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SEPTEMBER 1916.

THE KAISER AS HIS FRIENDS KNEW HIM.

BY A NEUTRAL DIPLOMAT.

Among the high German officials whose opinion of William the Second’s foreign policies I quoted in my previous article, I do not recall a single one whose loyalty or sense of propriety did not prevent his offering any personal criticisms of the Emperor to whose service his best efforts were being devoted. An apprehensiveness, bordering on positive dread in many instances, of the ultimate consequences of the Kaiser’s impetuosities was often apparent in the observations of their franker moments, but personal aspersions were never cast. This was, of course, no more than could have been expected from the well-bred men-of-the-world that they were. And in this connection it may be in point to add that not even among the rather gay and not always discreetly reserved officers of the Crown Prince’s suite (with whom I was thrown not a little during their visit to India in 1911) was loose criticism of the Emperor ever heard, either by myself or by others who enjoyed still fuller opportunities than I had for meeting them on intimate and confidential terms.

Frederick William himself was, I regret to record, far less discreet than those about him in his references to his imperial progenitor, and I recall very clearly that quick-tongued youth’s sarcastic allusions to certain rulings of the Kaiser in the matter of the treatment of the natives of some of the islands of German Melanesia. The Crown Prince, I should explain, I had found consumed with interest concerning the progress his people were making in several of their Pacific island colonies I had recently visited, and it was to his very palpable desire to ‘pump me dry’ of any information I might have picked up regarding these incipient ‘places in the sun’ that I owed a number of hours of conversation with him the edification of which would hardly otherwise have fallen to my lot.

The outburst I had in mind was led up to by my royal inquisitor’s asking me for my views concerning the comparative progress of the three political divisions of the island of New Guinea, and by my replying that, if the criterion of judgment was to be the contentment, physical well-being, and economic usefulness of the native, I should rate British New Guinea first, Dutch New Guinea an indifferent second, and German New Guinea a very poor third. It was anything but a courtier-like speech on my part, but I was not meeting Frederick William in my official capacity, and, moreover, he had made a point of asking that I should give him perfectly frank answers to his questions. (‘None of the “bull con’,” as the Yankees say,’ was the way he put it; ‘give me the “straight goods.”’ Both expressions, as he confessed with a grin, he had picked up from a ‘neat little filly from Kentucky’ he had ‘seen a bit of’ at Ostend the previous summer.)

The Crown Prince, in spite of his undeniable personal courage, of which I saw several striking instances in the course of his Indian visit, is far from being what the Anglo-Saxons call a ‘good sport,’ and on this occasion he made no pretence of hiding his annoyance. Because, however, as transpired later, there were several other matters which he had in mind ‘pumping’ me on, he evidently thought it best not to vent his spleen for the moment on one whose usefulness was not quite exhausted. This befell subsequently, I may add, though under circumstances which have no especial bearing on my present subject.

Tapping his boot with his riding-whip—he had been playing polo—the Prince sat in a sort of spoiled-child pout of petulance for a minute or two, before bursting out with: ‘Doubtless you’re right. I’ve had hints of the same thing myself from private reports. It’s all due to the pater’s unwarranted interference in something he knows nothing about. Old X——’ (mentioning the previous Governor of German New Guinea by name) ‘has forgotten more about handling Papuans than the pater ever knew. The pater has put his foot in it every time he has moved in our Pacific colonies.’ (It may be in order to explain that not only does the Crown Prince speak excellent English, but that on this Indian visit he made a point of resorting to English idioms, colloquialisms, and slang to an extent which at times became positively ridiculous. I have quoted here almost his exact language.)

Frederick William went on to give me a spirited and approving account of the manner in which a German colonist near Herbertshöhe had put an end to raids on his yam patch by planting on each corner-post of the enclosure the ‘frizzly’ head of a Papuan who had been shot in the act of making off with the succulent tubers, concluding with the dogmatic assertion that the only way to handle the black man was to ‘bleed him white.’

I had the temerity to reply that, from what I had seen, the more ‘old X——’ continued to forget of what he thought he knew about handling Papuans, the better it would be for German colonial prospects in New Guinea, and as a consequence threw my royal interrogator into another fit of sulks. It is only fair to say that the ‘interference’ of which the Crown Prince waxed so unfilially censorious really consisted of measures calculated slightly—but only slightly—to mitigate the brutal repressiveness toward the natives which had characterised the German administration of New Guinea from the outset. The one bright spot in the brief but bloody annals of German overseas colonisation was the six or eight years’ régime of the broad-minded and humane Dr. Solf—the present Colonial Secretary—in Samoa. This tiny and comparatively unimportant Pacific outpost was the single Teutonic colony in which I found the natives treated with anything approaching the humanitarian consideration extended to them so universally by the English and the French. Dr. Solf may well be, as has been occasionally hinted from Holland, the hope of those conservative and intelligent Germans who are known to be silently working for a reborn and ‘de-Prussified’ Fatherland after the war.

As I have said, the Crown Prince was the only highly placed German whom I ever heard speak slightingly in a personal way of the Kaiser, and that impetuous youth was—as he still is—a law unto himself. Such loyalty and discretion, however, did not characterize all prominent Germans in private life, and it is to several of these I am indebted for the illuminating sidelights their observations and anecdotes threw on the human side of William II. Of such, I fancy the Baron Y——, who voyaged on the same steamer with me from Zanzibar to Port Said several years ago, had enjoyed perhaps the most intimate opportunities for an intelligent appraisal of his Emperor.

