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Title: The Cornhill Magazine (vol. XLI, no. 244 new series, October 1916)

Author: Various

Release date: October 29, 2023 [eBook #71983]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Smith, Elder and Co

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE (VOL. XLI, NO. 244 NEW SERIES, OCTOBER 1916) ***



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THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

OCTOBER 1916.




_THE TUTOR’S STORY._

BY THE LATE CHARLES KINGSLEY, REVISED AND COMPLETED BY HIS DAUGHTER,
LUCAS MALET.

Copyright by Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. in the United States of America.


CHAPTER XXXV.

How many in every age have craved to read the future, to uncover the
secrets of the coming years; and to that end have pinned a foolish faith
upon the words of fortune-tellers, soothsayers and suchlike blind leaders
of the blind. For my part, owing more to a sluggish quality in my blood,
probably, than to any special wisdom or strength of mind, I have always
felt thankful—since I became capable of reasoned thought—the future was
a sealed book to me, or rather a book of which it is ordained I shall
turn but one page at a time. To skip, to look on, to take a glance at the
end, would be, in my case anyhow, to paralyse will and action by excess
of hope or dread. No; depend on it, that is a merciful dispensation which
condemns us to make haste slowly in deciphering the story of our lives,
learning here a little and there a little, precept upon precept and line
upon line. Unquestionably had second-sight been given me as to much which
lay ahead, on the glorious June mid-day when I started with Hartover up
to town, I should have been utterly unnerved by the prospect of the stern
doings I was to witness; and so have proved but a pitiably broken reed on
which for him to lean.

I rose early, though still tired; and, somewhat refreshed by a cold bath,
dressed and made inquiries regarding Hartover. Finding he still slept, I
left a message for him and went out.

I have observed that, in fatigue, the mind is peculiarly responsive to
outside influences. It was so with me, as I walked along the familiar
streets in the radiant morning sunlight. Never had the inherent poetry
of Cambridge, its dignity and repose, appealed to me more forcibly.
My filial affection went out to this place which had sheltered my
youth and inexperience, nourished my intellect, given me the means of
livelihood, given me, also, many friends—went out to its traditions, to
its continuity of high endeavour through centuries of scholarship, of
religious and of scientific thought. What a roll of honour, what a galaxy
of famous and venerable names, it could show!

But I had no time to linger, to-day of all days, over meditations such
as these. Not past splendours but very present anxieties claimed me. I
hastened my steps, and passed in under the fine Tudor gateway of my own
college just as the men—‘a numerous throng arrayed in white’—poured out
from chapel, into the sunshine and shadow, the green and grey of the big
quadrangle.

My object was to obtain speech of the Master; and I was fortunate enough
to catch him as he was entering the Lodge. I begged for ten minutes’ talk
with him while he ate his breakfast—a request he granted readily, being
curious, as I fancied, to learn my errand and, since I had not kept my
chapel, whence I came.

I satisfied him on both points, telling him as much as I deemed expedient
about Hartover’s unexpected descent upon me—to all of which he listened
with genuine interest and concern.

‘And now, sir,’ I said, in conclusion, ‘the question arises as to whether
I can be spared from my college duties until this painful business is
placed upon, what at all events approaches, a reasonable and workable
footing?’

‘Which signifies, being interpreted—am I prepared to sanction your doing
that which you fully intend to do whether I sanction it or not? Eh,
Brownlow?’

I acquiesced smiling, relieved to find him in so sympathetic a humour.

‘Very well, then; so be it,’ he said. ‘Having put your hand to this
particular plough—at no small personal cost to yourself, quixotic fellow
that you are—you are resolved not to look back; and I am the last man to
invite you to do so. On the contrary, go on with your ploughing and drive
a straight furrow. Only provide, to the best of your ability, against
friction and disappointment here. Your absence will necessarily create
some. Both I and others shall miss you. You must pay—or rather we, I
suppose, must pay—the price of your popularity.’

And he looked at me very kindly, while I reddened at the implied praise.

‘See the amount of friction be as small as possible,’ he went on. ‘And
now, as to this erratic young nobleman, Lord Hartover—whose affairs
appear to furnish such a promising battlefield to the powers of good
and evil—I shall make no attempt to see him, although it would interest
me to do so. Knowing all that I do know about him and his family, I
should find it almost impossible to ignore personal matters, and equally
impossible, in the present crisis, to speak of them without a breach of
good taste. I have hardly seen him since the death of his mother, the
first Lady Longmoor, when he was a child.—Ah! there was a rare specimen
of womanhood, Brownlow, if you like! I stayed at Hover frequently during
her all too brief reign. This young man may esteem himself fortunate if
he inherits even a tithe of her charm of person and of nature.’

After which pleasantly encouraging words I rose to depart. While, as the
Master held out his hand to me⸺

‘Remember I am content to pull the strings unseen,’ he added.
‘Consult me by letter if you need my advice. Count on me in respect
of pounds, shillings, and pence, too, if your own funds do not cover
the expenditure in which you may find yourself involved. We must
prepare for contingencies—Detective Inspector Lavender to wit. With his
participation, by the way, I should strongly advise you not to acquaint
Lord Hartover unless absolutely compelled. Convict the woman, but, if
possible, do so privately. Avoid all appearance of running her down;
since, for sentimental if no deeper reasons, it might lead to a breach
between yourself and the young man which would be lamentable in the
extreme.’

This last bit of advice was sound, but far from easy to follow. The
more I thought it over—as we posted those fifty odd miles, by Audley
End, Bishop Stortford, Broxbourne and Tottenham, from Cambridge up to
town—the more clearly I saw how greatly the fact of my having already
called in the help of a detective increased the difficulty of my seeing
Mademoiselle Fédore and demanding the explanation Hartover desired. Could
I do so without taking Inspector Lavender into my confidence regarding
Hartover’s discovery? And could I take Lavender into my confidence
without curtailing my own freedom of action and inviting a public
exposure of Fédore which must be abhorrent to the dear boy? Here, indeed,
was a problem hard of solution! Still it appeared an integral part of
the whole, and to the whole I had pledged myself. I must be guided,
therefore, by circumstance, dealing with each new phase of this very
complicated affair as it presented itself; keeping, meantime, as cool a
head and quiet a mind as might be. To meet danger half-way may be less an
act of prudence than a waste of energy. Sufficient unto the day is the
evil thereof—and the good thereof likewise, if a man has faith to believe
so.

We were to dine on the way, and to reach the great house in Grosvenor
Square between nine and ten o’clock. There, as I learned from Hartover,
he still—when he pleased—occupied a set of rooms upon the ground floor,
with a private entrance from the side street, which I well remembered.

‘It isn’t that I have any particular love for being under the family
roof,’ he told me. ‘But I saw the Rusher wanted to oust me and collar
those rooms for himself, and I did not choose to have it. So I stuck to
them. Her Magnificence couldn’t give me notice to quit without appealing
to my father, and she really had not the face for that. There are limits
to even her audacity! Now she and I are like buckets in a well. When she
arrives, I depart and take up my abode elsewhere. Quarrelled with her?
Good Lord, no. She is the most impossible person to quarrel with on the
face of the earth. As slippery as an eel—I beg your pardon, a mermaid,
shall we say? It does sound more polite. But hold her you can’t. She
slithers through your fingers, in that fascinating, mocking, laughing way
of hers—you know it?’

Did I not?⸺

‘And leaves you, feeling like every sort of fool, cursing, most
consumedly, both her and yourself.’

He laughed not quite pleasantly.

‘But, the devil helping me, Brownlow, I’ll be even with her some day
yet. When my father dies—always supposing I survive him, which quite
conceivably I shall not—her Magnificence and I will square accounts.
It’ll be a little scene worth witnessing. I hope, dear old man, you may
be present!’

A wish I could not altogether find it in my heart to echo. But, as he
fell silent, staring out over the sun-bathed country, through the cloud
of dust raised by wheels and horse-hoofs—subtle lines of care and of
bitterness deforming the youthfulness of his beautiful face—I was spared
the necessity of answering, for which I was glad.

All day—though towards me he had shown himself uniformly courteous and
gentle, loving even—the boy’s spirits had fluctuated, his moods being
many and diverse. At one time he was full of anecdote and racy talk,
at another steeped in gloom or irritably explosive, swearing in most
approved fine-gentleman fashion at any and every thing not exactly to
his taste. In short, while he avoided any mention of the object of our
journey and our conversation of last night, I could not but see these
were persistently uppermost in his thought, keeping his nerves cruelly
on edge. What wonder, when all his future hung in the balance! How far
did he actually love Fédore—how far actually want her proved innocent?
I could not tell. His attitude baffled me. Yet it seemed incredible the
society of such a woman should continue to satisfy him—that differences
of age, station, nationality, education, should not be prolific, at
times at all events, of repulsion and something akin to disgust. Quite
independent of that matter of the jewels and the ugly suspicions raised
by it, must he not have begun by now to measure the enormity of his
mistake in marrying her? I, at once, hoped and feared he had. While, as
the miles of road fled away behind us beneath the horses’ trotting feet,
the sadness of his position grew upon me, until I had much ado to keep my
feelings to myself.

Once arrived, Hartover slipped his arm through mine, and we entered the
stately house together, while he said, a little huskily:

‘Brownlow, it is good to have you—very good of you to come. Don’t imagine
I do not appreciate what you are doing for me because to-day I have not
said much about it. Oh! how I wish you could always be with me! Having
given Cambridge the slip, you’ll stay now, won’t you, as long as you
possibly can?’

Deeply touched by his affection, I was about to assure him I would
indeed remain while I was of any real service and comfort to him,
when William—grown stout, sleek, but, as I thought, a good deal more
trustworthy-looking—came forward with a packet on a salver.

‘What’s that?’ Hartover inquired sharply. ‘Put it down. I cannot be
bothered with it now.’

‘I am sorry, my lord,’ the man answered, with evident unwillingness, ‘but
I am bound to bring it to your notice. His lordship sent by express this
morning from Bath. The messenger is waiting for your acknowledgment.’

Hartover’s hand grew heavy on my arm.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will send my orders presently.’

And he led me into a fine room, opening off the corridor on the left,
where supper had been laid for us.

‘As I supposed,’ he went on, after glancing at the contents of the
packet. ‘A summons from my father to attend his deathbed—in which last,
by the way, I don’t for an instant believe. Brownlow, what am I to do?’

‘What but obey?’

‘To be told, when I get there, either that he has been miraculously
restored to health, or that he has changed his mind; in either case that
he no longer wishes to see me, and so—practically—have the door slammed
in my face? No, I tell you these repeated visits to Bath become a farce,
and an impertinent one at that. My father persistently sends for me and
as persistently refuses to receive me when I come. Last time I swore, if
he sent any more, he would send in vain. Why should I let him make me a
laughing-stock, and treat me with less consideration than one of his own
valets? Why cannot he be reasonably civil to me? It is intolerable, not
to be borne. But his mind—such mind as he ever possessed, no great thing
from the first as far as I can discover—has been poisoned against me for
years by the gang of hypocrites and toadies which surrounds him. Only
just now’—Hartover spread out his hands passionately, his face flushed,
his eyes filling with tears—‘think, Brownlow, think how can I leave
London? How can I endure the suspense of absence when—when’⸺

For a moment I feared he would give way to one of those fits of
ungovernable anger before which I had trembled at Hover of old. But, to
my great relief, he mastered himself, after a while growing gentle and
composed.

‘You are right, dear old man, as usual,’ he said at last. ‘I will go.
Then at least my conscience as a model son will be clear, whatever his
lordship’s as a tender father may, or may not, be.’

And so it was settled he should start at cock-crow, leaving me to deal
with the unlovely business of Mademoiselle Fédore—an arrangement I found
far from unwelcome, since it secured me greater freedom of action than I
could have hoped for otherwise.


CHAPTER XXXVI.

Left to myself, next morning, I sought out Detective Inspector Lavender—a
large, fair, pink-faced, grey-eyed man, with a soothing voice and
fatherly smile, as unlike the human sleuth-hound of melodrama and
fiction as could well be. Before making my fateful call upon Fédore it
would be very desirable, I felt, to learn whether he had any fresh news
for me and shape my course accordingly.

He greeted me with—

‘Well, sir, you are the gentleman of all others I was wishing to see. My
fellow officers are a bit jealous sometimes of what they are pleased to
call Lavender’s luck—and my luck is uncommonly to the fore, I must say,
this morning.’

I inquired why.

‘Because this little man-hunting job of yours and mine seems on the tip
of success. A word from you may settle it.’

I inquired how.

‘Well, sir, could you undertake to identify this Mr. Marsigli if you saw
him?’

I answered that I believed I undoubtedly could.

‘Then the affair becomes very simple. Lavender’s luck, sir, Lavender’s
luck. So, if you have an hour or two to spare, I will ask you to go with
me to a certain humble residence, from the windows of which two of my men
are keeping watch on a certain door, in a certain garden-wall, not very
many miles from here.’

‘In Chelsea?’ I said—the question surprised out of me by his words,
before I had time to consider the wisdom of asking it.

‘Just so, sir—in Chelsea—you’ve hit the right nail on the head.’ And, for
all his soothing voice and fatherly smile, the detective’s grey eyes grew
uncommonly keen and bright.

‘Pray may I ask, have you any particular interest in a door in a
garden-wall giving access to a queerly stowed-away little house in a
Chelsea side street?’

Clearly there was nothing for it but to put him in full possession of the
facts; at the same time urging him to bear in mind the relation in which
the inhabitant of that same queerly stowed-away dwelling stood, or was
supposed to stand, to Lord Hartover.

He considered, for some minutes in silence, rubbing his hand slowly over
his chin. Then—

‘This promises to be a more delicate piece of work than I expected.
Either we must act together, fair and square and above-board, you
understand, sir, without reserve on either side; or you must leave it all
to me; or I must retire from the business, making the best case I can
for myself to the authorities, and leave it all to you. It is a ticklish
enough job either way. Now which shall it be, sir? The decision rests
with you, since you are, in a sense, my employer; but I must ask you to
make it at once, before I give you any further information. And please
remember, sir, that while I am ready to do all in my power to meet your
wishes and spare the young nobleman’s feelings, my first duty and first
object is to bring the guilty party, or parties, to justice, whatsoever
and whosoever they may be.’

It was my turn now to consider, since I could not but admit the soundness
of his position. And I found myself, I own, in a dilemma. To leave all
to Lavender appeared to me at once cowardly and somewhat lacking in good
faith towards the dear boy; while to take the entire responsibility upon
myself would be, I feared, both presumptuous and foolhardy.

‘No, we must work together, Inspector,’ I said, finally. ‘You may depend
upon my loyalty; and I may, I am sure, depend upon your discretion, so
long as the ends of justice are in no wise imperilled.’

‘Well said, sir,’ he replied. ‘I believe you will have no reason to
regret your decision.’

And we proceeded to talk matters over thoroughly, he asking me again for
a careful description of Marsigli.—Tall, of good figure and distinguished
appearance, as I told him, a genuine North Italian type, crisp black
hair, clear olive skin, and regular features; a serious and courtly
manner, moreover.

Lavender consulted some notes.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, ‘that tallies with the account of an individual
my men have had under observation for the best part of a fortnight.
Twice he has called at the house I spoke of. Our gentleman has added a
neatly-grown moustache and beard to his other attractions, recently,
as I fancy; but it will hardly prevent your recognising him—that is if
Lavender’s luck holds, sir, and I can procure you a good look at him.’

Regarding my mission to Fédore—we agreed, since Hartover could not be
back in town under a couple of days at soonest—it might very well stand
over until to-morrow, and that meanwhile I should place my time entirely
at my companion’s disposal.

‘If we have not laid hands on this fellow before midnight, you shall be
free to follow your own wishes as to visiting the lady,’ he promised me;
and therewith, calling a coach, bore me off south-westward to Chelsea.

The glorious summer weather of the past three or four days was about to
terminate in the proverbial English thunder-storm. I seldom remember
a more oppressive atmosphere. London still offers a not altogether
satisfactory example of applied sanitary science, but, at the date in
question, once you left the fashionable districts and main thoroughfares,
was frankly malodorous, not to say filthy. Half-way along King’s Road
Lavender paid off the coach, and conducted me, on foot, by festering,
foul-smelling by-ways, to the back of a row of mean two-storied houses.
Gaining access to one of them—which from its dilapidated condition I
judged to be empty—through a yard strewn with all manner of unsightly
rubbish, a dead cat included, we passed by a narrow passage and stairway
to a front room on the first floor. Here two detectives awaited our
coming, and here, seated on a remarkably comfortless Windsor chair, by
the defaced and broken window I passed what appeared a small eternity,
looking out into the ill-paved street, where groups of squalid,
half-naked children played and fought, and hawkers plied a noisy,
unremunerative trade.

Opposite was a long stretch of much-defiled drab brick wall, pierced by
a green-painted door, and furnished with a fringe of broken bottle glass
along the top, above which showed the upper branches of a plane-tree and
the roof and chimney-pots of an otherwise invisible dwelling. The whole
presented a sordid and disheartening picture in the close heavy heat,
beneath a sullen grey-blue sky across which masses of heavy cloud stalked
upright in the face of a fitful and gusty wind.

And to think this was the place to which Hartover—heir to immense wealth
and princely possessions, heir to royal Hover affronting the grandeur
of those wind-swept Yorkshire fells—must needs descend to seek comfort,
companionship, and some ordinary human kindness of care and woman’s love!
The irony, the cynicism, of it struck through me with indignation and
disgust.

I am under the impression Lavender did his best to lighten the tedium of
my vigil by talking, humorously and well, of matters pertaining to his
profession. That he discoursed to me of the differences between English
and Continental methods of criminal procedure—the former of which he held
notably superior in dignity and in fair-play—while his underlings smoked
their pipes in modest silence. But I am afraid I accorded his well-meant
efforts for my entertainment scanty attention; nor even, when the storm
broke, did I pay much heed to the long-drawn cannonade, the boom and
crash of warring elements.

For, throughout that lengthy waiting, the thought of Hartover and of
his future had grown to be a veritable obsession, dwarfing all else
in my mind. Again his pathetic outcry over the ‘poor, poor, hateful
little Chelsea house’—the roof and chimney-pots of which I could see
there opposite, above the fringe of broken bottle glass topping the
wall—rang in my ears. And, as it did so, Self, by God’s grace, at
last, was mastered. Yes, it came to this—to all else would I give the
go-by, readily, gladly—to my pleasant studious life at Cambridge and
its prospect of solid emoluments, of personal distinction and scholarly
renown, to my last lingering hope—for even yet a faint, sweet, foolish
hope did linger—of some day making Nellie Braithwaite nearer, and ah!
how vastly, exquisitely dearer than a mere friend—if thus I might be
permitted to redeem Hartover, to save him from the consequences of his
own wayward, though not ignoble, nature, and from the consequences of
others’ wholly ignoble conspiracies and sins. I was ready to make my
sacrifice without hesitation or return; only, in my weakness, I prayed
for some assurance it was accepted, prayed for a sign.

Was the sign given? It seemed so. I sprang to my feet, calling Lavender
hurriedly by name.

It was late afternoon now. The worst of the storm over, though big plashy
drops still fell, while steam rose off the sun-baked paving-stones.
Through this veil of moisture a man walked rapidly to the door in the
wall and knocked. Waiting for his knock to be answered, he turned, took
off his hat, shook it sharply to dislodge the wet, and, so doing, glanced
up at the still lowering sky. I saw his face distinctly.

Lavender stood at my elbow.

‘Well, sir, well, sir?’ he said, an odd eagerness and vibration in his
voice.

‘Yes,’ I declared. ‘Marsigli, Lord Longmoor’s former butler, without
doubt.’

‘You would be prepared to swear to him in a court of law, if required?’

‘Absolutely prepared,’ I said.

Here the door was opened cautiously from the garden. Marsigli thrust past
the servant, and disappeared within.

Now or never! Lavender and his underlings darted down the crazy stairs
and across the road. I followed at my best pace, very vital excitement
gripping me, in time to see him knock, await the opening of the door,
and—then a rush. The three were inside so quickly that, before I
could join them, the servant—a middle-aged, hard-featured, somewhat
shrewish-looking French-woman—was safe in the custody of the younger
detective, Lavender and the other pushing on for the house.

‘If she attempts to scream, throttle her,’ Lavender said, in a
sufficiently loud aside to have a wholesomely restraining effect upon
the captive. ‘Now, sir,’ to me, ‘as little noise as possible in getting
upstairs, please.’

And he glanced meaningly, though not unkindly, at my lame leg.

I crept after them as quietly as I could, and had reason; for on reaching
the landing we heard voices, a man’s and a woman’s, high in altercation.

The door of the front drawing-room, I should explain, stood open, the
front room communicating with the back by folding doors. These were
closed, and within them the quarrel took place; but so loudly that, as we
advanced, I could distinguish nearly every word.

‘It is impossible. I tell you he is still away.’

‘No one else can have taken them. No one else has a key to this sweet
little nest—and so the game is up, my child, by now the fraud discovered.
You are trapped—trapped!’

‘Beast,’ the woman cried, in a tone of concentrated fury and contempt.
‘Go. Do you hear? I tell you to go, or I send Marie for the police.’

‘Pish, you little fool, you know you dare not. What money have you?’

‘Money, indeed! I have none, and if I had I would rather fling it in the
gutter than you should have it. Go—go—are you deaf?’

‘Hand over the rest of the jewels then; or I call in the police myself,
and tell them—you know what.’

‘It is a lie—a lie. I am his wife.’

‘Idiot—you are my wife, not his.’

‘You cannot prove it,’ she said fiercely.

‘I can. I have the documents safe in Paris.’

‘Go and fetch them, then.’

‘So I will, and take you and the jewels along with me. For I am willing
to forgive—yes, listen—it is your only chance now that you are found
out.—I, your lawful husband, Bartolomeo Marsigli, am willing to forgive,
to condone your infidelities, and receive you back.’

‘And I spit upon your forgiveness. Understand, once and for all, I will
never go back to you, never—I would die first. Having had the nobleman,
what can I want with the nobleman’s valet? Keep off—you brute. Touch me
at your peril. Take that—and that’⸺

The sound of a tussle. Then the man’s voice—

‘Heigh! my fine lady, would you bite then, would you scratch? There, be
reasonable, can’t you, for I repeat the game is up. Your aristocratic
boy-lover is lost to you for ever in any case. Come away with me to Paris
while there still is time. I love you—and I will have you’⸺

Again the sound of a tussle, wordless, tense.

‘That will do, I think, sir,’ Lavender looked rather than spoke, and
quietly opened the folding doors.

There are certain spots—in themselves often commonplace enough—which are
branded, by mere association, indelibly upon the retina. So is that inner
room on mine. I remember every stick of furniture it contained; remember
even the colour and pattern of the wall-paper—a faded fawn dotted with
tarnished gold and silver fleur-de-lis. The room—like every other back
drawing-room in an unfashionable suburb of that day—was narrow, but high
and of some length, a window, at the far end, opening down to the floor,
a little balcony beyond, and the tops of a few fruit-trees in the garden
below.

Across the window a couch had been drawn, upon which Fédore—wrapped in
a loose dressing-gown of some pale silk stuff—had either been thrown
or thrown herself in the heat of the recent struggle. On this side the
couch, near the head of it, stood Marsigli, his back towards us.

Fédore’s nerve was admirable, her self-control consummate. Quick as
thought she grasped the situation and used it to her own advantage. As
she saw the doors open, disclosing our presence, she neither exclaimed
nor shrank. On the contrary, drawing herself into a sitting position, she
calmly extended one hand, with a proud sweeping gesture, and, as calmly,
spoke.

‘Marie has done her duty then, faithful soul, without waiting to be told!
There is the door, Marsigli, and there, behind you, are the police—and
Mr. Brownlow, an old friend of mine too—how fortunate! Yes, arrest him,
gentlemen; and hang him if you can—I do not understand your English
laws—as high as St. Paul’s, for the most cowardly and insolent villain
you ever took.’

Marsigli turned, saw us, and suddenly raised his right arm.

‘Die then, since you prefer it,’ he said. ‘Thief, liar—adulteress.’

While, with a terrible cry, Fédore leapt off the couch.

‘A knife!’ she screamed. ‘Save me. He has a knife.’

And, as she ran towards us, I saw something narrow and bright flash
downwards between her shoulders, and—a red spout of blood. Her knees gave
under her. She lurched, flung up her arms, kneeling for an instant bolt
upright, a world of agony and despair in her splendid eyes, and then,
before either of us could reach her, fell back.


CHAPTER XXXVII.

Of the half-hour which followed I can give no coherent account. As I try
to recall it, after the lapse of many years, details start into vivid
relief, but without sequence or any clear relation of cause and effect.

I have an impression of helping Lavender to raise Fédore from the ground,
and of his muttering—‘A foul blow, before God a foul blow,’ as we laid
her, quivering but apparently unconscious, upon the couch. An impression
of sultry, copper-coloured sunshine suddenly and harshly lighting up
the disordered room, the grim assembly of men, and the woman’s pale
recumbent figure, as with a glare of widespread conflagration. I have
an impression of Marsigli, too, and that a very strange one, coolly
holding out his hands—the right hand horribly splashed and stained—while
Lavender clapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. The fury of primitive
passion seemed assuaged in him by his hideous act of vengeance, and he
had become impassive, courtly even in manner, as I remembered him when
waiting on her Magnificence at table or ushering in her guests. He had
given himself up, as I heard later, without any struggle or attempt
at escape. But above all I have an impression, nauseating and to me
indescribably dreadful, which—though I trust I am not unduly squeamish—I
shall, I believe, carry with me to the day of my death, an impression of
the sight, the sense, the smell of fresh shed blood. Upon that I will not
dwell further, since, however deeply affecting to myself, it can serve no
useful purpose.

Finally—summoned, I suppose, by the younger of Lavender’s underlings,
who had reappeared after locking the servant, Marie, in some room
below—a surgeon arrived. Then I slipped away downstairs and out into
the comparatively cool untainted atmosphere of the shabby little garden.
If I was wanted, they must call me. Not voluntarily could I witness
a professional examination of what, less than an hour ago, had been
a strong and very beautiful if very sinful woman, and was now but a
helpless corpse.

All my thought had softened towards Fédore. Her evildoings—evil even in
respect of her accomplice—were manifest. For, let us be just, Marsigli’s
crime was not without provocation. But she had played for great stakes
and had lost. The pathos of irremediable failure was upon her. And I
was awe-stricken by the swiftness of her punishment, the relentless and
appalling haste with which she had been thrust out of life. Into what
uncharted regions of being had her astute, ambitious, and voluptuous
spirit now passed? Regardless of the prohibitions of my Church, I
prayed—and how earnestly!—her sins might be forgiven; and that through
the Eternal Mercy—so far broader, deeper, more abiding, as I confidently
believe, than any man-made definition of it—she might even yet find a
place for repentance and peace at the last.

Under the plane-tree I found a rickety garden seat, on which, being now
very tired, I was glad enough to rest.

How long I remained there in solitude—hearing the distant roar of London
and a confused movement and noise of voices from the street, in which I
judged a crowd had now gathered—I know not. But, finally, I beheld the
stalwart form of Lavender, his hands clasped behind him and his head bent
as in deep thought, coming up the wet garden path between the straggling
row of little fruit-trees. His aspect struck me as depressed.

‘Well, sir,’ he said, when he reached me, ‘I think we have done all we
can for to-night. I have disposed of Mr. Marsigli, and I and my men have
been pretty thoroughly through the house. Some of what I take to be the
stolen jewels are there, and a certain amount of plate; but no letters or
papers that I can discover.’

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face.

‘This is strictly between ourselves, sir,’ he went on, ‘you understand of
course?’

I assured him I did.

‘Then I think I may say that in my opinion you can make your mind easy as
to the existence of a previous marriage. You remember the conversation
we overheard? Her answer, you may have observed, was not a denial of the
fact but of the existence of proof—a very different story. However, if
we fail to find proofs nearer home it will be simple to take a run over
to Paris. We shall have no difficulty with the prisoner. It is in his
interest to give all the information he can, and he is sharp enough to
know that. A rum customer, though, as I have ever had to deal with—one
minute a mad savage and the next close on a fine gentleman. Trying
cattle these foreigners, always springing some trick on you! He’ll have
to swing for her, I expect—still she must have led him a pretty lively
dance. Something to be said on both sides, sir, as in my experience there
usually is.’

Much of the above was welcome hearing; yet the detective’s aspect
remained depressed. Again he wiped his face.

‘And now I dare say you’ll not be sorry to be moving, sir,’ he remarked.

Then as I rose, stiff and weary, and walked beside him along the garden
path, the real source of his trouble was disclosed.

‘I feel I am bound to apologise, sir, for letting you in for so much
unpleasantness. I blame myself; I was over-confident, and have got a
well-deserved slap to my professional pride as the result.’

‘How so?’ I asked him.

‘Why, I delayed too long before opening those double doors in my
eagerness to secure all the evidence I could—a mistake which might be
excusable in a youngster, but not in one of my standing. The very secret
of our business is to know the moment for action to a tick. I let them
both get too worked up. And, worked up as they were, he being Italian,
I ought to have foreseen the likelihood of that knife. No, sir, look at
it what way I will, I am bound to blame myself. It is a discredit, in my
opinion, and a grave one, for a man in my position to have a murder—and
in broad daylight too—committed within three yards of his nose. The less
said the better, I’m afraid, for some time to come, sir, about Lavender’s
luck.’

I consoled the mortified and over-conscientious hunter of criminals and
crime to the best of my ability; and then, thankfully bidding farewell
to that blood-stained and tragic little house, pushed my way, with
Lavender’s help, through the gaping and curious crowd in the street, and,
bestowing myself in the coach one of his men had called for me, rumbled
and jolted back to Grosvenor Square through the hot, thundery dusk.


(_To be continued._)




_WAR AND DIPLOMACY IN SHAKESPEARE._

An address given to the Ancoats Brotherhood, April 2, 1916.

BY SIR FREDERICK POLLOCK, BART.


Being bidden to set down a subject for your entertainment, advised that
it should have some relation to Shakespeare, and unable to distract my
thoughts from war and the state of Europe for long together, I combined
war, diplomacy, and Shakespeare at a venture; I had never considered
Shakespeare’s work, as bearing on either of those topics, with any
particular attention, and had no settled expectation of what might be the
outcome.

In the result I confess that I am surprised, and, as that result is
largely negative and therefore incapable of demonstrative proof, I do
not feel much confidence that I shall be believed. When Shakespeare was
growing up and beginning to know the world, both war and diplomacy were
full of fresh matter for curiosity. Diplomacy, as we now understand
it, was an invention of the Renaissance, and especially the Italian
Renaissance, flourishing in an exuberant youth and wearing the ornaments
of humanist learning not always free from pedantry, and humanist
accomplishment often straying into over-ingenious conceits. The letters
of Elizabethan statesmen and scholars, even on ordinary business, often
conceal their real point from a modern’s first reading by their refined
excess of caution. Here, it would seem, the comic Muse might find
profitable matter, if only it came within her range of observation.

War, again, was ancient enough in itself, and so indeed were the
fundamental rules of military art; but the outward face of war and the
whole scheme of manœuvres, tactics, and fortification, had passed or
were still passing through critical change due to the general use of
fire-arms. Henry VIII.’s castles embodied the latest designs of Italian
engineers, and English archery was already decaying though shooting at
butts was still a matter of legal duty. Many details of armament and
the like were in a state of transition, and came to rest only about the
end of the seventeenth century, a rest which was little troubled for a
century more. I need hardly remind you that Marlborough would have found
very few novelties in Wellington’s army, save for such trifles as the
cock of a hat, and the recognition—still not wholly without grudging—of
gunners as being soldiers and not mere auxiliary artificers. Shakespeare
found the art of war in such a swift new growth as was not to happen
again till the times of which I can remember the beginning.

