nature of things I + must know better than you.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you do, papa dear. I know that.” + </p> + <p> + But she did not know it, and he knew that she did not. This knowledge is + certain to come, sooner or later, to men and women who have lived for + themselves and in themselves alone. They are mental hermits, whose opinion + of things connected with the lives of others cannot well be of value + because they have only studied their own existences. + </p> + <p> + The Rector of Stagholme suddenly became aware of this. He suddenly found + that his advice was no longer law. There are plenty of us ready to confess + that we cannot play billiards or whist or polo, but no man likes it to be + known that he cannot play the game of life. Mr. Glynde did not like this + subtle feeling of incompetency. He prided himself on being a man of the + world, and frequently applied the vague term to himself. We are all men of + a world, but it depends upon the size of that world as to what value our + citizenship may be. Mr. Glynde's world had always been the Reverend Thomas + Glynde. He knew nothing of Dora's world, and lost his way as soon as he + set his foot therein. But rather than make inquiries he thought to support + paternal dignity by going further. + </p> + <p> + “It is,” he said, with inevitable egotism, “unnecessary for me to tell you + that I have only your interests at heart.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite, papa dear. But do not let us talk about these horrid things. I am + quite happy at home, and I do not want to go away from it. There is + nowhere in the world where I should sooner be than here, even taking into + consideration the fact that you are sometimes the most dismal old + gentleman on the face of the earth.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he answered, with a grim smile, “I am sure I have enough to make + me dismal. I am thankful to say that there will be no difficulty about + money. You will be well enough off to have all that you might desire. But + wealth is not all that a woman wants. She cannot turn it to the same + account as a man. She wants position, a household, a husband. Otherwise + the world only makes use of her; she is a prey to charity humbugs and bad + people who do good works badly. I am not speaking as a parson, but as a + man of the world.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” she said, “as a parson, tell me if it would not be wrong to marry + a man for whom one did not care, just for the sake of these things—a + household and a husband.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it would,” answered Mr. Glynde. “And that is a wrong which is + usually punished in this life. But there are cases where it is difficult + to say whether there be love or not. Unless you actually despise or hate a + man, you may come to care for him.” + </p> + <p> + “And in the meantime the position and the advantages mentioned are worth + seizing?” + </p> + <p> + “So says the world,” admitted Mr. Glynde. + </p> + <p> + “And what says the parson?” + </p> + <p> + She went to him and laid her two arms upon his broad chest, standing + behind him as he sat in his arm-chair and looking down affectionately upon + his averted face. + </p> + <p> + “And what says the parson?” she repeated, with a loving tap of her fingers + on his breast. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” was the reply. “A better parson than I says that what is + natural is right.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and that means follow the dictates of your own heart?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so,” admitted the Hector, taking her two hands in his. + </p> + <p> + “And the dictates of my heart are all for staying at home and looking + after my ancient parents and worrying them. Am I to be sent away? Not yet, + old gentleman, not yet.” + </p> + <p> + The Reverend Thomas Glynde laughed, somewhat as if a weight had been + lifted from his heart. In his way he was a conscientious man. It was his + honest conviction that Dora would do well to marry Arthur, who was a + gentleman and essentially harmless. In persuading her to do so covertly, + as he had thought well to do, he was honestly performing that which he + thought to be his duty towards her. Presently Mrs. Glynde came back, and + shortly afterwards Dora left the room. The Rector was not reading the book + he held open on his knee, but gazed instead absently at the pattern of the + hearthrug. + </p> + <p> + A change had come in this quiet household. Dora had gone away a child. She + had come back a woman, with that consciousness of life which comes + somewhere between twenty and thirty years of age—a consciousness + which is partly made up of the knowledge that life is, after all, given to + each one of us individually to make the best of as well as we may; and no + one knows what that best is except ourselves. What is happiness for one is + misery for another, and while human beings vary as the clouds of heaven, + no life can be lived by set rule. + </p> + <p> + Over these things the Rector pondered. He felt the difference in Dora. She + was still his daughter, but no longer a child. Her existence was still his + chief care, but he could only stand by and help a little here and there; + for the dependency of childhood was left behind, and her evident intention + was to work out her own life in her own way. So do those who are dependent + by nature upon the advice and sympathy of others learn to lean only upon + their own strength. + </p> + <p> + In the room overhead, standing by the window with weary eyes, Dora was + murmuring: “I wonder—I wonder if I shall be able to hold out against + them all.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. ACROSS THE YEARS + </h2> + <h3> + Across the years you seem to come. + </h3> + <p> + “That is just what I can't do. I cannot afford to wait.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur Agar drew in his neatly-shod little feet, and leant back in the + deep chair which was always set aside as his in the Stagholme + drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + Mother and son were alone in the vast, somewhat gloomy apartment. Arthur + had been home six hours, and the subject of their conversation was, of + course, Dora. + </p> + <p> + Sister Cecilia was absent, only in obedience to a very unmistakable hint + in one of Arthur's recent letters to his mother. + </p> + <p> + “Only a little while,” pleaded Mrs. Agar. “Of course, dear, it will all + come right. I feel convinced of that. Only you see, dear, girls do not + like to be hurried in such an important step. I am quite sure she cares + for you; only you <i>must</i> give her a little time.” + </p> + <p> + “But I can't, I can't,” he repeated anxiously. And his face wore that + strangely accentuated look of trouble which almost amounted to dread—dread + of something in life which had not come yet. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” inquired Mrs. Agar. “You are both young enough, I am sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, we are young enough.” + </p> + <p> + He stirred his tea with an effeminate appreciation of fine Coalport and a + dainty Norwegian spoon. + </p> + <p> + “Then why should you not wait?” + </p> + <p> + Arthur was silent; he looked very small and frail, almost childlike, in + his silk-faced evening coat. Spoilt boy was writ large all over his + person. “Arthur,” said Mrs. Agar, “you are keeping something from me.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his feeble head feebly. + </p> + <p> + “You are, I know you are. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + This was the only person in all the world who had stirred the heart of + Anna Agar to something like a lasting affection. Once—years before—she + had loved Seymour Michael with a sudden volcanic passion which had as + suddenly turned to hatred. But under no circumstances could such a love + have endured. Consistency, constancy, singleness of purpose were quite + lacking in this woman's composition. It is rare, but when a woman does + fail in this respect, her failure is more complete, more miserable than + the failure of men, inconstant as they are. + </p> + <p> + Her affection for Arthur, coupled with that suspicion which always goes + with a cheap cunning, had put her on the right scent. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” she said, “I insist on knowing.” + </p> + <p> + Still he held his peace, with the obstinate silence of the weak. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” she cried, “don't ask me to help you to win Dora, that is + all!” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause; in the silence of the great house the wind moaned + softly. It always moaned in the drawing-room, whether in calm or storm, + from some undiscovered draught in the high ventilated ceiling. + </p> + <p> + “I sometimes think,” said Arthur at length, in an awestruck voice, “that + Jem may not be dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Not dead! Arthur, how can you be so stupid?” + </p> + <p> + She was not at all awestruck. Her denser, more sordid nature was proof + against the silence or the humming wind. The greed of gain has power to + kill superstition. + </p> + <p> + His face puzzled her. Suddenly he cast himself back and hid his face in + his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” he muttered, “I can't do it, I can't do it!” + </p> + <p> + In an instant his mother was standing over him. + </p> + <p> + “Arthur,” she hissed, “you <i>know</i> something?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he confessed in a whisper at length. + </p> + <p> + “Jem is not dead?” she hissed again. Her voice was hoarse. + </p> + <p> + “He was not killed in the disaster,” admitted Arthur. In his heart he was + still clinging to the other hope subtly held out by Seymour Michael—the + hope that in his simple intrepidity Jem had gone to his death. + </p> + <p> + “Then where is he—where is he, Arthur? Tell me quickly!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar was white and breathless. It was as if she had bartered her + soul, and after payment, had been tricked out of her share of the bargain. + She trembled with a fear which seemed to fill her world and extend to the + other world to come. + </p> + <p> + “He escaped from that action,” said Arthur, who, now that the truth was + out, grew voluble like a child making a confession, “by being sent on in + front with a few men. They escaped notice, while the larger body was + attacked and massacred.” + </p> + <p> + “Who told you this?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know. I cannot tell you his name.” + </p> + <p> + “Arthur!” exclaimed Mrs. Agar nervously, “are you going mad? Do you know + what you are saying?” + </p> + <p> + In reply he gave a little laugh like a sob. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes,” he replied, “it is all right. I know what I am saying, though + sometimes I scarcely believe it myself. If it was a hundred years ago one + might believe it easily enough, but now it seems unreal.” + </p> + <p> + “Then where is Jem? Was he taken prisoner? Those men are savages, aren't + they? They kill—people when they take them prisoners.” + </p> + <p> + “No, he was not taken prisoner,” said Arthur. Sometimes he lost patience + in a snappy, feminine way with his mother. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! tell me, tell me, Arthur dear! You are killing me!” + </p> + <p> + “I will, if you will let me. It appears that Jem had made himself a name + out there for knowing the country and the people, which is useful to the + Government, because Russia and England both want the country, or something + like that; I don't quite understand it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, never mind! Go on!” interrupted Mrs. Agar, with characteristic + impatience. + </p> + <p> + “And at any rate the men on the other side—the Russians or some one, + I don't know who—were in the habit of watching Jem so as to prevent + his going up into this unexplored country. Well, when the report of his + death was put in the newspapers it was left uncontradicted, so that these + men should think he was dead, and not be on the look-out for him. Do you + understand?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar had raised her head, with listening, attentive eyes. It seemed + as if a voice had come to her across the years from the distant past. A + voice telling an old story, which had never been forgotten, but merely + laid aside in the memory among those things that never are forgotten. + </p> + <p> + Finding Arthur's troubled gaze upon her, she seemed to recollect herself + with a little gesture of her hand to her breast as if breathing were + difficult. + </p> + <p> + “That does not sound like a thing Jem would do,” she said, with one of + those flashes of shrewd observation which sometimes come to inconsequent + people, and make it difficult for those around them to be sure how much + they see and how much passes unobserved. + </p> + <p> + “It was not Jem, it was this other man.” + </p> + <p> + “Which other man?” Mrs. Agar gave a little gasp, as if she had found + something she feared to find. + </p> + <p> + “The man who told me—he was Jem's superior officer.” + </p> + <p> + “When did he tell you—where?” + </p> + <p> + “He came to see me at Cambridge, and brought those things of Jem's,” + replied Arthur. So far from feeling guilty at thus revealing all that he + had promised to keep secret, he was now beginning to experience some pangs + of conscience at the recollection of a concealment which, by a supreme + effort, had been made to extend to four months. + </p> + <p> + There was a sly gleam in Mrs. Agar's eyes. A close observer knowing her + well could have seen the cunning written on her face, for it was cheap and + obvious. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she said indifferently, “and what sort of man was he?” + </p> + <p> + Arthur pondered with a deliberation that almost maddened her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” he replied at length, “a small man, dark, with a sunburnt face; a + Jew, I should think. He was rather well dressed—in the military + style, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” muttered Mrs. Agar. “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence, during which Mrs. Agar reflected, as deeply, + perhaps, as she had ever reflected in her life. + </p> + <p> + Then she discovered something for herself which had of necessity been + pointed out to her son—a subtle divergence of character. + </p> + <p> + “But,” she said, “of course Jem may never come back from this expedition. + It <i>must</i> be very dangerous.” + </p> + <p> + “It is very dangerous.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar's sigh of relief was quite audible. It is thus that nature + sometimes betrays human nature. + </p> + <p> + “Did <i>he</i> say that? Did <i>he</i> think that of it?” + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael's opinion still had value in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” the reply came slowly; “he said that we might almost look upon Jem + as a dead man.” + </p> + <p> + Mother and son looked at each other and said nothing. Heredity is a + strange thing, and one alternately aggrandised and slighted. Blood is a + very powerful force, but the little lessons taught in childhood's years + bear a wondrous crop of good or evil fruit in later days. + </p> + <p> + Left alone, Arthur Agar's natural tendency was towards good. Probably + because he was timid, and goodness seems the safer course. There are many + who have not the courage to forsake goodness, even for a moment. But under + the influence of a stronger will—that is to say, under the influence + of four out of every five persons crossing his path—Arthur was + liable to be led in any direction. He would rather have sinned in company + than have cultivated virtue in the solitude usually accorded to that + state. + </p> + <p> + Somehow, in his mother's presence it did not seem so very wrong to keep + back the truth respecting Jem and to turn it to his own ends. It did not + seem either mean or cowardly to take advantage of a rival's absence and + gain his object, by deception. So, perhaps, it was in the beginning, when + the world was young. In those days also a mother and son helped each other + in deception, and so since then have many thousands of mothers + (incompetent or vicious) led their children to ruin. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Mrs. Agar, “if Jem goes and does things of that + description he must take the consequences.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur said nothing in reply to this. The thought had been his for some + months, but he had never put it into shape. + </p> + <p> + “We are perfectly justified,” she went on, “in acting as if Jem were dead + until he deigns to advise us to the contrary.” + </p> + <p> + This also was putting a long-cherished thought into form. + </p> + <p> + Arthur knew that he ought to have told his mother then and there that Jem + had taken every step in his power to advise him as soon as possible of the + falseness of the news transmitted to the newspapers. But something held + him silent, some taint of hereditary untruthfulness. + </p> + <p> + “I do not see,” she said, “that this news can, therefore, make much + difference. There is no reason to alter any of our plans. To begin with, I + am certain that he is dead. We must have heard by this time if he had been + living.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur gave a little nod of acquiescence. + </p> + <p> + “And also,” pursued Mrs. Agar, with characteristic inconsistency, “he + evidently does not care about us or our feelings.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur knew what she meant, and he descended as low in the moral scale as + ever he went during his life. + </p> + <p> + “But,” he said, “there is, all the same, no time to lose.” + </p> + <p> + He passed his hand over his sleek, lifeless hair with a weary look. + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear,” said his mother soothingly, “I will see Ellen Glynde + to-morrow, and try to make her say something to Dora. A girl's mother has + always more influence than her father.” + </p> + <p> + This idiotic axiom seemed to satisfy Arthur, probably because he knew no + better, and he rose to take his bedroom candlestick. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar was a person utterly incapable of harbouring two thoughts at the + same moment. She never even got so far as to place two sides of a question + upon an equal footing in her mind. All her questions had but one side. She + was not thinking of Arthur when she went to her room. She was not thinking + of him when she lay staring at the daylight, which had crept up into the + sky before she closed her eyes. + </p> + <p> + She tossed and turned and moaned aloud with a childish impatience. Her + mind could find no rest; it could not throw off the deadly knowledge that + Seymour Michael had come back into her life. And somehow she was no longer + Anna Agar, but Anna Hethbridge. She was no longer the fond mother whose + whole world was filled by thoughts of her son—a miserable, + thoughtless, haphazard world it was—but again she was the wronged + woman, moved by the one great passion that had stirred her sordid soul, a + fearsome hatred for Seymour Michael. + </p> + <p> + She was not an analytical woman; she had never thought about her own + thoughts; she was as superficial as human nature can well be. That is to + say, she was little more than an animal with the gift of speech, added to + one or two small items of knowledge which divide men from beasts. But she + <i>knew</i> that this was not the end. She never doubted for a moment that + it was merely a beginning, that Seymour Michael was coming back into her + life. + </p> + <p> + Like a child she tossed and tumbled in her bed, muttering + half-consciously, “Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. AND THE TIME PASSES SOMEHOW + </h2> + <h3> + His hand will be against every man, and every man's hand against him. + </h3> + <p> + For two days Mrs. Glynde had been going about the world with a bright red + patch on either cheek; and it would seem that on the third day, namely, + the Sunday, things came to a crisis in her disturbed mind. At morning + service her fervour was something astonishing—the quaver in her + voice was more noticeable in the hymns than ever, and the space devoted to + silent prayer after the blessing was so abnormally long that Stark, the + sexton, had to rattle the keys twice, with all due respect and for the + sake of his Sunday dinner, before she rose from her knees; whereas once + usually sufficed. + </p> + <p> + It was the devout practice that all the Rectory servants should go to + evening service, while Mrs. Glynde, or Dora, or both, remained at home to + take care of the house. On this particular evening Mrs. Glynde proposed + that Dora should stay with her, and what her mother proposed Dora usually + acceded to. + </p> + <p> + “Dear,” said the elder lady, with a nervous little jerk of the head which + was habitual or physical, “I have heard about Arthur.” + </p> + <p> + They were sitting in the drawing-room, with windows open to the ground, + and the fading light was insufficient to read by, although both had books. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, mother,” answered the girl in rather a tired voice, quite forgetting + to be cheerful. “I should like to know exactly what you heard.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Anna told me,” and there was a whole world of distrust in the + little phrase, “that Arthur had asked you to be his wife, and that you had + refused without giving a reason.” + </p> + <p> + “I gave him a reason,” replied Dora; “the best one. I said that I did not + love him.” + </p> + <p> + There was a little pause. The two women looked out on to the quiet lawn. + They seemed singularly anxious to avoid looking at each other. + </p> + <p> + “But that might come, dear; I think it would come.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it would not,” replied Dora quietly. There was a dreaminess in her + voice, as if she were repeating something she had heard or said before. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Mrs. Glynde rose from her chair, and going towards her daughter, + she knelt on the soft carpet, still afraid to look at her face. There was + something suggestive and strange in the attitude, for the elder woman was + crouching at the feet of the younger. + </p> + <p> + “My darling,” she whispered, “I know, I <i>know!</i> I have known all + along. But mind, no one else knows, no one suspects! <i>It</i> can never + come to you again in this life. Women are like that, it never comes to + them twice. To some it never comes at all; think of that, dear, it never + comes to them at all! Surely that is worse?” + </p> + <p> + Dora took the nervous, eager hands in her own quiet grasp and held them + still. But she said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “I have prayed night and morning,” the elder woman went on in the same + pleading whisper, “that strength might be given you, and I think my + prayers were heard. For you have been strong, and no one has known except + me, and I do not matter. The strength must have come from somewhere. I + like to think that I had something to do with it, however little.” + </p> + <p> + Again there was a silence. Across the quiet garden, from the church that + was hidden among the trees, the sound of the evening hymn came rising and + falling, the harshness of the rustic voices toned down by the whispering + of the leaves. + </p> + <p> + “I know,” Mrs. Glynde went on, speaking perhaps out of her own experience, + “that now it must seem that there is nothing left. I know that It can + never come to you, but something else may—a sort of alleviation; + something that is a little stronger than resignation, and many people + think that it is love. It is not love; never believe that! But it is + surely sent because so many women have—to go through life—without + that—which makes life worth living.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, dear!” said Dora; and Mrs. Glynde paused as if to collect herself. + Perhaps her daughter stopped her just in time. + </p> + <p> + “There is,” she went on in a calmer voice, “a sort of satisfaction in the + duties that come and have to be performed. The duties towards one's + husband and the others—the others, darling—are the best. They + are not the same, not the same as if—as they might have been, but + sometimes it is a great alleviation. And the time passes somehow.” + </p> + <p> + It is not the clever people who make all the epigrams; but sometimes those + who merely live and feel, and are perhaps objects of ridicule. Mrs. Glynde + was one of these. She had unwittingly made an epigram. She had summed up + life in five words—the time passes somehow.” + </p> + <p> + “And, dear,” she went on, “it is not wise, perhaps it is not quite right, + to turn one's back upon an alleviation which is offered. Arthur would be + very kind to you. He is really fond of you, and perhaps the very fact of + his not being clever or brilliant or anything like that might be a + blessing in the future, for he would not expect so much.” + </p> + <p> + “He would have to expect nothing,” said Dora, speaking for the first time, + “because I could give him nothing.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke in rather an indifferent voice, and in the gloom her mother + could not see her face. It was a singular thing that neither of them + seemed to take Arthur Agar's feelings into account in the very smallest + degree; and this must be accounted to them for wisdom. + </p> + <p> + Dora was, as her mother had said, very strong. She never gave way. Her + delicate lips never quivered, but she took care to keep them close + pressed. Only in her eyes was the pain to be seen, and perhaps that was + why her mother did not dare to look. + </p> + <p> + “There is no hurry,” she pleaded. “You need not decide now.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” answered Dora, “I have decided now, and he knows my decision.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps after some time—some years?” suggested Mrs. Glynde. + </p> + <p> + “A great many years,” put in Dora. + </p> + <p> + “If he asks you again—oh! I know it would be better, dear; better + for you in every way. I do not say that you would be quite happy. But it + would be a sort of happiness; there would be less unhappiness, because you + would have less time to think. I do not say anything about the position + and the wealth and such considerations, for they are not of much + importance to a good woman.” + </p> + <p> + “After a great many years,” said Dora, in that calm and judicial voice + which fell like ice on her mother's heart, “I will see—if he chooses + to wait.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but—” began Mrs. Glynde, but she did not go on. That which she + was about to say would scarcely have been appropriate. But so far as the + facts were concerned she might just as well have said it. For Dora knew as + well as she did that Arthur Agar would not wait. Women are not blind to + manifest facts. They know us, my brothers, better than we think. And they + are not quite so romantic as we take them to be. Their love is a better + thing than ours, because it is more practical and more defined. They do + not seek an ideal of their own imagination; but when something approaching + to it crosses their path in the flesh they know what they want, and they + do not change. + </p> + <p> + Before the silence was again broken the murmur of voices told them that + the church doors had been opened, and presently they discerned a female + form crossing the lawn towards the open window. It was Sister Cecilia, + walking with that mincing lightness of tread which seems to be the outward + and visible sign of an inward and spiritual superiority over the remainder + of womanhood. Good women—those mistaken females who move in an + atmosphere of ostentatious good works—usually walk like this. Like + this they enter the humble cot with a little soup and a lot of advice. + Like this they smilingly step, where angels would fear to tread, upon + feelings which they are incapable of understanding. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glynde got quietly up and left the room. As the door closed behind + her Sister Cecilia's gently persuasive voice was heard. + </p> + <p> + “Dora! Dora dear!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied the girl without any enthusiasm, rising and going to the + window. + </p> + <p> + “Will you walk with me a little way across the fields? It is such a lovely + evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if you like.” + </p> + <p> + And Dora passed out of the open window. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry,” said Sister Cecilia after a few paces, “that you were not in + church. We had such a bright service.” + </p> + <p> + Dora, like some more of us, wondered vaguely where the adjective applied, + especially on a gloomy evening without candles, but she said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “I stayed at home with mother,” she explained practically. “The servants + were all out.” Sister Cecilia was not listening. She was gazing up at the + sky, where a few stars were beginning to show themselves. + </p> + <p> + “One feels,” she murmured with a sigh, “on such an evening as this, that, + after all, nothing matters much.” + </p> + <p> + “About the servants do you mean? They are going on better now.” + </p> + <p> + “No, dear, about life. I mean that at times one feels that this cannot be + the end of it all.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we ought to feel that, I suppose, being Christians.” + </p> + <p> + “And some day we shall see the meaning of all our troubles,” pursued + Sister Cecilia. “It is so hard for us older ones, who have passed through + it, to stand by helpless, only guessing at the pain and anguish of it all, + whereas, perhaps, we could help if we only knew. A little more candour, a + little more confidence might so easily lead to mutual help and + consolation.” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly,” admitted Dora, without any encouragement. + </p> + <p> + “I am so sorry for poor Arthur!” whispered Sister Cecilia, apparently to + the evening shades. + </p> + <p> + Dora was silent. She knew how to treat Sister Cecilia. Jem had taught her + that. + </p> + <p> + “It has been such a terrible blow. His letters to his mother are quite + heartbroken.” + </p> + <p> + Dora reserved her opinion of grown-up men who write heartbroken letters to + their mothers. + </p> + <p> + “I know all about it,” Sister Cecilia went on, quite regardless of the + truth, as some good people are. “Dora, dear, I know all about it.” + </p> + <p> + Silence, a silence which reminded Sister Cecilia of a sense of + discomfiture which had more than once been hers in conversation with Jem. + </p> + <p> + “Have you nothing to tell me, dear?” she inquired. “Nothing to say to me?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” replied Dora pleasantly. “Especially as you know all about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you never change your mind?” persuasively. + </p> + <p> + “No, I am not the sort of person to change my mind.” + </p> + <p> + There was a little pause, and again Sister Cecilia whispered to the + evening shades. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot help hoping that some day it may be different. It is not as if + there were any one else—?” + </p> + <p> + Silence again. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say,” added Sister Cecilia, after waiting in vain for an answer to + her implied question, “that I am wrong, but I cannot help being in favour + of a little more candour, a little mutual confidence.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot help feeling,” replied Dora quietly, “that we are all best + employed when we mind our own business.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear, I know. But it is very hard to stand idly by and see young + people make mistakes which can only bring them sorrow. I want to tell you + to think very deeply before you elect to lead the life of a single woman. + It is a life full of temptation to idleness and self-indulgence. There are + many single women who, I am really afraid, are quite useless in the world. + They only gossip and pry into their neighbours' affairs and make mischief. + It is because they have nothing to do. I have known several women like + that, and I cannot help thinking that they would have been happier if they + had married. Perhaps they did not have the chance. One does not understand + these things.” + </p> + <p> + Sister Cecilia cast her eyes upwards toward the tree-tops to see if + perchance the explanation was written there. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she went on complacently, drawing down her bonnet-strings, + “there are many useful lives of single women. Lives which the world would + sadly miss should it please God to take them. Women who live, not for + themselves, but for others; who go about the world helping their + neighbours with advice and the fruits of their own experience; ever the + first to go to the afflicted and to those who are in trouble. They do not + receive their reward here, they are not always thanked. The ignorant are + sometimes even rude. They have only the knowledge that they are doing + good.” + </p> + <p> + “That <i>must</i> be a satisfaction,” murmured Dora fervently. + </p> + <p> + “It is, dear; it is. But—you will excuse me, Dora dear, if I say + this?—I do not think you are that sort of woman.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered Dora, “I don't think I am.” + </p> + <p> + “And that is why I have said this to you. Now, don't answer me, dear. Just + think about it quietly. I think I have done my duty in telling you what, + was on my mind. It is always best, although it is sometimes difficult, or + even painful; but then, it is one's duty. Kiss me, dear! Good-night!—<i>good</i>-night!” + </p> + <p> + And so Sister Cecilia left Dora—mincing away into the gloom of the + overhanging trees. And so she leaves these pages. Verily the good have + their reward here below in a coat of self-complacency which is as + impervious to the buffets of life as to the sarcasm of the worldly. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. A STAB IN THE DARK + </h2> + <p> + Slander, meanest spawn of Hell; And women's slander is the worst. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar was a person incapable of awaiting that vague result called the + development of things. + </p> + <p> + Arthur had never been forced to wait for anything in his life. No longer + at least than tradespeople required, and in many cases not so long, for + Mrs. Agar had an annoying way of refusing to listen to reason. She never + allowed that laws applying to ordinary people, served more or less + faithfully by tailor or dressmaker, applied to herself or to Arthur. And + tradespeople, one finds are not always of the same mind as the Medes and + Persians—they square matters quietly in the bill. They had to do it + very quietly indeed with Mrs. Agar, who endeavoured strenuously to get the + best value for her money all through life; a remnant of Jaggery House, + Clapham Common, which the placid wealth of Stagholme never obliterated. + </p> + <p> + After the luncheon, specially prepared and laid before the Rector, this + second Rebecca awaited the result impatiently. But nothing came of it. + Although Mrs. Agar now looked upon Dora as the latest whim of the + not-to-be-denied Arthur, she could hardly consider Mr. Glynde in the light + of a tradesman retailing the said commodity, and, therefore, to be bullied + and harassed into making haste. She reflected with misgiving that Mr. + Glynde was an exponent of the tiresome art of talking over and thinking + out matters which required neither words nor thought, and saw no prospect + of an immediate furtherance of her design. + </p> + <p> + With a mistaken and much practised desire of striking when the iron was + hot, Mrs. Agar, like many a wiser person, began, therefore, to bang about + in all directions, hitting not only the iron but the anvil, her own + knuckles and the susceptibilities of any one standing in the + neighbourhood. She could not leave things to Mr. Glynde, but must needs + see Dora herself. She had in her mind the nucleus of a simple if + scurrilous scheme which will show itself hereafter. Her opportunity + presented itself a few days later. + </p> + <p> + A neighbouring family counting itself county, presumably on the strength + of never being able to absent themselves from the favoured neighbourhood + on account of monetary incapacity, gave its annual garden-party at this + time. To this entertainment the whole countryside was in the habit of + repairing—not with an idea of enjoying itself, but because everybody + did it. To be bidden to this garden-party was in itself a <i>cachet</i> of + respectability. This indeed was the only satisfaction to be gathered from + the festivity. If the honour was great, the hospitality was small. If the + condescension was vast, the fare provided was verging on the stingy. Here + were served by half-starved domestic servants, in the smallest of + tumblers, “cups” wherein were mixed liquors, such as cider, usually + consumed by self-respecting persons in the undiluted condition and in + mugs. Upon cucumber-cup, taken in county society, as on a dinner of herbs, + one hardly expects the guest to grow convivial. Therefore at this + garden-party those bidden to the feast were in the habit of wandering + sadly through the shrubbery seeking whom they might avoid, and in the + course of such a perambulation, with a young man conversant of himself, + Dora met Mrs. Agar. Even the mistress of Stagholme was preferable to the + young man from London, and besides—there were associations. So Dora + drew Mrs. Agar into her promenade, and presently the young man got his <i>congé</i>. + </p> + <p> + At first they talked of local topics, and Mrs. Agar, who had a fine sense + of hospitality, said her say about the cider-cup. Then she gave an awkward + little laugh, and with an assumption of lightness which did not succeed + she said: + </p> + <p> + “I hope, dear, you do not intend to keep my poor boy in suspense much + longer?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean Arthur?” asked Dora. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear. I really don't see why there should be this absurd reserve + between us.” + </p> + <p> + “I am quite willing,” replied the girl, “to hear what you have to say + about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but not to talk of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I suppose Arthur has told you all there is to tell. If there is + anything more that you want to know I shall be very glad to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course, I don't understand it at all,” burst out Mrs. Agar + eagerly. This was quite true; neither she nor Arthur could understand how + any one could refuse such a glorious offer as he had made. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I can explain. Arthur asked me to marry him. I quite appreciated + the honour, but I declined it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but why? Surely you didn't mean it?” + </p> + <p> + “I did mean it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” explained Mrs. Agar, with a little toss of the head, “I am sure I + cannot see what more you want. There are many girls who would be glad to + be mistress of Stagholme.” + </p> + <p> + And it must be remembered that she said this knowing quite well that Jem + was probably alive. There are some crimes which women commit daily in the + family circle which deserve a greater punishment than that meted out to a + legal criminal. + </p> + <p> + “That is precisely what I ventured to point out to Arthur,” said Dora, + unconsciously borrowing her father's ironical neatness of enunciation. + </p> + <p> + “But why shouldn't you take the opportunity? There are not many estates + like it in England. Your position would be as good as that of a titled + lady, and I am sure you could not want a better husband.” + </p> + <p> + “I like Arthur as a friend, but I could never marry him, so it is useless + to discuss the question.” + </p> + <p> + “But why?” persisted Mrs. Agar. + </p> + <p> + “Because I do not care for him in the right way.” + </p> + <p> + “But that would come,” said Mrs. Agar. It was only natural that she should + use an argument which is accountable for more misery on earth than mothers + dream of. + </p> + <p> + “No, it would never come.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar gave a cunning little laugh, and paused so as to lend additional + weight to her next remark. + </p> + <p> + “That is a dangerous thing for a girl to say.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it?” inquired Dora indifferently. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, because they can never be sure, unless—” + </p> + <p> + “Unless what? I am quite sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Unless there is some one else,” said Mrs. Agar, with an exaggerated + significance suggestive of the servants' hall. + </p> + <p> + Dora did not answer at once. They walked on for a few moments in silence, + passing other guests walking in couples. Then Dora replied with a + succinctness acquired from her father: + </p> + <p> + “Generalities about women,” she said, “are always a mistake. Indeed, all + generalities are dangerous. But if you and Arthur care to apply this to + me, you are at liberty to do so. Whatever generalities you apply and + whatever you say will make no difference to the main question. Moreover, + you will, perhaps, be acting a kinder part if you give Arthur to + understand once for all that my decision is final.” + </p> + <p> + “As you like, dear, as you like,” muttered Mrs. Agar, apparently + abandoning the argument, whereas in reality she had not yet begun it. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do, dear Mrs. Martin?” she went on in the same breath, bowing + and smiling to a lady who passed them at that moment. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she said, returning in a final way to the question after a + few moments' silence, “of course I do not believe all I hear; in fact, I + contradict a good deal. But I have been told that gossips talked about you + a good deal last year, at the time of Jem's death. I think it only fair + that you should know.