The Baron was a scion of one of the oldest and wealthiest of Bavarian noble families, a graduate of the École des Beaux Arts as well as Heidelberg, and to the fact that several years of his boyhood were spent at Harrow owed an English accent in speaking that language which betrayed no trace of Teutonic gutturality. He was returning from an extended hunting trip in British and German East Africa at the time I made his acquaintance, and was nursing a light grievance against his own Government from the fact that he had been rather better treated in the former than the latter. His attitude toward the Kaiser was somewhat different from that of any other German I have ever met, this, doubtless, being due to his own great wealth and assured position. There was little of the ‘loyal and devoted subject’ in this attitude, to which no better comparison suggests itself to me than that of a very heavy stock-holder in a corporation toward a general manager who is in no respect his social superior.

‘The Kaiser’s most pronounced characteristic,’ said Baron Y—— one evening as we paced the promenade, ‘is his overweening vanity. His “ego” dwarfs his every other attribute, natural or acquired, and it is idle to try to understand what he is, what he does, what he stands for—and, incidentally, what the German people, in quite another sense, have to stand for—without taking that fact into consideration. It is the obsession of his own importance—I might even say his belief in his own omnipotence—that is responsible for his taking the so-called Divine Right of the Hohenzollerns more seriously, interpreting the term more literally, than any of his ancestors since Frederick the Great. It is his vanity that is responsible for his incessant shiftings of uniforms, for his posturings, his obvious attempts to conceal or distract attention from his shrunken arm. He is the most consummate master of stagecraft; indeed, the Fates spoiled a great producer of spectacles—one who would have eclipsed Reinhardt—to make, not an indifferent Emperor, but——’ The Baron checked himself and concluded with: ‘Perhaps I had best not say what I had in mind. Everything considered, however, I am convinced that it would have been better for Germany if William the Second had been stage-manager rather than Kaiser.’

Specific and intimate instance of the pettiness with which the Kaiser’s vanity occasionally expressed itself Baron Y—— gave me the following evening. I had been turning the pages of some of his German illustrated papers, and was unable to refrain from commenting, not only on the frequency with which the portrait of the Kaiser appeared, but also of the defiant ‘come-one-come-all’ attitude of all of those in which the War Lord appeared in uniform. The Baron laughed good-naturedly. ‘The Kaiser’s attitudinizings,’ he said, ‘never seem to strike the Prussians as in the least funny (they haven’t much of a sense of humour, anyhow): but we Bavarians have always taken them as quite as much of a joke as has the rest of Europe. Now this picture’ (he began turning the pages of ‘Ueber Land und Meer’ in search of it), ‘which is one of the most popular with the Prussians, we of Bavaria have always called “Ajax Defying the Lightning,” and I am going to tell you the history of it.

‘This picture is reproduced from one of several dozen almost identical photographs which have been taken of the Kaiser glowering into the emptiness of the upper empyrean from the vantage of a little basaltic crag which crops up at the forks of a road in one of the Imperial game preserves. I have always taken a sort of paternal interest in this apparently “to-be-continued-indefinitely” series of photographs, for it chanced that I was in the company of their central figure on the occasion when he discovered this now famous pedestal, and it was due to a suggestion of mine that he was enabled to turn his find to what he no doubt considers a most felicitous use.

‘It was on one of the early days of an imperial hunting party—just the ordinary affair of its kind, with no one in particular from the outside on hand, and nothing especial in the way of sport offered—and the Kaiser, not being in very good fettle, had bidden me remain in the lodge with him to discuss some experiments I had been conducting on my estates with some drought-resisting barleys and lucernes, the seed of which had been sent to Germany by one of our “agricultural explorers” in Central Asia. The Kaiser’s keenness for skimming the cream of the world and bringing it home for the German people is only exceeded by his vanity,’ the Baron added parenthetically.

‘Having heard all I had to report, my imperial host suggested a stroll in the forest, and it was while pushing on from tree to tree to study the efficacy of a new kind of chemically treated cement the foresters had been using to arrest the progress of decay that we wandered out upon the jutting crag shown in this picture. It was late in the afternoon, and by both of the two converging roads, several hundred metres of vista of each of which were commanded from our lofty eyrie, men were drifting back toward the lodge from the hunt. The dramatic possibilities of the unexpected vantage point—the manner in which one was able to step from behind the drop-curtain of the forest undergrowth to the front of the stage at the tip of the jutting crag—kindled the fire of the Kaiser’s imagination instantly.

‘“What a place from which to review my hunting guests!” he exclaimed, stepping forward and throwing out his chest in his best “reviewing” manner. “Strange I have never noticed it from the road. It must be because the light is so bad here. Yes, that is what the trouble is. They cannot see us even as clearly as we can see them.” (He frowned his palpable disappointment that all eyes from below were not centred upon him where he stood in fine defiance in the middle of his new-found stage.)

‘“If I may venture a suggestion, Your Majesty,” I said, “I think it is the dense shadow from that big tree on the next point that makes it so dark here. Do you not see that the sun is directly behind it at this hour? The removal of that out-reaching limb on the right would give this crag at least an hour of sunshine, but, as a practical forester, I should warn you that doing so would destroy the ‘balance’ of the tree so much that the next heavy storm would probably topple it over to the left. It already inclines that way, and——”

‘“There are several hundred thousand more trees like that in the Black Forest,” cut in the Kaiser, “but not one other look-out to compare with this. My sincere thanks for the suggestion. I will have it carried out.”