It would seem offhand, therefore, as if we ought to find, in the writing
of so keen an observer as Shakespeare, considerable marks of these
innovations, and some evidence of intelligent curiosity about their
working: not so much, indeed, as would prove Shakespeare either an
ambassador or a soldier, though I believe some ingenious persons have
let their fancy go so far even as that. But in fact my search up and
down the plays has led me to think that Shakespeare the playwright could
do nothing with the modern diplomatic art, even if he had any knowledge
of it, and that he never troubled himself much about the revolution in
the art of war. Observe, I say Shakespeare the playwright. We have very
little evidence of Shakespeare’s private pursuits and tastes outside the
theatre, and for aught we know he may have been interested in matters for
which the stage had no use, or which he did not choose to show there for
other reasons. Observe also that beyond question the externals of both
diplomacy and war figure in Shakespeare’s works, and those of war rather
abundantly. You shall find passages of embassies and ambassadors, many
fighting men, a fair number of fights on the stage, not counting brawls
and private encounters, and plenty of talk about guns and gunpowder.
Fire-arms might still have a smack of novelty at Stratford-on-Avon when
William Shakespeare was a lad. And yet he thought them (if he thought at
all) older than they were, for we read of cannon in ‘King John’ a century
and more before they came into use, and about half a century before
Roger Bacon made a cracker. As there is not a word about Magna Carta in
‘King John,’ nor in the older play on which Shakespeare worked, some
persons may guess that ‘the troublesome raigne of John, King of England’
was a very dark age to Elizabethan playwrights. But for my part I would
rather believe the omission to be a deliberate touch of dramatic fitness.
John’s crimes and defaults could not be concealed; nevertheless he is
exhibited as becoming at the last a champion of England against foreign
encroachment, and it would have spoilt that effect to bring in his
differences with the barons on constitutional points. It is true that the
Great Charter had not yet become a popular rallying cry, but knowledge
of its existence can hardly have been confined to antiquarian scholars.
This, however, is not to the purpose here; and in truth the anachronism
of the cannon is only a conspicuous example of a kind fairly common in
Shakespeare. Thus King Henry V. is made to speak of the Grand Turk as
holding Constantinople a full generation too soon.

To return to our theme, the treatment of public affairs and negotiation
in Shakespeare is wholly subordinate to stage effect, the Elizabethan
stage effect which depended largely on rhetorical set speeches in the
more serious passages, and it is therefore rudimentary from a political
point of view. Shakespeare knew the conceits of the fashionable
epistolary style well enough, and could make sport with them. But when
princes and their ministers discourse on affairs of state, contentiously
or otherwise, we have no play of dialectic or development of argument.
Every speaker gives his own view with little regard to conviction or
reply, the matter being taken just as it came to hand in the chronicle
or other authority relied upon, and the manner worked up more or
less according to the importance of the scene and personages and the
opportunity given by the situation. Recrimination is not uncommon,
but there is no real critical discussion. Still less is there any
indication of what Shakespeare himself thought of the merits. At the
beginning of ‘Henry V.’ we find the King’s clerical advisers deliberately
encouraging a foreign war of ambition to divert an attack on swollen
church revenues,[1] and the Archbishop of Canterbury giving transparently
bad reasons (as at this day they seem to us) for the English claim to
the crown of France. There is no suggestion of anyone seeing anything
wrong in such conduct; not that this is any ground for inferring that
Shakespeare approved it. He followed his chronicle, here as elsewhere,
mistakes and all.

Perhaps the nearest approach to a live negotiation on the stage is the
conference of Hotspur, Glendower, and Mortimer over the map of England,
already partitioned in their imagination, in the third act of ‘Henry
IV.,’ Part I. The scene is admirably contrived to bring out Hotspur’s
reckless ambition and Glendower’s pride, and for that very reason there
is no scope for Italian subtilties. Hotspur blurts out his objection to
the proposed boundary without reserve or preparation of any kind:—

    Methinks my moiety, north from Burton here,
    In quantity equals not one of yours:
    See how this river comes me cranking in,
    And cuts me from the best of all my land
    A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out.

The course of the river, he says, must be changed to give a juster line.

After a short and heated bandying of words both Hotspur and Glendower
suddenly think better of it. Glendower offers to yield:—

    ‘Come, you shall have Trent turn’d’

and Hotspur magnificently waives the whole quarrel:—

                                              ‘I do not care;
    I’ll give thrice so much land to any well-deserving[2] friend;
    But in the way of bargain, mark you me,
    I’ll cavil to the ninth part of a hair.’

This is not a sample of diplomacy—nor would diplomatic art have been in
place—but it is great play-writing which the mysterious dispensations of
modern theatrical management compel us to enjoy only with the mind’s ear
‘in the closet,’ as our ancestors said. I have seen Phelps in Falstaff,
but ‘Henry IV.’ does not keep the stage.

Outside the region of public affairs the intricate combinations of
device and accident which formed the staple of the Italian novel were
familiar enough to Shakespeare. They were plastic in his hands, assuming
a farcical aspect in ‘The Merry Wives of Windsor,’ a purely comic one in
the higher sense of comedy in Portia’s caskets and her secret expedition
to Venice, and a serio-comic one in ‘Twelfth Night,’ though in spirit, as
Mr. Masefield has finely observed, that is the most English of the great
comedies; while in Iago the same instrument sounds the deepest of tragic
notes. I do not count the catastrophe of Shylock in ‘The Merchant of
Venice,’ where all reason, justice, and probability are violated with a
superb audacity that never fails to carry the spectator on a magic flood
of illusion in even a passable performance. Therefore I see no need to
set down Shakespeare’s eschewing of diplomacy to personal ignorance or
indifference. It is true that he did not consort much with ambassadors
or secretaries of state, neither were state papers accessible in print
as they now are. But the very simplest explanation seems like to be the
right one, that such material would not serve his turn. The game of
diplomacy, being mostly played with pens and ink, and a leisurely game in
those days, was not presentable to an audience. Exchange of dispatches
and notes may make good reading for posterity, but is not good stuff for
actors; and Shakespeare’s business was to produce acting stage-plays,
which is an elementary truth forgotten by too many commentators.

Turn we then to the more bustling field of war. If anyone expects to
find a general moral judgment about war in Shakespeare he will be
disappointed. Shakespeare, like Justinian—a person to whom it would
be hard to find any other resemblance in him—accepts war among the
inevitable facts of life. Princes and nations fight, and arms are the
natural profession of a gentleman. One of man’s seven ages, according to
Jaques, is to be a soldier, ‘full of strange oaths and bearded like the
pard’; and we are told that Bassanio was a soldier, seemingly because
otherwise something would be lacking to him, for nothing turns on it. The
reasons for making war, be they better or worse, are as a rule not too
plainly bad to be plausible to the common understanding; a fair mark,
it may be, for satirical quips, but that is not the main business. What
really matters is that war must needs come in the dramatist’s way if
he presents histories ancient or modern, and offers not only stirring
incidents but precious occasions for developing every kind of character.
Without the field of Shrewsbury we should not know Falstaff as we do
know him; it gives us the exact measure of his braggadocio and the
full wealth of the measureless ironical humour which he turns freely
on himself, being resolved, since he may be no better than he is, to
make himself out rather worse. He is the very contrary of that actual
braggart who, having no humour, bragged sincerely and was a valiant man
notwithstanding, Benvenuto Cellini.—One might fall to wondering what
Shakespeare would have made of Benvenuto, had he ever heard of him;
but the perpetual trouble with Shakespeare, as with the Oxford English
Dictionary, is that at every turn one is tempted to stray and browse in
by-ways.—Accordingly it was very well for a solemn Byzantine emperor, and
his learned assessors who added the precepts of the Church to the Roman
lawyers’ humane Stoic tradition, to deprecate war in set terms, along
with slavery, as a lamentable departure from the ideal rule of natural
reason, though in fact inveterate by the common custom of mankind: but
a Renaissance playwright, who would be no dramatist without his share
of unreasonable human nature, could hardly wish himself deprived of the
material that war furnished him both for action and rhetoric. Such lines
as

    ‘The royal banner and all quality,
    Pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war’

explain better than any commentary why the military pageant of history
had a warm place in an Elizabethan actor-manager’s professional
affections. Shakespeare would have liked to display it better. The
Chorus in ‘Henry V.’ apologises for the ‘four or five most vile and
ragged’—_i.e._ battered—‘foils’ which were the best the Globe Theatre’s
armoury could produce for the campaign of Agincourt. Of that play there
will be a word more to say anon.

Considering the need of rapid action on the Shakespearean stage, and
its limited spectacular resources, it is obvious that actual warfare
could be indicated only in a series of personal episodes, confining the
visible symbols to a Homeric or at least a frankly medieval pattern.
One might think, as far as the text went, that battles were decided by
single combats; and probably those who begin to read Shakespeare young
enough do think so. In ‘Henry V.’ we are told nothing of the military
dispositions preceding the battle of Agincourt but the bare fact that a
small and wearied English army was opposed by a larger and over-confident
French one, and there is not one word about the English archery.[3] There
is proof, however, though not too much, that Shakespeare had some notion
of the offices of higher command in war, and could describe an episode
of minor tactics not seen on the stage in a perfectly clear way. Yet it
is noticeable that these proofs are not found in the historical plays.
For the recognition of military science we have to go to the satirical
romantic drama of ‘Troilus and Cressida,’ and for the business-like
anecdote to the very late legendary play of ‘Cymbeline,’ which, for
whatever reason, seems to pay less regard to stage effect than any other
work of Shakespeare’s.

In the first act of ‘Troilus and Cressida’ the Greek chieftains, who
conform only in the roughest way to their traditional characters, and
quote Aristotle as if on purpose to show that the action has no relation
even to accepted legend,[4] are discussing the state of affairs before
Troy. Ulysses speaks of the discontented Ajax and his followers:—

    ‘They tax our policy and call it cowardice,
    Count wisdom as no member of the war,
    Forestall prescience and esteem no act
    But that of hand: the still and mental parts
    That do contrive how many hands shall strike
    When fitness calls them on, and know by measure
    Of their observant toil the enemies’ weight—
    Why, this hath not a finger’s dignity:
    They call this bed-work, mappery, closet-war;
    So that the ram that batters down the wall,
    For the great swing and rudeness of his poise,
    They place before his hand that made the engine,
    Or those that with the fineness of their souls
    By reason guide his execution.’

We shall do no excess of violence to the difference of the times if we
call this a staff officer’s view; and, all things considered, I think it
goes near to be Shakespeare’s own, or at least that which he conceived
to be the better opinion among those who had served in the wars of the
Low Countries: as who should say ‘We can beat the Spaniard with any fair
proportion of numbers, but you are not to think it is to be done without
brains.’ Doubtless the opposite opinion, that of the rule-of-thumb
soldier who thinks meanly of scientific warfare, made itself heard too,
perhaps more loudly, at the Mermaid and elsewhere, and Shakespeare
gives us a glimpse of it when Iago sneers at Michael Cassio as a great
arithmetician who knows nothing of real fighting. But if Shakespeare
had thought it sound he could have put it in a better mouth. The more
familiar phrase of Mercutio’s dying speech: ‘a rogue, a villain, that
fights by the book of arithmetic,’ is remote from this context as it
belongs not to the art of war at large but to the contrast between the
old English sword-play and the tricks of the new fangled Italian rapier:
a topic which, I think, interested both Shakespeare and his audience
more. In the same scene of ‘Troilus and Cressida’ we may find other
military aphorisms: Nestor speaks of the uses of disappointment in war:—

                          ‘In the reproof of chance
    Lies the true proof of men: the sea being smooth,
    How many shallow bauble boats dare sail
    Upon her patient breast, making their way
    With those of nobler bulk—’

and he almost anticipates the doctrine, now proverbial, that victory is
for the side that makes fewest mistakes:—

    ‘Troy in our weakness stands, not in her strength.’

There may just possibly be an allusion here to the ‘Islands Voyage’ and
other poorly managed expeditions against the Spanish West Indies, then
fairly recent.

Nestor has also a sharp word for Thersites the professional pessimist:—

    ‘A slave whose gall coins slanders like a mint.’

We cannot all be as wise as Nestor; but we can at least refuse to lend
our ears to Thersites.

In this connexion we may note some lines given to the Messenger at the
opening of ‘King Henry VI.,’ which may have been touched by Shakespeare’s
revising hand, though I would not vouch for it:—

    ‘Amongst the soldiers this is muttered,
    That here you maintain several factions,
    And while a field should be dispatch’d and fought,
    You are disputing of your generals:
    One would have lingering wars with little cost;
    Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings;
    A third[5] thinks, without expense at all,
    By guileful fair words peace may be obtain’d.’

The first ‘faction,’ curiously enough, is not far from Queen Elizabeth’s
own policy. The second falls pat for our very latest variety of
politician, the ‘air service candidate,’ and the third for those who want
to discuss terms of peace in detail before the enemy is beaten, except
that in our time they are highly conscientious persons who would be
shocked by any suggestion of guile.

Later in ‘Troilus and Cressida’ the Greek and Trojan leaders exchange
elaborate compliments which savour more of the Middle Ages than the
Renaissance; they have no military significance.

Before leaving ‘Troilus and Cressida,’ produced when the state of war
with Spain was coming to an end, it may be observed that, so far as I
know, direct mention of Spain as a hostile power does not occur anywhere
in the plays.

In the last act of ‘Cymbeline’ we hear how the banished Belarius and the
young princes who pass for his sons have rallied the Britons, flying from
Roman invaders, at the head of a narrow lane, checked the pursuit, and
led a successful counter-attack. The nature of the ground is explained
with some detail:—

                                ‘Where was this lane?
    —Close by the battle, ditch’d, and wall’d with turf;
    Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,
    An honest one, I warrant....’

The rest of the description, which is rather involved in style and may
not have received the author’s last touches, adds nothing definite. The
questioner, an unnamed ‘British lord,’ seems hardly to see the point:—

                  ‘This was strange chance:
    A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys.’

It is well attested by experience that a few determined men, or even one,
may stop a panic if once they can get a rallying point; and I am much
disposed to think that Shakespeare used in this passage an incident heard
from someone who had actually seen it, or been very near it, ‘somewhere
in Flanders.’

The most military of Shakespeare’s plays is ‘Henry V.’; there are other
plays with much fighting in them, but neither within nor without the
chronicle series is there one with so little of other interest in it.
Henry V. is the only Shakespearean king who is a typical soldier, so
much so that the type all but swallows up individual character. Mr.
Masefield, who is always ingenious and often profound, thinks that
Shakespeare did not admire the type; that he studied it with full
knowledge and carefully framed the so-called heroic figure, a competent
but no more than sufficiently competent leader, carrying on with fine
animal spirits, unthinking, just and fair according to his lights, keen
on playing the game as he knows it and scorning those who do otherwise
with a scorn capable of being merciless, living by custom and not seeking
ideas, never doubting that he is right—I am not using Mr. Masefield’s
own words, but putting his judgment in a slightly less severe form;
and then, Mr. Masefield will have it, Shakespeare holds up a piece of
our own image to us in the jolly, obtuse soldier-king, with a whisper
in his sleeve for the more knowing:—These be your gods, O Englishmen! I
will not say there is nothing in Mr. Masefield’s point, but I cannot go
all the way with him, the rather that if I am wrong it is in Sir Walter
Raleigh’s company. Shakespeare’s command of human nature included other,
richer, more complex, and more interesting characters; he knew very well
that a prince always posing like Richard II., who is an accomplished
_cabotin_, or always thinking like Hamlet, who fails not because he
is weak but because he knows too much, would not have done Henry V.’s
business; it does not follow that he thought ill of that business, and
for my part I conceive that he admired Henry V. as the right man for his
place and meant the audience to admire him. King Henry V.’s ostentatious
repudiation of Prince Hal’s ways and companions is violent and awkward,
and to a modern judgment unpleasant, as Mr. Masefield says. But that was
forced on Shakespeare by the tale which he had to accept as history.
Another difficulty is to see why a war of conquest against France should
have been glorified on the stage at a time when France and England were
not only at peace but in all but formal alliance against Spain: to which
I see no answer except that chronicle plays were in fashion, a good play
was a good play, and people did not go to the Globe to learn current
European politics. We have not to consider whether Shakespeare thought
Henry V. was in truth such a man as he put on the stage; or whether he
did or did not stop to think that the real Henry V. must have known
French quite well, if not as well as English, from his infancy; or other
little puzzles that any observant reader may put, and get no certain
answer, in this and most of the plays: for these things are not to our
present purpose.

Shakespeare’s Henry V. is most human when he talks with his own soldiers
as a plain gentleman, and they reason of the king’s responsibility in a
thoroughly medieval fashion. The point is not whether a king who goes
to war may have to reproach himself with the horrors of war as commonly
understood, the temporal evils of death, destruction, and rapine. What is
urged—and by a private soldier—is the risk that men slain in battle may
die in mortal sin: ‘if these men do not die well.’ The king’s answer is a
fine sample of Shakespeare’s grave prose dialogue, and, to the best of my
belief, very sound moral theology. ‘Every subject’s duty is the king’s;
but every subject’s soul is his own.’ It is obvious that the principle
is by no means confined to warlike enterprise. Did Shakespeare write this
scene to justify the Archbishop of Canterbury’s praise, at the opening of
the play, of Henry’s learning in divinity?

As for the usages of war, Henry V. accepts them as he finds them: that
is, as Shakespeare—not to say Grotius—found them. When he summons
Harfleur to surrender he is clear that the consequences of further
resistance will be the governor’s fault and not his. Everybody is aware
that a town taken by storm is pillaged; there is just a hint that no
known discipline could prevent it; and indeed we moderns know what ado
Wellington had in that matter little more than a century ago, and in a
friendly country too. As a point of strict military rule, defence of an
untenable position forfeited the defenders’ right to quarter down to the
Peninsular War, and Wellington thought there was much to be said for it
on the ground that the existence of the rule operated to prevent useless
waste of life. This, however, is not explicit in Shakespeare.

Fluellen, the Welsh captain, is really a more distinct and human
character than the king, though a minor one. He is a martinet, and
probably would be a bore if he were allowed to expound the disciplines of
the wars and the rules of Pompey’s camp at large; but he is a thoroughly
good soldier, and a good friend. If it entered into Shakespeare’s plans
to show off any knowledge of military science, here was a chance; the
difference between the early fifteenth and the late sixteenth century
would give no trouble, as in some details not worth particularising it
certainly did not. We get nothing of this kind, however, from Fluellen
beyond a few words about mines and countermines, which may be paralleled
by the metaphorical use of the same matter in a still better known speech
of Hamlet’s.[6]

Let us take leave of Henry V. with the remark that Shakespeare by his
mouth anticipates Wellington’s policy and rebukes the Prussian devil’s
gospel of frightfulness. ‘We give express charge that in our marches
through the country there be nothing compelled from the villages, nothing
taken but paid for, none of the French upbraided or abused in disdainful
language; for when lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentlest
gamester is the soonest winner.’ And this is the Shakespeare whom the
Germans pretend to understand better than his own countrymen.

It is curious that the longest string of military terms in Shakespeare,
if I mistake not, is delivered by a woman, when Lady Percy tells Hotspur
(I. ‘King Henry IV.’ ii. 3) that he has talked in his sleep

    ‘Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents,
    Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,
    Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,
    Of prisoners’ ransom, and of soldiers slain,
    And all the currents of a heady fight.’

Some of the plays, like ‘Macbeth’ and ‘Coriolanus,’ are martial, inasmuch
as there are combats and ‘excursions,’ but not military, inasmuch as
the fighting is but the inducement or vehicle of some greater tragic
event. Plutarch furnishes brave Roman sayings, or the politic sense of
Elizabethan elders is condensed in aphoristic lines; but all this is
secondary; what really concerns the poet is a spiritual conflict of
eternal import, a soul triumphing though at the cost of life or wrecked.
War and peace, conquest and exile, are the transitory matter the spirit
works in, and Shakespeare troubles himself no more about the details than
is needful for preserving a congruous atmosphere.

In Shakespeare’s time there was no English army in any proper sense, but
only occasional levies. His illustration of English military method,
such as it then was, is to be found in Falstaff’s immortal exploits as a
recruiting officer. It is common knowledge that there was a very ancient
tradition of compulsory service in time of war within the realm, but the
operation of the principle was rough and inefficient. We may believe if
we like that Falstaff knew his business when he chose; it is certain
that the way he does choose is not only to be a corruptible and corrupt
officer, but to sell exemptions shamelessly. By his own confession he
‘misused the king’s press damnably’ and ‘got in exchange of a hundred and
fifty soldiers three hundred and odd pounds.’ If we consider him with
a cold military eye—which is the last thing Shakespeare intended—it is
clear that he deserved to be shot. We gather from the great recruiting
scene in the third act of the second part of ‘King Henry IV.’ that
officers chose their own subalterns and raised their own men with a
pretty uncontrolled discretion. One would like to quote the whole scene,
but paper is scarce, and it is better for the reader to enjoy it in the
full text. Doubtless it is a caricature, but I would not wager any great
odds on the exaggeration being gross. The impudence of taking ‘three
pound to free Mouldy and Bullcalf’ and then magnifying the quality of the
scarecrows who are left is as delightful as any of Shakespeare’s humours.
‘Care I for the limb, the thewes, the stature, bulk, and big assemblance
of a man! Give me the spirit, Master Shallow. Here’s Wart; you see what
a ragged appearance it is.... O, give me the spare men, and spare me the
great ones. Put me a caliver[7] into Wart’s hand, Bardolph.... Come,
manage me your caliver. So: very well: go to: very good, exceeding good.
O, give me always a little, lean, old, chapt, bald shot....’ We may yet
hear news of Falstaff in the trenches, for there be many pretty wits at
the front.

There remains a question of which I have said nothing because it is too
plain for discussion. Did Shakespeare think England worth fighting for?
As to that, the answer is written all over his work; not only in such
splendid passages as John of Gaunt utters in ‘Richard II.,’ which have
quite properly been repeated many times, in print and on platforms, in
the course of this year, but in the whole tone and colour of all his
pictures of country life, whether the nominal scene be at Athens, or in
the forest of Arden, or in Illyria. Besides, there are some questions
really too impertinent to be put to any honest English gentleman, even
when he is dead and immortalised these three hundred years.


FOOTNOTES

[1] There is apparently no real foundation for this; in fact there were
serious commercial quarrels of some standing.

[2] One is much tempted to regard this epithet as inserted by some
dull-pated player who did not see that in Hotspur’s eyes to be Hotspur’s
friend would be desert enough without addition. The lines would then
read, to the advantage of the metre:—

    ‘_Glend._ Come, you shall have Trent turn’d.

                          _Hot._ I do not care:
    I’ll give thrice so much land to any friend.’

The metrical reason would be of little weight if it stood alone; still
the irregularity of the verse as printed is particularly jarring, however
one tries to arrange the lines.

[3] It is conspicuous in Drayton’s ‘The Battaile of Agincourt.’

[4] There were limits to Shakespeare’s carelessness, and I believe this
enormous anachronism to be wilful.

[5] The insertion of ‘man’—actually made in the later folios—or ‘one’ is
an obvious but not obviously necessary emendation.

[6] It may be irreverent to doubt whether Shakespeare knew or regarded
the difference between a petard and a mine; yet it is certain that a
petard was not fitted to _hoist_ anything, but was a special contrivance
for blowing in gates and the like. It was a novelty in the third quarter
of the sixteenth century (Littré, _s.v._). Drayton understood its use,
but by a slip as bad as any of Shakespeare’s brought ‘the Engineer
providing the Petar, to breake the strong Percullice’ into Henry V.’s
war: ‘The Battaile of Agincourt,’ ed. Garnett, p. 22.

[7] A considerable anachronism, but these are trifles.




_THE OLD CONTEMPTIBLES: THE REARGUARD._

BY BOYD CABLE.


All day long Papa Laval had been wandering about the streets of the
little town, listening restlessly to the distant thunder of the guns,
questioning eagerly the first of the fugitive peasantry who came
streaming through in their flight towards safety. Papa Laval with his
one arm and his cripple leg and his tales of ’70-’71 was naturally
an authority on matters of war, and his fellow-townsmen listened
deferentially to all he had to say about affairs. Papa was scornful of
the first tales the fugitives told of a German victory and an Allies’
retreat; but the first rumble of heavy transport wagons through the
cobbled streets in the middle of the night brought him quickly from his
bed and down the narrow stairs to find out what it meant. He could learn
nothing much because the transport drivers were English, could only take
some comfort from the calm with which they steered through the crowded
street, laughed and called jokes which none understood down to the
staring townsfolk. But Papa had seen too much of war not to understand
the meaning of the swelling tide of transport, to mark as the light grew
the jaded horses and the sleep-worn looks of the drivers. His dismay
grew when the khaki regiments began to flood through after the toiling
transport, while out behind them the growling thunder of the guns rolled
louder and louder.

And by noon he was in utter despair. The street through the town was by
then choked from end to end with a seething mass of men and cattle and
vehicles, military transport and ammunition wagons, soldiers, old peasant
men and boys, women with children clutching their skirts or wailing in
their arms, country carts piled with bedding and furniture, squealing
pigs and squawking leg-tethered poultry, with huddled clinging old crones
and round-eyed infants. And when Papa was told that the road was blocked
in the same way for miles back, that the Germans were coming fast, that
the whole army was retiring as fast as it could, he groaned in despair.
He watched the slow torrent struggling and scrambling along the choked
street, the impatience of the officers and dull apathy of the men in the
marching regiments as they progressed a few yards and halted for the head
of the column to clear a way; and he pictured to himself visions of a
squadron of Uhlans swooping down on the crowded road back there and the
havoc they would make in the packed masses under their lances.

About noon he found a new interest and fresh food for thought. A regiment
arrived and, instead of pushing on through the town as the others had
done, sought billets there and halted. Six men were billeted on Papa
Laval, and between the smattering of broken French that one of them
spoke and Papa’s equally broken English it was possible to hold some
conversation and glean some understanding of the recent battle. But
the men were too worn out, too dead beat, too utterly fatigued to talk
much. They ate and drank and then flung themselves down to sleep, and
all that Papa learned was that in truth a big battle had been fought,
that the Germans had been held, but that for some reason the English
were retreating. Fugitives from Maubeuge direction had told a similar
tale of the retreat of the French, and Papa groaned again and wandered
out into the street to curse impotently as he watched the struggling
tide of fugitives that still poured with desperate slowness through the
town. ‘Perhaps it would be better,’ he told his daughter at last and
very reluctantly, ‘for you to go away while there is yet time. Not for
yourself, but for the sake of the little ones. There will be fighting
here, as I see it. This regiment remaining while all the others pass
through means a rearguard action, an attempt to cover the retreat of the
others. But that is a plan without hope. There is only a handful of men
left to hold the town, and they are worn to the edge of exhaustion with
marching and fighting. The Germans will attack in force, they will sweep
through the town and take the bridge. That no doubt is the plan, and
holding the town and the bridge they will sever the English army and the
retreat will be a rout. Yes, my child, you had better go now.’

But the woman refused to go, to leave their little house, to drag her
children out into the crowded roads on the way to nowhere; and after a
little Papa gave up trying to persuade her.

It was a bare four hours after the weary men had found their billets
when the alarm came that the enemy were coming. Papa shook his head as
he watched the six men in his house rouse slowly and reluctantly, yawn
and stretch and rub their eyes. ‘Four hours,’ he thought. ‘Of what use
is a little four hours to men exhausted by battle and marching? If it
had been eight hours’ sleep now, who knows—they say these English are
good fighters, and they might have held the town a few hours. But four
hours....’

The men themselves took it differently. ‘That shut-eye done me good,’
said one. ‘If I’d a decent wash now I’d be as good as ever.’

‘Glad we’re goin’ to ’old ’em up here,’ said another. ‘This retreatin’
game don’t suit me none. I’d sooner stop an’ fight it out.’

‘Dunno wot the blank we retreated for at all,’ grumbled a third. ‘They
couldn’t ’ave pushed us out o’ that last position in a month.’

‘They do say the Frenchies on the right broke,’ said a corporal, the man
with the smattering of French, ‘an’ we had to fall back ’cause they’d
left our flank open. Fancy it must ha’ been something o’ that sort too.’

They were hastily buckling on their kits when Papa came in to them.
‘Cheer up, Daddy,’ they told him. ‘We’re not letting ’em come any
further. But there’s goin’ to be a scrap here an’ you’d better keep your
tuppenny tucked well in or you may get hurt by a stray lump o’ lead.’

‘Noos restey ici—compronney?’ said the corporal, and Papa nodded his
understanding. ‘Mais not posseebl’ for to make victoire,’ he demurred.
‘Anglais ver’ few; Allemands plenty, ver’ plenty.’

‘Don’t you believe it, Daddy,’ said the corporal heartily. ‘Beaucoo
Anglaise to stop—haltey les Allemong. You’ll see,’ and he got his men
together and hurried off.

Papa had to admire the smart and business-like fashion in which the town
was set in a state of defence, the houses commanding the roads loopholed,
the street entrances blocked with barricades of transport wagons, the men
distributed to the various vantage-points. But he had little or no hope
of the result, because he saw how few the men were, how they had to be
split up into small companies to cover all the many points which might
be attacked. It was true that the defenders held the advantage of cover
in the houses, but that would avail little against artillery; and the
enemy had the advantage of being able to choose their point of attack and
mass on it against the weakness of the distributed defence. Papa gave the
defence half an hour at most to hold out after the real attack developed.
As it happened, he was perfectly right in his surmise that a mere section
of the defence would have to bear the full brunt of the attack, although
he was quite wrong as to how long they could withstand it.

The attack came soon after the early darkness had fallen.

At first there was a quick rumour running round that a mistake had
been made, that it was a French column that was approaching. It may
have been this that deceived the defenders into allowing the enemy to
come almost to hand-grips before the fighting began, and anyhow it is
certain that the first sounds of conflict that Papa heard were not, as
he had expected, a long-drawn rapid rifle fire, but one single and then
a few scattered shots, shoutings, and the clash of steel on steel. For
the moment it looked as if the first rush was to swamp the defence and
break through it, since a seething mass of men fighting fiercely with
butt and bayonet eddied slowly back and actually into the street of the
town. Rifles began to blaze and bang from some of the upper windows, and
then with a wild cheer a rush of khaki swept out from a side street and
plunged into the fight. The fresh weight told, and although the defence
was still outnumbered by two to one it was the stronger at close-quarter
work, and the attack was driven slowly back and back until at last it
broke and ran, leaving the street and the road about the outside of the
town heaped with dead and wounded.

Papa Laval ran out into the street and began to give what help he could
to carry in the wounded British, when he heard a whistling screech and
the crash of a shell on one of the outer houses of the town. He ran
crouching in to the shadow of one of the houses, and presently his
straining eyes caught the quick leaping flash of the German piece and
another shell hurtled over and burst in a hail of shrapnel about the
entrance to the town. Papa ran back, and in a side street found a young
officer and a dozen men breaking in the door of a deserted house. Papa
guessed their intention, and since the officer fortunately was able to
speak French, Papa could tell him a better house to choose, one taller
and with a better and more commanding outlook on the point of attack.
He led the way to the house and to the upper rooms, and pointed out the
best windows, and watched them pile bedding at the windows and break
out loopholes in the wall. All the time shell after shell was smashing
and crashing down somewhere outside, and now the Germans began to fire
star-shells that floated down in a blaze of dazzling light, blinding the
defenders and exposing them as visible targets to the hail of bullets
that came drumming and rattling in from their unseen foes.

Then came another fierce rush against the barricaded streets and the
rifle fire rose to a full deep-noted roar, punctuated by the crashing
reports of the shells and the boom of a gun that began to fire back from
somewhere in the town. Down in the street the attack pushed home again
to the barricades, and men pulled and dragged at the overturned carts
and leaped and scrambled to cross them, and fired in each other’s faces;
and, where the barricade was gapped for a moment, thrust and stabbed with
the bayonet and smashed with the butt and tore and beat at one another,
until slowly the attack gave again and the barricade was made good. In
the rooms upstairs where Papa Laval was, the men pumped bullets from the
loopholes and the windows down on to the struggling mass that pushed
in to the barricade, until a machine-gun was turned on the house and
hailed a storm of bullets back and forward, across and across its front.
The storm caught several of the men at the windows, and they fell back
killed or badly wounded for the most part. A group of the enemy turned
from the barricade, ran across and began beating at the door and the
barred and shuttered windows. Half a dozen of the garrison, on a command
from the officer, jumped from their loopholes and poured clattering
down the stairs, just as a rifle thrust into the lock and fired blew it
away and the door swung open. As the Germans rushed in they were met by
the men plunging headlong down the stair, and in the passage and about
the stair-foot commenced a wild and desperate hand-to-hand scrimmage.
Somewhere outside a building had caught fire, and in the dim light
reflected into the house-passage from the leaping flames the fighters
scuffled and raged, scarcely seeing each other, stabbing and striking and
singling friend from foe by blind instinct. The passage was a pandemonium
of shouts and cries and oaths, of trampling scuffling feet, of clashing
steel and thudding blows, with every now and then the thunderous report
of the officer’s revolver reverberating in the confined space. The
advantage of numbers was largely with the Germans, but the narrowness
of doorway and passage made it difficult for this weight of numbers to
come at the defenders and beat them down; and the British were not only
holding their own but were even driving the invaders slowly backward,
when the sound of rapid blows, the riving and crashing of woodwork, the
clash and tinkle of breaking glass told that one of the shuttered windows
had been forced.