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Dora curtly. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, dear, <i>I</i> didn't believe anything about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Dora again. + </p> + <p> + “I should have been sorry to do so.” + </p> + <p> + Then Dora turned upon her suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, Aunt Anna?” she asked with determination. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing, dear, nothing. Don't get flurried about it.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not at all flurried,” replied Dora quietly. “You said that you would + be sorry to have to believe what gossips said of me last year at the time + of Jem's death—” + </p> + <p> + “Dora,” interrupted Mrs. Agar, “I never said anything against you in any + way; how can you say such a thing?” + </p> + <p> + “And,” continued Dora, with an unpleasant calmness of manner, “I must ask + you to explain. What did the gossips say, and why should you be sorry to + have to believe it?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar's reluctance was not quite genuine nor was it well enough + simulated to deceive Dora. + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear,” she said, “if you insist, they said that there had been + something between you and Jem—long, long ago, of course, before he + went out to India.” + </p> + <p> + Dora shrugged her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “They are welcome to say what they like.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar was silent, awaiting a second question. + </p> + <p> + “And why should you be sorry to believe that?” inquired the girl. + </p> + <p> + “I—I hardly like to tell you,” said Mrs. Agar, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + Dora waited in silence, without appearing to heed Mrs. Agar's reluctance. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid, dear,” went on the elder lady, when she saw that there was + no chance of assistance, “that we have been all sadly mistaken in Jem. He + was not—all that we thought him.” + </p> + <p> + “In what way?” asked Dora. She had turned quite white, and her lips were + suddenly dry and parched. She held her parasol a little lower, so that + Mrs. Agar could not see her face. She was sure enough of her voice. She + had had practice in that. + </p> + <p> + “In what way was Jem not all that we thought him?” she repeated evenly, + like a lesson learnt by heart. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar stammered. She tried to blush, but she could not manage that. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot very well give you details. Perhaps, when you are older. You + know, dear, in India people are not very particular. They have peculiar + ideas, I mean, of morals—different from ours. And perhaps he saw no + harm in it.” + </p> + <p> + “In what?” inquired Dora gravely. + </p> + <p> + “Well, in the life they lead out there. It appears that there was some + unfortunate attachment. I think she was married or something like that.” + </p> + <p> + “Who told you this?” asked Dora, in a voice like a threat. + </p> + <p> + “A man told Arthur at Cambridge—one of poor Jem's fellow-officers. + The man who brought home the diary and things.” + </p> + <p> + Having once begun Mrs. Agar found herself obliged to go on. She had not + time to pause and reflect that she was now staking everything upon the + possibility of Jem's death subsequent to the disaster in which he was + supposed to have perished. + </p> + <p> + Dora did not believe one word of this story, although she was quite + without proof to the contrary. Jem's letters had not been frequent, nor + had they been remarkable for minuteness of detail respecting his own life. + Mrs. Agar had done her best to put a stop to this correspondence + altogether, and had succeeded in bringing about a subtle reserve on both + sides. She had persistently told Jem that Dora was evidently attached to + Arthur, and that their marriage was only the question of a few years. Of + this Jem had never found any confirmatory hint in Dora's letters, and from + some mistaken sense of chivalry refrained from writing to ask her + point-blank if it were true. + </p> + <p> + “And why,” said Dora, “do you tell me this? In case what the gossips said + might be true?” + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es, dear, perhaps it was that.” + </p> + <p> + “So as to save me from cherishing any mistaken memory?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it may have been that.” + </p> + <p> + And Mrs. Agar was surprised to see Dora turn her back upon her as if she + had been something loathsome to look upon, and walk away. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV. FROM THE JAWS OF DEATH + </h2> + <h3> + When the heart speaks, Glory itself is an illusion. + </h3> + <p> + The <i>Mahanaddy</i> had just turned her blunt prow out westward from the + harbour of Port Said, sniffing her native north wind, with a gentle rising + movement to that old Mediterranean eastward-tending swell. The lights of + the most iniquitous town on earth were fading away in the mist of the + desert on the left hand, and on the right the gloom of the sea merged into + a grey sky. + </p> + <p> + The dinner-hour had passed, and the passengers were lolling about on the + long quarter-deck, talking lazily after the manner of men and women who + have little to say and much time wherein to say it. + </p> + <p> + It was quite easy to perceive that they had left a voyage of many days + behind them, for the funny man had exhausted himself and the politicians + were asleep. The lifeless, homeward-bound flirtations had waned long ago, + and no one looked twice at any one else. They all knew each other's + dresses and vices and little aggravating habits, and only three or four of + them were aware that human nature runs deeper than such superficial + details. + </p> + <p> + Away forward, behind the sheep-pens, an Italian gentleman in the ice + industry was scraping on a yellow fiddle which looked sticky. But like + many things of plain exterior this unprepossessing instrument had + something in it, something that the Italian gentleman knew how to extract, + and all the ship was hushed into listening. Such as had conversation left + spoke in low tones, and even the stewards in the pantry ceased for a time + to test the strength of the dinner-plates. + </p> + <p> + On a small clear space of deck between the door of the doctor's cabin and + the saloon gangway two men were walking slowly backwards and forwards. + They were both tall men, both large, and consequently both inclined to + taciturnity. They had said, perhaps, as little as any two persons on + board, which may have accounted for the fact that they were talking now, + and still seemed to have plenty to say. + </p> + <p> + One was dark and clean-shaven, with something of the sea in his mien and + gait. His nose and chin were singularly clean cut, and suggestive of an + ancestral type. This was the ship's doctor, a man who probed men's hearts + as well as their bodies, and wrote of what he found there. His companion + was an antitype—a representative of the fair race found in England + by the ancestors of the other when they came and conquered. He wore a + beard, and his face was burnt to the colour of mahogany, which had a + strange effect in contrast to the bluest of Saxon eyes. + </p> + <p> + The Doctor was talking. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” he was saying, “who the devil are you?” + </p> + <p> + The other smiled, a gentle, triumphant smile. The smile of a man who, + humbly recognising himself at a just estimation, is conscious of having + outwitted another, cleverer than himself. + </p> + <p> + “You finish your pipe,” he said, and he walked away with long firm strides + towards the saloon stairs. The Doctor went to the rail, where, resting his + arms on the solid teak, he leant, gazing thoughtfully out over the sea, + which was part of his life. For he knew the great waters, and loved them + with all the quiet strength of a slow-tongued man. + </p> + <p> + Before very long some one came behind and touched him on the shoulder. He + turned, and in the fading light looked into the smiling face of his late + companion—the same and yet quite different, for the beard was gone, + and there only remained the long fair moustache. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Dr. Mark Ruthine, “Jem Agar. I was a fool not to know you at + first.” + </p> + <p> + A sort of shyness flickered for a moment in the blue eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I have been practising so hard during the last ten months to look like + some one else that I hardly feel like myself,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Um-m! There was something uncanny about you when you first came on board. + I used to watch you at meals, and wonder what it was. By God, Agar, I <i>am</i> + glad!” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” replied Jem Agar. He was looking round him rather nervously. + “You don't think there is anybody on board who will know me, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “No one, barring the Captain.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Agar calmly, “he is all right. He can keep his mouth shut.” + </p> + <p> + “There is no doubt about that,” replied the Doctor. + </p> + <p> + A little pause followed, during which they both listened involuntarily to + the ice-cream merchant's musical voice, which was now floating over the + silent decks, raised in song. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to hear all about it some day,” said the ship's surgeon at + last. He knew his man, and no detail of the strange lives that passed the + horizon of his daily existence was ever forgotten. Only he usually found + that those who had the most to tell required a little assistance in their + narration. + </p> + <p> + “It is rather a rum business,” answered Jem Agar, not displeased. + </p> + <p> + At this moment the ship's bell rang four clear notes into the night. + </p> + <p> + “Ten o'clock,” said the Doctor. “Come into my cabin and have a smoke; the + Captain will be in soon. He would like to hear the story too.” + </p> + <p> + So they passed into the cabin, and before they had been there many minutes + the Captain joined them. For a moment he stood in the doorway, then he + came forward with outstretched hand. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, “all that I can say is that you ought to be dead. But + it's not my business.” + </p> + <p> + He had seen too many freaks of fortune to be surprised at this. + </p> + <p> + “I thought,” he continued, “that there was something familiar about the + back of your head. Back of a man's head never changes. It's a funny + thing.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down in his usual chair, and looked with a cheery smile upon him + who had risen from the death column of the <i>Times</i>. Then he turned to + his pipe. + </p> + <p> + “You know, Agar,” he said, “I was beastly sorry about that—death of + yours. Cut me up wonderfully for a few minutes. That is saying a lot in + these days.” + </p> + <p> + Agar laughed. + </p> + <p> + “It is very kind of you to say so,” he said rather awkwardly. + </p> + <p> + “And I,” added Dr. Ruthine from behind the whisky and soda tray, in the + deliberate voice of a man who is saying something with an effort, “felt + that it was a pity. That is how it struck me—a pity.” + </p> + <p> + Then, very disjointedly, and in a manner which could scarcely be set down + here, Major James Agar told his singular story. There are—thank + heaven!—many such stories still untold; there are, one would be + inclined to hope, many such still uncommenced. As a nation we may be on + the decline, but there is something to go on with in us yet. + </p> + <p> + Once when the narrator paused, Dr. Ruthine went to the side table and + opened some bottles. + </p> + <p> + “Whisky?” he inquired, with curt hospitality, “or anything else your fancy + may paint, down to tea.” + </p> + <p> + Agar rose to pour out his own allowance, and for a moment the two men + stood together. With the critical eye of a soldier, which seems to weigh + flesh and blood, he looked his host for the time being up and down. + </p> + <p> + “They don't make men like you and me on tea,” he said, reaching out his + hand towards a tumbler. + </p> + <p> + Then the story went on. At first the ship's doctor listened to it with + interest but without absorption, then suddenly something seemed to catch + his attention and hold it riveted. When a pause came he leant forward, + pointing an emphasising finger. + </p> + <p> + “When you spoke just now of the chief,” he said, “did you mean Michael?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Seymour Michael?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The Captain tapped his pipe against his boot and leant back with the shrug + of the shoulders awaiting further developments. + </p> + <p> + “And you mean to tell me that you put yourself entirely in the hands of + Seymour Michael?” pursued the Doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, why not?” + </p> + <p> + Mark Ruthine shook his head with a little laugh. “I always thought, Agar, + that you were a bit of a fool!” + </p> + <p> + “I have sometimes suspected it myself,” admitted the soldier meekly. + </p> + <p> + “Why, man,” said Ruthine, “Seymour Michael is one of the biggest rascals + on God's earth. I would not trust him with fourpence round the corner.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor would I,” put in the Captain, “and the sum is not excessive.” + </p> + <p> + Jem Agar was sipping his whisky and soda with the placidity of a giant who + fears no open fight and never thinks of foul play. + </p> + <p> + “I don't see,” he muttered, “what harm he can do me.” + </p> + <p> + “No more do I, at the moment,” replied the Doctor; “but the man is a liar + and an unscrupulous cad. I have kept an eye on him for years because he + interests me. He has never run a straight course since he came into the + field; he has consistently sacrificed truth, honour, and his best friend + to his own ambition ever since the beginning.” + </p> + <p> + Jem Agar smiled at the Doctor's vehemence, although he was aware that such + a display was far from being characteristic of the man. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” he admitted, “in the matter of honour and glory I expect to + be swindled. But I don't care. I know the chap's reputation, and all that, + but he can hardly get rid of the fact that I have done the thing and he + has not.” + </p> + <p> + “I was not thinking so much of that,” replied the other. “Men sell their + souls for honour and glory and never get paid.” + </p> + <p> + He paused; then with the sure touch of one who has dabbled with pen and + ink in the humanities, he laid his finger on the vulnerable spot. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking more,” he said, “of what you had trusted him to do—telling + certain persons, I mean, that you were not dead. He is just as likely as + not to have suppressed the information.” + </p> + <p> + Jem Agar was looking very grave, with a sudden pinched appearance about + the lips which was only half concealed by his moustache. + </p> + <p> + “Why should he do that?” he asked sharply. + </p> + <p> + “He would do it if it suited his purpose. He is not the man to take into + consideration such things as feelings—especially the feelings of + others.” + </p> + <p> + “You're a bit hard on him, Ruthine,” said Jem doubtfully. “Why should it + suit his convenience?” + </p> + <p> + “Secrecy was essential for your purpose and his; in telling a secret one + doubles the risk of its disclosure each time a new confidant is admitted. + Besides, the man's nature is quite extraordinarily secretive. He has + Jewish and Scotch blood in his veins, and the result is that he would + rather disseminate false news than true on the off chance of benefiting + thereby later on. For men of that breed each piece of accurate + information, however trivial, has a marketable value, and they don't part + with it unless they get their price.” + </p> + <p> + There followed a silence, during which Jem Agar went back in mental + retrospection to the only interview he had ever had with Seymour Michael, + and the old lurking sense of distrust awoke within his heart. + </p> + <p> + “But,” said the Captain, who was an optimist—he even applied that + theory to human nature—“I suppose it is all right now. Everybody + knows now that you are among the quick—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied Jem, “only Michael; it was arranged that I should telegraph + to him.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” the Doctor hastened to say, for he had perceived a change in + Agar's demeanour, “all this is the purest supposition. It is only a theory + built upon a man's character. It is wonderful how consistent people are. + Judge how a man would act and you will find that he has acted like it + afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + As if in illustration of the theory Jem Agar looked gravely determined, + but uttered no threat directed towards Seymour Michael. His quiet face was + a threat in itself. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, rising, “I am keeping you fellows from your slumbers. I + am still sleeping on deck; can't get accustomed to the atmosphere below + decks after six months' sleeping in the open.” + </p> + <p> + He nodded and left them. + </p> + <p> + “Rum chap!” muttered the Captain, looking at his watch when the footsteps + had died away over the silent decks. + </p> + <p> + “One of the queerest specimens I know,” retorted Dr. Mark Ruthine, who was + fingering a pen and looking longingly towards the inkstand. The Captain—a + man of renowned discretion—quietly departed. + </p> + <p> + There is no more distrustful man than the simple gentleman of honour who + finds himself deceived and tricked. It is as if the bottom suddenly fell + out of his trust in all mankind, and there is nothing left but a mocking + void. Jem Agar lay on his mattress beneath the awning, and stared hard at + a bright star near the horizon. He was realising that life is, after all, + a sorry thing of chance, and that all his world might be hanging at that + moment on the word of an untrustworthy man. + </p> + <p> + Before morning he had determined to telegraph from Malta to Seymour + Michael to meet him at Plymouth on the arrival of the <i>Mahanaddy</i> at + that port. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI. BALANCING ACCOUNTS + </h2> + <h3> + And yet God has not said a word. + </h3> + <p> + One fine morning in June the <i>Mahanaddy</i> steamed with stately + deliberation into the calm water inside Plymouth breakwater. Many writers + love to dwell with pathetic insistence on incidents of a departure; but + there is also pathos—perhaps deeper and truer because more subtle—in + the arrival of the homeward-board ship. + </p> + <p> + Who can tell? There may have been others as anxious to look on the green + slopes of Mount Edgecumbe as the man with the mahogany-coloured face who + stood ever smoking—smoking—always at the forward starboard + corner of the hurricane deck. His story had not leaked out, because only + two men on board knew it—men with no conversational leaks whatever. + He had made no other friends. But many watched him half interestedly, and + perhaps a few divined the great calm impatience beneath the suppressed + quiet of his manner. + </p> + <p> + “That man—Jem Agar—is dangerous,” the Doctor had said to the + Captain more than once, and Mark Ruthine was not often egregiously + mistaken in such matters. + </p> + <p> + “Um!” replied the Captain of the <i>Mahanaddy</i>. “There is an uncanny + calm.” + </p> + <p> + They were talking about him now as the Captain—his own pilot for + Plymouth and the Channel—walked slowly backwards and forwards on the + bridge. It seemed quite natural for the Doctor to be sitting on the rail + by the engine-room telegraph. The passengers and the men were quite + accustomed to it. This friendship was a matter of history to the homeless + world of men and women who travelled east and west through the Suez Canal. + </p> + <p> + “He has asked me,” the Doctor was saying, “to go ashore with him at + Plymouth; I don't know why. I imagine he is a little bit afraid of + wringing Seymour Michael's neck.” + </p> + <p> + “Just as likely as not,” observed the Captain. “It would be a good thing + done, but don't let Agar do it.” + </p> + <p> + “May I leave the ship at Plymouth?” asked Mark Ruthine, with a quiet air + of obedience which seemed to be accepted with the gravity with which it + was offered. + </p> + <p> + “I don't see why you should not,” was the reply. “Everybody goes ashore + there except about half a dozen men, who certainly will not want your + services.” + </p> + <p> + “I should rather like to do it. We come from the same part of the country, + and Agar seems anxious to have me. He is not a chap to say much, but I + imagine there will be some sort of a <i>denouement</i>.” + </p> + <p> + The Captain was looking through a pair of glasses ahead, towards the + anchorage. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he said. “Go.” + </p> + <p> + And he continued to attend to his business with that watchful care which + made the <i>Mahanaddy</i> one of the safest boats afloat. + </p> + <p> + Presently Mark Ruthine left the bridge and went to his cabin to pack. As + he descended he paused, and retracing his steps forward he went and + touched Jem Agar on the arm. + </p> + <p> + “It's all right,” he said. “I'll go with you.” + </p> + <p> + Agar nodded. He was gazing at the green English hills and far faint valley + of the Tamar with a curious gleam of excitement in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Half an hour later they landed. + </p> + <p> + “You stick by me,” said Jem Agar, when they discerned the small wiry form + of Seymour Michael awaiting them on the quay. “I want you to hear + everything.” + </p> + <p> + This man was, as Ruthine had said, dangerous. He was too calm. There was + something grand and terrifying in that white heat which burned in his eyes + and drove the blood from his lips. + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael came forward with his pleasant smile, waving his hand in + greeting to Jem and to Ruthine, whom he knew. + </p> + <p> + Jem shook hands with him. + </p> + <p> + “I'm all right, thanks,” he said curtly, in answer to Seymour Michael's + inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “Good business—good business,” exclaimed the General, who seemed + somewhat unnecessarily excited. + </p> + <p> + “Old Mark Ruthine too!” he went on. “You look as fit as ever. Still + turning your thousands out of the British public—eh!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Ruthine, “thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Just run ashore for half an hour, I suppose?” continued Seymour Michael, + looking hurriedly out towards the <i>Mahanaddy</i>. + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied Ruthine, “I leave the ship here.” + </p> + <p> + The small man glanced from the face of one to the other with something sly + and uneasy in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Jem Agar had altered since he saw him last in the little tent far up on + the slopes of the Pamir. He was older and graver. There was also a wisdom + in his eyes—that steadfast wise look that comes to eyes which have + looked too often on death. Mark Ruthine he knew, and him he distrusted, + with that quiet keenness of observation which was his. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” he said eagerly to Jem, “what I thought we might do was to have a + little breakfast and catch the eleven o'clock train up to town. If Ruthine + will join us, I for one shall be very pleased. He won't mind our talking + shop.” + </p> + <p> + Mark Ruthine was attending to the luggage, which was being piled upon a + cab. + </p> + <p> + “Have you not had breakfast?” asked Agar. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I have had a little, but I don't mind a second edition. That waiter + chap at the hotel got me out of bed much too soon. However, it is worth + getting up the night before to see you back, old chap.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there not an earlier train than the eleven o'clock?” asked Agar, + looking at his watch. There was a singular constraint in his manner which + Seymour Michael could not understand. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, there is one at nine forty-five.” + </p> + <p> + “Then let us go by that. We can get something at the station, if we want + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Make it a bottle of champagne to celebrate the return of the explorer, + and I am your man,” said Michael heartily. + </p> + <p> + “Make it anything you like,” answered Agar, in a gentler voice. He was + beginning to come under the influence of Seymour Michael's sweet voice, + and of that fascination which nearly all educated Jews unconsciously + exercise. + </p> + <p> + He turned and beckoned to Mark Ruthine, who presently joined them, after + paying the boatmen. + </p> + <p> + “The nine forty-five is the train,” he said to him. “We may as well walk + up. The streets of Plymouth are not pleasant to drive through.” + </p> + <p> + So the cab was sent on with the luggage, and the three men turned to the + slope that leads up to the Hoe. + </p> + <p> + There was some sort of constraint over them, and they reached the summit + of the ascent without having exchanged a word. + </p> + <p> + When they stood on the Hoe, where the old Eddystone lighthouse is now + erected, Seymour Michael turned and looked out over the bay where the + ships lay at anchor. + </p> + <p> + “The good old <i>Mahanaddy</i>,” he said, “the finest ship I have ever + sailed in.” + </p> + <p> + Neither man answered him, but they turned also and looked, standing one on + each side of him. + </p> + <p> + Then at last Jem Agar spoke, breaking a silence which had been brooding + since the <i>Mahanaddy</i> came out of the Canal. + </p> + <p> + “I want to know,” he said, “exactly how things stand with my people at + home.” + </p> + <p> + He continued to look out over the bay towards the <i>Mahanaddy</i>, but + Mark Ruthine was looking at Seymour Michael. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied the General, “I wanted to talk to you about that. That was + really my reason for proposing that we should wait till the second train.” + </p> + <p> + “There cannot be much to say,” said Jem Agar rather coldly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I wanted to tell you all about it.” + </p> + <p> + “About what?” + </p> + <p> + There was what the Captain had called an uncanny calm in the voice. + General Michael did not answer, and Jem turned slowly towards him. + </p> + <p> + “I presume,” he said, “that I am right in taking it for granted that you + have carried out your share of the contract?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow, it has been perfectly wonderful. The secret has been kept + perfectly.” + </p> + <p> + “By all concerned?” + </p> + <p> + “Eh!—yes.” + </p> + <p> + Michael was glancing furtively at Mark Ruthine, as the fox glances back + over his shoulder, not at the huntsman, but at the hounds. + </p> + <p> + “Did you tell them personally, or did you write?” pursued Jem Agar + relentlessly. + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow,” replied Michael, pulling out his watch, “it is a long + story, and we must get to the train.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied Agar, in the calm voice which raised a sort of “fearful joy” + in Ruthine's soul, “we need not be getting to the train yet, and there is + no reason for it to be a long story.” + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael gave an uneasy little laugh, which met with no response + whatever. The two taller men exchanged a glance over his head. Up to that + moment Jem Agar had hoped for the best. He had a greater faith in human + nature than Mark Ruthine had managed to retain. + </p> + <p> + “Have you or have you not told those people whom you swore to me that you + would tell, out there, that night?” asked Jem. + </p> + <p> + “I told your brother,” answered the General with dogged indifference. + </p> + <p> + “Only?” + </p> + <p> + There was an ugly gleam in the blue eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't tell him not to tell the others.” + </p> + <p> + “But you suggested it to him,” put in Mark Ruthine, with the knowledge of + mankind that was his. + </p> + <p> + “What has it got to do with you, at any rate?” snapped Seymour Michael. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” replied Ruthine, looking across at Agar. + </p> + <p> + “You did not tell Dora Glynde?” + </p> + <p> + General Michael shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” asked Jem hoarsely. It was singular, that sudden hoarseness, and + the Doctor, whose business such things were, made a note of it. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't dare to do it. Why, man, it was too dangerous to tell a single + soul. If it had leaked out you would have been murdered up there as sure + as hell. There would have been plenty of men ready to do it for + half-a-crown.” + </p> + <p> + “That was <i>my</i> business,” answered Jem coolly. “You promised, you <i>swore</i>, + that you would tell Dora Glynde, my step-mother, and my brother Arthur. + And you didn't do it. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I have given you my reasons—it was too dangerous. Besides, what + does it matter? It is all over now.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Jem, “not yet.” + </p> + <p> + The clock struck nine at that moment; and from the harbour came the sound + of the ship's bells, high and clear, sounding the hour. The Hoe was quite + deserted; these three men were alone. A silence followed the ringing of + the bells, like the silence that precedes a verdict. + </p> + <p> + Then Jem Agar spoke. + </p> + <p> + “I asked Mark Buthine,” he said, “to come ashore with me, because I had + reason to suspect your good faith. I can't see now why you should have + done this, but I suppose that people who are born liars, as Ruthine says + you are, prefer lying to telling the truth. You are coming down now with + Ruthine and myself to Stagholme. I shall tell the whole story as it + happened, and then you will have to explain matters to the two ladies as + best you can.” + </p> + <p> + A sudden unreasoning terror took possession of Seymour Michael. He knew + that one of the ladies was Anna Agar, the woman who hated him almost as + much as he deserved. He was afraid of her; for it is one consolation to + the wronged to know that the wronger goes all through his life with a + dull, unquenchable fear upon his heart. But this was not sufficient, this + could not account for the mighty terror which clutched his soul at that + moment, and he knew it. He felt that this was something beyond that—something + which could not be reasoned away. It was a physical terror, one of those + emotions which seem to attack the body independently of the soul, a terror + striking the Man before it reaches the Mind. His limbs trembled; it was + only by an effort that he kept his teeth clenched to prevent them from + chattering. + </p> + <p> + “And,” said Jem Agar, “if I find that any harm has been done—if any + one has suffered for this, I will give you the soundest thrashing you have + ever had in your life.” + </p> + <p> + Both his hearers knew now who Dora Glynde was, what she was to him. He + neither added to their knowledge nor sought to mislead. He was not, as we + have said, <i>de ceux qui s'expliquent</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” he added, and turning he led the way across the Hoe. + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael followed quietly. He was cowed by the inward fear which + would not be allayed, and the judicial calmness of these two men paralysed + him. Once, in the train, he began explaining matters over again. + </p> + <p> + “We will hear all that at Stagholme,” said Jem sternly, and Mark Ruthine + merely looked at him over the top of a newspaper which he was not reading. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII. AT BAY + </h2> + <p> + To thine own self be true; And it must follow as the night the day Thou + canst not then be false to any man. + </p> + <p> + Human nature is, after all, a hopeless failure. Not even the very best + instinct is safe. It will probably be turned sooner or later to evil + account. + </p> + <p> + The best instinct in Anna Agar was her maternal love, and upon this strong + rock she finally wrecked her barque. She was one of those women who hold + that, so long as the object is unselfish, the means used to obtain it + cannot well be evil. She did not say this in so many words, because she + was quite without principle, good or bad, and she invariably acted on + impulse. + </p> + <p> + Her impulse at this time was to turn as much of heaven and earth as came + under her influence to compel Dora to marry Arthur. That Arthur should be + unhappy, and should be allowed to continue in that common condition, was a + thought that she could not tolerate or allow. Something must be done, and + it was characteristic of the woman that that something should present + itself to her in the form of the handy and useful lie. In a strait we all + naturally turn to that accomplishment in which we consider ourselves most + proficient. The blusterer blusters; the profane man swears; the tearful + woman weeps—and weeping, by the way, is no mean accomplishment if it + be used at the right moment. Mrs. Agar naturally meditated on that form of + diplomacy which is sometimes called lying. The truth would not serve her + purpose (not that she had given it a fair trial), and therefore she would + forsake the straight path for that other one which hath many turnings. + </p> + <p> + Dora absolutely refused to come to Stagholme while Arthur was there—a + delicacy of feeling, which, by the way, was quite incomprehensible to Mrs. + Agar. It was necessary for Arthur's happiness that he should see Dora + again and try the effect of another necktie and further eloquence. + Therefore, Dora must be made by subterfuge to see Arthur. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Dora,” she wrote, “it will be a great grief to me if this + unfortunate attachment of my poor boy's is allowed to interfere with the + affection which has existed between us since your infancy. Come, dear, and + see me to-morrow afternoon. I shall be quite alone, and the subject which, + of course, occupies the first place in my thoughts will, if you wish it, + be tabooed. + </p> + <p> + “Your affectionate old Friend, + </p> + <h3> + “ANNA AGAR.” + </h3> + <p> + “It will be quite easy,” reflected this diplomatic lady as she folded the + letter—almost illegible on account of its impetuosity—“for + Arthur to come back from East Burgen earlier than I expected him.” + </p> + <p> + The rest she left to chance, which was very kind but not quite necessary, + for chance had already taken possession of the rest, and was even at that + moment making her arrangements. + </p> + <p> + Dora read the letter in the garden beneath the laburnum-tree, where she + spent a large part of her life. Before reaching the end of the epistle she + had determined to go. She was a young person of spirit as well as of + discrimination, and in obedience to the urging of the former was quite + ready to show Mrs. Agar, and Arthur too, if need be, that she was not + afraid of them. + </p> + <p> + She was distinctly conscious of the increasing power of her own strength + of purpose as she made this resolution, and as she walked across the park + the next afternoon her feeling was one very near akin to elation. It is + only the strong who mistrust their own power. Dora Glynde had always + looked upon herself as a somewhat weak and easily led person; she was + beginning to feel her own strength now and to rejoice in it. From the + first she half-suspected a trap of some sort. Such a subterfuge was + eminently characteristic of Mrs. Agar, and that lady's manner of welcoming + her only increased the suspicion. + </p> + <p> + The mistress of Stagholme was positively crackling with an excitement + which even her best friend could not have called suppressed. There was no + suppression whatever about it. + </p> + <p> + “So good of you,” she panted, “to come, Dora dear!” + </p> + <p> + And she searched madly for her pocket handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” replied Dora, very calmly. + </p> + <p> + “And now, dear,” went on the lady of the house, “are we going to talk + about it?” + </p> + <p> + The question was somewhat futile, for it was easy to see that she was not + in a condition to talk of anything else. + </p> + <p> + “I think not,” replied Dora. She had a way of using the word “think” when + she was positive. “The question was raised the last time I saw you, and I + do not think that any good resulted from it.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar's face dropped. In some ways she was a child still, and a + childish woman of fifty is as aggravating a creature as walks upon this + earth. Dora remembered every word of the interview referred to, while Mrs. + Agar had almost forgotten it. It is to the common-minded that common + proverbs and sayings of the people apply. Hard words had not the power of + breaking anything in Mrs. Agar's being. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she said, “<i>I</i> don't wish to talk about it, if you + don't. It is most painful to me.” + </p> + <p> + She had dragged forward a second chair, only separated from that occupied + by Dora by the tea-table. + </p> + <p> + “Arthur,” she said, with a lamentable assumption of cheerfulness, “has + driven over to East Burgen to get some things I wanted. He will not be + back for ever so long.” + </p> + <p> + She reflected that he was overdue at that moment, and that the butler had + orders to send him to the library as soon as he returned. + </p> + <p> + “I was sorry to hear,” said Dora, quite naturally, “that he had not passed + his examination.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar glanced at her cunningly; she was always looking for second + meanings in the most innocent remarks, hardly guilty of an original + meaning. + </p> + <p> + At this moment the door leading through a smaller library into the + dining-room opened and Arthur came quietly in. He changed colour and + hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he remembered that before all + things a gentleman must be a gentleman. He came forward and held out his + hand. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do?” he said, and for a moment he was quite dignified. “I am + glad to see you here with mother. I did not know that I was going to + interrupt a <i>téte-à-téte</i>, tea. No tea, thanks, mother; no.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you brought the things I wanted? You are earlier than I expected,” + blurted out the lady of the house unskillfully. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I have brought them.” + </p> + <p> + “I must go and see if they are right,” said Mrs. Agar, rising, and before + he could stop her she passed out of the door by which he had entered. + </p> + <p> + For a moment there was an awkward silence, then Dora spoke—after the + door had been reluctantly closed from without. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” she said, “that this was done on purpose?” + </p> + <p> + “Not by me, Dora.” + </p> + <p> + She merely bowed her head. + </p> + <p> + “Do you believe me?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + She continued to sip her tea, and he actually handed her a plate of + biscuits. + </p> + <p> + “Is it still No?” he asked abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps her fresh youthful beauty moved him, perhaps it was merely + opposition that raised his love suddenly to the dignity of a passion that + made him for once forget himself, his clothes, his personal appearance, + and the gentlemanly modulation of his voice. + </p> + <p> + For a moment he was almost a man. He almost touched the height of a man's + ascendency over woman. + </p> + <p> + “You may say No now,” he cried, “but I shall have you yet. Some day you + will say Yes.” + </p> + <p> + It was then for the first time that Dora realised that this man did + actually love her according to his lights. But never for an instant did + she admit in her own mind the possibility of succumbing to Arthur's will. + It is not by words that men command women. They must first command their + respect, and that is never gained by words. + </p> + <p> + Dora was conscious of a feeling of sudden, unspeakable pain. Arthur had + only succeeded in convincing her that she could have submitted to a man's + will, wholly and without reserve; but not to the will of Arthur Agar. He + had only showed her that such a submission would in itself have been a + greater happiness than she had ever tasted. But she knew at once that only + one man ever had, ever could have had, the power of exacting such + submission; and he commanded it, not by word of mouth (for he never seemed + to ask it), but by something strong and just and good within himself, + before which her whole being bowed down. + </p> + <p> + We never know how we appear in the eyes of our neighbours, friends or + lovers. Arthur was at that moment in Dora's eyes a mere sham, aping + something he could never attain. + </p> + <p> + He had seized her two hands in his nervous and delicate fingers, from + which she easily withdrew them. The action was natural enough, strong + enough. But he completely spoiled the effect by the words he spoke in his + thin tenor voice. + </p> + <p> + “No, Arthur,” she said. “No, Arthur; since you mention the future, I may + as well tell you <i>now</i> that my answer will never be anything but No. + At one time I thought that it might be different. I told my mother that + possibly, after a great many years, I might think otherwise; but I retract + that. I shall never think otherwise. And if you imagine that you can force + me to do so, please lay aside that hope at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Then there is some one else!” cried Arthur, with an apparent irrelevance. + “I know there is some one else.” + </p> + <p> + Dora seemed to be reflecting. She looked over his head, out of the window, + where the fleecy summer clouds floated idly over the sky. + </p> + <p> + She turned and looked deliberately at the door by which Mrs. Agar had + disappeared. It was standing ajar. Then again she reflected, weighing + something in her mind. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she replied half-dreamily at length. “I think you have a right to + know—there is some one else.” + </p> + <p> + “Was,” corrected Arthur, with the womanly intuition which was given to him + with other womanly traits. + </p> + <p> + “Was and is,” replied Dora quietly. “His being dead makes no difference so + far as you are concerned.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it <i>was</i> Jem! I was sure it was Jem,” said a third voice. + </p> + <p> + In the excitement of the moment Mrs. Agar forgot that when ladies and + gentlemen stoop to eavesdropping they generally retire discreetly and + return after a few moments, humming a tune, hymns preferred. + </p> + <p> + “I knew that you were there,” said Dora, with a calmness which was not + pleasant to the ear. “I saw your black dress through the crack of the + door. You did not stand quite still, which was a pity, because the + sunlight was on the floor behind you. I was not surprised; it was worthy + of you.” + </p> + <p> + “I take God to witness,” cried Mrs. Agar, “that I only heard the last + words as I came back into the room.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't,” said Dora, “that is blasphemy.” + </p> + <p> + “Arthur,” cried Mrs. Agar, “will you hear your mother called names?” + </p> + <p> + “We will not wrangle,” said Dora, rising with something very like a smile + on her face. “Yes, if you want to know, it <i>was</i> Jem. I have only his + memory, but still I can be faithful to that. I don't care if all the world + knows; that is why I told <i>you</i> behind the door. I am not ashamed of + it. I always did care for Jem.” + </p> + <p> + There was a little pause, for mother and son had nothing to answer. Dora + turned to take her gloves, which she had laid on a side table, and as she + did so the other door opened, the principal door leading to the hall. + Moreover, it was opened without the menial pause, and they all turned in + surprise, knowing that there were only servants in the house. + </p> + <p> + In the doorway stood Jem, brown-faced, lean, and anxious-looking. There + was something wolf-like in his face, with the fierce blue eyes shining + from beneath dark lashes, the fair moustache pushed forward by set lips. + </p> + <p> + Behind him the keen face of Seymour Michael peered nervously, restlessly + from side to side. He was distinctly suggestive of a rat in a trap. And + beyond him, in the gloom of the old arras-hung hall, a third man, + seemingly standing guard over Seymour Michael, for he was not looking into + the room but watching every movement made by the General—tall man, + dark, upright, with a silent, clean-shaven face, a total stranger to them + all. But his manner was not that of a stranger, he seemed to have + something to do there. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII. THE LAST LINK + </h2> + <h3> + A thing hereditary in the race comes unawares. + </h3> + <p> + Jem came straight into the room, and there seemed to be no one in it for + him but Dora. She went to meet him with outstretched hand, and her eyes + were answering the questions that she read in his. + </p> + <p> + He took her hand and he said no word, but suddenly all the misery of the + last year slipped back, as it were, into a dream. She could not define her + thoughts then, and they left no memory to recall afterwards. She seemed to + forget that this man had been dead and was living, she only knew that her + hand was within his. Jem looked round to the others present, his attitude + a judgment in itself, his face, in its fierce repose, a verdict. + </p> + <p> + Mark Ruthine had gently pushed Seymour Michael into the room and was + closing the door behind them. Mrs. Agar did not see the General, who was + half-concealed by his junior officer. She could not take her eyes from + Jem's face. + </p> + <p> + “This is fortunate,” he said; and the sound of his voice was music in + Dora's ears. “This is fortunate, every one seems to be here.” + </p> + <p> + He paused for a moment, as if at a loss, and drew his brown hand down over + his moustache. Perhaps he felt remotely that his position was strong and + almost dramatic; but that, being a simple, honest Englishman, he was + unable to turn it to account. + </p> + <p> + He turned towards Seymour Michael, who stood behind, uncomfortably + conscious of Mark Ruthine at his heels. It was not in Jem to make an + effective scene. Englishmen are so. We do not make our lives superficially + picturesque by apostrophising the shade of a dead mother. Jem gave way to + the natural instinct of a soldier by nature and training. A clear + statement of the facts, and a short, sharp judgment. + </p> + <p> + “This man,” he said, laying his hand on the General's shoulder, and + bringing him forward, “has been brought here by us to explain something.” + </p> + <p> + White-lipped, breathless, in a ghastly silence Anna Agar and Seymour + Michael stared at each other over the dainty tea-table, across a gulf of + misused years, through the tangle of two unfaithful lives. + </p> + <p> + Then Jem Agar began his story, addressing himself to Dora, then, and until + the end. + </p> + <p> + “I was not with Stevenor,” he said, “when his force was surprised and + annihilated. I had been sent on through an enemy's country into a position + which no man had the right to ask another to hold with the force allowed + me. This man sent me. All his life has he been seeking glory at the risk + of other men's lives. After the disaster he came to me and relieved my + little force; but he proposed to me a scheme of exploration, which I have + carried through. But even now I shall not get the credit; <i>he</i> will + have that. It was a low, scurrilous thing to do; for he was my commanding + officer, and I could not say No.” + </p> + <p> + “I gave you the option,” blurted out Michael sullenly. + </p> + <p> + Jem took no notice of the interruption, which only had the effect of + making Mark Ruthine move up a few paces nearer. + </p> + <p> + “He made a great point of secrecy,” continued Agar, “which at the time I + thought to be for my safety. But now I see otherwise; Ruthine has pointed + it out to me. If I had never come back he would have said nothing, and + would thus have escaped the odium of having sent a man to certain death. I + only made one condition—namely, that three persons should be + informed at once of my survival, after the disaster to Stevenor's force. + Those three persons were my brother Arthur, my step-mother, and Miss + Glynde.” + </p> + <p> + He paused for a moment, and Dora's clear, low voice took up the narrative. + </p> + <p> + “I met General Michael,” she said, “in London, some months ago. I met him + more than once. He knew quite well who I was, and he never told me.” + </p> + <p> + Thus was the first link of the chain riveted. Seymour Michael winced. He + never raised his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Mark Ruthine moved forward again. He did so with a singular rapidity, for + he had seen murder flash from beneath Jem Agar's eyebrows. He was standing + between them, his left hand gripping Jem's right arm with an undeniable + strength. Dora, looking at them, suddenly felt the tears well to her eyes. + There was something that melted her heart strangely in the sight of those + two men—friends—standing side by side; and at that moment her + affection went out towards Mark Ruthine, the friend of Jem, who understood + Jem, who knew Jem and loved him, perhaps, a thousandth part as well as she + did; an affection which was never withdrawn all through their lives. + </p> + <p> + It was Ruthine's voice that broke the silence, giving Jem time to master + himself. + </p> + <p> + “It is to his credit,” he said, also addressing Dora, “that for very shame + he did not dare to tell you that he had sent Agar on a mission which was + as unnecessary as it was dangerous. When he sent him he must have known + that it was almost a sentence of death.” + </p> + <p> + Then Jem spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “As soon as I got back to civilisation,” he said, “I wrote to him as + arranged, and I enclosed letters to—the three persons who were + admitted into the secret. Those letters have, of course, never reached + their destination. General Michael will be required to explain that also.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment Arthur Agar gave a strange little cackling laugh, which + drew the general attention towards him. He was looking at his + half-brother, with a glitter in his usually soft and peaceful eyes. + </p> + <p> + “There are a good many things which he will have to explain.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered Jem. “That is why we have brought him here.” + </p> + <p> + It fell to Arthur Agar's lot to forge the second link. + </p> + <p> + “When,” he asked Jem, “did he know that you had got back to safety and + civilisation?” + </p> + <p> + “Two months ago, by telegram.” + </p> + <p> + The half-brothers turned with one accord towards Seymour Michael, who + stood trying to conceal the quiver of his lips. + </p> + <p> + “He promised,” said Arthur Agar, “to tell me at once when he received news + of your safety.” + </p> + <p> + It was singular that Seymour Michael should give way at that moment to a + little shrinking movement of fear—back and away, not from Jem, who + towered huge and powerful above him, but from the frail and delicate + younger brother. Mark Ruthine, who was standing behind, saw the movement + and wondered at it. For it would appear that, of all his judges, Seymour + Michael feared the weakest most. + </p> + <p> + And so the second link was welded on to the first, while only Anna Agar + knew the motive that had prompted Michael to suppress the news. She + divined that it was spite towards herself, and for once in her life, with + that intuition which only comes at supreme moments, she had the wisdom to + bide her time. + </p> + <p> + Then at last Seymour Michael spoke. He did not raise his eyes, but his + words were evidently addressed to Arthur. + </p> + <p> + “I acted,” he said, “as I thought best. Secrecy was necessary for Agar's + safety. I knew that if I told you too much you would tell your mother, and—I + know your mother better than either you or Jem Agar know her. She is not + fit to be trusted with the most trifling secret.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you see, you were quite wrong,” burst out Mrs. Agar, with a + derisive laugh. “For I knew it all along. Arthur told me at the first.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice came as a shock to them all. It was harsh and common, the voice + of the street-wrangler. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” cried Seymour Michael, as sharp as fate, “why did you not tell + Miss Glynde?” + </p> + <p> + He raised his arm, pointing one lean dark finger into her face. + </p> + <p> + “I knew,” he hissed, “that the boy would tell you. I counted on it. Why + did you not tell Miss Glynde? Come! Tell us why.” + </p> + <p> + Mark Ruthine's face was a study. It was the face of a very keen sportsman + at the corner of a “drive.” In every word he saw twice as much as simple + Jem Agar ever suspected. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” answered Mrs. Agar, wavering, “because I thought it better not.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” Dora said, “you kept it from me because you wanted me to marry + Arthur. And you thought that I should do so because he was master of + Stagholme. You wanted to trick me into marrying Arthur before”—she + hesitated—“before—” + </p> + <p> + “Before I came back,” added Jem imperturbably. “That was it, that was it!” + cried Seymour Michael, grasping at the straw which might serve to turn the + current aside from himself. + </p> + <p> + But the attempt failed. No one took any notice of it. Jem was looking at + Dora, and she was looking anywhere except at him. + </p> + <p> + It was Jem who spoke, with the decisiveness of the president of a + court-martial. + </p> + <p> + “That will come afterwards,” he said. “And now, perhaps,” he went on, + turning towards Seymour, “you will kindly explain why you broke your word + to me. Explain it to these l—— [sic.] to Miss Glynde.” + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Why, what is the good of making all this fuss about it now?” he + explained. “It has all come right. I acted as I thought best. That is all + the explanation I have to offer.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you not do better than that?” inquired Jem, with a dangerous suavity. + “You had better try.” + </p> + <p> + Dora was looking at Jem now, appealingly. She knew that tone of voice, and + feared it. She alone suspected the anger that was hidden behind so calm an + exterior. + </p> + <p> + Seymour Michael preserved a dogged silence, glancing from side to side + beneath his lowered lashes. He had not forgotten Jem's threat, but he felt + the safeguard of a lady's presence. + </p> + <p> + “I can offer an explanation,” put in Mark Ruthine. “This man is mentally + incapable of telling the truth and of doing the straight thing. There are + some people who are born liars. This man is one. It is not quite fair to + judge him as one would judge others. I have known him for years, have + watched him, have studied him.” + </p> + <p> + All eyes turned towards Seymour Michael, who stood half-cringing, + trembling with fear and hatred towards his relentless judges. + </p> + <p> + “Years ago,” pursued Ruthine, “at the outset of life, he committed a + wanton crime. He did a wrong to a poor innocent woman, whose only fault + was to love him beyond his deserts. He was engaged to be married to her, + and meeting a richer woman he had not the courage to ask to be released + from his engagement. It happened that by a mistake he was gazetted 'dead' + at the time of the Mutiny. He never contradicted the mistake—that + was how he got out of his engagement. He played the same trick with Jem + Agar's name. I recognised it.” + </p> + <p> + Then the last link of the chain was forged. + </p> + <p> + “So did I,” said Anna Agar. “I was the woman.” + </p> + <p> + Before the words were well out of her mouth Mark Ruthine's voice was + raised in an alarmed shout. + </p> + <p> + “Look out!” he cried. “Hold that man; he is mad!” + </p> + <p> + No one had been noticing Arthur Agar—no one except Seymour Michael, + who had never taken his eyes from his face during Ruthine's narration. + </p> + <p> + With a groan, unlike a human sound at all, Arthur Agar had rushed forward + when his mother spoke, and for a few seconds there was a wild confusion in + the room, while Seymour Michael, white with dread, fled before his doom. + In and out among the people and the furniture, shouting for help, he leapt + and struggled. Then there came a crash. Seymour Michael had broken through + the window, smashing the glass, with his arms doubled over his face. + </p> + <p> + A second later Arthur wrenched open the sash and gave chase across the + lawn. In the confusion some moments elapsed before the two heavier men + followed him over the smooth turf, and the ladies from the window saw + Arthur Agar kneeling over Seymour Michael on the stone terrace at the end + of the lawn. They heard with cruel distinctness the sharp crackling crash + of the Jew's head upon the stone flags, as Arthur shook him as a terrier + shakes a rat. + </p> + <p> + Instinctively they followed, and as they came up to the group where + Ruthine was kneeling over Seymour Michael, while Jem dragged Arthur away, + they heard the Doctor say— + </p> + <p> + “Agar, get the ladies away. This man is dead. Look sharp, man! They + mustn't see this.” + </p> + <p> + And Jem barred their way with one hand, while he held his half-brother + with the other. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX. SETTLED + </h2> + <h3> + For love in sequel works with fate. + </h3> + <p> + The four walked back to the library together. Mrs. Agar looked back over + her shoulder at every other footstep. She took no notice of her son. Her + affection for him seemed suddenly to have been absorbed and lost in some + other emotion. + </p> + <p> + Jem was half supporting, half carrying Arthur, whose eyes were like those + of a dead man, while his lips were parted in a vacant, senseless way. + </p> + <p> + Already Ruthine could be heard giving his orders to the gardeners and + other servants who had gathered round him in a wonderfully short space of + time. + </p> + <p> + Dora passed into the library first, treading carefully over the broken + glass, and Mrs. Agar followed her without appearing to notice the sound of + breakage beneath her feet. No one had spoken a word since Mark Ruthine had + told them that Seymour Michael was dead. There are some situations in life + wherein we suddenly realise what an inadequate thing human speech is. + There are some things that others know which we have never told them, and + would ever be unable to tell them. There are some feelings within us for + which no language can find expression. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar was simply stupefied. When God does mete out punishment here on + earth, He does so with an overflowing measure. This devoted mother did not + even evince anxiety as to the welfare of her son, for whose sake she had + made so many blunders, so many futile plots. + </p> + <p> + Jem brought Arthur into the room, and led him to an arm-chair. There was + that steady masterfulness in his manner which comes to those who have + looked on death in many forms and whom nothing can dismay. + </p> + <p> + He offered no unnecessary assistance or advice, did not fussily loosen + Arthur's necktie, or perform any of those small inappropriate offices + which some would have deemed necessary under the circumstances. He knew + quite well that this was no matter of a necktie or a collar. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar seated herself on a sofa opposite, and slowly swayed her body + backwards and forwards. She was one of those persons who can never + separate mental anguish from physical pain. They have but one way of + expressing both, and possibly of feeling both. Her hands were clasped on + her lap, her head on one side, her lips drawn back as if in agony. She + even went so far as to breathe laboriously. + </p> + <p> + Thus they remained; Jem watching Arthur, Dora watching Jem, who seemed to + ignore her presence. + </p> + <p> + It was Mrs. Agar who spoke first, angrily and bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “What is the good of standing there?” she said to Jem. “Can't you find + something more useful to do than that?” + </p> + <p> + Jem looked at her, first with surprise and then with something very nearly + approaching contempt. + </p> + <p> + “I am waiting,” he replied, “for Ruthine. He is a doctor.” + </p> + <p> + “Who wants a doctor now? What is the good of a doctor now—now that + Seymour is dead? I don't know what he is doing here, at any rate, + meddling.” + </p> + <p> + “Arthur wants a doctor,” replied Jem. “Can you not see that he is in a + sort of trance? He hears and sees nothing. He is quite unconscious.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar seemed only half to understand. She stared at her son, swaying + backwards and forwards in imbecile misery. + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear! oh dear!” she whispered, “what have we done to deserve this?” + </p> + <p> + After a few seconds she repeated the words. + </p> + <p> + “What have we done to deserve this? What have we done ...” + </p> + <p> + Her voice died away into a whisper, and when that became inaudible her + lips went on moving, still framing the same words over and over again. + </p> + <p> + In this manner they waited, with that dull senselessness to the flight of + time which follows on a great shock. + </p> + <p> + They all heard the clatter of horses' feet on the gravel of the avenue, + and probably they all divined that Mark Ruthine had sent for medical help. + </p> + <p> + To Dora the sound brought a sudden boundless sense of relief. Amidst this + mental confusion it came as a practical common-sense proof that the + tension of the last year was over. The burden of her own life was by it + lifted from her shoulders; for Jem was here, and nothing could matter very + much now. + </p> + <p> + Presently Ruthine came into the room. As he went towards Arthur he glanced + at Dora and then at Mrs. Agar, but the young fellow was evidently his + first care. + </p> + <p> + While he was kneeling by the low chair examining Arthur's eyes and face, + Mrs. Agar suddenly rose and crossed the room. + </p> + <p> + “Is he dead?” she said abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Who?” inquired Mark Ruthine, without looking round. + </p> + <p> + “Seymour Michael.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then Arthur killed him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + All this while Arthur was lying back in the chair, white and lifeless. His + eyes were open, he breathed regularly, but he heard nothing that was said, + nor saw anything before his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Mrs. Agar, “that was a murder?” + </p> + <p> + She was looking out of the window, towards the stone terrace, already + conscious that the scene that she had witnessed there would never be + effaced from her memory while she had life. + </p> + <p> + After a little pause Mark Ruthine spoke. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he answered, “it was not that. Your son was not responsible for his + actions when he did it. I think I can prove that. I do not yet know what + it was. It was very singular. I think it was some sort of mental + aberration—temporary, I hope, and think. We will see when he + recovers himself—when the circulation is restored.” + </p> + <p> + While he spoke he continued to examine his patient. He spoke in his + natural tone, without attempting to lower his voice, for he knew that + Arthur Agar had no comprehension of things terrestrial at that time. + </p> + <p> + “It was not,” he went on, “the action of a sane man. Besides, he could not + have done it. In his right mind he could not have killed Seymour Michael, + who was a strong man. As it is, I think that there was some sort of + paralysis in Seymour Michael—a paralysis of fear. He seemed too + frightened to attempt to defend himself. Besides, why should your son do + it?” + </p> + <p> + “He was born hating him.” + </p> + <p> + Mark Ruthine slowly turned, still upon his knees. He rose, and in his dark + face there was that strange eagerness again, like the eagerness of a + sportsman approaching some unknown quarry in the jungle. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, Mrs. Agar?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I mean that he was born with a hatred for that man stronger than anything + that was in him. His soul was given to him full of hate for Seymour + Michael. Such things are when a woman bears a child in the midst of great + passion.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Mark Ruthine, “I know.” + </p> + <p> + “The night he was born,” Mrs. Agar went on, “I first saw and spoke to that + man after he had come back from India—after I had learnt what he had + done.” + </p> + <p> + Ruthine turned round towards Jem and Dora. + </p> + <p> + “You hear that,” he said to them. “This is not the story of a mother + trumped up in court to save her son. It is the truth. There are some + things which we do not understand even yet. Don't forget what you have + heard. It will come in usefully.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to Mrs. Agar again. + </p> + <p> + “Did he know the story?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “He never heard it until you told it just now.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you swear to that, Mrs. Agar?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Ruthine, “he does not know now that you are the woman whom + Seymour Michael wronged. He need never know it. The paroxysm had come on + before you spoke—that was why I shouted. He was mad with hate, + before you opened your lips.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar was now beginning to realise what was at stake. The mother's + love was re-awakening. The old cunning look came into her eyes, and her + quick, truthless mind was evidently on the alert. There was something + animal-like in Mrs. Agar; but she was of the lower order of animal, that + seeks to defend its young by cunning and not by sheer bravery. + </p> + <p> + Ruthine must have guessed at something, for he said at once: + </p> + <p> + “Remember what you have told me. You will have to repeat that exactly. Add + nothing to it, take nothing from it, or you will spoil it. Tell me, has + your son seen this man more than once?” + </p> + <p> + “No, only once; at Cambridge.” + </p> + <p> + “All right; I think I shall be able to prove it.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke he went towards the writing-table and, sitting down, he wrote + out a prescription. Dora followed him and held out her hand for the paper. + </p> + <p> + “Send for that at once, please,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Then he beckoned to Jem. + </p> + <p> + “I have sent for the local doctor,” he said to him. “But I should advise + having some one else—Llandoller from Harley Street. This is far + above our heads.” + </p> + <p> + “Telegraph for him,” answered Jem Agar. + </p> + <p> + While Ruthine wrote he went on speaking. + </p> + <p> + “We must get him upstairs at once,” he said. “I should like to have him in + bed before the doctor comes.” + </p> + <p> + In answer to the bell, rung a second time, the servant came, looking white + and scared. + </p> + <p> + “Show Dr. Ruthine Mr. Arthur's room,” said Jem; and Ruthine took Arthur up + in his arms like a child. + </p> + <p> + When they had gone there was a silence. Mrs. Agar made no attempt to + follow. She sat down again on the sofa, swaying backwards and forwards. + Perhaps she was dimly aware that there remained something still to be + said. + </p> + <p> + Jem Agar crossed the room and stood in front of her. Dora, from the + background, was pleading with her eyes for this woman. There were the + makings of a very hard man in James Edward Makerstone Agar, and seven + years of the grimmest soldiering of modern days had done nothing to soften + him. He was strictly just; but it is not justice that women want. To all + men there comes a time when they recognise the fact that all their time + and all their energies are required for the taking care of <i>one</i> + woman, and that all the rest must take care of themselves. + </p> + <p> + “You may stay,” he said to his step-mother, “until Arthur is removed from + this house—but no longer. I shall never pretend to forgive you, and + I never want to see you again.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Agar made no answer, nor did she look up. + </p> + <p> + “Go,” said Jem, with a little jerk of his head towards the door. + </p> + <p> + Slowly she rose, and without looking at either of them she passed out of + the room. + </p> + <p> + When, at last, they were left alone in the quiet library where they had + played together as children, where the happiest moments of his life and + the most miserable of hers had been lived through. + </p> + <p> + Dora did not seem to know quite what to do. She was standing by the + writing-table, with one hand resting on it, facing him, but not looking at + him. She suddenly felt unable to do that—felt at a loss, abashed, + unequal to the moment. + </p> + <p> + But Jem seemed to have no hesitation. He was quite natural and very + deliberate. He seemed to know quite well what to do. He closed the door + behind Mrs. Agar, and then he came across the room and took Dora in his + arms, as if there were no question about it. He said nothing. After all, + there was nothing to be said. + </p> + <h3> + THE END + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of From One Generation to Another, by +Henry Seton Merriman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FROM ONE GENERATION TO ANOTHER *** + +***** This file should be named 8805-h.htm or 8805-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/8/0/8805/ + + +Text file produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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