‘And so,’ continued Baron Y——, ‘the obscuring limb was removed, and the mutilated tree, as I knew it must, went down the following winter. “My look-out now will have three hours of sunlight instead of one,” the Kaiser observed gleefully when he told me about it; “I was glad to see it go.”

‘It was a case of one monarch against another, and as the Kaiser is resolved to brook no rival, especially where the question of his “sunlight” is concerned, I suppose the sequel was inevitable. All the same I am sorry that—that it was the monarch of the forest that had to go down. But though the tree went down,’ he concluded with a grimace, tossing the magazine into my lap, ‘the “Ajax” pictures still continue.’

‘Wouldn’t “His Place in the Sun” be even an apter title than “Ajax Defying the Lightning”?’ I ventured.

‘Unquestionably,’ was the reply. ‘I had thought of that myself. But, you see, even we Bavarians are very keen in the matter of the extension of Germany’s “übersee” colonies, and it wouldn’t do to make light of our own ambitions.’

I have set down this little story just as it was told to me, and it is only since the outbreak of the war, when the mainsprings of German motives are revealed at Armageddon, that it has occurred to me how perfectly it resolves itself into allegory. To the world at large, but to the Briton especially, is there no suggestion in what the Kaiser did to the tree, which for a hundred years or more had shadowed his tardily stumbled-upon look-out, of what he planned to do to the Empire which he had so often intimated had crowded him out of his ‘place in the sun’? With the tree he hewed off a sun-obscuring limb, and the unbalanced, mutilated remnant succumbed to the first storm that assailed it. Was not this the procedure that he reckoned upon following with the ‘obscuring limbs’ of the British Empire?

The foregoing instance of the extravagant vanity of the Kaiser Baron Y—— told more in amusement than in censoriousness, but I recall another little story to much the same point that he related with hard eyes and the shade of a frown, as one man speaks of another who has not quite ‘played the game’ in sport or business. It, also, had to do with an imperial hunt.

‘As you doubtless know,’ he said, after telling me something of how creditably the Kaiser shot, considering his infirmity, ‘a strenuous endeavour is always made on these occasions that the best game be driven up to the rifles of royalty, a custom which none of the Hohenzollerns have ever had the sporting instinct to modify in favour of even the most distinguished visitors. By some chance on the day in question, a remarkably fine boar ran unscathed the gauntlet of the imperial batteries and fell—an easy shot—to my own bullet. It was a really magnificent trophy—the brute was as high at the shoulder as a good-sized pony, and his tusks curved through fully ninety degrees more than a complete circle—and it had occurred to me at once that it was in order that I should at least offer to make a present of the head to my royal host. Frankly, however, I really wanted it very badly for my own hall, and I can still recall hoping that the Kaiser would “touch and remit, after the manner of kings,” as Kipling puts it.’

The Baron was silent for a few moments, staring hard in front of him with the look of a man who ponders something that has rankled in his mind for years. ‘Well,’ he resumed presently, ‘the Kaiser did “touch” (in the sense the Yankees use the term, I mean), but he did not “remit.” When we came to group for the inevitable after-the-hunt photograph, I was dumbfounded to see a couple of the imperial huntsmen drag up my prize, not in front of me, where immemorial custom decreed it should go, but to the feet of the Kaiser. He even had the nerve to have the photograph taken with his foot on its head. You have shot big game yourself, and you will know, therefore, that this would convey to any hunter exactly the same thing as his writing under the photograph, “I shot this boar myself.”’

The Baron took a long breath before resuming. ‘I need not tell you how surprised and angry I was, and I will not tell you what it took all the self-control I had to keep from doing. What I did do, I flatter myself, would have been thoroughly efficacious in bringing home to any other man in this world the consummate meanness of the thing he had done. The moment the photograph was finished I stepped up to the Kaiser and, controlling my voice as best I could, said: “Your Majesty, I beg you will deign to accept as a humble token of my admiration of your prowess as a hunter and your courtesy as a host the fine boar which my poor rifle was fortunate to bring down to-day.”

‘I still think that my polite sarcasm would have cut through the armour of any other man on earth. It was impossible to mistake my meaning, and he must have known that every man there knew it was my boar that he had had his picture taken with and was still coolly keeping his boot upon. Possibly he decided in his own mind, then and there, that the time had come to extend the “Divine Right of the Hohenzollerns” to the hunting field. At any rate, he bowed graciously, thanked me warmly, and, pointing down to where I had stood in the picture, said he presumed it was “that little fellow with the deformed tusk.”