‘Get back! Get back and hold the stair,’ the officer was yelling; and
his men, with one last fierce rush, drove the Germans further along
the passage, turned and made good their retreat to the stair-foot. Then
when the position looked to be too desperate for hope, there came from
outside a burst of rifle fire, a fresh clamour of fighting noises, a
hoarse yell of English cheers. A mixed mob of the fighters swirled past
the open doorway, and a rush of khaki swung past and licked in after it,
followed closely by a line of British swarming across the width of the
street and running forward with bayonets at the level. Inside the house
the panting remnant of the defence slammed the door shut, piled a tangle
of furniture—tables, chairs, chests of drawers—into the passage, busied
themselves re-securing the broken window, wedging a big table and the
heaviest articles of furniture they could find against it, and making all
ready for a renewal of the attack.

But the attack was not again successful in reaching a point level with
the house. Another attempt, made twenty minutes later, succeeded in
coming almost level with the house, but it was too fiercely swept by
the fire from the barricade, by a tempest of bullets from a couple of
machine-guns placed in position in some of the houses commanding the
approach, and had to fall back without any result beyond an increase in
the piled bodies littered about the street, the wounded crawling and
writhing away as best they could out of the line of fire.

The fighting continued throughout most of the night, but never reached
again the savage ferocity of the first hour, never came within such
measurable distance of success for the attack. And at dawn the enemy
withdrew and left the defence time to collect its wounded and tally its
dead, and make all ready for continuing the fight.

And when Papa Laval came back an hour after to his daughter’s house he
found her busy making coffee for the corporal and one other man—the only
ones left, as it turned out, from the six who had billeted there. The
corporal’s head was tied up, his sleeve and shirt-sleeve were slit their
full length and stained a dull brown from a wound, the red-wet bandage of
which showed round his upper arm when the slit sleeve fell back from it.

But he was quite cheerful and turned triumphantly to Papa Laval when he
came in. ‘Wot did I tell you, Daddy? Ici noos restey, eh?’

‘You ’ave spik true,’ said Papa warmly. ‘Ze Anglais—ah, zey are ze brav
mans—mos’ brav—magnifique. I no tink it posseebl’—it was not posseebl’,
but zey do heem, zis imposseebl’, and make ze victoire.’

‘It was a good scrap,’ assented the corporal modestly. The Frenchman
assented warmly after he had had the meaning of ‘scrap’ explained to him.

‘Good, good, ver’ good,’ he said. ‘I, Papa Laval, who have seen much
fighting in ’70 and ’71, say it was ver’ good. So much Allemands an’ so
leetle—so not-much Anglais an’ so fatigue, so tire they. Ver’ much kill,
ver’ much blessés, what you say wounds, but zey fight on an’ zey make
victoire. I see ze Anglais to-morrow—no, yesterday—an’ I say ze grande
armée anglaise is feenish, is defeat. Mais, now I onnerstand heem no
defeat, heem yet make ze good fight.’

‘Oh, we’ll make a fight all right when the time comes,’ said the corporal.

By now the coffee was ready, and the two men drank it hurriedly and ate
hastily of the meal the woman set before them. Papa Laval was concerned
about this haste. He would have had them sit down and wait till a good
breakfast was cooked and then eat it at leisure and in comfort. The
corporal shuffled a little uneasily. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘we got to be
movin’ on. Orders, voo savvy—les instruckshions à marchey; noos continuey
le moshion à la sud.’

Papa stared at him in bewilderment. ‘Mais—zat ees ze retreat,’ he
stammered. ‘Pourquoi ze retreat après la victoire?’

‘Wot’s ’e say?’ asked the other soldier through a huge mouthful of bread
and butter.

‘Says why should we bolt again after lickin’ the Germans,’ explained the
corporal.

‘An’ that’s exackly wot I wants to know,’ said the private disgustedly.
‘We ’as the bloomin’ company near wiped out, an’ B Company the same, and
stands off the attack all right; an’ when we’ve chased ’em off good an’
handsome we has to up stick an’ run away again. Bloomin’ rot, I calls it.’

‘Steady on,’ cautioned the corporal. ‘You don’t want these bloomin’
French people to get no wrong notion about our runnin’ away. Look ’ere,
Papa, it’s like this: Up there,’ he waved his hand towards the north,
‘we have le grand fight, battle. We win, voo savvy, la victoire c’est
à noos. I dunno why we retreat after it—je ne comprong pas pourquoi le
retreat, but—I mean, mais les instructions they says retreat. (Dashed if
I know the French for “they says.”) Voo savvy, noos make le retiremong
because⸺(An’ I’ve forgot the word for “because” now! Oh, dash this French
language!)’

‘I onnerstand, m’sieu,’ broke in Papa. ‘The ordaire it is retreat and,
parbleu! ze good soldat he obey ze ordaire. Quand ze ordaire ees fight,
ze good soldat he fight; eh, is it not?’

‘Egg-zackly,’ said the corporal. ‘Certimong, Papa.’

‘Bien,’ said Papa. ‘I know you spik true. I have seen ze Anglais fight.
Zey are keel, peut-être, mais nevaire—how you say it?—run away. I have
seen, and I know. I go now to spik it to ze peoples in la ville who is
disconsole, peut-être, when ze retreat continue.’

‘That’s it, Papa,’ said the corporal. ‘An’ you tell ’em this army is
never goin’ to run away. When the order is retreat, we retreat, even
though we don’t like it. But one day the order will be to advance, an’
then we’ll show ’em. You tell ’em not to be afraid. The French is bound
to win this war. We’ve come over to see it through with them, an’ we’re
not goin’ ’ome till we’ve chased every dash German back to Germany. You
savvy, when the time comes, en avong is the order, an’ avong we goes.’

It is very doubtful if Papa caught all the meaning of this harangue, but
he got the sense of it and the last words at least.

‘En avant!’ he cried, leaping to his feet. ‘Vivent les Alliés! Vivent les
Anglais!’

‘If you two ’as finished ’andin’ out bookays to each other,’ said the
private, ‘p’raps you’ll ask Madam ’ere if she’s got a spare loaf we can
put in our ’aversacks. There’s the fall-in sounding.’




_LLEWELYN DAVIES AND THE WORKING MEN’S COLLEGE._

BY SIR CHARLES P. LUCAS, K.C.B., K.C.M.G.


The death of John Llewelyn Davies in May last took from us a man of great
strength of character and power of mind. He was in his ninety-first year
when he died, and had outlived nearly all his contemporaries. Through his
long life he was known to the few rather than to the many; but to those
who knew him he was a notable figure, connoting high and pure aims, firm
will, deep religious faith, and elimination of self in the service of his
fellow-men. The outer man in his case did not tell the full story of his
nature. No one had a warmer or kinder heart, a greater fund of sympathy,
or more real and abiding enthusiasm for the causes in which he believed,
and for which he zealously contended. Fire was there and humour too, but
there was no effusiveness in manner or in speech. Strong feeling was held
in restraint by stronger self-control.

He was a man of varied interests and claims to distinction, without
being in the ordinary sense a many-sided man. He was a Fellow of Trinity
College, Cambridge, as in later years were three of his sons; and he took
his degree in company with a singularly able body of men, comprising, for
instance, Bishop Westcott, the great Latin scholar Professor Mayor, and
Lord Stanley, as he then was, afterwards Lord Derby, Foreign Minister
under Disraeli, Colonial Minister under Gladstone. Four years later the
soundness of his scholarship was abundantly proved by giving to the world
the well-known translation of Plato’s ‘Republic,’ used and implicitly
trusted as hardly any other translation of a classical author before or
since. His colleague in the work was the Rev. David Vaughan, brother
of the great headmaster of Harrow, who was afterwards Master of the
Temple and Dean of Llandaff. Llewelyn Davies and David Vaughan had been
bracketed in the Tripos, and as Llewelyn Davies was one of the Founders
of the Working Men’s College in London, so Vaughan a little later founded
a Working Men’s College at Leicester on the same lines.

As a theologian, he belonged to the sane, masculine Cambridge school,
which included his friends Lightfoot, Westcott, Hort, and others—a race
of men who were not afraid to bring scholarly criticism to bear upon
theological writings and doctrines, strengthening the faith by broadening
its basis. On sacred subjects, as on Plato, he wrote with acknowledged
authority. The man whom he followed above all others, and whose views
he embodied, was Frederick Denison Maurice. He read the last words over
Maurice’s grave, and, until he himself was laid to rest, he preached and
practised the life which Maurice led and taught.

Virile in mind, he was virile in body also. One of the original members
of the Alpine Club, and a pioneer in some notable ascents, he lived to
attend the jubilee dinner of the Club, and was well over eighty when
he visited Switzerland for the last time. A hard-working clergyman
of the Church of England, hard-working whether in town or country,
for his benefices ranged from Whitechapel and Marylebone to Kirkby
Lonsdale in Westmorland, he was all the time not a clergyman only, but
a citizen, holding that the one implied the other; that the preacher of
the fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of man must practise what he
preaches; that you cannot guide the people unless you know them, not as a
member of an exclusive caste, but being among them as one that serveth.
At one time he was a member of the London School Board: he was a staunch
supporter of the co-operative movement: he laboured for the cause of
women, was Principal of Queen’s College, Harley Street, and Chairman of
the governing body of the Working Women’s College. So strong was his
sense of public duty that a friend described him as the only man who had
ever been known to take a positive pleasure in paying rates and taxes.

Like Maurice, he was wholly indifferent to worldly gain, and the last man
to solicit preferment in any shape. His own words on the subject were,
that he would rather that people asked why he was not made a bishop than
why he was. The story goes that Mr. Gladstone once attended his church
in Marylebone, in order to judge for himself of the vicar’s fitness for
promotion. The Prime Minister was so depressed by the discourse which he
heard and the small attendance, that all chance of promotion vanished.
The great man did not know that, as a matter of fact, he had been
listening to another preacher altogether, that, as it happened, Llewelyn
Davies was away on a holiday and not in the church that day. It is true
that the latter was somewhat cold in manner and measured in address, not
by any means a preacher to electrify large congregations and appeal to
popular audiences, one who convinced rather than attracted—a guide to
thinking men, not a master of the rhetoric which moves the multitude.
Still, in a worldly sense, he never received his due. Our Church of
England seems to have considerable capacity for leaving its best and
wisest sons out in the cold. Maurice and Llewelyn Davies kept numbers
in the faith who would otherwise have drifted from it, because their
teaching and their lives proved to demonstration that breadth of view,
intellectual power, and democratic sympathies are wholly compatible with
intense religious belief, conspicuous before all men every day and all
day.

He took his degree in what he himself styled the ‘fateful year’ 1848,
a time of social and industrial upheaval. Then it was that what was
known as the Christian Socialist Movement came into being, and six
years later, in 1854, the Christian Socialists founded the Working
Men’s College. Llewelyn Davies was one of them; and when he died, the
last of the founders passed away after nearly sixty-two years of the
life of the College. They were a great band of men, these Christian
Socialists. Charles Kingsley was prominent among them. So was John
Ruskin, so were Tom Hughes, John Malcolm Ludlow, the father of Friendly
Societies, Professor Westlake, the International lawyer, and many other
men of note. They were poles asunder from one another in character, in
pursuits, in a hundred ways; but they all had the betterment of their
fellow-men in mind, and one man held them all together, the greatest but
most humble-minded of them all, Maurice, a leader in spite of himself.
I came into the College years after Maurice had died, but I found that
some rare and potent influence had been and still was at work, that some
personality had left an impress, which was different in kind and greater
in degree than anything in ordinary life. Men of all religions and of no
religion seemed to have become infected with a kind of noble contagion,
and in turn to be infecting others. One old student explained to me that
the secret of Maurice’s influence was his transparent truthfulness,
that he taught ‘No lie ever had done or ever could do any conceivable
good in the world.’ Another found the explanation in his burning sense
of brotherhood. The truth was that a man had come among them who, as no
other man they ever saw or heard of, gave the message and lived the life
of Christ.

Charles Kingsley did not take much active part in founding and fashioning
the College, and after Maurice died the clerical element among the
founders was represented by Llewelyn Davies. I have said that the
founders were of the most divers views, in religion as in other respects.
Notwithstanding, the College was cradled in religion; the influence
of Maurice was paramount; and to Ludlow or Tom Hughes, laymen both,
religious faith was as the breath of life. Of all the founders, other
than Maurice himself, Hughes was probably Llewelyn Davies’ closest
friend. The two men were of the most different types. Hughes was
sanguine, trustful, impulsive, carrying on into old age all the warmth
and buoyancy and charm of youth. Davies was calm, thoughtful, reserved,
weighing men and things in the balance with the utmost care. But their
very diversities seemed to bring them together, and they loved one
another. In the Jubilee volume of the College, which Davies edited, he
wrote of his friend Hughes as ‘the man of childlike heart, of knightly
loyalty, of the most humane geniality, and of the simplest Christian
faith.’

Hughes was Principal of the College, in succession to Maurice, when I
joined it: many were the stories which he told himself, and many gathered
round him. He used to tell with glee his experience as a teacher, when
the College first opened its doors. Professor Westlake’s account of what
happened is as follows: ‘His teaching of English law, not by his fault,
but by that of the subject, never, I think, attracted the numbers which
the value of the study ought to command.’ Hughes’ own account was far
more racy: he took a law class, which was a complete failure, upon which
he converted it into a boxing class, which was an unbounded success. One
evening Hughes impressed upon us that the great object of the College was
to teach what were known in old days as ‘the Humanities.’ Lord Justice
Bowen, who was present and spoke after him, pertinently asked whether he
included boxing among the Humanities.

A great friend of Hughes and his circle, and a warm friend of the
College, was James Russell Lowell, who, it will be remembered, was at one
time American ambassador in this country—not the only American ambassador
to whom the College owes a debt, for Mr. Choate at a later date gave us
a notable address on Benjamin Franklin. I remember an annual gathering
at which both Hughes and Lowell spoke. Hughes in his speech recalled
the beginnings of the College and of the co-operative movement, the two
having been closely associated with each other, and told the story of a
certain brushmaker who had been a student of the College. The brushmaker
had fallen on evil times, and his business had collapsed. Hughes and
other co-operators and Christian Socialists clubbed together to set him
up again, and in gratitude the brushmaker made them all brushes which,
according to Hughes, had exceedingly hard bristles. Now Hughes had a
most shiny bald head, and, with his eye on that head, Lowell, who spoke
afterwards, in stately and measured terms, expressed a hope that all the
students of the College did their work as thoroughly and effectively as
the brushmaker had done his. On this same occasion Hughes referred to
the fact that some time before Nathaniel Hawthorne had come to tea at
the College. Again Lowell saw and took his opportunity. ‘I think,’ he
said, ‘Mr. Hughes has made a slip; it cannot have been tea that my friend
Hawthorne came to, for Hawthorne was a man of robuster fibre.’

I always think of Lowell as the most accomplished master of graceful
English to whom I ever listened. I should never have heard or seen him,
I should never have come across Llewelyn Davies or Tom Hughes, or many
other men of mark in the world, had I not gone to the College. I went
there, a young Oxford man, anxious to ‘do my bit,’ and thinking that I
could confer benefits on others by teaching them. My experience is—and
numbers of young University men have had the same experience—that I
received infinitely more than I ever gave. Apart from friendships made
for life, apart from having become, I hope, infected with the contagion
of which I have spoken, simply and solely from the point of view of
getting on in the world, it was a distinct gain to a young man to be
thrown into association with great men or the intimate friends of great
men, and to be constantly in an atmosphere of wide interests, high aims,
and tolerant views. My start in the teaching line was even more unlucky
than Tom Hughes’. Apparently he got some kind of class together, who then
deserted him until he took to boxing. My recollection is that I put out
an elaborate prospectus of what I was going to teach, and that no class
turned up at all. Subsequently, however, I did manage to scrape together
a small class, and supplemented teaching, not by boxing, but by becoming
an active member of the Maurice Cricket Club, the President of which
was Alfred Lyttelton, who, like Hughes, took a law class, but with much
greater success.

If, as some people fondly imagine and like to insist, there is a
difference between the Oxford and Cambridge type of man and cast of mind,
Hughes and Llewelyn Davies may be taken as excellent representatives of
their respective Universities. Oxford gave to the Working Men’s College
the more emotional Hughes, with his all-round views and interests.
Davies contributed the thoroughness and accuracy of Cambridge thought
and methods. On the other hand, Charles Kingsley, another Cambridge man,
would certainly be classed with Tom Hughes rather than with Llewelyn
Davies. The author of ‘Westward Ho!’ might well have written ‘Tom Brown’s
Schooldays,’ or vice versa; but it is impossible to picture Llewelyn
Davies as the author of ‘Tom Brown,’ or Hughes as the translator of
Plato’s ‘Republic.’ In a later generation at the College, the counterpart
of Hughes, with less genius but greater practical ability, was again a
Cambridge man, the dearly loved Alfred Lyttelton, to whom I have already
referred. The Working Men’s College was largely, perhaps mainly, the
product of Oxford and Cambridge, in the sense that most of its founders
and first teachers had belonged to one or other of the two Universities,
and their object was to impart to others the College spirit as they
had felt and known it and realised its value; to give to poor men, to
manual workers, something, if it were ever so little, of the atmosphere
which had brightened and broadened and sweetened their own lives. The
College, accordingly, has always taken Oxford and Cambridge for its
models. Year after year Oxford and Cambridge have welcomed parties
of Working Men’s College students; and year after year, without any
intermission, a constant stream of new teachers has flowed in from the
two Universities—sometimes in greater volume from the one, sometimes
from the other. It would be impossible to decide to which University we
owe the greater debt. Maurice himself can be claimed by both, though
Cambridge has the prior and, I think, the stronger claim to him. Of
four past Principals, Maurice is in the balance, Lord Avebury belonged
to neither University, and the other two, Tom Hughes, and Professor
Dicey most admirable and effective of Principals, must be credited to
Oxford. On the whole, perhaps, I must, as an Oxford man, reluctantly but
gratefully acknowledge that Trinity College, Cambridge, stands out in our
annals as having been from first to last our greatest benefactor. The two
latest survivors of the founders, Westlake and Llewelyn Davies, had both
been Fellows of Trinity.

I have spoken of Davies’ strong sense of civic duty. To compare him
again with Hughes, there was as great devotion to duty in the latter,
but with a somewhat different colouring. In Hughes’ case the sense of
duty was not so sharply defined, or clearly thought out, nor so much a
matter of reason. With him it was rather a feeling, an instinct, part
of his nature, such a sense of duty as comes into being at a great
public school, in the form of _esprit de corps_, loyalty to a community
of comrades and friends. All these men had this sense of obligation in
different shades and forms; all heard the call of duty, each in his
own way—the clergyman, the scholar, the public official, the merchant,
the lawyer, the artist—and all obeyed the call by giving of their own
particular store of knowledge.

To the Greeks of old duty and goodness presented themselves in the guise
of the beautiful, and this may be one reason why so many artists of fame
gave their help to the College. In the list of art teachers of the past
are the names of Ruskin, D. G. Rossetti, Ford Madox Brown, Burne Jones,
Thomas Woolner, Stacy Marks, and others. One of the longest lived and
best loved of the founders was Lowes Dickinson, who taught in the art
class for many years, and, as all who knew him will testify, never lost
sight of the connection between goodness and beauty. But it was not to be
expected that the students, or would-be students, would be all of this
type, until they had been duly inoculated. For instance, in the account
of art teaching at the College in early days, which is given in the
Jubilee volume, there is a story of a man coming to Ruskin’s class with a
request to be taught how to draw a cart-wheel. He explained that he was a
wheelwright, and that it would pay him in his business if he could draw
a wheel as it looked lying on the ground. He wanted no art or anything
of the kind, but simply to learn how to draw a wheel. This limited
aspiration was not at all to Ruskin’s mind, and the wheelwright appears
to have gone away sorrowing. The man came, quite naturally and laudably,
in order to obtain some technical instruction, which would bring him in
more money. No set of men were ever more anxious than the Founders of
the College that their poorer brethren should rise and prosper, hence
their staunch support of the Co-operative Movement. But they did not
found it to give technical instruction; they founded it to teach the
‘humanities’ in the widest sense (including boxing), to give to poor men
more human lives, to widen and multiply their interests, to open their
understanding, to make them better citizens. They were democrats, but
not democrats of the utilitarian type. They taught duty, the faith that
was in them, more than rights or claims. They never taught the working
man to try everything by the test question, What am I going to get by
it in pounds, shillings, and pence? nor did they for one moment appeal
to the manual workers as a class with interests distinct from those of
the community. The spirit of class was to them anathema, the negation of
brotherhood and of true citizenship, the enemy of the State. They taught
that men should have their full living wage, if they earned it; that true
citizen life implied conditions under which honest labour would always
ensure to the labourer sufficiency of good food and a decent home; but
they taught also that pounds, shillings, and pence are not the one thing
needful; that possessions mean something more and something better than
lands or wealth; that knowledge and wisdom, the manifold interests which
come from knowledge, the intelligent appreciation of the world around, of
men and things, are what life has to give, and are available to poor as
well as to rich; that, if a man has knowledge, with bread to eat and a
human home, it is a matter of indifference whether he is rich or whether
he is poor: he is an equal among equals. So they taught, and so the
students learnt and lived their lives accordingly.

These men founded a college. Here is Maurice’s conception of a college,
as given by Llewelyn Davies: ‘The name College had a significance on
which Maurice loved to dwell.... A college was an association of teachers
and learners; and that was what Maurice desired the Working Men’s College
to be. It was not to be an institution to which the uneducated might
resort, to pick up knowledge which might be of pecuniary benefit to them.
The idea of fellowship was to run through all its work; every teacher
was to assume that he might learn as well as teach; every student was to
be made to feel that, in coming to the College, he was entering into a
society in which he might hope to become more of a citizen and more of
a man.’ This was no conception of a visionary, which ended in a dream.
These were the lines laid down for practical guidance and application,
and on these lines to this day the College lives and moves and has its
being. My experience of the world at large has been that the rich man
is apt to patronise the poor, and that working men in their turn are
somewhat inclined to look askance upon would-be benefactors with good
intent. But when I first went to the College a great many years ago, I
found no signs of patronising, or being patronised. Nothing of the kind
was in the minds of students or teachers: it was all natural. They were
not troubling their heads as to social standing or worldly equipment;
nor, on the other hand, was there the slightest affectation of studied
equality or absence of the ordinary courtesies of life. There they were
in their own College, friends among friends, all engaged in the same
pursuit, the pursuit of knowledge, all ready to help and grateful for
being helped. I found that a large proportion of the teachers were, as
is still the case, student teachers; men who, having owed to the College
all their store of knowledge, and much more also, had come back to repay
the debt in kind, taking classes for years together, usually after a
heavy day’s work in their trade or profession; and I found, again, that
there was an attachment to the place, an _animus revertendi_—at least as
strong as in the case of the old Public Schools or Universities. To put
it bluntly, the Working Men’s College was founded to turn out gentlemen
in the truest and best sense of the term, and it is turning them out,
according to the original sample, to the present time.

To take one among numberless examples which might be given of the College
spirit, I call to mind an old student who was a very great favourite with
us all and a constant attendant at the College, until age and infirmity
limited the number of his visits. He was a wood-turner by trade; always
a poor man, but the happiest, as he was the friendliest, of men, for he
was master of a science which he needed no riches to follow up: he was
a most expert botanist, and when not earning his bread, he was studying
his subject or collecting new specimens on country walks. What did he
care about class distinctions or political parties or social upheavals?
Nothing at all. On the other hand, he illustrated the truth that a
live and wholesome community, which is at unity with itself, is a most
fruitful field for good stories and humorous sayings. He had the most
delightful gift of dry humour. A man of portly carriage, he had been
listening at one of our festive gatherings to a speaker who enlarged on
the subject of all-round men—I forget in what connection, but presumably
on the product which was to be expected from the College. Speaking later,
my old friend described himself as not an all-round man but bulging out
on one side. On another occasion the Lubbock Field Club—the natural
history club of the College—gathered to do him honour, and the speakers
indulged in exuberance of sentiment. In acknowledging his reception, the
honoured guest botanically remarked, ‘The Field Club is all heart, like
winter cabbages.’

Ever setting duty and citizenship before their own eyes, and the eyes
of those whom they guided and taught, the Founders of the College were
intensely good Englishmen and whole-hearted lovers of their country
without any reservations. That the claims of class should ever compete
with duty to the State would have been abhorrent to them. Nor were
they scared by any bogey of militarism. The members of the College
entered heart and soul into the Volunteer movement of 1859, and a corps
was formed, one of the earliest of all the volunteer corps, which
became the 19th Middlesex. As might be expected, Tom Hughes was the
commandant; prominent among the officers were John Martineau, pupil and
intimate friend of Charles Kingsley, and the Anglo-Saxon scholar, Dr.
Furnivall, most bellicose of men; while Maurice himself became chaplain
of the regiment. In these days of conscientious objectors, many might
with advantage read a letter which Maurice wrote to his soldier son,
afterwards the distinguished military writer, Sir Frederick Maurice,
and in which the nobility of the soldier’s calling is set forth by one
who had been brought up in tenets of a widely different kind, but had
renounced them on the principles which governed his whole life—duty
to man and fear of God. The letter is published in the memoir of Sir
Frederick Maurice by his son, now also General Maurice, who in the third
generation is adding new distinction to a great and honoured name.

During his thirty-six years of parish work in London, Llewelyn Davies
had little time to give to the teaching or management of the College;
and for the nineteen years when he held the living of Kirkby Lonsdale,
he was necessarily cut off from it, save for occasional visits, as was
Tom Hughes in his County Court Judgeship at Chester. He had taken a Bible
class in early days, in 1866; and after he came back from Westmorland
to end his days in retirement in London, again, a very old but still
vigorous man, he took the Bible class for a short time. His last words
spoken at the College were at our annual supper in the Maurice Hall, in
December 1910. He testified that ‘the College had always opened its arms
to those who came to it with the idea of not merely getting personal
advantage, but of becoming better citizens of their country, and better
members of the great human family, and who desired to serve their country
and kind to the best of their power’; and he claimed that ‘every one who
had been associated with the College, either as teacher or as student,
had felt in some degree that they were honoured by their connection
with it.’ It probably never entered into his head that the College was
honoured by association with him. His speech ended with what he said
and felt might be a parting benediction, ‘God bless the Working Men’s
College.’ He was never able to come among us again, but as each Founder’s
Day came round we remembered him, and he remembered us. And we shall
ever remember him and his work. He lies in Hampstead Churchyard, as his
master, Maurice, at Highgate. The line of founders has now died out, but
their memorial is a living memorial—better and nobler lives of men.




_THE PORTRAIT OF THE BELOVED._


The tall, young, frock-coated librarian came into the ladies’
reading-room with a noiseless, gliding step and an air of apology. He
moved a library ladder against the high shelves of calf-bound volumes,
ran up the ladder with a gentle swiftness, selected a tall folio from the
top shelf and came down again, leaving the room by the half-glass door as
unobtrusively as he had entered it.

There were only two people in the reading-room. One was an elderly woman,
who sat in front of a splendid fire, dozing, her head to one side. She
rested her cheek in her hand. She was elderly and had a disordered,
tousled look. Her hair, which had been a colourless fair, and was now an
indeterminate grey, was falling loose about her ears. Yet there was a
suggestion of lost beauty and grace, something evanescent, something of
youth, of the wreck of loveliness, about the drooped head and the huddled
figure.

Outside, the streets were miserable. The flagged courtyard beneath the
windows showed a dull surface of glimmering wet reflection. No hope of
its clearing. The skies were muddy, and beyond the courtyard in the
narrow street there passed now and again an oilskinned figure under
an umbrella, or a depressed cab-horse, behind an ancient driver and
disgracefully rickety vehicle—himself, poor beast, only fit for the
knacker’s yard. It was comfortable in the ladies’ reading-room, where
very few people came except the two who now occupied it. There was
something that appealed to Esther Denison, the younger of the two ladies,
in the rooms which had been undisturbed since Lord Edward Fitzgerald had
moved about them, his head full of rare dreams, more than a century ago.

That was the Beloved himself in the portrait above the magnificently
carved mantelpiece, set amid the backs of the old volumes on their
shelves, glimmering out of the soberly rich surroundings with a
suggestion of eternal gaiety and tender charm.

Such colour and vivacity! The brown eyes of the portrait drew Esther
Denison from her books and manuscripts, in spite of herself. She was
working at ‘Middle Irish’ for a University studentship. Now and again
she had to tinkle the little bell for a librarian to find something she
wanted. There were several librarians, but it was always the same one
who answered her bell. She was hardly conscious of him while she thanked
him so sweetly for finding what she wanted. She was hardly aware how
painstaking he was, how anxious to help. There never was more than a
murmured word between them. They observed the rule of silence of the
reading-room, although there was never anyone there but Esther Denison,
and that queer old Miss Brooke, who in her waking hours read nothing but
eighteenth-century memoirs, with now and again a volume of poetry or a
romance.

The ladies’ reading-room was a very good place for such work as Esther
Denison’s. The quiet was unbroken, because of the thick walls and the
retired situation of the great house between the courtyard and the
gardens at the back. All the corridors were lined with books,—such books
as no one ever asks to read—old calf and leather-bound volumes, which
were never taken from their shelves. Those Transactions of Parliament had
been there when the Beloved was young and in love, when he went to and
fro between this house and the House of Commons in College Green. The
deep walls of books seemed to deaden all rumour of life in the ladies’
reading-room, while downstairs the men’s reading-room was crowded, and
the swing-doors went from morn till even.

Esther Denison used to forget that there was any presence in the room but
her own while she worked. The work absorbed her: she delighted in it,
difficult as it was. Hour after hour she would sit there, her delicate
Muse-like head bent over the abstruse page. Her face was as soft in
colour, as delicately and firmly moulded, as a pink sweet-pea. She wore
her fair hair plaited, and twisted like a laurel-wreath around her small
head. She never looked round, nor glanced up, when the librarian came in
noiselessly. He went away carrying with him an impression of the pure
profile, the softly opening lips, the head filleted with pale gold, which
drew him to return against his will.

Little by little something of intimacy sprang up between Esther Denison
and Miss Brooke. At first the girl had sent the elder woman a pitying
glance and thought. She was half crazed or whole crazed, poor thing. She
talked in her sleep, and she was often asleep. When she woke up, she
talked to herself or to the picture above the fireplace. Some girls might
have been afraid of this strange companion. Not so Esther Denison. She
had become accustomed to the odd figure sitting in the chair in front of
the fire. She would have missed it if it had not been there.

One very grey, very dull afternoon, the fire sank low in the grate while
Miss Brooke slept. Esther realised with a start that the room was cold.
She had opened a window and the damp chill had entered. It was nearly
time for the lights. She stood up and went to replenish the fire, putting
on the coal gently, bit by bit, so as not to disturb the sleeper.

Kneeling between her and the fire, Miss Brooke’s face seemed to glimmer
out of the dark. The rooms were always full of mysterious shadows.
Glancing at her, as a little flame sprang up in the grate and died
away, Esther Denison had a queer illusion. The withered face was for
the moment the face of a girl, soft and round and purely tinted—not so
unlike the face of which she had caught a careless glimpse in the glass
as she arranged her hat before coming out that morning. Then the illusion
vanished. Miss Brooke woke up with a weary sigh and shivered. She was
elderly and cracked-looking again. Esther stirred up the fire and went to
the window, which she closed before returning to her work.

Every afternoon, about five, a bright face would appear framed in the
glass of the door, and there would come a sharp little tapping on the
pane. Then Esther would nod, close her book, and lay it aside; gather
her things together and go off home through the wet streets—they were
nearly always wet that winter—with her brother, Bobby, who was a student
at Trinity College. Bobby would wait, cooling his heels in the corridor,
while his sister put on her outdoor things in an inner room of the
ladies’ reading-room. That too had its roaring fire and deep, shabby,
easy chairs. It also was walled with books. The ordinary reader, whenever
she came—which was seldom—seemed unaware of the inner room which you
entered by a door that simulated book-shelves, continuing the long line
of books by dummy backs, painted on the door. People had occasionally
been startled to see that door open.

Esther would go home with her brother to the house in the suburbs and
the pretty faded mother, who lamented that she had a blue-stocking for a
daughter.

‘You grow old-maidish already,’ she would say. ‘Your indifference has
cooled off the men your pretty face attracted. You will be old before
your time, working in that fusty room at something that will never be any
good to you. Men hate a blue-stocking.’

Esther only laughed. She was very fond of the pretty complaining mother
with whom she had so little in common. She merely remarked that the
reading-room was the most comfortable place in Dublin during these winter
days. By and by, when the spring came, she would go out into the fields.
It did not matter to her about men. She was only interested in them
when they were grey and scholarly—except, of course, Bobby, who was her
darling and always stood up for her. She had not met the young man who
mattered to her.

As she said it she remembered the face of the portrait in the
reading-room, and her pulses quickened a little. Men like that did not
live nowadays.

    ‘King Pandion he is dead,
    All his friends are lapped in lead.’

Her lips curled a little scornfully. There were none like the Beloved in
these prosperous days of a peaceful dullness. She remembered his eyes,
brown as salmon-pools in their amber depths, his quick sideways smile,
the light on his brown head. Why, there were moments in the high dim room
full of shadows when the portrait had looked alive! It was a brilliant
bit of painting—the green of the cravat, the scarlet of the waistcoat,
the brown face with the touch of carmine in the cheeks. Odd, how they lit
the room!

Every morning now she returned to the reading-room with an ever growing
sense of pleasant anticipation. No matter how early she arrived Miss
Brooke was already there, in her accustomed place. If another reader came
by any chance, Miss Brooke would go off into the inner room and remain
there till the intruder had gone. Her meals were brought to her in that
inner room from some place outside. They were very light meals—tea, a
boiled egg, a little fruit, some hot cakes.

The time came when, with an air of friendliness, she brought a cup of tea
and placed it by Esther’s elbow.

‘You forget to go out for your lunch,’ she said. ‘That is not good for
the young. You spend too much time over those queer characters. You will
lose the brightness of your eyes; your back will bend. I like to look up
and see you there when I am awake. But⸺I was once as pretty as you. Do
not come here too much. This place is full of dreams. _I_ have found it
worth while to give up all things, but⸺’

She would be quite sensible and coherent for a while; then she would
wander off into something unintelligible.

While they were talking one day the librarian came in. He greeted Miss
Brooke in a murmur as he passed on to find the thing he needed. He
seemed to need many books from those otherwise undisturbed shelves.

‘That is a pleasant young man,’ Miss Brooke said as he went out, closing
the door behind him. ‘He is in and out here a great deal since you began
to read here, much more than formerly.’

She fixed her rather mad, bright eyes on Esther, who, to her annoyance,
felt the colour come to her cheeks; she always coloured very easily.

‘Ah, that is right,’ Miss Brooke said. ‘Mr. Tyrrell is an excellent young
man. You do not know him. I must make you known to each other. I was
afraid that you were going to follow me. You are so exactly like a girl I
once knew. I am disappointed in you, but it is best so. One should grasp
at the happiness near at hand, even though grace and beauty—and more than
that—are dead a hundred years.’

She stopped suddenly as though she listened, and went on again.

‘What was I talking about?’ she asked. ‘My poor head! It is full moon. I
always talk nonsense when there is a full moon. Is that your brother come
for you, my dear?’

It was not Bobby. It was the librarian. He brought a message from Bobby,
who was unable to come for her. She was to take a cab home with her books
and papers.

Having delivered his message the librarian waited while Esther put on her
hat. She dressed very prettily, in the picturesque fashion of a day which
had an artistic movement all to itself. Her cloak and flat cap of green
velvet were like the sheathing of a flower. As she came from the inner
room so attired, the librarian’s eyes fluttered as though he had seen a
vision.

‘I will carry these for you,’ he said, lifting the parcel of books.

Miss Brooke did not appear to notice. She had a queer way of suddenly
leaving realities behind. The librarian replenished the fire. She did
not seem to notice the noise he made. Her eyes were fixed on the picture
above the fireplace.

‘What time does she go home?’ Esther Denison asked, as they went out into
the dim corridor where the lights were not yet on. ‘It seems so lonely,
leaving her there.’

‘As a matter of fact’—the librarian had the slightest hesitation of
speech, which gave him the air of a gentle deference—‘she does not go
home. I do not believe she has any home to go to.’

‘Then she lives here?’

‘I believe she sleeps in front of the fire. It was a long time before we
discovered that she remained here at night, after every one was gone.
When we discovered—it is an irregularity of course—but—we wink at it. We
could not discover that she had anywhere to go to or any friends. She
does no harm. She is always about—as though she has just arrived—when the
servants begin to arrange the rooms in the morning. She is not really
mad, you know. She has only hallucinations. She has been coming here so
long that she seems to belong to the house.’

‘It is a beautiful house to belong to,’ Esther said, as though she were
talking to herself. ‘I am glad you let her stay.’

A little later a thought came to her. Supposing Miss Brooke were to be
taken ill in the night? Some one, she supposed, slept on the premises.
Only the front of the house—the main block, in which had been the
reception-rooms—was used as library and reading-rooms. There was the
underground story, in which no servant would sleep nowadays; but there
was also abundant room at the back, or at the top of the house—not
accessible from this part. She had already ascertained that there was no
communication between these rooms and a great portion of the old house.
The rooms suddenly ceased in a wall of books. The communication must have
been blocked up.

She was working very hard at this time. The annoying thing was that, as
the examination came near, she began to find it difficult to concentrate
her thoughts. Perhaps she had been working too hard. It could not be
that ‘Middle Irish’ was losing its fascination for her; but, little by
little, she found that something was coming between her and the folios
and manuscripts. The something was—it took the shape of—the portrait of
the Beloved. Once or twice she fell asleep, just as Miss Brooke did, and
slept, her face upon her folded arms, amid the scattered learning on the
table.

‘The room was so hot,’ she said apologetically to the librarian, who had
wakened her and seemed more perturbed about her drowsiness than need be.

‘You are overworking,’ he answered, with a sharpness in his voice. ‘You
will have to give it up, or have a nervous breakdown.’

She forgot to wonder at the something like anger in his voice.

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that!’ she said, ‘so near the exam.! Afterwards, I
shall take a good rest. I shall read nothing but novels for a month.’

‘Not here,’ he said. ‘There are cobwebs here that get into people’s
brains. Look at Miss Brooke! You must go away into the country and not
touch a book. The Spring will be here soon. Although it is wet to-night
there is a west wind that brings the fields.’

‘I must get through my exam. first,’ she said. ‘Afterwards, I dare say it
will be best for me.’

‘You will break down before,’ he replied gloomily, and she was frightened.

There came a few fine, beautiful days, when she went out and wandered
in country lanes and by the sea. The librarian was taking a holiday at
this time and sometimes she encountered him, and they walked together and
returned to town together. The larks were singing by this time, and here
and there in the fields there was a daisy. There were authentic tidings
of spring blown down from the mountains and in from the fields and woods.
She had listened at last to the librarian—their intimacy had grown in
those country walks—and had consented to lay aside her work till the eve
of the studentship exam., because she felt that she was going to fail if
she stuck at it. But he could not know, she said to herself, the strain
it was upon her to keep away from her work in the reading-room. She had
been so happy there. There was something missing even in the fields and
by the sea.

A week passed, and one evening she dined alone, her mother and Bobby
having gone to a theatre. Her dinner was but a pretence. She remembered
that the ladies’ reading-room was open till nine o’clock. It tempted
her like a forbidden fruit. She could get in an hour’s work there while
they were at the theatre. Her heart began to beat hard as the thought
came to her of the walk through the wet streets, the lit windows of the
great house beyond the courtyard, the hall through which she would pass
so quickly, the stairs, the narrow corridor between the books. Then the
ladies’ reading-room, so good after the cheerless street, its fire, the
brown books with their flash of gilding, Miss Brooke sitting by the fire,
the portrait—it would flash a look of welcome as she came in, wondering
why she had stayed away so long.

She loved her work, and she had missed it. It was lucky Mr. Tyrrell was
out of town or he might have called, as he had called once or twice
lately, with a book or some other pretext for coming, and had hindered
her. The rest had done her good. It was so good to be getting back to
work, to be so keen.

Her pulses beat in her ears as she hurried on her way. She arrived
at her destination. As she passed through the hall, she had an absurd
feeling that Archie Tyrrell—she knew his name was Archie by this
time—might meet her and turn her back. He had taken a masterful way with
her lately. If by any unforeseen chance he should have come back!

She glanced fearfully at the swing-door of the general reading-room. Then
she remembered. He was not on duty in the evenings, even if he had been
in town. Few readers came in the evenings. It was a concession to poor
students engaged in the daytime that kept the library and reading-room
open at night till nine o’clock. She hurried along the corridor, joy in
her blood and giving wings to her feet. Through the half-glass door she
saw that the room was dim beyond. There was only firelight in it. She was
glad. That meant she should find only Miss Brooke. The last day she had
been there a couple of girls had come in: had asked for Swinburne’s poems
and Rossetti’s, and had hovered over them like butterflies, dipping into
a page here, a page there, till they remembered an appointment and went
away. She had felt a sense of resentment against them as intruders into a
place which had become so strangely dear to her.

Miss Brooke was not there, though her chair stood in front of the fire as
usual. She must only just have left it, for the leather back was warm.
Oddly enough, now that she was come, Esther had no inclination to work.
She sat down in Miss Brooke’s chair. She leant back, looking up at the
portrait. It seemed to lean towards her, smiling at her. It was as though
the sun had come out.

Had she fallen asleep? She awoke with the strange sense of its being
night and every one in the world asleep. The fire had gone low, was
almost out. There was a little glimmer in the darkness, which she knew
somehow came from the street-lamps beyond the courtyard. Somewhere there
was a faint murmuring as of voices at a distance—in the rooms, not
out-of-doors.

She was suddenly frightened—of the old house and all its ghosts. She
remembered the Beloved. With him no woman need be afraid.

She turned to where the portrait hung for comfort; but she could see
nothing. She stood up, groping in the darkness.

Somewhere a clock struck two great strokes in the silence of the sleeping
town.

Where was Miss Brooke? She felt her way towards the wall of books, still
but half awake. They still burnt oil-lamps in the library: electric light
was not yet come into general use. She had no matches to strike a light.
The darkness was very baffling. The furniture seemed to get in her way as
though it were something animate that would keep her back.

At last she found the book-shelves. She groped along them for the door.
It was slightly ajar. There were the whispering voices not far away.

She passed into the inner room. To her amazement, in the solid wall of
books before her there was a door, which stood ajar. Beyond it was a
light. The voices were in the room beyond the open door.

She went forward quickly, striking against a table as she went. Something
fell with a loud noise. The whispering—it was not much more than
that—went on undisturbed.

She was at the door. With her hand upon her frightened heart she stood,
looking in amazement. The room into which she looked was a stately
long room. It was lit by three hanging chandeliers in which were many
candles. It had an air of old-fashioned elegance with its gilt couches
and tabourets covered in a Pompadour silk. The walls and ceilings
were painted with Watteau shepherds and shepherdesses and wreaths of
flowers. The curtains of the long windows were of the same silk as the
chair-covers. She noticed the colour of the silk—a faded delicate blue.

At the moment, she was not aware that she noticed any of these things.
Her conscious self was only aware of two people clasped in each other’s
arms by the fireplace at the far end of the room. The Beloved—just as
he was in the picture—and a childishly young girl, her face lifted
to his. There was something of wild sweetness about the girl, in her
bunched-up white frock and scarlet ribbons. Her dark hair fell in a maze
of curls—like—was it ‘The Parson’s Daughter’ of Romney? Something as
familiar as that.

They were entirely absorbed in each other. The girl’s white arms were
flung about the neck of the Beloved. Esther Denison forgot that she was
spying. She stood against the darkness of the room, watching them with
distended eyes. Was there some sickness of envy in her heart? The Beloved
made so perfect a lover, and these days were so drab.

‘Edouard! mon Edouard!’

It was the girl who spoke in a passionate whisper.

‘Hist!’ he said, turning about in a startled way. ‘Did you hear a sound?’

The girl dropped her arms from about his neck. She seemed to listen. She
grew pale, clasping her hands together and looking at him. She was very
young, although she had the soft roundness of young maternity about her
childish figure.

‘Mon ami!’ she began, panting.

‘It is nothing,’ he said with a little laugh. ‘A mouse in the
wainscotting. The place is alive with them. We have an hour yet before
dawn.’

The lights were broken up, wavering. Some queer unreality was coming over
the scene. There were voices, the murmuring of many waters in Esther’s
ears. She felt like some one coming back from a great distance to the
light, travelling slowly, painfully.

Then she was aware of something familiar, comforting. It was the face of
the librarian—a good, strong, reassuring face, something to hold on to in
the medley of her thoughts that made the world insubstantial. The room
was full of grey light, beyond the one lamp which some one had thought of
lighting.

‘Are you better, darling?’

It was her mother’s voice. Gradually she came to the knowledge of where
she was. She was in the ladies’ reading-room. Before her was the wall of
books in which there had been the door she had seen open.

‘You must have fallen asleep, darling, and been locked in,’ her mother
went on, in the voice of one who speaks to some one unutterably dear,
who has very nearly slipped away from love and life. ‘We were terrified
not to find you at home. No one knew where you had gone to. Fortunately,
Bobby thought at last of Mr. Tyrrell. He had _just_ come back from the
country by the last train. There was a business to find the person who
had the keys. But⸺You are all right, darling, and we are here—Bobby and
Mr. Tyrrell and I. There is a carriage waiting.’

Some days later she told Archie Tyrrell her story. Oddly enough, she had
felt unable to tell it to anyone else. ‘No one is ever to hear it but
you,’ she had stipulated.

‘I promise.’

She was still on her sofa. She had been rather alarmingly ill from the
shock of her experience. He listened. His face was grave and gentle. He
expressed no disbelief. He did not try to persuade her that her vision
was hallucination. Instead, he said something for which she loved him.
She had been so afraid of disbelief—of hard, practical common sense.

‘The house is his monument,’ he said, ‘his shrine, his temple. You cannot
get away from him. You must not read there again: it is too lonely. They
are going to close those rooms. Soon we shall have the fine new building
growing up.’

‘Ah,’ she said pitifully. ‘I am sorry. It is like turning them out. And
poor Miss Brooke—what will she do?’

She had a sudden thought.

‘I believe she used to see him,’ she said. ‘She talked so oddly that I
did not heed her—but now things come back to me.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘She thought she saw him. It began when she was quite
a young girl, a student like you, and very pretty. She was always sitting
there facing the portrait. It became real to her. He put her out of
conceit with common men. She might have married: there was a lover—but
then’⸺

‘He was not the Beloved,’ said Esther Denison, and slipped her hand into
his. Then she began to weep.

He did not tell her then, not till some weeks had passed, that Miss
Brooke was dead. The threat of eviction from her old quarters had killed
her. She had been found in some kind of a fit in her familiar place in
the ladies’ reading-room, on the very afternoon of the day that was to
end with Esther’s falling asleep under the eyes of the Beloved.

She was quite herself again, and within a week of her wedding-day, when
he thought it safe to take her to see the alterations which were being
made in the ladies’ reading-room. The portrait was gone—to the gallery
across the garden. A great number of the books had been removed. The
place looked disordered and unhappy—not as she had known it. This would
have laid no spell on her.

It was in the workmen’s dinner-hour. They had the place to themselves.
He took her hand and held it in a firm, warm clasp. ‘There was a door,’
he said; ‘you were quite right. It was just where we found you in a
huddled-up heap on the floor. But it was locked, and the bookcases
covered it. You can walk through now.’

They went into the inner room. There was the open door as she had seen
it. But what desolation beyond! The long room was bare of furniture;
it had evidently been shut up for a long time, for it smelt mouldily.
The light came in coldly through the long windows, curtained only with
cobwebs. There was dust everywhere, in drifts on the floor, deadening the
sounds of their feet. It had dimmed the shepherds and shepherdesses of
the painted walls and the flower-wreaths and Cupids of the ceiling.

‘They used to meet here,’ he said in a low voice. ‘When he was “on his
keeping.” He had some secret way of entry known only to them and one or
two faithful servants. When the scent was hot she hid him here, and not
even the Duke or Duchess knew. He used to read in these rooms when the
house was asleep. There was a man here before me who swore he saw him at
night searching the shelves for some book he wanted. It is the influence,
of course. Such as he leaves the influence behind him long after he is
dead.’

She was very pale. As they turned and went out of the room quietly, she
said, nodding her head towards the fine new building which was going up
in the courtyard:

‘After all, I do not think I shall ever read there. I doubt that I am
cut out for scholarship. I do not feel that I could go back to “Middle
Irish.” The studentship will have to go.’

‘No?’ he said, with a lifting of his handsome eyebrows. ‘After all, a
married woman will not have much time for scholarship—of so difficult a
kind.’

‘I suppose not,’ she said, as they stepped out into the open air.
‘Perhaps—after all—I worked too hard. Women have that way—have they not?
I am not surprised I ... broke down.’

Then she added something quite irrelevant:

‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘if poor Miss Brooke ever saw them together. When
she spoke—it was only of _him_. Could she have seen them—as I did?’

                                                          KATHARINE TYNAN.




_MY FIRST WEEK IN FLANDERS._

BY LIEUT. THE HON. W. WATSON-ARMSTRONG.


In the evening of April 22, 1915, my regiment left camp, and entrained at
about 11 P.M. We were very packed in the train, and this did not improve
our tempers. We had not the slightest idea where we were going, and in
the early hours of the morning of April 23 we found ourselves at Cassel,
a small town in the department du Nord, where we detrained, and began a
long, weary march. The country-side was very hilly, and we soon began to
feel how near we were to the front, as we distinctly heard the booming
of the guns, and all the cross-roads were guarded by French soldiers.
At last, when very tired, we found ourselves marching into a plain, and
shortly afterwards arrived at the little town of Winnezeele, a few miles
from the Belgian frontier. It was about 9 A.M. when we arrived there, and
we were told that we were going no further that day.

Troops were billeted in the neighbouring farms, and I was kept busy
interpreting for everyone. I was at last able to see to the needs of
my own platoon, and got my odd sixty men comfortably settled down in a
nice farm. The lady of the place, whose husband was serving at Dunkirk,
was rather surly at first, owing to her having shortly before received
an enforced visit from some Canadians, who had proved rather rough. She
and I ended in becoming very good friends, and still further cementing
the _Entente cordiale_. We spent a delightful day of rest amid charming
scenery, in the enjoyment of a really lovely day in early summer; it was
hard to realise what we were doing there at all. We would forget, only
to be brought back to earth by the rumbling of the guns, none too far
away, and by the sight of a German aeroplane which was being fired at,
the flash of the guns being quite visible. I have nothing but pleasant
memories of Winnezeele and district. The farms were very picturesque,
the village clean and prosperous, and prettily situated. Its atmosphere
somehow reminded me of Bamburgh. The people were all cordial. One old man
told me that early in the war, when the Germans attempted their great
enveloping movement, an Uhlan patrol rode into the village. In tones of
great excitement, he told me how some courageous citizen, whose name he
declared must be kept a profound secret, went and informed the French
infantry patrol, and how the ‘fantassins’ came and rounded up the enemy.
Since then no German had appeared in Winnezeele. This little incursion
must have been one of the high-water marks of the Teuton invasion. We
officers messed at the chief Inn, and had quite a good time, trying to
turn our French to good account by conversing with a certain ‘Marie
Louise,’ who ministered to our wants. It was a little picture of France
at war: France at her best. There were no young civilians to be seen, no
‘starred’ men. All had gone to the war. The fields were being worked by
women, girls, young children, and old folk, and all worked with a will.
Even the farmer was not exempt. The husband of Madame Dubois, upon whom I
and my platoon were billeted, had gone, and his wife cheerfully carried
on in his place, and ran the farm. The country-side, however, seemed to
be managing very well, and we found plenty of good fare in the little
place. I had an attic all to myself on the farm, and spent a splendid
night on a bed stuffed with straw, a Belgian boy refugee kindly turning
out to make room for me. The men, as usual, slept in the hay barn.

Having spent what was to be our last comfortable day for a long time to
come, we started off again the next day (April 23) at about twelve noon,
and soon crossed the frontier into Belgium. We met several refugees
making their way to France, and a very motley crowd they appeared to
be. They indeed could feel the realities of war! We passed through
several villages, filled with war-stained British troops, and the civil
population appeared pleased to see us. We also noticed that, once in
Belgium, the male civil population was much larger than in France. In
Belgium the conscription laws by no means include all males capable of
bearing arms, whereas in France there are no exemptions whatsoever.
The Flemish type became more prevalent as we proceeded, all the girls
wearing the fringe which seems to be characteristic of Belgium. They
certainly knew how to smile. After much marching and many halts, through
the Flemish plain which had begun round Winnezeele, we reached the now
famous Poperinghe, a fine old Flemish town with a beautiful church. In
peace times the place could be compared with some of our rather sleepy
cathedral cities, but now it was full of Yankee hustle. It was packed
with French and Belgian soldiers, who all gave us a hearty welcome. We
were in excellent spirits as we marched through the town, and poor
Lieut. Bainbridge, the Brigade Signalling Officer, as he passed me on
a motor bike, said, ‘Make as much noise as you can, as these people,’
referring to the civil population, ‘need cheering up.’ Certainly to
them, with the Germans so close, the entry of more troops to keep back
the swarms which had already wrought such havoc in most parts of their
country must always have been a very welcome sight. On the march through
the country-side, where there was not so much to interest us, we played
the mouth-organ to cheer one another on, and I often took a turn myself,
sometimes resting in favour of ‘Bob’ Young, who was soon to meet his end
in the forthcoming battle.

After leaving the town the evidence of war was everywhere seen,
ambulances and wagons becoming more and more numerous, and squads of
Belgian soldiers, with staves only, continually passing us on their
way to rest. As dusk was falling we found our way to a wood called
Flamertinghe, the only building near us being a solitary inn. We at
last got some food, and bivouacked for the night. At this place we
were only five or six miles from the German line, and there were some
reserve trenches close by which were to be manned by us if necessary.
‘Bramble’ Booth, who had been out previously with the London Rifle
Brigade, said he recognised the locality, which had been the scene of
desperate Anglo-German combats. During the night, when not asleep, we
were entertained by a continuous rattle of musketry, which seemed to be
extremely close at hand. It did not disturb me much, however, and I was
soon fast asleep.

On awaking on April 24, we found that we had some neighbours, Zouaves and
other French troops, and Belgians, who were soon all very friendly with
our men.

We here heard some startling news, to the effect that the French lines
outside Ypres had been pierced owing to the use of poison gases. The
Zouaves said that hundreds of their comrades had been ‘gassed.’ The
Canadians, however, had made a furious counter-attack, and had repaired
some of the damage; their losses had been very heavy, and the situation
was reckoned to be serious. We made the best of our time, and spent the
morning writing letters and watching a large British howitzer at work,
close to us. The gunners claimed to be making some good hits.

We made a hearty lunch, and I pleased the officers by getting wine
for them at the inn. We expected to be there a week, when suddenly,
about four o’clock in the afternoon, an order came for the Brigade to
concentrate at a place about two miles east of Ypres. We soon found
ourselves on the main road. We marched up on the right-hand side, and on
the extreme left of the road there was a continued stream of ambulances
coming down from the front. Up the centre of the road ammunition carts
were galloping at full speed towards Ypres. It was evident that a very
big battle was raging in front, and the air was full of rumours brought
by stragglers and slightly wounded men, painfully making their way
towards safety. These men looked utterly exhausted and seemed exceedingly
pleased to see us; one of them said ‘You are badly wanted,’ though at
the time we never realised how desperate the situation was. On the other
hand, another straggler cheerfully informed us that we had only to take
one more trench and then the whole of Belgium would be in our hands.
This man was the cause of raising many false hopes, soon to be violently
dispelled.

At last, as it was night, we approached the ruins of Ypres, and the
roar of the guns was tremendous. We marched past the famous Cloth Hall
(even then badly knocked about), and began to move at the double, so as
to escape being shelled. It was too late, however, and we were brought
to a halt in the grand square of Ypres, opposite the cathedral. Shells
were bursting all round us, and the Brigadier seemed uncertain whether
he should proceed. It seems that spies were sheltered in the place, and
signalled our arrival to the Germans, who gave us a very uncomfortable
ten minutes. The first casualties occurred in No. 1 Platoon, a shell
bursting at the head of the battalion, and wounding several men. For a
moment there was almost a panic; but by great efforts we kept the men in
their places, and after that they behaved splendidly. I had a close shave
for a start, a shell bursting close to my platoon, and wounding Private
Henderson, who was next to me, in the foot.

The cathedral was on fire, and made a glorious, but sad, spectacle. At
this time it was still more or less intact, as were the majority of the
deserted houses.

At last we moved on, and debouched from the town without further loss. We
could clearly see the German lines, which were lit up by large coloured
flares, as a safeguard against night attacks. The flares reminded one of
fireworks and were quite pretty to watch. We had not gone far before we
turned off into a field, and lay down and rested. Each platoon lay in a
group by itself, so as to minimise the danger from the enemy’s shells,
which were falling thick and fast. It was also wet and damp, and however
elevated we might be morally, we felt extremely miserable. An hour or so
before dawn on the 25th we were collected together, and more ammunition
was issued. This operation took some time in the dark, and ought to have
been done before we entered Ypres, as a few shells might have wiped us
out.

At last we were on the forward road again, and after a mile or two turned
to our left down a narrow lane, and were there halted. Dawn was now
breaking, and none of us had the least idea what we were going to do. It
was cold, muddy, and sopping wet. I never felt more miserable in all my
life. However, there was nothing we could do but try and make the best of
it, till the sun should come out and dry us.

I afterwards discovered that we were rather to the right of Hill 60,
and that the British position, a mile or two ahead, was being held by a
handful of men. In parts of the line this handful had been overwhelmed,
and we were ordered to go forward and try to save the situation. The
Canadians had been fighting against enormous odds, and were almost
exhausted; a great many of them had been gassed, and some, whom our men
came across, said that they could do no more. In such circumstances
we were ordered to advance, although we had no precise instructions;
apparently we were to go on as far as we could, and drive the Germans
back, or at least hold them.

We commenced our advance in ‘artillery formation,’ but soon extended into
‘open order.’ I won’t attempt to give many details of that long morning,
as they are too complicated. We advanced and retired, and then advanced
again, during which time several casualties occurred. The bursting of the
shells all round one was rather trying, and a very strange experience
to the uninitiated! A shell unfortunately burst in the middle of No. 1
Platoon (Morpeth), very seriously wounding Second Lieutenant Adams, and
killing and wounding several of his men. Captain Flint, also of this
company, was blown up by a shell, though not actually touched. He jarred
his spine on landing again, having been carried to a great height. Some
of the Germans were very close, and several of our men almost ran into
them accidentally. This was made possible by the undulating nature of the
ground.

Our advance was a complete success, and the advance posts of the enemy
withdrew. They could probably have overwhelmed our battalion, but
fortunately were under the impression that they were opposed by a much
larger force than they really were. The G.O.C. used our brigade as a
bluff, and the fact that our men, in their enthusiasm, advanced at a
great pace, lent colour to this. A Seaforth Highlander’s letter appeared
in an Edinburgh paper, in which he said that they had received a terrible
shelling, and had made up their minds that their last hour had come. Then
suddenly they observed that the shells were passing over their heads,
and looking back they saw to their joy the Northumberlands, advancing in
perfect order, as if on parade.

These Germans, who withdrew before us, I have since discovered, were
beginning to come through the gap which had been made in our front line.
If they had only known the number of British reinforcements, and had
pushed their attack home, they might perhaps, to use an expression,
have been marching into Ypres ‘in fours’ in the evening. As it was, our
advance in open country completely bluffed them: they hesitated and were
lost. Their hesitation enabled our front line to close its gap, and
several of the enemy, who had broken through, and then withdrew before
our advance, were captured.

Finally on that day we took up a defensive line on the hillside. We had
not a very large ‘field of fire,’ because after about 60 or 100 yards the
ground sloped downwards, and so if the enemy should attack we should have
to be extremely smart with our rifles. In front, however, somewhere on
the slope, out of sight, the London Rifle Brigade were entrenched. We did
not know for certain, but heard rumours that they were hard pressed and
that a party of Germans had broken through and might be on us any minute.
My platoon was in a ditch with a hedge in front of it, and underwent
a terrible shelling in the afternoon, which slackened off towards the
evening. Shells burst continually all along the long, thin line of
our battalion, some bursting just short, some just beyond, and others
crashing through and making cruel gaps among our men. I had many almost
miraculous escapes. A bullet passed through my cap, and I was all but
buried by a shell, which tore away half of a little shelter I had crawled
into. One shell, which burst a yard or two off me, killed two of my men
and injured another. The two men displayed great heroism in their dying
agony. One of them, Bob Young, as he was carried away, minus his legs,
called upon an officer, who was almost overcome by the sight, to ‘be a
man’; and I was further told that he died kissing his wife’s photograph,
with the word ‘Tipperary’ on his lips. Such were the men the Germans
failed to break, men with an unconquerable spirit which no human horror
could overcome.

The most trying time was when it became dark, because, had the Germans
attacked us, we should have been unable to shoot many. We waited with
fixed bayonets and found it bitterly cold. I spent a good part of that
long afternoon and evening in sorting out my men, finding them scattered
about the line, and getting them together, so that when we should march
off there would be less confusion, and No. 7 Platoon would be ready.
There was a ruined farm just behind our line, and there we obtained some
good water from a pump. There Donkin showed me his bleeding foot, which
had received a dose of shrapnel.

At last, between ten and eleven P.M., under cover of the night, we were
relieved by other troops, and retired to almost the same place from
whence we started in the morning. We lay down in a field and slept,
in spite of the cold, for we were worn out; we had been marching and
fighting for about thirty-six hours on end, and the only food we had
had was the iron ration we carried with us, and the water we got at the
farmhouse. I lost my ration as a matter of fact, as it became unfastened
from my belt in the course of the advance. The battalion in these
operations lost about 150 killed and wounded, including the two young
Wakes (Wilf and Tom) of Bamburgh, both killed by the same shell.

Three officers were wounded, whom I have already mentioned, viz. Captain
Flint, Second Lieutenant Adams, and T. Donkin of Rothbury. Donkin’s
injury was slight, and we rather envied him. I should mention that
the officer in command of my company, Captain T. O. Wood, was absent,
having been detained at Havre, while the second in command, Captain
Hugh Liddell, was temporarily incapacitated by a shell which burst near
him, so I, as senior subaltern, commanded No. 2 Company for most of the
day. In my own platoon I had thirteen casualties, most of them only
wounded, and all the lads gave me the greatest assistance and seemed
quite fearless, so much that I feel the praise bestowed upon us, both
by Sir John French and the Commander of the Canadian Division, was
fully justified. During the day I had to throw away my greatcoat, as I
found it so heavy, and now, as I lay on the field, which was very damp,
I felt bitterly cold. I got in, however, between two of my men, and
notwithstanding the possibility of more shells and the intense cold I was
soon fast asleep.

We were roused up early in the morning (April 25), still feeling
extremely cold. We made some tea, however, at a ruined farmhouse close
by, and this brought warmth and comfort. One of my men lent me his
greatcoat, and insisted that I should wear it for a bit. Captain Wood
turned up, and took over the command of the company. Before long the sun
came out, and we had a gloriously fine day. The battalion moved into an
adjoining field, and rested there for the morning; this rest was very
welcome, and the sun dried our clothes. We spent the time cleaning our
rifles, several also taking the opportunity to write home. The subalterns
busied themselves making out lists of casualties for the Divisional Staff
Orderly. Rations arrived, and by mid-day we sat down to a good meal.