‘My head was humming from the shock of the effrontery, but I still have distinct recollection of the deliberate sang-froid of the Kaiser’s manner as he directed someone to “mark that little boar with a twisted tusk, a gift from my good friend, Baron Y——, for mounting as a trophy.” I was a potential regicide for the next week or two, but my sense of humour pulled me up in the end. For, after all, what is the use of taking seriously a man who, for the sake of tickling his insatiate vanity by having his photograph taken with his foot on the head of a bigger pig than those in front of his hunting guests, commits an act that, were he anything less than an Emperor, would stamp him with every one of them as an out-and-out bounder? The memory of the thing makes me “see red” a bit even to-day if I let my mind dwell on it at all, but mingling with my resentment and mortification there is always a sort of sneaking admiration for the way the Kaiser (as the Yankees say) “got away with the goods.” The Hohenzollern—the trait is as evident in the Crown Prince as it is in his father—will always go forward instead of backward when it comes to being confronted with the consequences of either their bluffs or their breaks, and it is about time that the people in Germany, as well as the people outside of Germany, got this fact well in mind when dealing with them.’

These words were spoken before the Kaiser backed down when his Agadir bluff was called, but, generally speaking, I think the action of both father and son since then has been eloquent vindication of their truth.

Another noble German of my acquaintance who had at one time been on terms of exceptional intimacy with the Kaiser was the wealthy and distinguished Baron von K——, who, in the two decades previous to the outbreak of the war, had divided his time about equally between his ancestral castle on the Rhine and a great Northern California ranch brought him by his wealthy American wife. I met him first at a house-party in Honolulu about ten years ago, and at that time he appeared to take considerable pride in his friendship with the Kaiser, of whom he was wont to speak often and sympathetically. Since then I have encountered him, now in America, now in Europe, on an average of once a year, and on each succeeding occasion I noticed a decreasing warmth on his part, not so much for Germany and the Germans, for whom he still expressed great affection, but rather toward the Kaiser and his policies. It must have been fully seven years ago that he told me, at the Lotus Club in New York, that the mad race of armaments in which Germany was setting the pace for the rest of Europe could only end in one way—a great war in which his country would run a risk of losing far more than it had any chance of winning.

It was not long after this that I heard that Baron von K—— had returned hurriedly and unexpectedly from Germany to America, taking with him his two sons who had been at school there. I never learned exactly what the trouble was, but a friend of his told me that it had some connection with an effort that had been made to induce the youngsters to become German subjects and join the army, flattering prospects in which were held out to them. Von K—— is said to have declared that the boys should never be allowed to set foot in Germany again. Whether this latter statement is true or not, it is a fact that neither of the lads has ever since crossed the Atlantic, and that both are now at Harvard.

In the spring of 1911 von K—— cut short what was to have been a fortnight’s business trip to Germany to one of four days, the change in plan, as I have since learned, being due to an ‘invitation’ (an euphemism for a command) from the Kaiser to invest a huge sum of money in one of his armament concerns, great extensions in which were contemplated. Von K—— refused point-blank, rushed through his business, and took the first boat for New York. I did not see him until the following year, but friends told me that for a couple of months after his return to California he absolutely refused to talk of Germany or of German affairs even with his intimates.

This silence was dramatically broken in the smoking-room of the Union League Club, San Francisco, on the evening when the news came that the Kaiser had sent the gunboat ‘Panther’ to Agadir as a trump card for the game he was playing for the control of Morocco. Von K—— was frowning over his paper when an American friend came up, clapped him on the shoulder, and exclaimed: ‘The Baron is in close touch with the Kaiser; perhaps he can tell us what “The Mailed Fist” is punching at in North Africa.’

What von K—— said regarding the allegation that he was in close touch with the Kaiser was not stated in words that even the San Francisco papers (whose ‘news vultures’ had pounced upon the incident within an hour) felt able to report verbatim the following morning, but his ‘Mailed Fist’ mot went from California to Maine in the next twelve hours, and even to-day is still freely quoted whenever the question of the War Lord’s mentality is the subject of discussion.

‘Mailed vist!’ snorted the Baron, whose English has never climbed entirely out of his throat; ‘Vell, berhabst dey haas mailed his vist, but, by Gott, dey haas neffer mailed his prain.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘Or maype, if dey haas mailed his prain, der bostmann haas forgodt it to deliffer.’

I saw Baron von K—— in San Francisco—encountered him beaming over the sculptures in the Italian Building at the Panama-Pacific Exposition—but was unable to draw him into any discussion of Germany and the war. He did, however, tell me that his German estates were for sale, that he never expected to return there again, and that—the day after Belgium was invaded—he had applied for his first papers of American citizenship.

THE TUTOR’S STORY.[1]

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

CHAPTER XXX.

That was the first of many days—for by both Braithwaite’s and Nellie’s request I stayed on at Westrea until nearly the end of the vacation—of sweet but very searching experience. If I played with fire it was a purifying fire surely, burning away the baser metal and leaving whatever of gold might be in me free of dross.

Not that I say this boastfully—who am I, indeed, to boast?—but humbly and thankfully, knowing I passed through an ordeal from which—while the animal man cowered and shrank, crying aloud, aye, and with tears of agony, to be spared—the spiritual man drew strength and rose, in God’s mercy, to greater fulness of life. For I learned very much, and that at first hand, by personal experiment, not by hearsay merely or, parrot-like, by rote. Learned the truth of the apostle’s dictum, that although ‘all things are lawful,’ yet, for some of us, many things, however good in themselves or good for others, are ‘not expedient.’ Learned, too, the value of the second best, learned to accept the lower place. Learned to rejoice in friendship, since the greater joys of love were denied me, schooling myself to play a brother’s part; play it fearlessly and, as I trust, unselfishly, watchful that neither by word, or deed, or even by look, I overstepped the limit I had set myself and forfeited the trust and faith Nellie reposed in me.