We were much interested by a force of Indians close to us, the Lahore
Division I heard afterwards, and they seemed full of the stoicism of the
East. Though no shells fell amongst us, we saw one burst with sad effect
among a column of Indians on the march. Our quiet morning was a great
contrast to our desperate advance in the afternoon. I must here explain
in a few words the situation. We were in the Ypres salient and were thus
exposed to the enemy from the east, north, and south. On the previous day
we had checked the enemy on the east, but a new danger now threatened
the British positions from the north side of the salient, the French
colonials having been driven out of the village of St. Julien. There
was thus a danger of the troops in the salient being overwhelmed by an
advance of the enemy from St. Julien, with the consequent fall of Ypres.
As this town was the old capital of Flanders, the moral effect would have
been great, besides opening the road for further progress towards Calais;
it had therefore to be defended at all costs. The position of the English
troops was insecure; they had suffered great losses; their artillery was
almost powerless owing to lack of ammunition, and England’s new armies
were hardly yet ready. In such circumstances the arrival of the Division
was most opportune, and behind them more troops were being hurried up
from all directions. Cavalry, even the Life Guards, were compelled to do
infantry work in the trenches, and it was thought that by sending our
Brigade against the strong position of St. Julien (an almost impossible
task) the Germans would be bluffed, and would remain on the defensive.

This being the state of affairs, we were ordered shortly after lunch to
attack St. Julien immediately, and to take it at all costs. We were off
almost at once. We advanced at a great rate, in artillery formation, soon
extending, however, into open order. If yesterday had been heavy, to-day
was ten times worse. The German fire was terrific, and we had to face a
hail of shells and bullets. The neighbourhood was infested with snipers,
cleverly concealed, who made a point of picking off senior officers or
despatching the wounded. It is a wonder that the whole battalion was not
exterminated. The men, however, went forward with such spirit, and kept
such magnificent discipline, that casualties, heavy as they were, were
thus minimised. Now, perhaps, some of us for the first time realised the
value of good discipline and good training.

We found that the only way to advance was for a few men, under an officer
or an N.C.O., to make a short rush forward, and then to lie down flat and
regain their breath. The whole battalion was mixed up, and I found myself
on its left flank, where it joined on to the 6th Northumberlands. It was
a case of every man using his own intelligence with courage. We made a
good deal of progress, and took up a strong line with a hedge in front
of it, which afforded some shelter. The order came down, however, that
the advance had to be continued. I consulted an officer of the 6th and we
decided to lead the men on at once. We advanced about thirty yards where
the men could take cover behind another hedge, while others a little
more to the right could take cover behind a sandbag wall, made on some
former occasion, and which acted as a continuation of the hedge. On the
right of this wall was a ruined farm building. In front of this position
was a large open field, and at the other end of it, a few hundred yards
distant, lay the village of St. Julien and the Germans. To cross this
field without adequate artillery support was impossible, and yet we had
been ordered to advance. Our present position by the farm, however, was
being shelled to such an extent, that as far as our safety went it did
not much matter where we were.

While I was taking a short rest behind this last sandbag wall, I met a
young officer of the 6th Northumberland Fusiliers wounded in the arm,
who told me that he was in the office of Messrs. Dees and Thompson, my
father’s solicitors. He and some other officers all insisted that I was
their senior, and must take command of the troops in this part of the
attack. We began our last advance, and made two or three short rushes. I
had just finished the last of these, and was going to lie down, when I
received a staggering blow on the back and fell forward. I suffered an
agonising pain, and soon felt another blow on the back, also extremely
violent. I began to find difficulty in breathing, and wondered if I
would ever leave this spot. Any moment I expected would be my last. I
felt faint, and called to a soldier near by, and asked him to give me
some water; he at once threw me his water-bottle, and that somewhat
revived me. I felt, however, that I might bleed to death, and I called
to the man to see if he could come and help me. He came at once, but
was unfortunately wounded in the leg in so doing. My position was a
perilous one, as the Germans swept the plain with their murderous fire,
and to stand up was certain death. Projectiles of all kinds were falling
round me, and I began to realise that my chance of getting out alive was
dubious. The man who had already befriended me now said that there was a
ditch close by, and if I could crawl on my stomach he would try to pull
me along by the leg. Every movement was agonising, but at last we managed
to reach the ditch and lie there exhausted. By this time our advance was
quite held up, and we had reached further forward than the other part of
the battalion. Soon others began to crawl into the ditch, including two
very nice officers of the 6th Northumberland Fusiliers, who were most
sympathetic. Besides them, I heard Corporal (later Sergeant) Renwick’s
cheery voice, and he was straining every nerve on my behalf, regardless
of danger to himself. He afterwards told me that a colour-sergeant, when
I had finished my painful trek, pushed me into the ditch, to be himself
blown to pieces immediately after by a shell. There were two dead men,
apparently, lying by my side, though I was unaware of these facts.

The afternoon wore on, and I continued in great pain, though some brandy
was passed up to me. After a long wait, it seemed likely that our men
would have to retire a little, and as I could not move I was in danger of
being captured. To have carried me away would have been an impossibility,
as we should most certainly have been shot down by a heartless enemy.
Sergeant Renwick was anxious to risk it, but the young officers insisted
on taking the risk themselves. At last, when Sergeant Renwick had
crawled away to get help, one of the young officers told me that it was
imperative I should make every effort to get away; so I crawled for
about fifteen yards over a specially dangerous zone, and was then helped
up, and supported by an officer on one side, Lieutenant Bruce Ramsay of
the 6th, and by a soldier on the other. I managed to struggle along,
supported by them, to the ruined farmhouse, which was being defended
by some soldiers of the D.C.L.I., I think. The officer in command told
Ramsay that it was against the regulations to help me and that he must
therefore join his own battalion, while he himself would look after me.
Part of the ruined farm was being used as a field dressing station; but
before I could reach it I had a miraculous escape from two shells, which
apparently fell on a manure heap close by which I was standing, and which
prevented them doing any further mischief.

I was most kindly treated at this station, and the D.C.L.I. officer soon
had me sent away on a stretcher towards the Ypres road, and it was with
a feeling of relief that I left this infernal charnel-house, and found
myself gradually entering a safe zone. We stopped at a farm building
by the roadside, where I was laid on some straw in the open courtyard.
Darkness was now coming on, and for some time I received but scanty
attention. At last some medical men came and questioned me, and I told
them my name and regiment; they seemed interested, and asked me if I was
Lord Armstrong’s son. There were very few ambulances, and by mistake I
was not put into one of them. When the officers discovered this they had
me taken down by stretcher to a dressing station near Ypres where I was
well attended to, and received an injection of morphia to deaden the
pain. It was probably here, unless it was at the first field dressing
station, that I received the anti-tetanus serum, and was given a Tommy’s
greatcoat. I slept here apparently for several hours, and Major Wright,
also wounded, remembers seeing me here. Eventually I was placed in an
ambulance which brought me to Poperinghe, several miles from the front.
We had gaily marched through this town only a few days before.

In the meantime my battalion was unaware that I had been rescued, and
Sergeant Renwick, who, as I stated, had gone to get help, came back with
a party only to find that I had disappeared. Company Quartermaster Turner
also went out to look for me, and I understand that all betrayed great
anxiety on my behalf and feared the worst. Major Mackay, who displayed
the greatest gallantry in attending to the wounded throughout the battle,
and who has since been awarded the C.M.G., was also very upset in being
unable to find me.

On arriving at Poperinghe, I was taken with others and placed in the
church, which had been turned into an emergency hospital. Before
recounting my experiences in the church, however, and those that followed
on afterwards, I must finish off the account of the battle of St. Julien.

After I was wounded, it was found impossible for the 7th to advance any
further. The plain in front of them was simply swept by a shower of lead
from the enemy’s machine guns, rifles, and artillery, and the wounded
were in a most precarious position. As darkness came on they gradually
removed the wounded, and the battalion held on where they were. Various
reports of the battle were circulated through the Press, and it appears
that some members of the brigade advanced to the outskirts of the
village, but were unable to capture it. The object of the British Staff,
however, had been gained. Ypres was in deadly peril, and its defenders
were short of artillery, ammunition, and men. Every moment saved was of
value, as reinforcements and ammunition were being hurried up. In the
meantime the Germans had to be kept busy and so prevented from advancing.
Hence our brigade was hurled against their position, though there was
no prospect of real success. As has been said before, it was a case of
bluff, and it succeeded, for the Germans, thinking they were going to be
attacked in great numbers, remained on the defensive, and invaluable time
was gained. The cost of more than half of one of Britain’s best infantry
brigades seemed heavy, but what did it matter if Ypres and the worn-out
second army were saved?

The 7th Northumberland Fusiliers suffered very heavily. We lost a great
number of our men, our casualties for this afternoon’s work being about
470 killed and wounded. This added to our former casualties brought
our total number of dead and wounded for the two and a half days up
to about 620. We were fortunate, however, in the large number of only
wounded in proportion to the number killed. Our officer casualties were:
Second Lieutenant Kent killed, and Captains Archer (Adjutant), Wright,
Welsh, and Lambton, and Lieutenants and Second Lieutenants J. Merivale,
Frank Merivale, Herriott, Fenwicke-Clennell, and myself wounded. On the
previous day we had lost, wounded, Captain Flint and Second Lieutenants
Adams and Donkin.

The other battalions in the brigade all suffered heavily, and our
Brigadier himself (Brigadier-General Riddell) was killed. On all this,
we can only comment that it was the ‘fortune of war,’ and what does it
matter who dies, if only England lives?

It is satisfactory to note that Lieutenant Bruce Ramsay, who was so
instrumental in saving my life, has since been awarded the Military
Cross for general good work, and also largely, I hear, for the devotion
he showed in rescuing me. Sergeant Renwick was mentioned in despatches
and recommended for the D.C.M., which, however, he was unfortunate to
miss. Among other honours since awarded to members of the 7th, the D.S.O.
of Lieutenant-Colonel Jackson and the C.M.G. of Major Mackay have been
deservedly popular, as well as the M.C.s of Captains Ball and Vernon
Merivale.

I have one comment to make, however, on all these operations. The
shortage of artillery ammunition was most apparent, and we received
hardly any support from our artillery. The enemy’s shells burst in
hundreds all round and among us, and we could barely reply. The gunners
were wringing their hands, and watching the infantry being mowed
down—infantry whom they were supposed to protect. The great agitation
sprang up soon after in the Press, and many prominent men, including the
Bishop of Pretoria, wrote very strongly from the Front. Whatever the
causes, the fact remains that a great disaster nearly occurred through
lack of shells, and that it was only the almost superhuman courage of the
British infantry which saved Ypres, and did almost alone what should have
been their joint work with the gunners. It was a case of human flesh and
courage against German steel and preparedness. It was not till the great
efforts made in England to rectify this succeeded that the warfare on the
Western Front began to be waged on terms of more equality.

On the arrival of the ambulance at Poperinghe I was, as I have already
mentioned, placed inside the large church which adorns this town. It
was packed with all sorts of wounded, including Indians. Belgian ladies
kindly brought tea to the sufferers, and chaplains came and wrote out
field postcards for the men. I was feeling fairly easy, and the tea
much refreshed me. I heard a familiar voice near me, and it was Frankie
Merivale, who had luckily received only a slight wound. I could not move
round and so was unable to see him, but we conversed for a little. I
directed some field postcards, the chaplain doing the writing of course.

I cannot tell how long I stayed there, but I may have slept a night
there. At any rate I remember being suddenly taken out of the church in
broad daylight, and then, to my horror, found German shells bursting
everywhere. I was left alone in the open for some minutes, and a shell
burst within a few yards of me and shook me uncomfortably. At last,
however, I was put into an ambulance, and taken to Hazebrouck, a town a
few miles on the French side of the frontier.

I spent a month in this town, in No. 10 Casualty Clearing Station. The
weather was extremely hot, and the wards small and stuffy. At first I was
very ill indeed, being in a critical condition, and receiving frequent
injections. A visit from my father, however, greatly cheered me up, and
everybody showered kindness on me. The Staff were terribly overworked, as
the wounded and gassed cases were pouring in from the great battle, which
was still raging, and the issue of which was so doubtful that we hardly
knew if Hazebrouck would continue to be safe. I was much troubled by an
incessant cough, and suffered a great deal of pain. Nevertheless I made
progress, and must pay a high tribute to the kindness and devotion shown
on all sides, by doctors, nurses, orderlies, and military chaplains. The
orderlies were as gentle as angels and would sit for hours at my bedside.
There was one lad of about seventeen, Private McIntyre, of Glasgow, who
used to spend practically whole nights procuring me milk etc. General Sir
Horace Smith-Dorrien came and visited me, and greatly pleased and cheered
me by saying how well we had all done. Colonel Rutherford, R.A.M.C., of
our Division, and my cousin Major-General Stopford also came and saw me,
and the latter was most kind in procuring me various things. The Senior
Chaplain, Archdeacon Southwell, was most thoughtful, and a kinder man it
would be hard to find. He would write letters for me, and when I got a
bit better I much amused him by dictating a letter to Monsieur Albin in
French. He richly deserves the C.M.G. which he has been awarded.

For a time I had a young Belgian R.A.M.C. officer as my companion, who
had suffered from a concussion, apparently by a fall from his horse. He
spoke hardly any English, and feeble as my voice was I had often to try
to do the necessary interpreting on his behalf. He thought I was a French
officer, and had to be assured that I was not! Parcels and letters from
home were a source of delight to me.

After about a month I was able to be moved to No. 7 Stationary Hospital
at Boulogne, where I remained till June 25. Again I became very ill, as
blood-poisoning supervened and nearly ended my life. I had an operation
to get the empyema out of my chest, and another one to draw the abscess
which formed on my leg and which fortunately collected and threw off
the septicæmia. I was one of the lucky 25 per cent. who recover from
this terrible form of blood-poisoning. I was much cheered, however, by
the presence of my father, who remained at the French port for about
three weeks, and brought me much fruit, strawberries being my especial
favourite.

Sister Dodds, who nursed me very devotedly, brought a splendid gramophone
into my room, and my father used to manipulate this for me very
efficiently. I was especially fond of ‘By the silvery, silvery sea,’
‘Girls, girls everywhere,’ and ‘Let’s all go down the Strand.’ Music did
me a great deal of good, and brought smiles back to my face, which for
some weeks past had been more often twisted with pain. Private C. G.
Brown, A.S.C., also visited me and brought me some lovely fresh eggs. As
at Hazebrouck, so at Boulogne, I became impatient towards night-time for
my injection, which had the most soothing effect, and, banishing for the
moment pain and restlessness, allowed my brain to think calmly in peace.

Again I had most expert medical treatment, and the nurses, both Scotch
and English, were very kind. As the weeks went on, I gradually threw off
the poison, and my wounds became healed.

I received a visit from my charming Parisian friends, Madame and
Mademoiselle Lefranc, who were very kind. Mr. Holt, of the British Red
Cross (now a captain in the Army), was also a good friend to me. He kept
my spirits up by amusing stories, and by impressing upon me the necessity
of making an effort, and trying to get to London, he did much to save my
life.

At last the tide turned, and when I landed in England on June 25 I was
much better, though considerably fatigued by the long journey. I was
taken to Lady Ridley’s Hospital, 10 Carlton House Terrace, and there
spent another two months, being well nursed and surrounded by luxuries.
My relatives and friends were all kindness; and this did much to revive
me and to fill me once more with the joy of life.

I made rapid progress, and was discharged from hospital early in
September, when I moved into lodgings for a three weeks’ final treatment
from Dr. Carl Westman. This Swedish doctor, a clever and charming young
man, was instrumental in bringing back full use to my right shoulder,
which otherwise would have remained permanently stiff. On September 28 I
was at last enabled to leave London for Cragside, and once more reached
home after several months’ sojourn in strange parts, having passed
through many vicissitudes and experiences.

Afterword:—

I spent a pleasant convalescence, and joined the 7th (Reserve)
Battalion of the Northumberland Fusiliers, stationed at Alnwick under
Lieutenant-Colonel J. Gillespie, T.D., at the end of January 1916,
having been passed for light duty. I continued to make progress, and was
enabled, after a time, to attend a musketry course at Strensall, and a
general one at Cannock Chase. Altogether I was awarded £250 compensation
for my wounds, and I am glad to state that I am now in a position to
repay the Government all the money spent on me by personal service, and
leave home to-morrow, _en route_ to rejoin the old first line of the 7th
in Flanders. There I hope I may be enabled to partake in those final
great victories which will bring about the ruin and destruction of that
plague-spot which has arisen on God’s fair earth, the German Empire.

                                     PRESS BUREAU: PASSED FOR PUBLICATION.




_‘SWEEP’ VILLERS._

BY ARNOLD LUNN.


Before Villers had been a month at school he had betrayed his master
passion. He discovered that his housemaster was expecting an heir.
Delicacy was not Villers’ strong point, and he at once proceeded to
organise a sixpenny sweepstake among the fags. He took no chances, as
Knox who drew ‘triplets’ discovered. Villers, himself, drew a blank, but
he bought ‘assorted twins’ from Mixon Minor for ninepence, and Villers
was, perhaps, the only person who was really pleased when Mrs. Strange
presented her husband with—assorted twins: to wit, a thriving boy and
girl.

‘Sweep’ Villers, as he was speedily christened, was no good at games, but
despite this handicap he soon made a position for himself in the house.
Villers was a ‘card,’ to borrow Mr. Bennett’s pet word, and boys will
forgive much to a genuine ‘card.’ Betting and sweepstakes were the two
main interests of his life. It was, of course, too risky to bet on racing
save in an informal fashion with his young friends, but Villers contrived
to get a good deal of amusement without troubling London bookmakers.
Villers regarded Providence as a kind of super-bookie and the future as
the raw material for bets. Sweepstakes were his main diversion, but he
was always ready for a wager. He lost no chances. When Allen, a house
prefect, was just on the point of giving Villers a few flicks with a cane
for ‘cutting’ fag duty, Villers, who had assumed the orthodox position,
glanced over his shoulder and remarked, ‘Bet you a bob, Allen, I don’t
get up between the shots.’ ‘I’ll take you,’ said Allen grimly, ‘but I
shall give you an extra two for cheek.’ ‘However,’ as Villers afterwards
confided to an admiring circle, ‘I scored all along the line. Allen was
so keen to win his bet that he lost his length after the first shot. He
didn’t keep his eye on the ball. He began to press, and, instead of four
beefy drives, he could only manage six regular foozles. And I won my bob.’

To Villers a sweepstake was not only an end in itself but an instrument
for investing tedious events with the glamour of adventitious excitement.
Moony’s terminal sermon, for instance, could scarcely be regarded as
anything but an inevitable ordeal, for the dear gentleman never preached
for less than half an hour, and within the memory of man he never said
anything which bordered on the interesting. But once, at least, in his
life he had an excited audience. Once at least he had a listener who
was bitterly disappointed when he petered out under the half-hour.
That listener was Villers, who had drawn ‘thirty-five minutes’ in the
sweepstake on Moony’s evening run.

So, too, the Fortnightly Orders were a subject of interest only to
a few eccentrics. But one day Villers decided that the Fortnightly
Orders should be made an event of first-class importance. He suggested
a sweepstake on the result, and the Lower Fifth welcomed the idea
with enthusiasm. Twenty-four members of the form contrived to raise
a shilling. The twenty-fifth member of the form declined to enter.
‘Tomkins,’ said Villers with sour contempt, ‘won’t go in. He’s pi. I
expect his father is a Baptist.’ There was no truth in the deduction from
Tomkins’ piety, but none the less it was thenceforward accepted as a fact
that Tomkins came of Baptist stock, and nothing that Tomkins could say to
the contrary could wipe out this stigma on the family name.

It was an interesting draw. Everybody was pleased when Glover and Taylor
drew each other. It should be explained that there were two prizes: one
for the boy who drew the top of the form, another for the boy who drew
the bottom. Now Glover and Taylor were two veterans who had moved up the
school with more dignity than speed. They averaged a remove per annum.
They were very ancient and very lazy, and the last two places in the form
were theirs by immemorial right.

Now, since there was a prize for the drawer of the bottom boy, Taylor
and Glover each had a lively interest in insuring that the other should
be bottom. Each of them argued that if he could just beat the other he
would win twelve shillings, for neither of them could conceive that the
wooden spoon should become the property of any other member of the form.
Both of them, therefore, while making a great parade of laziness, began
surreptitiously to neglect their work a shade less thoroughly than before.

There were two favourites for the other prize. Poor Tomkins had declined
to enter for the sweepstake, but his name had been entered and had been
drawn by Cork. Cork was in the same house as Tomkins, but whereas Tomkins
was a mere insignificant scholar Cork was in the Cricket Eleven and a
great man. Hitherto he had treated Tomkins with good-humoured contempt.
Tomkins was useful to him. Tomkins was responsible for Cork’s classical
studies, his French, and his mathematics. Cork did not overwork Tomkins;
he did not give him his essays. Somebody else did the essays.

In consideration for these services Cork had not interfered with Tomkins’
ambition to work hard. Cork was a man of large tolerance. If Tomkins
liked to ‘sweat himself blue’ that was Tomkins’ look-out. So he contented
himself with occasional badinage in which Tomkins was asked to explain
the pleasure he derived from ‘oiling.’

But, of course, the sweepstake altered Cork’s attitude. He had drawn
Tomkins and, if Tomkins could beat Rolland, Cork would win twelve
shillings. Clearly Tomkins must spare no effort to beat Rolland. ‘Oil,’
instead of seeming an eccentric hobby, became a civic virtue. Cork began
to take the liveliest interest in the progress of his young ward. Cork
had been left near the bottom of the form, and Tomkins, who had come up
with a head remove, sat just behind him. When Tomkins missed a question,
Cork turned round and expressed by crude but intelligible signs his
bitter disappointment.

Mr. Strange, who was Cork’s housemaster as well as form-master, was very
puzzled by this new development. ‘Why this sudden interest in Tomkins?’
he said one day. ‘I’m not sure that Tomkins is altogether grateful for
your attentions.’

Tomkins wasn’t. Cork’s zeal quite put him off. Tomkins began to lose his
nerve, and Rolland beat him all along the line.

Cork was quite embittered by Tomkins’ failure. ‘Oh, yes, Tomkins,’ he
said one day, ‘you can oil all right when it’s only to please yourself,
but when it’s a question of twelve bob for me you simply foozle
everything. You did a rotten rep. this morning. Your father’s a Baptist,
isn’t he? Well, by gum! if you don’t come out top I’ll baptise you.’

Tomkins murmured nervously that his father was Church of England.

Cork sat next to Mr. Strange at lunch, and on the fatal Sunday he did
his best to pump Mr. Strange. ‘Has Tomkins come out top?’ he pleaded
wistfully. ‘I should so like to know, sir.’

‘My dear Cork,’ said Mr. Strange, ‘I can’t make you out. You don’t
usually condescend to take the least interest in your work or anybody
else’s. What’s in the wind?’

Cork was understood to say that the honour of the house was very dear
to him, and that while he was doing his best for the house at footer,
he expected Tomkins as the star scholar to do his best for the house in
school. Mr. Strange asked him if he was feeling the heat.

That afternoon a murmur of excitement ran round the form-room when Mr.
Strange appeared. Besides the sweepstake, most of the Lower Fifth had
contracted a number of side-bets on the result of the Fortnightly Order.
Tomkins and Rolland both carried money, and for the first time in their
school careers their respective achievements were a matter of general
interest. Cork had despaired of Tomkins, and had vainly tried to ‘sell’
him for half a crown. But there were no offers.

Glover and Taylor, who had both been working a little harder and cribbing
a great deal more thoroughly, were each convinced that they had beaten
the other. Five to four against either of them was freely quoted. Glover
was sure that Taylor would be bottom and that he would therefore win the
prize allotted to the lucky drawer of the bottom man. Taylor was no less
confident that Glover would occupy that ignoble position.

Mr. Strange glanced round the room before beginning to read out the
Order, and remarked drily, ‘I am flattered, but a little surprised,
at the sudden interest which some of you seem to be taking in the
Form Order. This is such a contrast to your usual attitude of bland
indifference that I really wonder whether you’ve been betting on it. The
only objection to this theory is that I don’t suppose for a moment that
any of you consider your school work of sufficient importance to risk a
spare sixpence on it.’

Mr. Strange, it will be seen, was a cynic. Only cynics understand boys.

The Form Order was a surprise and a shock to a good many people.

Cork gave a resigned snort when Tomkins was read out second, but Cork’s
disappointment was mild compared to the fury of Glover and Taylor, who,
thanks to their sudden zeal, had risen ten places and were bracketed
fifteenth. Never was promotion less welcome. ‘This is most gratifying,’
said Mr. Strange—‘most gratifying. Our stalwarts, our Arcades Ambo,
have at last shown what they are capable of. I always suspected, my
dear Glover, that it was energy rather than brains that you lacked; and
you, Taylor, have, I feel sure, done yourself an injustice in the past
by your pathetic insistence on your small intellectual endowment. This
improvement must be maintained. I shall be very angry with you if you
sink back to bottom again.’

Glover and Taylor began to devise some effective punishment for Villers.
Villers and his rotten sweepstakes! Good Heavens, just think of it!
They had been bamboozled out of a prize, and they had set themselves an
impossible standard of hard work for the future.

The Form Order contained yet another sensation.

‘Sweep’ Villers had sunk from twelfth to twenty-fifth. Curiously enough,
when his name was read out bottom of the form a smile of relief seemed
to cross his face. Mr. Strange caught this smile. It did not improve
matters. ‘Don’t sit there smiling,’ he said. ‘It’s no use trying to
carry off this disgraceful exhibition with an affectation of jaunty
indifference. You don’t deceive me, I assure you.’

None the less, he was deceived. For Villers’ smile was a smile of genuine
and unaffected joy. You see, he had drawn himself in the sweepstake, and,
as he had managed to come out bottom, he had won twelve shillings.




_THE VOICE OF THE GUNS._

BY F. J. SALMON.


What man, unless he be entirely devoid of imagination, has not been
profoundly impressed when, for the first time, he hears the distant roll
of the guns? How many a soldier makes it the theme of his first letter
home? It is the first intimation his relatives get that he is really at
the front. And yet, from the sound alone, he will get very little idea as
to how far off the line really is. The conformation of the ground, the
wind and possibly other climatic conditions affect the transmission of
sound in an extraordinary way. One can often hear the guns from very far
back, whereas from closer up nothing can be heard at all. If there is a
bombardment on, the noise is continuous but varies in intensity either
with the wind or according to the number of heavy pieces that are firing
at the same instant.

Later on, if he is observant, the soldier may get to know the individual
voices of some of these guns and recognise the bursts of their shell.

On first coming into the line he is unable to distinguish the meaning of
the various sounds, and the report of one of our own field-guns firing
behind him is likely to cause him more alarm than a Boche rifleman
sniping at his unwittingly exposed head. The 18-pounder field-gun makes
a most ear-splitting crack for those who stand in front of the battery,
and, moreover, the sound seems to come from only a few yards away. The
sniper’s bullet will strike the parapet with a resounding crack, followed
by the whirr of its passage through the air, and a new-comer might easily
imagine that one of our own men had fired from the next traverse.

The German field-gun, in common with our own 18-pounder, and, in fact,
all high-velocity guns, always sounds a good deal nearer than it really
is, and as the shell travels very fast and reaches the front-line
trenches very shortly after, or, sometimes, even before, the whizz of its
approach, it gives the infantry the impression that the battery is in
some impossible position just behind the German support line.

The ‘whizz-bang’ and the ‘pip-squeak’ are terms applied to the same
German field-gun by people who are shot at by him at different ranges.

In the first case there is a warning whirr of approach, but the shell
reaches the man who is ‘pip-squeaked’ while it is still travelling faster
than sound, and he gets the ‘pip’ of the explosion first and the whizz
afterwards—if there is enough of him left to hear it!

The voice of the German 77-millimetre field-gun can usually be
distinguished from the various other guns, trench mortars, bombs and
shells that are continually heard along the line. It sounds like two
planks being banged together in a courtyard where there is some echo from
the walls.

The heavy howitzers make far less noise, and the report cannot always be
detected, but the sound of the shell in the air is unmistakable. It is a
curious, intermittent, hollow, rushing sound, with an ever-deepening note
which dies away, if it is not coming near you, just before the rending
‘crump’ of the explosion.

This ‘crump’ is a sound-phenomenon which I am unable to explain. Whereas
the lighter shell goes off with an ordinary ‘bang,’ the 15-centimetre and
larger projectiles sound like a whole family of explosions going off not
quite at the same instant.

The German light field-howitzer in its acoustic effects is much like a
smaller edition of its larger brothers. Of the huge 42-centimetre shells
I have had, I am glad to say, no experience so far.

Another sound that one gets to know with experience is the report of the
trench mortar. This is not distinguishable if there is much noise going
on, and is best likened to the ‘clap’ of a pigeon-trap. My ear has been
somewhat trained by much _shikar_ in Ceylon jungles, and this has held me
in good stead on at least one occasion, when, after blowing a mine, the
Germans fired four trench mortars at a group of miners and myself in a
front-line sap. I distinctly heard the ‘clap’ of the report and was able
to give the warning to disperse. There was not much cover, but we had
good luck and no one was hit.

A pleasant ‘drawing-room’ voice is that of our beautiful little
field-howitzer. It goes off with more of a puff than a bang, and the
shell sails away with a soft whirring note which is lost in the distance
long before the formidable crash of the burst is wafted back from the
German lines.

An alarming sound that one used to hear earlier in the war, when
ammunition was of a lower quality than it is now, was that of a shell
with a ‘stripped’ driving band. Such a shell will whirl through the air
at any angle and will land, possibly base first, a mile or two short of
its mark.

One of the most encouraging of sounds is the dull thud of a German
‘blind’ shell, especially if, as often happens, they are coming over
in appreciable numbers. We are sometimes treated to furious ‘strafes’
with shells of the ‘toy-shop’ quality, of which only a small percentage
detonate properly, while a somewhat larger proportion go off with an
impotent pop, and the majority fail to explode at all.

‘Smoky Bill’ used to fire such shells. ‘Smoky Bill’ was a funny old
thing dating back from the ’seventies. A vast column of smoke rising
from behind a certain wood in the German lines was the first signal that
he had fired, and this was followed by a fearsome whirr in the air, and
then, five times out of six, by a dull thud and nothing more! We knew
where ‘Smoky Bill’ was, but nobody ever fired at him—he was one of the
side-shows of that sector and never did anyone any harm.

Now ‘Percy’ is another fellow altogether. ‘Percy’ is the long
13-centimetre high-velocity German gun. At most ranges ‘Percy’ comes
quicker than sound, and there is no warning of his approach. He goes off
with a mighty bang, and his shell, when you do hear it, comes along with
a terrific shriek. The only encouraging thought about ‘Percy’ is that he
is not very common down the line, whereas we have many guns that must
give the enemy similar thrills.

In order to feel thoroughly optimistic about the war one must hear the
voice of the French ‘75’ when he is really angry. I happened to be at
an observation-post down in the French lines one evening when word
had come down from the front line that enemy trench mortars were very
active in a certain sector. Two batteries of ‘75’s’ immediately took
on the offenders. One or two rounds for _réglage_ were sent over from
the _première pièce_ of each battery, there was a slight correction for
range (‘_diminuez de cinquante!_’), and then they literally pummelled
the Hun trenches for about a minute and a half. A confused roar of
ear-splitting cracks, a wild swirl of shells, and two continuous rows of
black spurts shot up from the German trenches. There was one gap in the
wall of bursting melinite, which gradually narrowed, and then the firing
stopped. A few words down the telephone, and then, with a loud crash, two
salvoes went into the remaining gap. The captain in the observation-post
merely remarked ‘_Bon!_’ and sat down to record his targets. These short
vigorous strafes must be very disconcerting to friend Hun, and although,
of course, every round did not actually hit the mark, the shooting was
remarkably accurate and the majority did get some part of the trench.
One can imagine the effect of the last two salvoes on the previously
unstrafed portion where seekers after shelter would have gathered!

On another occasion, at the beginning of one of the minor battles of
the war, I was at the same post, and these two batteries were firing
at a most remarkable speed, the general principle being to return
anything that was sent over by the enemy with interest—a thing that the
Frenchman always seems able to do unless his guns happen to be hopelessly
outnumbered by some local concentration of the Germans.

Many and interesting are the various sound-phenomena of the battlefield.
Why is it, for instance, that once when a certain battery was firing over
my head from behind a crest the rush of the shell was heard going away
in an opposite direction, so that it seemed, at first, as if the breech
had blown out; and that when I approached the battery the shells sounded
as if they were going straight up in the air? Why is it that, from some
positions, the shells from our own batteries are heard to give forth a
crackling sound instead of the usual swirl when speeding over to the
enemy? This last effect may occasionally be due to a badly centred shell,
but, I think, not always. One is too busy in war-time to look into these
interesting details, and in peace-time one has not the opportunity!

I remember an occasion when the guns made a very effective accompaniment
to a song. I was lunching below ground in an observation-post dug-out,
and a very pleasant-voiced lady was singing to us from a gramophone. I
forget what the song was, but the regular bang and whirr of a battery
firing overhead certainly improved the effect. We shouted up to the
observer to know if the shells were ‘ours’ or ‘theirs,’ and elicited the
interesting information that it was the Germans who were supplying the
accompaniment!

The sound of the enemy shells is all too well known to most of us out
here, but there appear to be not many who have actually seen one in
the air. I have seen German shells coming towards me on two separate
occasions, but have, so far, never met anyone who has had the same
experience. This seems strange, for there is no reason why it should
not happen fairly frequently. It is quite an easy matter to see one of
our own shells leaving a howitzer, and sometimes a gun, if one stands
straight behind it, and it should only be a question of happening to look
in the right direction to see one coming the other way.

It was in the spring of last year near ‘Windy Corner’ that I first saw
a German shell on the wing. I had not been long at the front, and I
instinctively looked up when I heard it coming. What I saw was a minute
but very rapidly increasing speck in the sky, moving so fast that I was
somehow unable to judge where it was going to fall. I accordingly made
myself as small as possible, but it burst in a farm at the comparatively
safe distance of some 150 yards. It was from a 15-centimetre howitzer,
and was immediately followed by another, which I again saw by looking in
the same direction. As this was followed by a flight of ‘whizz bangs,’
and as I had no pressing business there at the moment, I hurried from
that well-known and unwholesome spot.

It was many months before I again had a similar experience, and this
time it was rather more thrilling. I was walking over some open country
towards the trenches in company with my sergeant-major, and the Germans
had started shelling a battery behind us. They were firing with the
ordinary 77-millimetre field-gun, and the first few rounds were short
and unpleasantly close to us. The Hun battery must have been some way
back, as we heard the report and the warning whistle of the shell some
two or three seconds before it arrived. At the next report I looked up
instinctively to gauge the direction in which the shell was going. The
range had been increased, and I caught a fleeting glimpse of a tiny
speck in the sky which grew larger and disappeared close over my head in
a small fraction of a second. It did not appear to come straight, but
described a ‘googly’ curve. How much of this was due to its actual path,
and how much the mere effect produced on the eye by its extreme speed, I
cannot say, but I know that shells do not travel straight but affect a
kind of ‘slice.’

On such occasions those who duck or take cover are usually too late. The
rush of its near approach reached my sergeant-major after I had seen it
go over, and though he has a delightful contempt for Germany’s efforts
to destroy him, which I am not always able to share, on this occasion it
was I who stood up apparently unconcerned while he crouched on the ground
waiting for a shell which had already burst in the battery some 200
yards behind us!

When a shell passes very near to one its whistle increases to the roar of
an express train, and when there is anything like a heavy bombardment on
it is only those shells which pass dangerously close that one can hear
above the general din.

More disconcerting than the actual burst of the shell is the ‘whirr’
of the splinters or, in the case of shrapnel, the loud ‘miaow’ of the
flying bullets. I suppose our gallant airmen have more shrapnel fired
at them than anyone else, and the loud ‘clump, clump, clump’ of the
bursting ‘Archies,’ followed by the whine of three hundred bullets flying
from each shell, is an almost continuous tune down the line even on the
quietest of days.

Happily, man can accustom himself to most things, and to the seasoned
soldier these sounds arouse little more interest than the rumble of
London traffic to the Cockney—unless, of course, he is actually being
fired at himself!

But to-day (July 1) the distant sound of the guns is once more stirring
me as it did on my first morning in Flanders over a year ago. The rumble
is more persistent and continuous than it has ever been. Yesterday my
work took me down to the line, and I witnessed some pretty ‘strafing,’
but it is only back here at head-quarters that the true meaning of things
is borne in upon me. Whichever side of the hill I stand, and according
as the breeze varies, the thud and roar is continuous—it comes from
three points of the compass. It is useless to speculate, but, whatever
may happen in the future, this, at least, is a black day for Germany—the
voices of the mighty guns of Britain and of France are raised in such a
chorus as was never heard before.




_‘DO’-NO-WHO’._


It is over a year ago since an Irish private, known to his pals by the
above rather obvious contortion of the proper name of Donohue, was
brought into hospital. He came with a convoy of British who, nearly all,
were suffering from gas poisoning as well as wounds. Those being the
early days of ‘the gaz,’ as Do’-no-who called it, arrangements for its
defeat were not yet altogether successful. After all, who could then have
foreseen such a devilish invention of war? However, the poor, panting,
choking, indeed in some cases retching, men who came to us had been given
some kind of protection. Each one clung still to his particular mask,
limp, blackened, flimsy affair that it was.

Poor old Do’-no-who’s condition was pretty desperate. You could hear him
breathing fifty yards away. He was sustained from first to last by the
most indomitable fighting spirit I ever came across. During a struggle of
several days’ duration there was only one order which he utterly declined
to obey. Nothing would, nobody _could_ keep him from talking—even in his
sleep. I am bound to say it chiefly took the form of endless ejaculation.
As, for instance, when with intense difficulty he managed at first to
gulp down a little champagne, it was like this—‘Isn’t that fine now?’
‘Grand!’ or ‘That’s killin’ the divil’s own gaz’—a word at a time between
every sip.

Soon realising that every known resource was being tried to relieve
his sufferings, old Do’-no-who did his level best to respond to it and
to cheer us on. ‘Och, I’m finely now,’ or ‘It’s only the gaz that’s
hindering ye’s all,’ he would say, with a sorry attempt to smile. But
sometimes there would be anxious moments, when he would lie back only
partially conscious. Then it seemed as though he was engaged in some most
exciting and exhausting struggle. Little exclamations of despair or joy
in turn would escape him.

‘Sure this gaz’ll defate me!’ ‘Deed it will that!’

Then, after renewed panting, the perspiration would pour down his cheeks,
and ‘I have it!’ ‘Isn’t it weighty now?’ and the puff! puff! puff!
greater than ever made one wonder what huge burden he thought he was
lifting.

‘I’m afraid he’s a little delirious,’ said the doctor, as he put his
finger again on the patient’s pulse. Old Do’-no-who seemed to hear this.
He would open his eyes and say in a tone of triumph: ‘Sure! Won’t I be
comminded for conspicuous gallantry!’ So, whilst some doubted, others
could only see conviction in his clear steady blue eye as he again
thankfully attempted to inhale more oxygen. His hands were continually
seeking and fingering a little string of beads that lay beside him: ‘It
was me rosary brought me t’rough,’ he said, as he relapsed into a painful
sleep.

Once he overheard some remark that rather pleased him, and he cut in
rather unexpectedly: ‘Yes, prayer is the foundation of all graces.’

In spite of the constant and hideous strain of the breathing, we were
amazed at the way his constitution bore him along. Also he had certain
intervals of marked improvement and we almost dared to hope. So did
Do’-no-who. ‘Sure we’ll niver die!’ he said, and his eyes shone with such
confidence and joy that we began to think he was right.

Even in his worst agony he had always managed to fling an occasional word
of wit or chaff towards his companions. Now it was impossible to suppress
him. Carried outside in his bed in the glorious sun, he and several of
the patients quite revived under the influence of that soft May air.

It was a pathetic little row of beds; some of the men’s faces so deadly
white, others still of that dark uncanny colour which tells its own story
of asphyxiation. Yet few there were, indeed hardly one of those men
within earshot of Do’-no-who, that did not shake with weak giggling if he
so much as opened his lips or looked across at them. There indeed was the
medicine of the merry heart.

Alas! for us all when one morning Do’-no-who began to show signs of
relapse. He had had a bad night and was unmistakably low in his mind.
Instead of the usual radiant smile and the variable welcome ‘I’m
grand!’ or ‘Sure, I’ll be rightly sune,’ it was a kind of beaten look
that greeted us. His glad expression had suddenly changed to one of
unutterable sadness. He gravely shook his head without a word, and then
sank back on the pillow.

Every effort was still being put forth to relieve him, but oxygen,
‘dry-cupping,’ and various other remedies seemed this time to have lost
their power. Only, strange to say, the doctor found his pulse had lost
little of its strength. He told him so.

‘Mebbe, yer honour, but I’m greatly fataagued,’ murmured Do’-no-who, as
he wearily closed his eyes.

The truth was he had given himself up. Once a man does that it is little
use to argue with him. Poor old Do’-no-who’s Gethsemane took the form of
dire disappointment. ‘Sure, I’ll miss mi rewa-r-rd,’ he faintly whispered.

Spite of all our attempts to keep bright, an atmosphere of depression
was gradually creeping over the ward. The sudden change in Bed 14 was
responsible for it all. Do’-no-who lay there perfectly helpless, his
painful breathing sounding more like the regular sawing of a piece of
wood than anything else.

In the afternoon there was little change, except that his pulse at last
showed signs of weakening, the light had gone out of his eyes, and he was
unable to swallow anything.

By this time some of the patients were beginning to get along well: so
much easier was their breathing they were able to sleep in comparative
comfort. Others, however, were wakeful. They only wished to lie quiet.
Some indeed tried to look at picture papers, but you could tell by the
quick anxious glances they gave towards Bed 14 from time to time that
their thoughts were centred entirely on one person.

As the hours progressed we found that Do’-no-who’s strength was gradually
waning. His pulse was faint and fluttering, he had fallen into a heavy
drowsy state, and his breathing came in short light puffs. Yet all the
time, strange to say, he would insist on keeping that great strong
arm of his right up at the back of his head which lay so still on the
pillow. He remained like that for hours, whilst the breathing gradually
slowed, faltered and went on again, till it was almost inaudible and the
fluttering pulse could scarcely be felt. Then—quite suddenly—as he slept
the tired head fell over and the big hand relaxed. He had stepped over
the border without a struggle. We placed his hand gently beside him, and
took the rosary from the other one and hung it round his neck.

    ‘The strong man must go:
    For the journey is done and the summit attained
      And the barriers fall.
    ...
    Sudden the worst turns the best to the brave
      The black minute’s at end.’

                                           BROWNING.

Before very long some orderlies came and fetched Do’-no-who. It was
touching to see the patients—all who could—standing at attention as the
stretcher came down the ward and was carried out through the door. Even
those in bed managed to raise a weak hand to their forehead as the big
frame of Donohue wrapped in a Union Jack passed along.

One, Murphy, a quiet little Irishman with ferrety eyes who occupied the
adjoining bed, had scarcely spoken all the time. We were not surprised,
for he too had suffered badly from the gas, but judging by the way he
kept his eyes rivetted on Do’-no-who we felt he took more than ordinary
interest in his case. Now, as the sad little procession disappeared,
Murphy turned right over on his pillow and quietly covered his face with
his sheet. When a little later we told him we had put his supper near
him, he left it untouched, and silently declined to emerge from his
retreat.

That night when most of the others had gone to sleep, Murphy was seen
to uncover his face, and as the night Sister passed down the ward he
signalled to her.

Most pitifully red and tear-stained though he was, he had evidently
something important to say. He began abruptly:

‘I’m spakin’ God’s truth to ye, Sister, I tell you I saw him miself.’

‘Saw whom, Murphy?’

‘Yon man,’ waving toward the empty bed. ‘Don’t ye mind what he told ye
about conspicuous gallantry?’

‘Oh to be sure. You mean poor Donohue? But didn’t the doctor say he was
delirious?’

‘God’s truth,’ again said Murphy. ‘Do’-no-who was no man for lying. I’ll
tell ye all I saw, Sister.’

‘Don’t you think you had better try and sleep now? We can talk better in
the morning.’

‘Deed no, it’s little sleep I’ll get till me mind’s relaised,’ and poor
Murphy looked so distressed and worried the Sister saw it was best to let
him have his way. This is what he told her.

‘Do ye mind the day we was brought in? It was that fore-neune we’d had
the biggest gaz battle that iver ye saw. Sure, we’d shtarted attackin’
finely. We Irish boys was with the Highlanders. We’d quit our trenches
and was for dashing right across to the Boches, when all in a minute we
seemed to come intil a gaz cloud. It set us shtrugglin’ and imprecatin’
and shplutterin’. Do’-no-who was beside me. We would have suffocated
entoirely, so we got to runnin’. Do’-no-who, strong boy that he was, was
prancin’ along past me, chokin’ and trying to git his mask fix’d on him,
when he stopped all of a sudden. He might have been par’rlised.

‘“Come along,” ses I, what with the gaz.

‘“Divil a bit,” ses he. “I’ve just moinded the machane-gun. We’ve left it
for the Boches.”

‘“How could we help ’t?” ses I. “Think o’ yiself and quit troublin’ about
machane-guns.”

‘“I _am_ thinkin’ of miself,” ses Do’-no-who. “Sure I’m the boy that can
fetch it out.” With that, he lept off and back into the gaz cloud, whilst
I did nothin’—may the holy Virgin forgive me! I went on runnin’ and
shtrugglin’ to get clear o’ the gaz which was killin’ me.’

Here Murphy broke down and sobbed aloud with the memory.

‘After a wee while,’ he went on presently, ‘whin I’d joined the boys
and was for settin’ beside thim, where we was all coughin’ and chokin’
and shpittin’, I saw the stritcher bearers comin’ along. They had been
pickin’ up several of us and on the last stritcher of all didn’t I see
puir old Do’-no-who? Ooh! but he was pantin’ like a shteam roller and
black in the face.

‘“Are ye dead?” ses I intil his ear as he passed me.

‘“I’m not,” he whishpor’d, “only spacheless.”

‘That was all, and I shtaggared on after them. ’Twas the divil’s own
tramp to the dressin’ station. I could see them takin’ Do’-no-who in.
After a while one of his stritcher bearers came out, so I got spakin’
till him.

‘“Yon’s a grand man,” ses he.

‘“He is. Where did ye find him?” ses I. “I lost him in the misht.”

‘“We caught sight of him comin’ thro’ the gaz,” ses he. “He was rollin’
and shtumblin’ like as he was in drink, but he was bringin’ somethin’
along on his shoulders. We couldn’t see what it was at first. It seemed
weighty—he was doubled up under it like a camel. We’d got near him, about
fifty yards off, when he giv another big shtumble and over he trip’t and
fell over all in a big wee bonch. When we got till him he was shtretched
out flat and a machane-gun was lying beside him. Ochone, it’s done for
him I’m thinkin’, but sure, hadn’t he the divil’s own pluck to bring it
that far?” ses he.’

Murphy lay very quiet after he had finished his tale, but he was now
distinctly relieved. He submitted to having his bed made comfortable and
his pillows shaken, and he let the Sister give him a little soup before
settling off.

She passed him half an hour afterwards and was thankful to see that the
ferrety eyes were closed. By the difficult but regular breathing that
came from that tired little body she knew that sleep, in merciful pity,
had wiped out the memory of the machine-gun tragedy—for a few hours at
any rate.

                                                              DOSIA BAGOT.




_BALLIOL MEMORIES._

BY THE HON. A. E. GATHORNE-HARDY.


On March 28, 1916, in a blizzard of snow and a tempest of wind, which
might bear comparison with the storm during which Oliver Cromwell passed
away, celebrated by Tennyson’s ‘Talking Oak’—

      ‘When that wild wind made work
    In which the gloomy brewer’s soul
      Went by me, like a stork’

—the gentle and loving spirit of James Leigh Strachan-Davidson passed
away. During his early manhood his health had been so weak that he had
been regularly compelled to winter abroad, and few would have anticipated
that he would have exceeded by three years the Psalmist’s allotted span
of threescore and ten; but his dauntless courage, serene patience, and
strong sense of duty carried him through a long career of usefulness.

I had known and loved him for more than half a century, and when I saw
the news in _The Times_ of the following morning my thoughts went back
to the last occasion when we met at a rather remarkable gathering of old
Balliol contemporaries which had taken place annually during all that
period, nothing but the sternest necessity keeping any of us away. We had
dined together once every year since 1867, generally on the second day
of the University cricket match, and we met for the last time under the
presidency of Sir Horatio Shephard, long a distinguished Indian Judge,
on July 6, 1914. Although there was a full attendance, two or three
had dropped out of our ranks since the last meeting, when twenty-three
out of a possible twenty-four had been present, but gaps were to be
expected when the youngest of the gathering, myself, was on the verge
of seventy, and I voiced a pretty general feeling when I proposed that
after our next dinner (actually the 46th) we should wind up voluntarily,
finishing in 1915 with a special Jubilee Festival. My resolution was
carried unanimously, but, alas for the vanity of human wishes! in one
short month Armageddon was upon us, and in 1915, when the day came round
for the University match and our dinner, the rival blues, both sides one
khaki-clad phalanx, were fighting side by side ‘somewhere in France’ or
on the shrapnel-swept heights of Gallipoli; and we ourselves, with sons
and grandsons at the front, had no heart for festivities. Our ‘Balliol
dinner’ was fated to die a natural death, but it should not be allowed
to come to an end ‘without the meed of a melodious tear.’ I typed a
copy of the book in which all our meetings are recorded in the hands of
the successive presidents, from the first dinner, under the presidency
of Archer Clive, in 1867, at the Castle Hotel, Richmond, with all the
names of those attending, excuses for absence, and comments upon the
quality of the menu, the wine, and the waiting. We were forty-three in
all from first to last, and the bright promise of that generation of
Balliol undergraduates had in many cases ripened into fulfilment. Among
politicians we numbered the Marquis of Lansdowne, the Earls of Morley
and Jersey, Matt Ridley, afterwards the first Lord Ridley, and Sir
William Anson, even more distinguished as an embodiment of the spirit
of Oxford, Warden of All Souls, Vice-Chancellor, and historian of the
Constitution, than as a member of Parliament, Privy Councillor, and
Minister of Education. We had altogether three Heads of Colleges, Anson,
our dear Master of Balliol, and Wright Henderson, Warden of Wadham; Wood
was Head Master of Harrow, while Raper and Papillon held their place
high among choicest representatives of Oxford scholarship. John Julius
Hannah, Dean of Chichester, Canon Argles, and a round dozen of beloved
Rectors and Vicars, doing excellent and unostentatious work in various
country parishes, represented the Church. Then we had the head officials
at the table of both Houses of Parliament; Sir Henry Graham, Clerk of the
Parliaments, was and still is leading luminary in the House of Lords,
and Sir Courtenay Peregrine Ilbert occupies a similar place as first
Clerk in the House of Commons. Other lesser luminaries distinguished in
the Civil Service were Sneyd Kynnersley, who has recorded his career as
a School Inspector with rich humour in that amusing book ‘H.M.I.,’ and
Charles Vertue and Hamilton Hoare, of the Education Office. Sir Francis
Horner was a successful Commissioner of Woods, and the well loved ‘Mike,’
R. A. H. Mitchell, the mighty cricketer of the ’sixties, did useful
work as one of the best and most popular of Eton House Masters. Truly
a goodly company! And there were others of a promise as bright which
never had time to ripen: Barratt, the Rugby Scholar who obtained the
unprecedented number of five first classes, Classical and Mathematical
‘Mods’ and Greats, and Law and History, then the only other final school,
and only stopped because, like Alexander, he could find no more worlds
to conquer, and Archer Clive, the brilliant son of a distinguished
Herefordshire family, who gained the highest honours at the University
and a fellowship at Lincoln, but never attained that success at the Bar
which his great intellect led his contemporaries to expect. He was chosen
with Henry Northcote (the late Lord Northcote) to accompany Sir Stafford
Northcote and his colleagues to America as Secretary to the Mission which
negotiated the Alabama Treaty, and gained great credit from his chief
in that capacity. A singular incident, now almost forgotten, occurred
in the year when he took his degree at Oxford. After the examination
some practical joker sent a forged ‘Greats’ Class List to _The Times_.
It failed in its object of deceiving anyone who really knew anything
about the prospects of Honour Candidates, for it placed Archer Clive
in the Third Class, which, as Euclid would have put it, was absurd. He
‘devilled’ at the Bar for Lord James of Hereford, whose pupil he had been
and who entertained the highest appreciation of his abilities, but soon
after his return from America he developed symptoms of pulmonary disease,
which shortly afterwards proved fatal.

To return to Strachan-Davidson, the appreciative notice printed in _The
Times_ of March 29 says that when he and his friends were disappointed
at his being passed over for the Mastership of Balliol on Jowett’s death
in 1893 he bore it ‘like an angel.’ The expression is by no means too
strong; whatever were his personal feelings, he sank them altogether in
the interest of the College he loved, and devoted all his energies to
help to make Dr. Caird’s Mastership a success. He was incapable of envy,
jealousy, or huffiness, and on the two occasions when I met him and Caird
together he showed his fine appreciation of his old friend’s character
and seemed to delight to do him honour. The first was that of our Balliol
dinner in July 1898, when, for the only time in our half-century of
existence, we entertained a guest in the person of our Master, Caird,
who was brought and introduced by Strachan-Davidson. A notable gathering
it was, under the presidency of Sir Courtenay Ilbert, twenty-six being
present out of a possible thirty-one, three of the five absentees being
ill, one in India, and one in Norway. The second was that memorable
gathering in the Hall of the old College when we celebrated Lord
Newlands’ princely gift; and fathers and sons met under the presidency of
Caird.

Jowett, great man as he was, did not show a like spirit when Scott was
appointed to the place he coveted, and thought he had earned Achilles
sulked in his tent and chuckled over the difficulties of his predecessor
as long as his reign continued. Certainly Scott, although ever a kindly
and courteous gentleman, was rather a figurehead, and had no great
influence in the College. There was a story of him—I will not vouch for
its truth—that on a well-remembered occasion somewhere about 1865, when
three undergraduates, two of them exhibitioners and distinguished and
influential scholars, came to him to announce their conversion to Rome,
he thought for a moment and then said ‘Have you considered, gentlemen,
that the rash step you propose is not merely calculated to imperil your
immortal souls, but also to do a great deal of harm to the College?’
Neither of these considerations availed to alter their determination, but
the College, which now has many Roman Catholics among its fellows and
members, still seems to manage to keep up its reputation, and maintains
its high position. I give the story, but do not credit it. Scott,
although inclined to be pompous, had a strong sense of humour, as I may
evidence by his celebrated charade on ‘Toast-Rack,’ which I give from
memory:

    ‘My first is found where wit and wine
      Combine to grace the festive board;
    My next, where captive wretches pine
      In dungeons of some tyrant Lord.
    My whole, alas! contains the doomed;
    Twice tried by fire, ere once consumed.’

Many solvers have puzzled over the last line; and yet nothing could more
accurately describe a slice of bread toasted on both sides and then eaten.

I think that the thing which struck me most by way of contrast between
the Balliol of my own time and the same College when my dear son Alfred
was there, and Strachan-Davidson, although not yet Master, was its
ruling spirit, was the comradeship and real intimacy and affection which
subsisted between the so-called Dons and the undergraduates. Their
relations were more like those of elder and younger brothers of the same
family than those of tutors and pupils. I remember one occasion when
my son was confined to bed with a complication which proved slight,
but might have been dangerous. I was written to, and hastened to the
bedside, where I found Strachan-Davidson sitting and helping to wile away
the irksomeness of the enforced confinement with his bright smile and
cheerful flow of conversation and anecdote. I afterwards found that this
incident was typical of the relations which subsisted between tutors and
undergraduates. My boy always spoke of them with no want of respect, but
with all the intimacy and frankness bred by understanding companionship,
and he and all his contemporaries, after leaving, voluntarily contributed
to the fund so nobly headed by Lord Newlands to increase the inadequate
endowment of the College. Perhaps I may be pardoned a reference rather
personal to myself, but I cannot forget that my last communication from
the Master was a most touching and sympathetic letter when that beloved
son fell at the head of his company on the blood-stained field of Loos.
‘Another name,’ wrote Strachan-Davidson, ‘on the list of honour on the
Chapel door; no College gathering will ever be the same without our
beloved “Tortoise”’; and with his dear words of sympathy he enclosed the
prayer used daily at the College services, a model form of thanksgiving
and intercession in which I seem to trace his inspiring spirit of lofty
courage and resignation:

‘O God, with whom do live the spirits of just men made perfect, we
give Thee thanks for our brethren the members of this College who have
willingly offered themselves, and have laid down their lives for us and
for our country, and for the liberty of the world. Give us grace to
follow their good example, that we may never lose heart, but may bear
with patience and courage, as these have done, whatever Thy Providence
calls upon us to endure. Comfort the bereaved, and grant to all of us
that our afflictions may purify our hearts and minds to Thy glory.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord.’

The Dons of my time were a distinguished body enough, brilliant scholars,
kindly and sympathetic advisers, and inspiring and ardent teachers. No
one could lightly underrate such men as ‘Jimmy’ Riddell, Edwin Palmer,
Henry Smith, Green, Newman, and the great Jowett. With the last I
was never brought personally much into contact, as, conscious of my
deficiencies in the requirements for success as a classical scholar, I
took the earliest opportunity of transferring my energies to the Law
and History School, in which I saw more prospect of success. But I
shall never cease to be grateful to him for a piece of advice which he
gave me when looking over those weekly essays which were about the most
useful part of our ordinary College education. He smiled rather grimly
at some turgid and high-flown sentences of which I was inclined to be
particularly proud, and suggested that my composition would be improved
if I struck out any passage which I was inclined to think particularly
fine. I have ever since taken his advice to heart with great advantage,
making it a rule, when revising, to apply the pruning knife unsparingly
to ‘purple patches.’ Young authors, please copy! But whatever my
gratitude may be to my teachers and masters—and I certainly owe my
‘First’ in the Final Schools to the inspiring History Lectures of Newman;
his grasp of essentials and power of connoting the relations of cause and
effect, in various movements, historical, political and philosophical,
and imparting his views and their reasons to his disciples—there was
never the frank companionship and confident and equal intercourse which
I admired so much in the Balliol of Strachan-Davidson. Perhaps the
difference should be ascribed to the times rather than to the persons.
The relations between children and parents, and between husbands and
wives, have likewise greatly altered during the half-century.

Another member of our dining club with whom I was very intimate at
Balliol was Jersey, seventh Earl, born in the same year as myself, and
my contemporary both there and at Eton. At school I did not see a great
deal of him, as, although he was in the lower division of the fifth
form at the same time as myself, he was not in the same house, and had
a different tutor. Two things, however, I especially remember about his
time at Eton; I heard what was practically his funeral sermon preached!
and afterwards saw him win the open mile race. His illness was so severe
that the master who was preaching in chapel told us that he wished we
were all as ready to face our end as the young companion just about
to leave us. It was a rash prophecy, but certainly no one would have
expected that the weak-lunged lad was destined to accomplish his seventy
years, to shine as an athlete, and to enjoy exceptionally good health
almost to the end of his strenuous labours in every kind of public and
domestic usefulness. Paymaster-General, Governor of New South Wales,
Lord Lieutenant of his County, President of the Royal Agricultural
Society, and last, not least, first unpaid Chairman of the Light Railway
Commission—in each of these varied spheres of activity he won golden
opinions from all who had to do with him. By an odd coincidence I
succeeded him in the last capacity, and my brother Commissioners, Colonel
Boughey, and Henry Steward, the first Secretary of the Commission, are
never weary of singing the praises of the ideal Chairman who gave so
much of his valuable time and energy to striving to make Mr. Ritchie’s
Light Railway Act a success. For causes which it would be foreign to my
present purpose to dwell upon here, the work of the Commission has been
light of recent years, but when Jersey first undertook the Chairmanship,
he and his colleagues held hundreds of inquiries, travelled thousands of
miles, and laid down principles and adopted methods which have stood all
tests for twenty years. I have had many opportunities of ascertaining the
views of those counsel and solicitors, engineers, local authorities and
private individuals, who come before the Commission to promote or oppose
Light Railway Orders, and one and all echo the praises of my colleagues.
But when writing of Balliol my thoughts of Jersey rather go back to those
last six months of my undergraduate life in 1867 when I was reading hard
for my class, and used to walk or run round the ‘Parks,’ then ploughed
fields, with him every morning before breakfast, and start my five
hours’ morning work at nine invigorated and refreshed. I also had many
long walks with him, and I particularly remember a Sunday walk I took
with him to Henley, when we covered the distance of some twenty miles
at an average rate of four-and-a-quarter miles an hour. He was always a
good ‘stayer,’ and used to come with a tremendous spurt at the end of a
long-distance race. He carried away all the honours for distances from
four miles to one at his own University, but had to yield pride of place
in the mile to Lawes, and in the four-mile race to the late Viscount
Alverstone in the first Inter-University contest held at Cambridge. He
also comes into my own début on the running path. My College instituted
a half-mile handicap race, for which nearly everyone entered, myself
included. I was given seventy yards start, and, being chaffed by a
friend, took the odds he offered against me of £150 to £7, and when I
began to train it was found that I could do the course in a much shorter
time than most of those handicapped as favourably as myself. Jersey of
course was scratch, but I was not much afraid of him, as I thought that
with thirty-seven starters he would find a difficulty in getting through
his horses. On the memorable day I was in good condition and rather a
hot favourite, and might have hedged my wager on favourable terms, but
I preferred ‘to put my fortune to the touch, to win or lose it all.’ I
started at a great pace and kept the lead till nearly the end, when a
dark horse, by name Garrett, an Australian, who had received sixty-five
yards start, only five yards less than myself, caught me up and beat me.
Jersey came with his usual rush at the end, and just got before me on
the post, but I think I might have saved the second place had I known he
was so near. Garrett afterwards turned out to be quite a good runner,
taking the second prize in the open quarter-mile and long hurdles. In
the following year I won the event pretty easily, although I had not been
quite so generously treated by the handicapper, but I had no big gamble
upon the event. I still have the silver-mounted claret jug I won on that
occasion, and value it as the only trophy of success on the running path.
Jersey might have filled a plate chest with the prizes he carried away.

What shall I say of Lansdowne, Viceroy of India, Governor of Canada,
Leader of the Conservative party in the House of Lords, and distinguished
in many more public capacities? The world knows his fame as a statesman,
but I can tell them something of his ability as a cook. He taught me to
make excellent omelettes, an accomplishment which has stood me in good
stead at many camps and picnics. We were in the same division at Eton,
and I was second to him in Collections the half I left Eton, when we were
both ‘up to’ Joynes, afterwards Lower Master. Boy and man, he always had
the same refined and genial manners, without the least trace of ‘side’ or
conceit. One interest we shared in common was a love of fishing, and when
I was writing my volume on the Salmon for the ‘Fur, Feather, and Fin’
series he lent me the account of his doings on the Cascapedia River, in
Canada, for the four years when he was Governor-General of the Province.
My mouth waters as I glance over the figures for the four years: 1245
salmon, weighing 29,188 lb.; 210 fish over 30 lb. The largest fish 35 lb.