To do this was no easy matter. At moments, I own, the springs of courage and resolution ran perilously dry. Then I would go away by myself for a time; and—why should I hesitate to tell it?—pray, wrestle in prayer, for self-mastery which, with that wrestling, came. For if we are honest with ourselves and with Him, disdaining self-pity and self-excuse, Almighty God is very safe to fulfil His part of the bargain. This, also, I learned, during those sweet and searching days at Westrea, beyond all question of doubt.

I rode or drove with Braithwaite about the neighbouring country. Walked with him over his farm. Talked with him endlessly of his agricultural schemes and improvements. Talked with him about public events, too, and about politics. Only once or twice was Hartover, or Hover, mentioned; and then, I observed, his tone took on a certain bitterness. He had been up to Yorkshire on business a little prior to my visit, had happened to run across Warcop—aged and sad, so he told me. But my old friend laid aside much of his customary caution, it appeared, on hearing Braithwaite expected shortly to see me, and bade him tell me things were not well at Hover.

‘What he actually knows, what he only suspects, I could not quite discover,’ Braithwaite went on. ‘But I gathered the Countess has been up to queer tricks. As to that business, now, of the Italian rascal going off with the plate—you heard of it?—well, it looks uncommonly as though my lady was in no haste to have him laid by the heels—bamboozled the police, as she bamboozled pretty well every unlucky wretch she comes across, until he had time to make good his escape.’

‘And the Colonel?’ I asked.

‘A dark horse. Connived at the fellow’s escape, too, I am inclined to think. Marsigli knew too much of the family goings-on, and, if he was caught, was pretty sure to blab in revenge. I am not given to troubling myself about the unsavoury doings of great folks, Brownlow. They had a short way with aristocratic heads during the French Revolution at the end of last century, and I am not altogether sure they weren’t right. But for my poor Nellie’s sake, I should never give that Longmoor faction a second thought. As it is I have been obliged to think about them, and I believe the plain English of the whole affair is that the Colonel and my lady have been on better terms than they should be for many years past. What she wants is a second Lord Longmoor as husband, and the money, and the property, and—a son of her own to inherit it. An ugly accusation? Yes. But can you spell out the mystery any better way than that?’

I did not know that I could, and told him so. There the conversation dropped, while my mind went back to the letter Nellie had shown me.—It was a devilish action of Fédore’s, I thought, the mark of a base, cruel nature, capable—the last sin—of trampling on the fallen. And yet might it not have been dictated by the pardonable desire to secure her prize for herself, to prevent pursuit, inquiry, scandal, perhaps fresh misery for Nellie? There are two sides, two explanations, of every human act; and the charitable one is just as rational, often more so, than the uncharitable. If she stated her case somewhat coarsely, was she not low-bred, ill-taught, excited by success?

Thus did I argue with myself, trying to excuse the woman, lest I should let anger get the upper hand of reason and judgment. But what was her relation to Marsigli? This it was which really mattered, which was of lasting moment. And about this I must be silent, be cool and prudent. At present I could take no action. I must wait on events.

Meanwhile each day brought me a closer acquaintance with, and respect for, Nellie’s character; the liveliness of her intelligence, and justness of her taste. And to it, the intellectual side of her nature, I made my appeal, trying to take her mind off personal matters and interest her in literature and thought. On warm mornings, her household duties finished, she would bring her needlework out to a sheltered spot in the garden, where the high red-brick wall formed an angle with the house front; and sitting there, the flowers, the brimming water, the gently upward sloping grass-land and avenue of oaks before us, I would read aloud to her from her favourite authors or introduce her to books she had not yet read. On chill evenings we would sit beside the wood fire in the hall, while Braithwaite was busy with the newspaper or accounts, and read till the dying twilight obliged her to rise and light the lamp. Much of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Scott, along with Pope’s rendering of the Iliad, Hazlitt’s Lectures and Lamb’s Essays, we studied thus. Shelley, save for a few of the lyrics, we avoided by tacit consent; and Byron likewise, with the exception of certain portions of ‘Childe Harold’; the heroic rather than the sentimental note seeming safest—though from different causes—to us both.

Often I would illustrate our reading by telling her about the authors, the places, or the period with which it dealt, to see her hands drop in her lap, her face grow bright, her manner animated, as she listened and questioned me—argued a little too, if she differed from my opinion. Sometimes she laughed with frank enjoyment at some merry tale or novel idea. And then I was indeed rewarded—only too well rewarded. For her laughter was exquisite to me, both in sound and in token of—were it but momentary—lightness of heart.

After that first morning in the Orchard Close, we rarely mentioned the dear boy. I felt nothing could be gained by leading the conversation in his direction. If it would afford her relief, if she wanted to speak, she knew by now, I felt, she could do so without embarrassment or fear of misunderstanding on my part. But it was not until the afternoon of the day preceding my return to Cambridge that we had any prolonged talk on the subject.

Braithwaite, I remember, had driven over to Thetford upon business; and, at Nellie’s request, I walked with her to the village, so that she might show me the fine old monuments and brasses in the parish church.