Sir William Anson, who died somewhat suddenly and unexpectedly just
before our last Balliol dinner, making a sadly conspicuous gap in our
narrowing circle, was one of my oldest and most valued friends. We saw a
great deal of one another from our boyhood onwards. We went up to Eton at
the same time, and were neighbours at home in Kent. There was a half-way
house where we frequently met: Bedgbury, the hospitable seat of Alexander
Beresford-Hope, the Member of Parliament and Privy Councillor, whose
criticism of the ‘Caucasian Mystery’ invited Disraeli’s retort about his
‘Batavian grace.’ Anson was a great favourite with Lady Mildred, who had
much of the ability and sarcastic humour of her brother Lord Salisbury,
whom she greatly resembled also in personal appearance. After Eton, we
were contemporaries at Balliol, where we matriculated on the same day,
although I, being nearly two years younger, did not actually come up
till a term later. I was a candidate for the All Souls Fellowship on the
occasion when he and the present Lord Justice Phillimore were elected
on the foundation over which he afterwards presided with such eminent
success, and shortly afterward was a fellow pupil with him of the great
Thomas Chitty, the pleader, in whose chambers so many sucking lawyers
destined to become great legal luminaries, from Lord Chancellor Cairns
to A. L. Smith, Master of the Rolls, learnt the elements of pleading
before the Common Law Procedure Act put a final end to declarations
and demurrers. We were a merry as well as an industrious party, and I
remember a game of cricket in which Anson took part, played with two
volumes of Blackburn and Ellis for bat and wicket, and some crumpled
sheets of draft paper for a ball. Even the long-suffering Chitty sent up
his clerk to request us to make a little less noise.

I should not omit some notice of the part taken by Anson when at Eton
in the foundation of the ‘Eton Observer,’ a magazine conducted by a
committee of editors which numbered among its members Vincent Stuckey
Coles, now the beloved head of Pusey House, and John Andrew Doyle,
afterwards fellow of All Souls and historian. It had quite a long life
for such a venture, and contained some very promising productions,
notably the easy and flowing verse of Vincent Cracroft Amcotts, who was
afterwards also our friend and contemporary at Balliol: the dramatist
of the ‘Shooting Stars,’ an amateur dramatic club, which performed very
successfully operettas founded upon Meilhac and Halévy’s librettos with
Offenbach’s music. ‘Helen, or Taken from the Greek’ (‘La Belle Hélène’),
and ‘Lalla Rookh,’ which adapted the story of Moore’s poem to the music
of ‘Orphée aux Enfers,’ were the most notable of these compositions; in
the latter, Anson, always an admirable amateur actor, took the part of
Fadladeen, first the hostile critic, and afterwards the ardent admirer
of the disguised prince and poet. I have photographs of him in character
among the faded portraits of College contemporaries, which call up many
memories when I glance at my old album. Amcotts died young, or he might
have emulated the literary fame of his Balliol friend, Andrew Lang, or of
his St. John’s contemporary, H. D. Traill, who when at Oxford was, like
himself, a successful librettist and actor.

The ‘Eton Observer’ differed from such predecessors as Canning’s
‘Microcosm’ and Winthrop Mackworth Praed’s ‘Etonian’ by being started and
conducted by boys comparatively low down in the School, two years before
they reached the glories of Sixth Form. The irate ‘Swells’ assailed it
both in prose and verse, comparing the ambitious editors to the frog in
the fable who tried to make himself a bull! This roused the wrath of that
kind and popular house master ‘Billy Johnson,’ himself to be celebrated
as a poet later under his better known name of William Cory, the author
of ‘Ionica,’ and he fulminated against the critics in the following
impromptu epigram, which somehow still sticks in my memory:

    ‘The frog in the fable’s a thorough impostor!
    No one can write verse but a sixth form prepostor.
    The frog in the fable; we know what that means,
    A priggish, impertinent usher in teens.’

When we were both called to the Bar, Anson and I went the old Home
Circuit and the Kent Sessions together for some years and during the
Assize fortnight at Croydon, where in those days important London causes
were tried and the provincial town was full of big merchants and City
solicitors, we were more than once guests of the Daniells at Fairchilds,
their beautiful country place outside the town. John Daniell, our host,
was married to Katherine Bradshaw, a cousin of my mother, who still
retained much of the beauty and charm which earlier had inspired some
characteristic lines of Tennyson; I may be pardoned for quoting them, as
I do not think they have ever yet found their way into print:

    ‘Because she bore the iron name
      Of him who doomed the King to die,
    I dreamt her one of stately frame
      With look to awe the passer-by,
    But found a maiden tender, shy,
      With soft blue eyes and winning, sweet,
    And longed to kiss her hand and lie
      A thousand summers at her feet.’

One day Katherine Bradshaw, driving with her mother and Alfred Tennyson,
looked at her watch. ‘Don’t do that,’ said the Poet; ‘if it looks at you
it will stop!’

She was as clever and delightful as she was beautiful, and those were
happy days when we lounged in the summer evening in that beautiful
garden, so near and seeming so far from the ‘fumum et opus strepitumque’
of the noisy Courts we had just left. Her children, who still live
there, gathered round us while we read or recited poetry. I can remember
Alfred Thesiger’s rendering of Tennyson’s ‘Gardener’s Daughter,’ all its
vivid nature touches appealing the more to us because we were camped
where ‘the cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade,’ ‘the voices of
the well-contented doves’ forming a fit accompaniment to the musical
lines. I think the presence of her brother Henry Bradshaw, the beloved
Cambridge Librarian, who much resembled his sister, added a charm which
those of his friends who are still living will recall with gratitude
and affection. The tragedy which burst like a thunder-cloud upon this
peaceful holiday group fell with its full weight upon Willie Anson.
I shall never forget that day in August 1873 when a messenger of ill
tidings broke in upon us with the news of the terrible accident at Wigan
which wrecked the carriage in which Sir John Anson and his two daughters
were travelling north, killing him instantly. The calamity touched me the
more closely as the father and sisters were on their way to Poltalloch,
where I was myself shortly due for one of those happy ‘Autumns in
Argyllshire’ which had already begun.

Our friendship remained unbroken, and we had many happy meetings,
although Anson drifted away from the Bar into other spheres of greater
usefulness. I was more than once his guest at All Souls, where the two
sisters who happily escaped from the accident which robbed him of a
father made ideal hostesses. He was hardly ever absent from our Balliol
dinner in the Match week, and was President in 1884 and 1907. Another
bond of union arose between us when he became a fellow director of the
old Law Life Assurance Society, where we had many happy weekly Wednesday
gatherings until that ancient and successful institution allowed its
existence to be absorbed by and renewed in the Phœnix. Balliol was
strongly represented on the Board, which numbered among its eight
Barrister Directors my brother-in-law, W. R. Malcolm, the doyen of
Coutts’ Bank, Sir Henry Graham, Anson, and myself.

As the youngest member of the Club I formed a link with a somewhat junior
generation of Balliol men who added a Lord Chancellor, a Lord Justice of
Appeal, and a Judge of the High Court to this notable list. I remember
how we welcomed ‘Bob’ Reid, prince of scholars, cricketers, and athletes,
when, much to the disgust of the President of Magdalen, he flung up his
demyship at that College to compete for the open scholarship at Balliol,
which he gained with the greatest ease. He came up from Cheltenham with
a high reputation for running, among his Crichton-like gifts, but never
competed in the University or College sports. Once at least he kept
wicket for the University at Lord’s, and his career as a scholar gave
promise of the eminence he afterwards attained in the profession over
which he presided on the woolsack as Lord Loreburn. He only once competed
for a fellowship, and when he did not obtain the success to which he
believed he was entitled on the merits, his strong and firm, some would
say obstinate, character forbade him to become candidate for another
College, though doubtless many Common Rooms would have welcomed such an
addition to their numbers.

Bargrave Deane, the Judge of the Probate and Divorce Court, was then and
is still one of my most valued friends. He was a fine cricketer, having
played in the Winchester Eleven before he came up to the University,
and although he never got his ‘blue’ he was a most useful member of the
College team, and often played in University matches, though not at
Lord’s. He also rowed in his College Eight, and was an officer of the
Oxford Volunteers, as he was later in the Devil’s Own, of which I think
he was for some time colonel. He was a magnificent rifle shot, and showed
equal skill in the forest and at the competitions at Wimbledon—it was
before the days of Bisley. His father, the Queen’s Advocate, Sir James
Parker Deane, used to take a moor in Scotland, where I was privileged to
share the sport; I remember seeing Bargrave bring down with a rifle a
grand roebuck, running away from him at a long range, and how I envied
and admired his skill. He was a fine fisherman, and not only cast a
beautiful line, but made flies for salmon and sea-trout as well as he
used them. Farwell, the late Lord Justice of Appeal, I did not know so
well, but he was much looked up to and respected when at Balliol, and
was very popular throughout his long and successful career at the Bar
and on the Bench. Of Lansdowne, as Viceroy of India, Governor of Canada,
statesman and politician, I need say nothing. Here I think rather of the
boy who was with me at Eton. He was a great favourite with Jowett, who
early recognised his outstanding ability and promise.

Since my time many Balliol undergraduates of intermediate generations
have risen to high positions. To-day we boast of the Prime Minister,
the Speaker, and Earl Curzon, Chancellor of the University, to name
only three of the most important. But at this time of our national
need I prefer to dwell upon that noble band who have willingly offered
themselves in their country’s service. By October 1915 no less than
fifty-four members of my old College had already given their lives in
the War; two had gained the Victoria Cross, three the Distinguished
Service Order, eight the Military Cross, one corporal (now a Captain)
the Distinguished Conduct Medal, while twenty had been mentioned in
despatches, and three had gained foreign Orders. To-day the empty halls
and lecture rooms bear even more eloquent witness than they did when full
to overflowing to the debt England owes to my beloved College.




_LADY CONNIE._

BY MRS. HUMPHRY WARD.

Copyright, 1915, by Mrs. Humphry Ward in the United States of America.


CHAPTER XVIII.

On the day following Constance’s visit to the Boar’s Hill cottage she
wrote to Radowitz:—

    ‘DEAR OTTO,—I am going to ask you not to raise the subject you
    spoke of yesterday to me again between us. I am afraid I should
    find my visits a pain instead of a joy, if you did so. And Mrs.
    Mulholland and I want to come so much—sometimes alone, and
    sometimes together. We want to be mother and sister as much as
    we can and you will let us! We know very well that we are poor
    painted things compared with real mothers and sisters. Still we
    should love to do our best—_I_ should—if you’ll let me!’

To which Otto replied:—

    ‘DEAR CONSTANCE,—(That’s impudence, but you told me!) I’ll
    hold my tongue—though I warn you I shall only think the more.
    But you shan’t have any cause to punish me by not coming. Good
    Heavens!—if you didn’t come!

    ‘The coast is always clear here between two and four. I get my
    walk in the morning.’

Two or three days a week, accordingly, Constance or Mrs. Mulholland or
both took their way to the cottage. They did all that women with soft
hearts can do for a sick man. Mrs. Mulholland managed the servants, and
inquired into the food. Connie brought books and flowers, and all the
Oxford gossip she could collect. Their visit was the brightness of the
boy’s day, and, thanks to them, many efforts were made to soften his
calamity. The best musical talent that Oxford could furnish was eager to
serve him; and a well-known orchestra was only waiting for the completion
of his symphony and the result of his examination to produce the symphony
in the hall of Marmion.

Meanwhile Connie very rarely saw Falloden—except in connection either
with Otto’s health, or with the ‘Orpheus,’ as to which Falloden was in
constant communication with the inventor, one Auguste Chaumart, living
in a garret on the heights of Montmartre; while Constance herself was
carrying on an eager correspondence with friends of her own or her
parents, in Paris, with regard to the ‘records’ which were to make the
repertory of the Orpheus. The automatic piano—or piano-player,—which some
years later became the pianola, was in those days slowly developing.
The difference between it and the Orpheus lay in the fact that the
piano-player required hands and feet of flesh and blood for anything
more than a purely mechanical rendering of the music provided by the
rolls; while, in the Orpheus, expression, accent, interpretation, as
given by the best pianists of the day, had been already registered in the
cylinders. For the Orpheus, the precursor, also, of types that have since
been greatly perfected, was played by an electrical mechanism, and the
audience was intended to listen to Chopin or Beethoven, to Schumann or
Brahms, as interpreted by the famous players of the moment, without any
intervening personality.

These things are very familiar to our generation. In the early eighties
they were only a vision and a possibility, and Falloden’s lavish
expenditure was in fact stimulating one of the first inventors.

But Connie also was playing an important part. Both Lord and Lady
Risborough had possessed devoted friends in Paris, and Connie had made
others of her own among the young folk with whom she had danced and
flirted and talked, when at eighteen she had spent a happy spring with
her parents in the Avenue Marceau. She had set these playfellows of hers
to work, and with most brilliant success. Otto’s story as told by her
vivacious letters had gone the round. No woman of twice her age could
have told it more adroitly. Otto appeared as the victim of an unfortunate
accident in a College frolic; Falloden as the guardian friend; herself,
as his lieutenant. It touched the romantic sense, the generous heart of
musical Paris. There were many who remembered Otto’s father and mother
and the musical promise of the fair-haired boy. The Polish colony in
Paris, a survival from the tragic days of Poland’s exodus under the
revolutionary skies of the thirties and the sixties, had been appealed
to, and both Polish and French musicians were already in communication
with Chaumart, and producing records under his direction. The young
Polish marvel of the day—Paderewski—had been drawn in, and his renderings
of Chopin’s finest work were to provide the bulk of the rolls. Connie’s
dear old Polish teacher, himself a composer, was at work on a grouping of
folk-songs from Poland and Lithuania—the most characteristic utterance of
a martyred people.

    ‘They are songs, _chère petite_,’ wrote the old man—‘of revolt,
    of exile, and of death. There is no other folk-song like them
    in the world, just as there is no history in the world like
    Poland’s. Your poor friend knows them all—has known them all
    from his childhood. They will speak to him of his torn country.
    He will hear in them the cry of the White Eagle—the White
    Eagle of Poland—as she soars wounded and bleeding over the
    southern plains, or sinks dying into the marshes and forests
    of Lithuania. It is in these songs, _chère Miladi_, that we
    Poles listen to the very heart-beats of our outraged country.
    Our songs—our music—our poets—our memories:—as a nation that
    is all we have—except the faith in us that never dies. _Hinc
    surrectura!_ Yes, she shall rise again, our Poland! Our hope is
    in God, and in the human heart, the human conscience, that He
    has made. Comfort your friend. He has lost much, poor boy!—but
    he has still ears to hear, a brain, an imagination to conceive.
    Let him work still for music and for Poland,—they will some day
    reward him!’

And as a last contribution, a young French pianist, rising rapidly into
fame both as a virtuoso and a composer, was writing specially a series
of variations on the lovely theme of the ‘Heynal’—that traditional
horn-song, played every hour in the ears of Cracow, from the tower of
Panna Marya—of which Otto had spoken to Falloden.

But all these things were as yet hidden from Otto. Falloden and Constance
corresponded about them, in letters that anybody might have read, which
had behind them, nevertheless, a secret and growing force of emotion.
Even Mrs. Mulholland, who was rapidly endearing herself both to Constance
and Radowitz, could only guess at what was going on, and when she did
guess, held her tongue. But her relations with Falloden, which at the
beginning of his residence in the cottage had been of the coldest,
gradually became less strained. To his own astonishment, he found the
advice of this brusque elderly woman so important to him that he looked
eagerly for her coming, and obeyed her with a docility which amazed
himself and her. The advice concerned, of course, merely the small
matters of daily life bearing on Otto’s health and comfort, and when the
business was done Falloden disappeared.

But strangely amenable and even humble as he might appear in these
affairs to those who remembered his haughty days in college, for both
Constance and Mrs. Mulholland quite another fact emerged from their
experience of the cottage household during these weeks:—simply this—that
whatever other people might do or be, Falloden was steadily, and perhaps
unconsciously, becoming master of the situation, the indispensable and
protecting power of Otto’s life.

How he did it remained obscure. But Mrs. Mulholland at least—out of a
rich moral history—guessed that what they saw in the Boar’s Hill cottage
was simply the working out of the old spiritual paradox—that there is a
yielding which is victory, and a surrender which is power. It seemed to
her often that Radowitz was living in a constant state of half-subdued
excitement, produced by this strange realisation that he and his life
had become so important to Falloden that the differences of training
and temperament between them, and all the little daily rubs, no longer
counted; that he existed, so to speak, that Falloden might—through
him—escape the burden of his own remorse. The hard, strong, able man, so
much older than himself in character, if not in years, the man who had
bullied and despised him, was now becoming his servant, in the sense in
which Christ was the ‘servant’ of His brethren. Not with any conscious
Christian intention—far from it; but still under a kind of mysterious
compulsion. The humblest duties, the most trivial anxieties, where
Radowitz was concerned, fell, week by week, increasingly to Falloden’s
portion. A bad or a good night—appetite or no appetite—a book that Otto
liked—a visit that amused him—anything that for the moment contented
the starved musical sense in Otto, that brought out his gift, and his
joy in it—anything that, for the moment, enabled him to forget and
evade his injuries—these became, for Falloden also, the leading events
of his own day. He was reading hard for his Fellowship, and satisfying
various obscure needs by taking as much violent exercise as possible; but
there was going on in him, all the time, an intense spiritual ferment,
connected with Constance Bledlow on the one side, and Otto Radowitz on
the other.

Meanwhile—what was not so evident to this large-hearted observer—Otto was
more than willing—he burned—to play his part. All that is mystical and
passionate in the soul of a Polish Catholic had been stirred in him by
his accident, his growing premonition of short life, the bitterness of
his calamity, the suddenness of his change of heart towards Falloden.

‘My future is wrecked. I shall never live to be old. I shall never be
a great musician. But I mean to live long enough to make Constance
happy! She shall talk of me to her children. And I shall watch over
her—perhaps—from another world.’

These thoughts, and others like them, floated by day and night through
the boy’s mind; and he wove them into the symphony he was writing.
Tragedy, passion, melody,—these have been the Polish heritage in music;
they breathe through the Polish peasant songs, as through the genius of a
Chopin; they are bound up with the long agony of Polish history, with the
melancholy and monotony of the Polish landscape. They spoke again through
the beautiful thwarted gift of this boy of twenty, through his foreboding
of early death, and through that instinctive exercise of his creative
gift, which showed itself not in music alone, but in the shaping of two
lives—Falloden’s and Connie’s.

       *       *       *       *       *

And Constance too was living and learning, with the intensity that comes
of love and pity and compunction. She was dropping all her spoilt-child
airs; and the bower-bird adornments with which she had filled her little
room in Medburn Hall had been gradually cleared away, to Nora’s great
annoyance, till it was almost as bare as Nora’s own. Amid the misty
Oxford streets and the low-ceiled Oxford rooms, she was played upon by
the unseen influences of that ‘august place,’ where both the great and
the forgotten dead are always at work, shaping the life of the present.
In those days Oxford was still praising ‘famous men, and the fathers who
begat’ her. Their shades still walked her streets. Pusey was not long
dead. Newman, the mere ghost of himself, had just preached a tremulous
last sermon within her bounds, returning as a kind of spiritual Odysseus
for a few passing hours to the place where he had once reigned as the
most adored son of Oxford. Thomas Hill Green, with the rugged face,
and the deep brown eyes, and the look that made pretence and cowardice
ashamed, was dead, leaving a thought and a teaching behind him that his
Oxford will not let die. Matthew Arnold had yet some years to live and
could occasionally be seen at Balliol or at All Souls; while Christ
Church and Balliol still represented the rival centres of that great
feud between Liberal and Orthodox which had convulsed the University a
generation before.

In Balliol, there sat a chubby-faced, quiet-eyed man, with very white
hair, round whom the storms of orthodoxy had once beaten, like the surges
on a lighthouse; and at Christ Church and in St. Mary’s the beautiful
presence and the wonderful gift of Liddon kept the old fires burning in
pious hearts.

And now into this old, old place, with its thick soil of dead lives and
deeds, there had come a new seed, as to which no one could tell how it
would flower. Women students were increasing every term in Oxford. Groups
of girl graduates in growing numbers went shyly through the streets,
knowing that they had still to justify their presence in this hitherto
closed world—made by men for men. There were many hostile eyes upon
them, watching for mistakes. But all the generous forces in Oxford were
behind them. The ablest men in the University were teaching women how
to administer—how to organise. Some lecture-rooms were opening to them;
some still entirely declined to admit them. And here and there were
persons who had a clear vision of the future to which was trending this
new eagerness of women to explore regions hitherto forbidden them in the
House of Life.

Connie had no such vision, but she had a boundless curiosity and a
thrilling sense of great things stirring in the world. Under Nora’s lead
she had begun to make friends among the women-students, and to find her
way into their little bed-sitting-rooms at tea-time. They all seemed to
her superhumanly clever, and superhumanly modest. She had been brought up
indeed by two scholars; but examinations dazzled and appalled her. How
they were ever passed she could not imagine. She looked at the girls who
had passed them with awe, quite unconscious the while of the glamour she
herself possessed for these untravelled students—as one familiar from
her childhood with the sacred places of history—Rome, Athens, Florence,
Venice, Sicily. She had seen, she had trodden; and quiet eyes—sometimes
spectacled—would flame, while her easy talk ran on.

But all the time there were very critical notions in her, hidden deep
down.

‘Do they never think about a _man_?’ some voice in her seemed to be
asking. ‘As for me, I am always thinking about a man!’ And the colour
would flush into her cheeks, as she meekly asked for another cup of tea.

Sometimes she would go with Nora to the Bodleian, and sit patiently
beside her while Nora copied Middle-English poetry from an early
manuscript, worth a king’s ransom. Nora got sevenpence a ‘folio,’ of
seventy-two words, for her work. Connie thought the pay scandalous for so
much learning; but Nora laughed at her, and took far more pleasure in the
small cheque she received at the end of term from the University Press
than Connie in her quarterly dividends.

But Connie knew very well by this time that Nora was not wholly absorbed
in Middle English. Often, as they emerged from the Bodleian to go home
to lunch, they would come across Sorell hurrying along the Broad, his
master’s gown floating behind him. And he would turn his fine ascetic
face towards them, and wave his hand to them from the other side of the
street. And Connie would flash a look at Nora,—soft, quick, malicious—of
which Nora was well aware.

But Connie rarely said a word. She was handling the situation indeed
with great discretion, though with an impetuous will. She herself had
withdrawn from the Greek lessons, on the plea that she was attending some
English history lectures; that she must really find out who fought the
battle of Hastings; and was too lazy to do anything else. Sometimes she
would linger in the schoolroom till Sorell arrived, and then he would
look at her wistfully, when she prepared to depart, as though to say—‘Was
this what I bargained for?’

But she always laughed and went. And presently, as she crossed the hall
again and heard animated voices in the schoolroom, her brown eyes would
show a merry satisfaction.

Meanwhile Nora was growing thinner and handsomer day by day. She was
shedding awkwardness without any loss of that subacid sincerity that was
her charm. Connie, as much as she dared, took her dressing in hand. She
was never allowed to give a thing; but Annette’s fingers were quick and
clever, and Nora’s Spartan garb was sometimes transformed by them under
the orders of a coaxing or audacious Constance. The mere lifting of the
load of care had let the young plant shoot, so that many persons passing
Ewen Hooper’s second daughter in the street would turn round now to look
at her in surprise. Was that really the stout, podgy schoolgirl, who had
already, by virtue of her strong personality, made a certain impression
in the university town? People had been vaguely sorry for her, or vaguely
thought of her as plain but good. Alice, of course, was pretty; Nora
had the virtues. And now here she was, bursting into good looks, more
positive than her sister’s.

The girl’s heart indeed was young at last. For the neighbourhood of
Connie was infectious. The fairy-godmothering of that young woman was
going finely. It was the secret hope at the centre of her own life which
was playing like captured sunshine upon all the persons about her. Her
energy was prodigious. Everything to do with money-matters had been
practically settled between her and Sorell and Uncle Ewen; and settled
in Connie’s way, expressed, no doubt, in business form. And now she was
insisting firmly on the New Year visit to Rome, in spite of many protests
from Uncle Ewen and Nora. It was a promise, she declared. They should be
let off Athens, if they chose, but Rome—Rome—was their fate. She wrote
endless letters, inquiring for rooms, and announcing their coming to her
old friends. Uncle Ewen soon had the startled impression that all Rome
was waiting for them, and that they could never live up to it.

Finally, Connie persuaded them to settle on rooms in a well-known small
hotel, overlooking the garden-front of the Palazzo Barberini, where
she had grown up. She wrote to the innkeeper, Signor B., ‘a _very_ old
friend of mine,’ who replied that the ‘amici’ of the ‘distintissima
signorina’ should be most tenderly looked after. As for the Contessas and
Marchesas who wrote, eagerly promising their ‘dearest Constance’ that
they would be kind to her relations, they were many; and when Ewen Hooper
said nervously that it was clear he must take out both a frock-coat
and dress-clothes, Constance laughed and said, ‘Not at all! Signor B.
will lend you anything you want,’—a remark which, in the ears of the
travellers to be, threw new and unexpected light on the functions of an
Italian innkeeper. Meanwhile she piled up guide-books, she gathered maps;
and she taught both her uncle and Nora Italian. And so long as she was
busied with such matters she seemed the gayest of creatures, and would go
singing and laughing about the house.

In another old house in Oxford, too, her coming made delight. She spent
many winter hours beside the Master of Beaumont’s fire, gathering fresh
light on the ways of scholarship and scholars. The quarrels of the
learned had never hitherto come her way. Her father had never quarrelled
with anybody. But the Master—poor great man!—had quarrelled with so
many people! He had missed promotions which should have been his; he
had made discoveries of which others had got the credit; and he kept a
quite amazing stock of hatreds in some pocket of his vast intelligence.
Constance would listen at first to the expression of them in an awed
silence. Was it possible the world contained such mean and treacherous
monsters? And why did it matter so much to a man who knew everything?—who
held all the classics and all the Renaissance in the hollow of his
hand, to whom ‘Latin was no more difficile Than to a blackbird ’tis to
whistle’? Then, gradually, she began to have the courage to laugh; to try
a little soft teasing of her new friend and mentor, who was at once so
wonderful and so absurd. And the Master bore it well, could indeed never
have too much of her company; while his white-haired sister beamed at the
sight of her. She became the child of a childless house, and when Lady
Langmoor sent her peremptory invitations to this or that country mansion
where she would meet ‘some charming young men,’ Connie would reply—‘Best
thanks, dear Aunt Langmoor—but I am very happy here—and comfortably
in love with a gentleman on the sunny side of seventy. Please don’t
interfere!’

Only with Herbert Pryce was she ever thorny in these days. She could not
forgive him that it was not till his appointment at the Conservative
Central Office, due to Lord Glaramara’s influence, was actually signed
and sealed, that he proposed to Alice. Till the goods had been delivered,
he never finally committed himself. Even Nora had underrated his
prudence. But at last one evening he arrived at Medburn Hall after dinner
with the look of one whose mind is magnificently made up. By common
consent, the drawing-room was abandoned to him and Alice, and when they
emerged, Alice held her head triumphantly, and her lover was all jocosity
and self-satisfaction.

‘She really is a dear little thing,’ he said complacently to Connie, when
the news had been told, and excitement subsided. ‘We shall do capitally.’

‘_Enfin?_’ said Connie, with the old laugh in her eyes. ‘You are quite
sure?’

He looked at her uneasily.

‘It never does to hurry these things,’ he said, rather pompously. ‘I
wanted to feel I could give her what she had a right to expect. We owe
you a great deal, Lady Constance—or—perhaps now—I may call you Constance?’

Constance winced, and pointedly avoided giving him leave. But for Alice’s
sake she held her tongue. The wedding was to be hurried on, and Mrs.
Hooper, able for once to buy new frocks with a clear conscience, and
possessed of the money to pay for them, was made so happy by the bustle
of the trousseau that she fell in love with her prospective son-in-law
as the cause of it. Ewen Hooper meanwhile watched him with mildly shrewd
eyes, deciding once more in his inner mind that mathematicians were an
inferior race.

Not even to Nora—only to Mrs. Mulholland—did Constance ever lift the veil
during these months. She was not long in succumbing to the queer charm
of that lovable and shapeless person; and in the little drawing-room in
St. Giles the girl of twenty would spend winter evenings, at the feet of
her new friend, passing through various stages of confession; till one
night Mrs. Mulholland lifted the small face, with her own large hand, and
looked mockingly into the brown eyes:

‘Out with it, my dear!—You are in love with Douglas Falloden!’

Connie said nothing. Her little chin did not withdraw itself, nor did her
eyes drop. But a film of tears rushed into them.

The truth was that in this dark wintry Oxford, and its neighbouring
country, there lurked a magic for Connie which in the high midsummer
pomps it had never possessed. Once or twice, in the distance of a winding
street—on some football ground in the Parks—in the gallery of St. Mary’s
on Sunday, Constance caught sight, herself unseen, of the tall figure
and the curly head. Such glimpses made the fever of her young life. They
meant far more to passion than her occasional meetings with Falloden at
the Boar’s Hill cottage. And there were other points of contact. At the
end of November, for instance, came the Merton Fellowship. Falloden won
it, in a brilliant field; and Connie contrived to know all she wanted
to know as to his papers and his rivals. After the announcement of his
success, she trod on air. Finally she allowed herself to send him a
little note of congratulation—very short and almost formal. He replied in
the same tone.

Two days later, Falloden went over to Paris to see for himself the
condition of the ‘Orpheus,’ and to arrange for its transport to England.
He was away for nearly a week, and on his return called at once in
Holywell, to report his visit. Nora was with Connie in the drawing-room
when he was announced, and a peremptory look forbade her to slip away.
She sat listening to the conversation.

Was this really Douglas Falloden—this grave, courteous man—without a
trace of the ‘blood’ upon him? He seemed to her years older than he had
been in May, and related, for the first time, to the practical everyday
world. This absorption too in Otto Radowitz and his affairs—incredible!
He and Connie first eagerly discussed certain domestic details of the
cottage—the cook, the food, the draughts, the arrangements to be made for
Otto’s open-air treatment which the doctors were now insisting on—with
an anxious minuteness! Nora could hardly keep her face straight in the
distance—they were so like a pair of crooning housewives. Then he began
on his French visit, sitting sideways on his chair, his elbow on the
back of it, and his hand thrust into his curly mass of hair—handsomer,
thought Nora, than ever. And there was Connie listening spell-bound in
a low chair opposite, her delicate pale profile distinct against the
dark panelling of the room, her eyes fixed on him. Nora’s perplexed eyes
travelled from one to the other.

As to the story of the ‘Orpheus’ and its inventor, both girls hung upon
it. Falloden had tracked Auguste Chaumart to his garret in Montmartre,
and had found in him one of those marvellous French workmen, inheritors
of the finest technical tradition in the world, who are the true sons
of the men who built and furnished and carved Versailles, and thereby
revolutionised the minor arts of Europe. A small pinched fellow!—with
a sickly wife and children sharing his tiny workshop, and a brain
teeming with inventions, of which the electric piano, forerunner of the
Welt-Mignons of later days, was but the chief among many. He had spent a
fortune upon it, could get no capitalist to believe in it, and no firm
to take it up. Then Falloden’s astonishing letter and offer of funds,
based on Radowitz’s report—itself the echo of a couple of letters from
Paris—had encouraged the starving dreamer to go on.

Falloden reproduced the scene, as described to him by the chief actor
in it, when the inventor announced to his family that the thing was
accomplished, the mechanism perfect, and how that very night they should
hear Chopin’s great Fantasia, Op. 49, played by its invisible hands.

The moment came. Wife and children gathered breathless. Chaumart turned
on the current, released the machinery.

‘Ecoutez, mes enfants! Ecoutez, Henriette!’

They listened—with ears, with eyes, with every faculty strained to its
utmost. And _nothing_ happened!—positively nothing—beyond a few wheezing
or creaking sounds. The haggard inventor, in despair, chased everybody
out of the room, and sat looking at the thing, wondering whether to
smash it or kill himself. Then an idea struck him. In feverish haste he
took the whole mechanism to pieces again, sitting up all night. And as
the morning sun rose he discovered in the very heart of the creature,
to which by now he attributed an uncanny and independent life, the most
elementary blunder,—a vital connection missed between the power-supplying
mechanism and the cylinders containing the records. He set it right;
and nearly dead with fatigue and excitement, unlocked his door, and
called his family back. Then what triumph! What falling on each other’s
necks—and what a _déjeuner_ in the Palais Royal—children and all—paid for
by the inventor’s last napoleon!

All this Falloden told, and told well.

Connie could not restrain her pleasure as he came to the end of his tale.
She clapped her hands in delight.

‘And when—_when_ will it come?’

‘I must go over again—but I think the first days of January will see it
here. I’ve only told you half—and the lesser half. It’s you that have
done most—far most.’