Coming back across the fields, we lingered a little, watching the loveliness of the early May sunset. For, looking westward, all the land lay drenched in golden haze, which—obliterating the horizon line—faded upward into a faint golden-green sky, across which long webs were drawn of rose and grey. Out of the sunset a soft wind blew; full, as it seemed, of memory and wistful invitation to—well—I know not what. But either that wind or consciousness of our parting on the morrow moved Nellie to open her heart to me more freely than ever before.

‘Dear Mr. Brownlow,’ she said, her eyes still fixed on that loveliness of sunset—‘I want to thank you now, while we are still alone, for all you have done for me. You have, indeed, been a good physician, and I want you to know how much better I am since you came—stronger, and more at peace. I promise you I will do my utmost to keep the ground I have gained, and not fall back into the unworthy state of mind out of which you have brought me. I do not say I am cured.’

She looked up at me, smiling.

‘I do not think you would ask that of me. I have no wish to be—I should, I think, be ashamed to be cured of—of my love. For it would make what was most beautiful seem unreal and untrue. But I am resigned to all—almost all—which has happened. I no longer kick against the pricks, or ask to have things otherwise. I shall not let it make me sour or envious—thanks to you.’

And as she spoke I read in her dear eyes a depth of innocent and trustful affection, which was almost more than I could endure.

‘I have come to a better frame of mind,’ she said. ‘It will last. It shall last, I promise you.’

‘Then all is well,’ I answered, haltingly.

But as I spoke her expression changed. She walked forward along the field path, looking upon the ground.

‘Yes, all—I suppose—is well,’ she repeated. ‘All except one thing—that hurts still.’

‘And what is that one thing?’

I thought I knew. If I was right, I had a remedy at hand—a desperate one, perhaps, but she was firm enough to bear it now.

‘I always felt how little I had to offer, as against his position, his gifts, and all the attractions of his life at Hover, and still more his life in town. The wonder was he should ever have found me worth caring for at all. But I thought his nature was deeper and more constant, and it hurts—it must always hurt—that he should have forgotten so soon and so entirely as she—his wife—says he has.’

‘There she lied. He has not forgotten,’ I answered. ‘Here are Hartover’s own words.’

And I gave her the letter I received after my visit to Chelsea. Let her learn the truth, the whole truth, as from his own lips—learn the best and the worst of him, and so meet whatever the future might bring with open eyes.

Some twenty yards ahead a stile and gate divided the field of spring wheat we were crossing from the pasture beyond. I must leave Nellie to herself. So I went on and stood, leaning my elbows on the top bar of the gate.

Below, in the hollow, the red roofs and chimneys of Westrea and a glint of water showed through the veil of golden haze. An abode of peace, of those wholesome fruitful industries which link man to mother-earth and all her ancient mysteries of the seasons, of seed-time and harvest, rain and shine. How far away in purpose and sentiment from the gaudy world of fashion, of artificial excitement, intrigue and acrimonious rivalries, to which my poor boy, Hartover, now belonged! Yes, and therefore, since here her lot was cast, it was well Nellie should know the best and worst of him, his weakness and his fine instincts alike; because—because—in the back of my mind was a conviction, irrational, unfounded, very foolish perhaps, but at this moment absolute, that the end was not yet. And that, in the end, by ways which I knew not, once again Nellie would find Hartover, and Hartover would find Nellie, and finding her would find rest to his soul, salvation to his wayward nature, and thus escape the fate of Alcibiades, which I had always so dreaded for him, and prove worthy of his high station, his great possessions, his singular beauty, charm and talent, even yet.

For five minutes, nearly ten minutes, while the gold faded to grey, I waited, and Nellie gave no sign. I began to grow nervous and question the wisdom of my own action. To her, pure and high-minded as she was, would this revelation of dissipation and hard-living prove too painful, would she turn from it in anger and disgust? Had I betrayed my trust, been disloyal to the dear boy in letting her see his confession? I bowed my head upon my hands. Fool, fool, thus to rush in where angels might truly fear to tread!

Then quick, light footsteps behind me—the rustle of a woman’s dress. And as, fearful and humiliated, I, turning, looked up, Nellie’s eyes like stars, her face pale but glorious in its exaltation and triumphant tenderness.

‘Dear good physician,’ she said, ‘I am really cured at last—not of, but by love. All that seemed spoilt and lost is given back. How can I thank you enough? I can bear to be away from him, bear to give him up, now that I know he really cared for me, really suffered in leaving me. I can even forgive her, though she has been cruel and insolent, because she went to him in his trouble and helped to save his life. And I understand why he married her—it was chivalrous and generous on his part. It places him higher in my estimation. I can admire him in that too.’

I gazed at her, dazzled, enchanted, wondering. And then—shame, thrice shame to me after all my struggles, resolutions, prayers—the devil of envy raised its evil head, of bitterness against the rich man, who with all his gold and precious stones, his flocks and herds, must yet steal the poor man’s one jewel, one little ewe lamb.

‘Have you read all the letter—read that part in which he speaks of his first months in London?’ I asked.

For an instant she looked at me without comprehension, her eyebrows drawn together, in evident question and surprise. Then the tension relaxed. Gently and sweetly she laughed.

‘Ah! yes,’ she said. ‘I know. He grew reckless—he did wrong. But—but, dear Mr. Brownlow—is it wicked of me?—I cannot condemn him for that—because it was his love for me which drove him to it. He tells you so himself. I suppose I ought to be shocked—I will try to be—presently—if you say I ought. But not just yet—please not just yet.’

‘Neither now nor presently,’ I answered, conscience-stricken and ashamed. ‘You know far better than I what is right. Follow your own heart.’

I opened the gate, and stood back for her to pass. As she did so she paused.

‘You are displeased with me,’ she said. ‘Yet why? Why did you let me read his letter, except to comfort me and make me happy by showing me he was not to blame?’

Why indeed? She well might ask. And how was I to answer without still further betraying my trust—my trust to her, this time, since I had sworn to be to her as a brother and let no hint of my own feelings disturb the serenity of our intercourse?

So I replied, I am afraid clumsily enough—

‘You are mistaken. And to show you how little I am displeased I beg you to keep this letter, in exchange for the one you gave me to keep. You may like to read it through again, from time to time.’

I held it out. And for an instant she hesitated, her eyes fixed upon the writing, upon the paper, as though these actual and material things were precious in her sight. Then she put her hands behind her and shook her head.

‘No—better not. It is not necessary,’ she said with a childlike gravity. Her whole attitude just now was curiously simple and childlike. ‘I have every word of it by heart already, dear Mr. Brownlow. I shall remember every word—always.’

And for a while we walked on in silence, side by side, beneath the dying sunset. Upon the hump-backed bridge spanning the stream Nellie stopped.

‘One thing more, good physician,’ she said, very gently. ‘I am cut off from him for—for ever by his marriage. But you can watch over him and care for his welfare still. You will do so?’

‘Before God—yes,’ I answered.

‘And, sometimes, you will let me hear, you will come and tell me about him?’

‘Again—yes—before God.’

And I smiled to myself, bowing my head. Oh! the magnificent and relentless egoism of love!—But she should have this since she asked it; this and more than this. Plans began to form in my mind, a determination to make sure, whatever it might cost me, about this same marriage of Hartover’s. I would devote myself to an inquiry, pursue it carefully, prudently; but pursue it regardless of time, regardless of money—such money as, by economy and hard work, I could command. For was not such an inquiry part, and an integral one, of the pledge to watch over Hartover and care for his welfare which I had so recently and solemnly given her? Undoubtedly it was.

‘Thank you,’ she said. Then after a pause, ‘I wonder why you are so kind to me? Sometimes I am almost afraid of your kindness, lest it should make me selfish and conceited, make me think too highly of myself. Indeed I will try better to deserve it. I will read. I will improve my mind, so as to be more worthy of your society and teaching, when you come again.—But, Mr. Brownlow, I have never kept anything from my father until now. Is it deceitful of me not to tell him of these two letters? They would anger and vex him; and he has been so much happier and like his old self since you have been with us. I hate to disturb him and open up the past.’

‘I think you are, at least, justified in waiting for a time before telling him,’ I faltered.

For my poor head was spinning, and I had much ado to collect my wits. She would read, improve herself, be more worthy of my teaching when I came again, forsooth!—Ah! Nellie, Nellie, that I must listen with unmoved pedagogic countenance, that I must give you impersonal and sage advice, out of a broken heart!—

‘Yes, wait,’ I repeated. ‘Later your course of action may be made clearer, and you may have an opportunity of speaking without causing him annoyance or distress. You are not disobeying his orders, in any case.’

‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘See, the lamps are lit. My father must be home and we are late. Oh! how I wish you were not going away to-morrow. He will miss you, we shall all miss you so badly.’

I did not sleep much that night.

CHAPTER XXXI.

The ancient postboy drove out to Westrea next morning, and conveyed me and my impedimenta back to Cambridge.

The journey was a silent one, I being as little disposed for conversation as he. My thoughts were not very cheerful. Yet what had I, after all, to make a poor mouth about? I had asked to know my own mind, and arrive at a definite decision concerning certain matters closely affecting my future. Now I knew it very thoroughly; and, as to those matters, had decided once and for all. It only remained for me to acquaint my kind old friend, the Master, with that decision as tactfully and delicately as might be. But how should I acquit myself? And how would he take it? And how far should I be compelled to speak of Hartover and Nellie, and of my own relation to both, to make my meaning clear? For what a tangle it all was—a tangle almost humorous, though almost tragic too, as such human tangles mostly are! Well, I supposed I must stick to my old method of blunt truth-telling, leaving the event to my Maker, who, having created that strange anomaly, the human heart, must surely know how best to deal with its manifold needs and vagaries!

So far then, it was, after all, fairly plain sailing. But, unfortunately, these thoughts were not the only thing which troubled me.

For I felt as well as thought; and feeling is more dangerous than thought because at once more intimate and more intangible. A great emptiness filled—for emptiness can fill, just as silence can shout, and that hideously—not only my own soul but, as it seemed, all Nature around me. The land was empty, the sky empty. An east-wind blight spread abroad, taking all colour out of the landscape and warmth out of the sunshine. Just so had my parting with Nellie cast a blight over me, taking the colour and warmth out of my life. For I had been with her long enough for her presence, the sound of her voice, and constant sight of her to become a habit. How terribly I missed, and should continue to miss, her—not only in great matters but in small, in all the pleasant, trivial, friendly incidents of every day!