And he took out a little note-book, running through the list of visits he
had paid to her friends and correspondents in Paris, among whom the rolls
were being collected, under Chaumart’s direction. The ‘Orpheus’ already
had a large musical library of its own—renderings by some of the finest
artists of some of the noblest music. Beethoven, Bach, Liszt, Chopin,
Brahms, Schumann—all Otto’s favourite things, as far as Connie had been
able to discover them, were in the catalogue.

Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. She put down the note-book, and
spoke in a low voice, as though her girlish joy in their common secret
had suddenly dropped.

‘It must give him some pleasure—it _must_!’ she said, slowly, piteously,
as though she asked a question.

Falloden did not reply immediately. He rose from his seat. Nora, under a
quick impulse, gathered up a letter she had been writing, and slipped out
of the room.

‘At least—’ he looked away from her, straight out of window—‘I suppose it
will please him—that we tried to do something.’

‘How is he—really?’

He shrugged his shoulders. Connie was standing, looking down, one hand on
her chair. The afternoon had darkened; he could see only her white brow,
and the wealth of her hair which the small head carried so lightly. Her
childishness, her nearness, made his heart beat. Suddenly she lifted her
eyes.

‘I wish you knew’—it seemed to him her voice choked a little—‘how
much—you matter to him. Mrs. Mulholland and I couldn’t keep him cheerful
while you were away.’

He laughed.

‘Well, I have only just escaped a catastrophe to-day.’

She looked alarmed.

‘How?’

‘I offended Bateson, and he gave notice!’ Connie’s ‘Oh!’ was a sound of
consternation. Bateson had become a most efficient and comfortable valet,
and Otto depended greatly upon him.

‘It’s all right,’ said Falloden quickly. ‘I grovelled. I ate all the
humble-pie I could think of. It was, of course, impossible to let him go.
Otto can’t do without him. I seem somehow to have offended his dignity.’

‘They have so much!’ said Connie, laughing, but rather unsteadily.

‘One lives and learns.’ The tone of the words was serious—a little
anxious. Then the speaker took up his hat. ‘But I’m not good at managing
touchy people. Good night.’

Her hand passed into his. The little fingers were cold; he could not help
enclosing them in a warm, clinging grasp. The firelit room, the dark
street outside, and the footsteps of the passers-by—they all melted from
consciousness. They only saw and heard each other.

In another minute the outer door had closed behind him. Connie was left
still in the same attitude, one hand on the chair, her head drooping, her
heart in a dream.

Falloden ran through the streets, choosing the by-ways rather than the
thoroughfares. The air was frosty, the December sky clear and starlit,
above the blue or purple haze, pierced with lights, that filled the lower
air; through which the college fronts, the distant spires and domes
showed vaguely—as beautiful ‘suggestions’—‘notes’—from which all detail
had disappeared. He was soon on Folly Bridge, and hurrying up the hill
he pushed straight on over the brow to the Berkshire side, leaving the
cottage to his right. Fold after fold of dim wooded country fell away to
the south of the ridge; bare branching trees were all about him; a patch
of open common in front where bushes of winter-blossoming gorse defied
the dusk. It was the English winter at its loveliest—still, patient,
expectant—rich in beauties of its own that summer knows nothing of. But
Falloden was blind to it. His pulses were full of riot. She had been so
near to him, and yet so far away; so sweet, yet so defensive. His whole
nature cried out fiercely for her. ‘I want her!—_I want her!_ And I
believe she wants me. She’s not afraid of me now—she turns to me. What
keeps us apart? Nothing that ought to weigh for a moment against our
double happiness!’

He turned and walked stormily homewards. Then, as he saw the roof and
white walls of the cottage through the trees, his mood wavered—and fell.
There was a life there which he had injured—a life that now depended on
him. He knew that, more intimately than Connie knew it, often as he had
denied it to her. And he was more convinced than Otto himself—though
never by word or manner had he ever admitted it for a moment—that the
boy was doomed—not immediately, but after one of those pitiful struggles
which have their lulls and pauses, but tend all the same inevitably to
one end.

‘And as long as he lives I shall look after him,’ he thought, feeling
that strange compulsion on him again, and yielding to it with mingled
eagerness and despair.

For how could he saddle Connie’s life with such a charge—or darken it
with such a tragedy?

Impossible! But that was only one of many reasons why he should not
take advantage of her, through their common pity for Otto. In his own
eyes he was a ruined man, and having resolutely refused to live upon
his mother, his pride was little more inclined to live upon a wife,
common, and generally applauded, though the practice might be. About
five thousand pounds had been saved for himself out of the wreck, of
which he would certainly spend a thousand, before all was done, on the
‘Orpheus.’ The rest would just suffice to launch him as a barrister. His
mother would provide for the younger children. Her best jewels, indeed,
had been already sold and invested as a dowry for Nellie—who showed signs
of engaging herself to a Scotch laird. But Falloden was joint guardian
of Trix and Reggie, and must keep a watchful eye on them, now that his
mother’s soft incompetence had been more plainly revealed than ever by
her widowhood. He chafed under the duties imposed, and yet fulfilled
them—anxiously and well—to the amazement of his relations.

In addition he had his way to make in the world.

But Constance had only to be a little more seen and known in English
Society to make the most brilliant match that any scheming chaperon could
desire. Falloden was aware through every pulse of her fast developing
beauty. And although no great heiress, as heiresses now go, she would
ultimately inherit a large amount of scattered money, in addition to what
she already possessed. The Langmoors would certainly have her out of
Oxford at the earliest possible moment—and small blame to them.

In all this he reasoned as a man of his class and antecedents was likely
to reason—only with a bias against himself. To capture Connie, through
Otto, before she had had any other chances of marriage, seemed to him a
mean and dishonourable thing.

If he had only time—time to make his career!

But there would be no time given him. As soon as her Risborough relations
got hold of her, Constance would marry directly.

He went back to the cottage in a sombre mood. Then, as Otto proved to be
in the same condition, Falloden had to shake off his own depression as
quickly as possible, and spend the evening in amusing and distracting the
invalid.

But Fortune, which had no doubt enjoyed the nips she had inflicted on so
tempting a victim, was as determined as before to take her own capricious
way.

By this time it was the last week of term, and a sharp frost had set in
over the Thames Valley. The floods were out north and south of the city,
and a bright winter sun shone all day over the glistening ice-plains and
the throng of skaters.

At the beginning of the frost came the news of Otto’s success in his
musical examination; and at a Convocation held shortly after it he put on
his gown as Bachelor of Music. The Convocation House was crowded to see
him admitted to his degree; and the impression produced as he made his
way through the throng towards the Vice-Chancellor, by the frail boyish
figure, the startling red-gold hair, the black sling, and the haunting
eyes, was long remembered in Oxford. Then Sorell claimed him, and hurried
him up to London for doctors and consultations, since the effort of the
examination had left him much exhausted.

Meanwhile the frost held, and all Oxford went skating. Constance
performed indifferently, and both Nora and Uncle Ewen were bent upon
improving her. But there were plenty of cavaliers to attend her, whenever
she appeared, either on Port Meadow or the Magdalen flood water; and
her sound youth delighted physically in the exercise, in the play
of the brisk air about her face, and the alternations of the bright
winter day—from the pale blue of its morning skies, hung behind the
snow-sprinkled towers and spires of Oxford, down to the red of sunset,
and the rise of those twilight mists which drew the fair city gently back
into the bosom of the moonlit dark.

But all the time the passionate sense in her watched and waited. The
‘mere living’ was good—‘yet was there better than it!’

And on the second afternoon, out of the distance of Magdalen meadow,
a man came flying towards her as it seemed on the wings of the wind.
Falloden drew up beside her, hovering on his skates, a splendid vision in
the dusk, ease and power in every look and movement.

‘Let me take you a run with the wind,’ he said, holding out his hand.
‘You shan’t come to any harm.’

Her eyes and her happy flush betrayed her. She put her hand in his,
and away they flew, up the course of the Cherwell, through the flooded
meadows. It seemed the very motion of gods; the world fell away. Then,
coming back, they saw Magdalen Tower, all silver and ebony under the
rising moon; and the noble arch of the bridge. The world was all
transmuted. Connie’s only hold on the kind common earth seemed to lie in
this strong hand to which she clung; and yet in that touch, that hold,
lay the magic that was making life anew.

But soon the wind had risen gustily, and was beating in her face,
catching at her breath.

‘This is too cold for you!’ said Falloden, abruptly; and wheeling round,
he had soon guided her into a more sheltered place, and there, easily
gliding up and down, soul and sense fused in one delight, they passed one
of those hours for which there is no measure in our dull human time. They
would not think of the past; they shrank from imagining the future. There
were shadows and ghosts behind them, and ahead of them; but the sheer
present mastered them.

Before they parted, Falloden told his companion that the ‘Orpheus’ would
arrive from Paris the following day, with a trio of French workmen to set
it up. The electric installation was already in place. Everything would
be ready by the evening. The instrument was to be placed behind a screen
in the built-out room, once a studio, which Falloden had turned into a
library. Otto rarely or never went there. The room looked north, and he,
whose well-being hung upon sunshine, disliked it. But there was no other
place for the ‘Orpheus’ in the little cottage, and Falloden, who had been
getting new and thick curtains for the windows, improving the fireplace,
and adding some arm-chairs, was eagerly hopeful that he could turn it
into a comfortable music-room for Otto in the winter evenings, while
he—if necessary—read his law elsewhere.

‘Will you come for a rehearsal to-morrow?’ he asked her. ‘Otto comes back
the day after.’

‘No, no! I won’t hear anything, not a note—till he comes! But is he
strong enough?’ she added, wistfully. Strong enough, she meant, to bear
agitation and surprise. But Falloden reported that Sorell knew everything
that was intended, and approved. Otto had been very listless and
depressed in town; a reaction, no doubt, from his spurt of work before
the Mus.Bac. exam. Sorell thought the pleasure of the gift might rouse
him, and gild the return to Oxford.


CHAPTER XIX.

‘Have some tea, old man, and warm up,’ said Falloden, on his knees before
a fire already magnificent, which he was endeavouring to improve.

‘What do you keep such a climate for?’ growled Radowitz, as he hung
shivering over the grate.

Sorell, who had come with the boy from the station, eyed him anxiously.
The bright red patches on the boy’s cheeks, and his dry, fevered look,
his weakness and his depression, had revived the most sinister fears
in the mind of the man who had originally lured him to Oxford, and
felt himself horribly responsible for what had happened there. Yet the
London doctors, on the whole, had been reassuring. The slight hæmorrhage
of the summer had had no successor; there were no further signs of
active mischief; and for his general condition it was thought that the
nervous shock of his accident, and the obstinate blood-poisoning which
had followed it, might sufficiently account. The doctors, however, had
pressed hard for sunshine and open air—the Riviera, Sicily, or Algiers.
But the boy had said vehemently that he couldn’t and wouldn’t go alone,
and who could go with him? A question that for the moment stopped the
way. Falloden’s first Bar examination was immediately ahead; Sorell was
tied to St. Cyprian’s; and every other companion so far proposed had been
rejected with irritation.

Unluckily, on this day of his return, the Oxford skies had put on again
their characteristic winter gloom. The wonderful fortnight of frost and
sun was over; tempests of wind and deluges of rain were drowning it fast
in flood and thaw. The wind shrieked round the little cottage, and though
it was little more than three o’clock, darkness was coming fast.

Falloden could not keep still. Having made up the fire, he brought in a
lamp himself; he drew the curtains, then undrew them again, apparently
that he might examine a stretch of the Oxford road just visible through
the growing dark; or he wandered in and out of the room, his hands in his
pockets, whistling. Otto watched him with a vague annoyance. He himself
was horribly tired, and Falloden’s restlessness got on his nerves.

At last Falloden said abruptly, pausing in front of him:

‘You’ll have some visitors directly!’

Otto looked up. The gaiety in Falloden’s eyes informed him and at the
same time wounded him.

‘Lady Constance?’ he said, affecting indifference.

‘And Mrs. Mulholland. I believe I see their carriage.’

And Falloden, peering into the stormy twilight, opened the garden door
and passed out into the rain.

Otto remained motionless, bent over the fire. Sorell was talking with
the ex-scout in the dining-room, impressing on him certain medical
directions. Radowitz suddenly felt himself singularly forlorn and
deserted. Of course, Falloden and Constance would marry. He always
knew it. He would have served to keep them together, and give them
opportunities of meeting, when they might have easily drifted entirely
apart. He laughed to himself as he thought of Connie’s impassioned cry—‘I
shall never, never, marry him!’ Such are the vows of women. She would
marry him; and then what would he, Otto, matter to her or to Falloden any
longer? He would have been, no doubt, a useful peg and pretext; but he
was not going to intrude on their future bliss. He thought he would go
back to Paris. One might as well die there as anywhere.

There were murmurs of talk and laughter in the hall. He sat still,
hugging his melancholy. But when the door opened he rose quickly,
instinctively, and, at the sight of the girl coming in so timidly behind
Mrs. Mulholland, her eyes searching the half-lit room, and the smile, in
them and on her lips, held back till she knew whether her poor friend
could bear with smiles, Otto’s black hour began to lift. He let himself,
at least, be welcomed and petted; and when fresh tea had been brought
in, and the room was full of talk, he lay back in his chair, listening,
the deep lines in his forehead gradually relaxing. He was better, he
declared, a great deal better; in fact there was very little at all the
matter with him. His symphony was to be given at the Royal College of
Music early in the year. Everybody had been awfully decent about it. And
he had begun a nocturne that amused him. As for the doctors, he repeated
petulantly that they were all fools—it was only a question of degree. He
intended to manage his life as he pleased in spite of them.

Connie sat on a high stool near him while he talked. She seemed to be
listening, but he once or twice thought, resentfully, that it was a
perfunctory listening. He wondered what else she was thinking about.

The tea was cleared away. And presently the three others had disappeared.
Otto and Constance were left alone.

‘I have been reading so much about Poland lately,’ said Constance
suddenly. ‘Oh, Otto, some day you must show me Cracow!’

His face darkened.

‘I shall never see Cracow again. I shall never see it with you.’

‘Why not? Let’s dream!’

The smiling tenderness in her eyes angered him. She was treating him
like a child; she was so sure he never could—or never would—make love to
her!

‘I shall never go to Cracow,’ he said, with energy, ‘not even with you. I
was to have gone—a year from now. It was all arranged. We have relations
there—and I have friends there—musicians. The _chef d’orchestre_—at the
Opera House—he was one of my teachers in Paris. Before next year, I was
to have written a concerto on some of our Polish songs—there are scores
of them that Liszt and Chopin never discovered. Not love-songs, mind
you!—songs of revolution—battle-songs.’

His eyes lit up and he began to hum an air—to Polish words—that even as
given out in his small tenor voice, stirred like a trumpet.

‘Fine!’ said Constance.

‘Ah, but you can’t judge—you don’t know the words. The words are
splendid. It’s “Ujejski’s Hymn”—the Galician Hymn of ’46.’ And he fell to
intoning.

    ‘Amid the smoke of our homes that burn,
    From the dust where our brothers lie bleeding,
    Our cry goes up to Thee, oh God!’

‘There!—that’s something like it.’

And he ran on with a breathless translation of the ‘Z dymen posarow,’ the
famous dirge for the Galician rebels of ’46, in which a devastated land
wails like Rachel for her children.

Suddenly a sound—a sound reedy and clear, like a beautiful voice in the
distance.

‘Constance!’

The lad sprang to his feet. Constance laid hold on him.

‘Listen, dear Otto—listen a moment!’

She held him fast, and breathing deep, he listened. The very melody he
had just been humming rang out, from the same distant point; now pealing
through the little house in a rich plenitude of sound, now delicate and
plaintive as the chant of nuns in a quiet church, and finally crashing to
a defiant and glorious close.

‘What is it?’ he said, very pale, looking at her almost threateningly.
‘What have you been doing?’

‘It’s our gift—our surprise—dear Otto!’

‘Where is it? Let me go.’

‘No!—sit down and listen! Let me listen with you. I’ve not heard it
before! Mr. Falloden and I have been preparing it for months. Isn’t it
wonderful! Oh, dear Otto!—if you only like it!’ He sat down trembling,
and hand in hand they listened.

The ‘Fantasia’ ran on, dealing with song after song, now simply, now with
rich embroidery and caprice.

‘Who is it playing?’ said Otto, in a whisper.

‘It _was_ Paderewski!’ said Constance between laughing and crying. ‘Oh,
Otto, everybody’s been at work for it!—everybody was so marvellously
keen!’

‘In Paris?’

‘Yes—all your old friends—your teachers—and many others.’

She ran through the names. Otto choked. He knew them all, and some of
them were among the most illustrious in French music.

But while Connie was speaking the stream of sound in the distance sank
into gentleness, and in the silence a small voice arose, naïvely,
pastorally sweet, like the Shepherd’s Song in ‘Tristan.’ Otto buried his
face in his hands. It was the ‘Heynal,’ the watchman’s horn-song from
the towers of Panna Marya. Once given, a magician caught it, played with
it, pursued it, juggled with it, through a series of variations till,
finally, a grave and beautiful modulation led back to the noble dirge of
the beginning.

‘I know who wrote that!—who must have written it!’ said Otto, looking up.
He named a French name. ‘I worked with him at the Conservatoire for a
year.’

Constance nodded.

‘He did it for you,’ she said, her eyes full of tears. ‘He said you were
the best pupil he ever had.’

The door opened, and Mrs. Mulholland’s grizzled head appeared, with
Falloden and Sorell behind.

‘Otto!’ said Mrs. Mulholland, softly.

He understood that she called him, and he went with her in bewilderment,
along the passage to the studio.

Falloden came into the sitting-room and shut the door.

‘Did he like it?’ he asked, in a low voice, in which there was neither
pleasure nor triumph.

Connie, who was still sitting on the stool by the fire with her face
turned away, looked up.

‘Oh yes, yes!’ she said in a kind of desperation, wringing her hands;
‘but why are some pleasures worse than pain—much worse?’

Falloden came up to her, and stood silently, his eyes on hers.

‘You see—’ she went on, dashing tears away—‘It is not _his_ work—_his_
playing. It can’t do anything—can it?—for his poor starved _self_.’

Falloden said nothing. But she knew that he felt with her. Their scheme
seemed to be lying in ruins; they were almost ashamed of it.

Then from the further room there came to their ears a prelude of Chopin,
played surely by more than mortal fingers,—like the rustling of summer
trees, under a summer wind. And suddenly they heard Otto’s laugh—a sound
of delight.

Connie sprang up—her face transformed.

‘Did you hear that? We have—we have—given him pleasure!’

‘Yes—for an hour,’ said Falloden, hoarsely. Then he added—‘The doctors
say he ought to go south.’

‘Of course he ought!’ Connie was pacing up and down, her hands behind
her, her eyes on the ground. ‘Can’t Mr. Sorell take him?’

‘He could take him out, but he couldn’t stay. The college can’t spare
him. He feels his first duty is to the college.’

‘And you?’ She raised her eyes timidly.

‘What good should I be alone!’ he said, with difficulty. ‘I’m a pretty
sort of a nurse!’

There was a pause. Connie trembled and flushed. Then she moved forward,
both her little hands outstretched.

‘Take me with you!’ she murmured under her breath. But her eyes said
more—far more.

The next moment she was in Falloden’s arms, strained against his
breast—everything else lost and forgotten, as their lips met, in the just
selfishness of passion.

Then he released her, stepping back from her, his strong face quivering.

‘I was a mean wretch to let you do that!’ he said, with energy.

She eyed him.

‘Why?’

‘Because I have no right to let you give yourself to me—throw yourself
away on me—just because we have been doing this thing together,—because
you are sorry for Otto—and—’ his voice dropped—‘perhaps for me.’

‘_Oh!_’ It was a cry of protest. Coming nearer, she put her two hands
lightly on his shoulders—

‘Do you think—’ he saw her breath fluttering—‘do you think I should let
anyone—anyone—kiss me—like that! just because I was sorry for them—or for
someone else?’

He stood motionless beneath her touch.

‘You _are_ sorry for me—you angel!—and you’re sorry for Otto—and you want
to make up to everybody—and make everybody happy—and⸺’

‘And one can’t!’ said Connie quietly, her eyes bright with tears—‘Don’t
I know that? I repeat’—her colour was very bright—‘But perhaps you won’t
believe that—that’—then she laughed—‘_of my own free will_, I never
kissed anybody before?’

‘Constance!’ He threw his strong arms round her again. But she slipped
out of them.

‘Am I believed?’ The tone was peremptory.

Falloden stooped, lifted her hand and kissed it humbly.

‘You know you ought to marry a Duke!’ he said, trying to laugh, but with
a swelling throat.

‘Thank you—I never saw a Duke yet I wanted to marry.’

‘That’s it. You’ve seen so little. I am a pauper, and you might marry
anybody. It’s taking an unfair advantage. Don’t you see—what⸺’

‘What my aunts will think?’ asked Constance coolly—‘Oh yes, I’ve
considered all that.’

She walked away, and came back, a little pale and grave. She sat down on
the arm of a chair and looked up at him.

‘I see. You are as proud as ever.’

That hurt him. His face changed.

‘You can’t really think that,’ he said, with difficulty.

‘Yes, yes, you are!’ she said, wildly, covering her eyes a moment with
her hands. ‘It’s just the same as it was in the spring—only different—I
told you then—’

‘That I was a bully and a cad!’

Her hands dropped sharply.

‘I _didn’t_!’ she protested. But she coloured brightly as she spoke,
remembering certain remarks of Nora’s. ‘I thought—yes, I did think—you
cared too much about being rich—and a great swell—and all that. But so
did I!’ She sprang up. ‘What right had I to talk? When I think how I
patronised and looked down upon everybody!’

‘_You!_’ His tone was pure scorn. ‘You couldn’t do such a thing if you
tried for a week of Sundays.’

‘Oh couldn’t I! I _did_. Oxford seemed to me just a dear stupid old
place—out of the world,—a kind of museum—where nobody mattered. Silly,
wasn’t it? childish?’ She drew back her head fiercely, as though she
defied him to excuse her. ‘I was just amusing myself with it—and with
Otto—and with you. And that night, at Magdalen, all the time I was
dancing with Otto, I was aiming—abominably—at you! I wanted to provoke
you—to pay you back—oh, not for Otto’s sake—not at all!—but just
because—I had asked you something—and you had refused. That was what
stung me so. And do you suppose I should have cared twopence, unless⸺’

Her voice died away. Her fingers began fidgeting with the arm of the
chair, her eyes bent upon them.

He looked at her a moment irresolute, his face working. Then he said
huskily—

‘In return—for that—I’ll tell you—I must tell you the real truth about
myself. I don’t think you know me yet—and I don’t know myself. I’ve got
a great brutal force in me somewhere—that wants to brush everything—that
hinders me—or checks me—out of my path. I don’t know that I can control
it—that I can make a woman happy. It’s an awful risk for you. Look at
that poor fellow!’ He flung out his hand towards that distant room whence
came every now and then a fresh wave of music. ‘I didn’t _intend_ to do
him any bodily harm⸺’

‘Of course not! It was an accident!’ cried Connie passionately.

‘Perhaps—strictly. But I did mean somehow to crush him—to make it
precious hot for him—just because he’d got in my way. My will was like a
steel spring in a machine—that had been let go. Suppose I felt like that
again, towards⸺’

‘Towards me?’ Connie opened her eyes very wide, puckering her pretty brow.

‘Towards someone—or something—you care for. We are certain to disagree
about heaps of things.’

‘Of course we are. Quite certain!’

‘I tell you again,’ said Falloden, speaking with a strong simplicity
and sincerity that were all the time undoing the impression he honestly
desired to make—‘It’s a big risk for you—a temperament like mine—and you
ought to think it over seriously. And then’—he paused abruptly in front
of her, his hands in his pockets—‘Why should you—you’re so young!—start
life with any burden on you? Why should you? It’s preposterous! I must
look after Otto all his life.’

‘So must I!’ said Connie quickly. ‘That’s the same for both of us.’

‘No!—that’s nonsense. And then—you may forget it—but I can’t. I
repeat—I’m a pauper. I’ve lost Flood. I’ve lost everything that I could
once have given you. I’ve got about four thousand pounds left—just enough
to start me at the bar—when I’ve paid for the “Orpheus.” And I can’t take
a farthing from my mother or the other children. I should be just living
upon you. How do I know that I shall get on at the bar?’

Connie smiled; but her lips trembled.

‘Do think it over,’ he implored; and he walked away from her again, as
though to leave her free.

There was a silence. He turned—anxiously to look at her.

‘I seem’—said Connie, in a low voice that shook—‘to have kissed
somebody—for nothing.’

That was the last stroke. He came back to her, and knelt beside her,
murmuring inarticulate things. With a sigh of relief, Connie subsided
upon his shoulder, conscious through all her emotion of the dear
strangeness of the man’s coat against her cheek. But presently, she drew
herself away, and looked him in the eyes, while her own swam.

‘I love you’—she said deliberately—‘because—well, first because I love
you!—that’s the only good reason, isn’t it? and then, because you’re so
sorry. And I’m sorry too. We’ve both got to make up—we’re going to make
up all we _can_.’ Her sweet face darkened. ‘Oh Douglas, it’ll take the
two of us—and even then we can’t do it. But we’ll help each other.’

And stooping she kissed him gently, lingeringly, on the brow. It was a
kiss of consecration.

       *       *       *       *       *

A few minutes more, and then, with the Eighth Prelude swaying and
dancing round them, they went hand in hand down the long approach to the
music-room.

The door was open, and they saw the persons inside. Otto and Sorell were
walking up and down smoking cigarettes. The boy was radiant, transformed.
All look of weakness had disappeared; he held himself erect; his shock
of red-gold hair blazed in the firelight, and his eyes laughed, as he
listened silently, playing with his cigarette. Sorell evidently was
thinking only of him; but he too wore a look of quiet pleasure.

Only Mrs. Mulholland sat watchful, her face turned towards the open
door. It wore an expression which was partly excitement, partly doubt.
The strings of her large mushroom hat were untied; and her ample skirts,
looped up to keep them from the mud, billowed round her. Her snow-white
hair, above her very black eyes, and her frowning, intent look, gave her
the air of an old Sibyl watching at the cave’s mouth.

But when she saw the two—the young man and the girl—coming towards her,
hand in hand, she first peered at them intently, and then, as she rose,
all the gravity of her face broke up in laughter.

‘Hope for the best, you foolish old woman!’ she said to herself—‘“Male
and female made He them!”—world without end—Amen!’

‘Well?’ She moved towards them, as they entered the room; holding out her
hands with a merry, significant gesture.

Otto and Sorell turned. Connie—crimson—threw herself on Mrs. Mulholland’s
neck and kissed her. Falloden stood behind her, thinking of a number of
things to say, and unable to say any of them.

The last soft notes of the Prelude ceased.

It was for Connie to save the situation. With a gentle, gliding step, she
went across to Otto, who had gone very white again.

‘Dear Otto, you told me I should marry Douglas, and I’m going to. That’s
one to you. But I won’t marry him—and he agrees—unless you’ll promise to
come to Algiers with us, three weeks from now. You’ll lend him to us,
won’t you?’—she turned pleadingly to Sorell—‘we’ll take such care of him.
Douglas—you may be surprised!—is going to read law at Biskra!’

Otto sank into a chair. The radiance had gone. He looked very frail and
ghostly. But he took Connie’s outstretched hand.

‘I wish you joy,’ he said, stumbling painfully over the words. ‘I do wish
you joy!—with all my heart.’

Falloden approached him. Otto looked up wistfully. Their eyes met, and
for a moment the two men were conscious only of each other.

Mrs. Mulholland moved away, smiling, but with a sob in her throat.

‘It’s like all life,’ she thought—‘love and death, side by side.’

And she remembered that comparison by a son of Oxford, of each moment, as
it passes, to a watershed—‘whence equally the seas of life and death are
fed.’

But Connie was determined to carry things off with a laugh. She sat down
beside Otto, looking business-like.

‘Douglas and I’—the name came out quite pat—‘have been discussing how
long it really takes to get married.’

Mrs. Mulholland laughed.

‘Mrs. Hooper has been enjoying Alice’s trousseau so much, you needn’t
expect she’ll let you get through yours in a hurry.’

‘It’s going to be _my_ trousseau, not Aunt Ellen’s,’ said Connie with
decision. ‘Let me see. It’s now the 18th of December. Didn’t we say the
12th of January?’ She looked lightly at Falloden.

‘Somewhere near it,’ said Falloden, his smile at last answering hers.

‘We shall want a fortnight, I suppose, to get used to each other,’ said
Connie coolly. ‘Then’—she laid a hand on Mrs. Mulholland’s knee—‘you
bring him to Marseilles to meet us?’

‘Certainly—at your orders.’

Connie looked at Otto.

‘Dear Otto?’ The soft tone pleaded. He started painfully.

‘You’re awfully good to me. But how can I come to be a burden on you?’

‘But I shall go too,’ said Mrs. Mulholland, firmly.

Connie exclaimed in triumph:

‘We four—to front the desert!—just about the time that he’—she nodded
towards Sorell—‘is showing Nora and Uncle Ewen Rome. You mayn’t know
it’—she addressed Sorell—‘but on Monday, January 24—I think I’ve got the
date right—you and they go on a picnic to Hadrian’s Villa. The weather’s
arranged for—and the carriage is ordered.’

She looked at him askance. But her colour had risen. So had his. He
looked down on her while Mrs. Mulholland and Falloden were both talking
fast to Otto.

‘You little witch!’ said Sorell in a low voice—‘what are you after now?’

Connie laughed in his face.

‘You’ll go—you’ll see!’

       *       *       *       *       *

The little dinner which followed was turned into a betrothal feast.
Champagne was brought in, and Otto, madly gay, boasted of his forebears
and the incomparable greatness of Poland as usual. Nobody minded. After
dinner the magic toy in the studio discoursed Brahms and Schumann, in
the intervals of discussing plans and chattering over maps. But Connie
insisted on an early departure. ‘My guardian will have to sleep upon
it—and there’s really no time to lose.’ Everyone took care not to see
too much of the parting between her and Falloden. Then she and Mrs.
Mulholland were put into their carriage. But Sorell preferred to walk
home, and Falloden went back to Otto.

Sorell descended the hill towards Oxford. The storm was dying away,
and the now waning moon, which had shone so brilliantly over the frozen
floods a day or two before, was venturing out again among the scudding
clouds. The lights in Christ Church Hall were out, but the beautiful city
shone vaguely luminous under the night.

Sorell’s mind was full of mingled emotion—as torn and jagged as the
clouds rushing overhead. The talk and laughter in the cottage came back
to him. How hollow and vain it sounded in the spiritual ear! What could
ever make up to that poor boy who could have no more, at the most, than a
year or two to live? for the spilt wine of his life?—the rifled treasure
of his genius? And was it not true to say that his loss had made the
profit of the lovers—of whom one had been the author of it? When Falloden
and Constance believed themselves to be absorbed in Otto, were they not
really playing the great game of sex like any ordinary pair?

It was the question that Otto himself had asked—that any cynic must have
asked. But Sorell’s tender humanity passed beyond it. The injury done,
indeed, was beyond repair. But the mysterious impulse which had brought
Falloden to the help of Otto was as real in its sphere as the anguish
and the pain; aye, for the philosophic spirit, more real than they, and
fraught with a healing and disciplining power that none could measure.
Sorell admitted—half-reluctantly—the changes in life and character which
had flowed from it. He was even ready to say that the man who had proved
capable of feeling it, in spite of all past appearances, was ‘not far
from the Kingdom of God.’

       *       *       *       *       *

Oxford drew nearer and nearer. Tom Tower loomed before him. Its great
bell rang out. And suddenly, as if he could repress it no longer, there
ran through Sorell’s mind—his half melancholy mind, unaccustomed to
the claims of personal happiness—the vision that Connie had so sharply
evoked; of a girl’s brown eyes and honest look—the look of a child to be
cherished, of a woman to be loved.

Was it that morning that he had helped Nora to translate a few lines of
the _Antigone_?

‘Love, all-conquering love, that nestles in the fair cheeks of a maiden⸺’

It is perhaps not surprising that Sorell, on this occasion, after he had
entered the High, should have taken the wrong turn to St. Cyprian’s, and
woke up to find himself passing through Radcliffe Square, when he ought
to have been in the Turl.


THE END





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