After the freshness and spotless cleanliness of Westrea, my college rooms—fond though I was of them—looked dingy and uncared for, as is too often the way of an exclusively masculine dwelling-place. The men had not come up yet, which spared me the annoyance of Halidane’s neighbourhood for the moment. Still I felt the depressing lack of life and movement throughout the college buildings and quadrangles. Cambridge was asleep—a dull and dismal sleep, as it struck me. The Master, I found, was back and at the Lodge once more; but, since only a portion of the house was ready for habitation, Mrs. Dynevor and her daughters would remain at Bath for some weeks longer. This I was glad to hear, as it promised to simplify my rather awkward task.

I called at the Lodge the same evening, to be received by the Master with his usual cordiality. He invited me to stay and dine, admitting he felt somewhat lonely without his ladies in the still partially dismantled house.

‘Unlike the three children in the Babylonian furnace, the smell of fire is very much upon it still,’ he said. ‘Signs and odours of destruction meet me at every turn. I dare say in the end—for I have an excellent architect—we shall make a more comfortable and certainly more sanitary place of it than ever before; but the continuity is broken, much history and many a tradition lost for good. I am only heartily glad you are not among the latter, Brownlow. It was a very near thing.’

Whether this was intended to give me an opening for explanation, I could not say. In any case I did not choose to take advantage of it, preferring to explain at my own time and in my own way.

We talked on general subjects for a while. But at the end of dinner, when the butler left the room, he said, eyeing me with a twinkle—

‘It was a pity you could not manage to meet us at Bath, Brownlow, for you would have found some old friends there. One of whom, a very splendid personage by the same token, made many gracious inquiries after you—put me through the longer catechism in respect of you, and put my sister and nieces through it also, I understand.’

‘Old friends?’ I asked, considerably puzzled both by his words and manner.

‘You had not heard, then, any more than I, that Lord Longmoor has settled permanently at Bath?’

I assured him I had not.

‘Yes—and under sad enough circumstances,’ he went on, with a change of tone. ‘Poor gentleman, he and those about him have cried wolf for so many years that I, for one, had grown sceptical regarding his ailments. But what of constitution he ever possessed has been undermined by coddling and dosing. I was admitted once or twice, and was, I own, most painfully impressed by his appearance and by his state of mind—religious mania, or something alarmingly akin to it, and that of at once the most abject and arrogant sort.’

I was greatly shocked by this news, and said so.

‘What is being done?’ I asked.

‘Everything that common sense would forbid, in my opinion. He is surrounded by an army of obsequious servants and rapacious medical and religious quacks, all and each busy to secure their private advantage while fooling him, poor soul, to the top of his bent. Our hopeful convert and gownsman Halidane had joined the throng, so I heard, but fled at my approach. Where the carcass is, there the vultures are gathered together—a repulsive and odious sight, showing the case of Dives may after all be hardly less miserable than that of Lazarus.’

The Master paused.

‘Lady Longmoor is there too; and heaven forgive me, Brownlow,’ he added, ‘I could not but wonder what sentiments that remarkably fair lady really entertains towards her lord. She confided in me in the most charming manner; yet, honestly, I knew less what to think and believe, knew less how the land really lay, after receiving those confidences than before.’

In spite of myself I was amused. For could I not picture her Magnificence and my good kind old Master in solemn conclave? Picture the arts and graces let loose on him, the touching appeals, admissions, protests; the disarming innocence of glance and gesture, along with flashes of naughty laughter, beneath the black-fringed eyelids, in the demurely downcast eyes.

‘Her ladyship’s communications are not always easy to interpret. They are not always intended to enlighten—perhaps,’ I ventured.

‘Then you, too, have been honoured?’

‘I have.’

He chuckled.

But, in my case, amusement speedily gave place to sober reflection. For if Lord Longmoor was in so critical a condition, dying possibly, what an immense change in Hartover’s position this entailed! All my fears for the dear boy reawakened. What means might not be taken to embroil him with his father, at this critical moment, to injure and dispossess him! Particularly did I dislike the fact that Halidane had been in attendance. I questioned the Master anxiously.

‘Ah! there you have me, Brownlow,’ he replied. ‘Lord Hartover is a point upon which my lady’s confidences proved peculiarly obscure. She spoke of her “dear George” with a great show of affection, deploring that the festivities in celebration of his coming of age next month must be postponed. She had so counted on seeing both you and me at Hover then, she declared. Deploring, also’—and he looked rather hard at me, I thought, across the corner of the dinner table over the row of decanters, as he spoke—‘deploring also an unfortunate disposition in her stepson to become enamoured of young women very much beneath him in the social scale. She gave me to understand both she and his father had been caused much annoyance and trouble by more than one affair of this sort. Yet I could not help fancying she sought information, just then, rather than offered it. I had a notion—I may have been mistaken—she was doing her best to pump me and find out whether I had heard anything from you upon the subject of these amatory escapades. Come, Brownlow—for my instruction, not for hers—can you fill in the gaps?’

I hesitated. Had the right moment come for explanation? I believed that it had. And so, as plainly and briefly as I could, I told him the whole story. I kept back nothing—why should I? There was nothing to be ashamed of, though somewhat to grieve over, and much to regret. I told him of Nellie, of Fédore; of Hartover’s love, Hartover’s marriage. I told him of my own love.

For a while he remained silent. Then, laying his hand on my shoulder, as I sat, my elbows upon the table, my face buried in my hands—

‘My poor fellow, my poor fellow—I had no notion of all this,’ he said. ‘So this is the upshot of your two years at Hover. I sent you out to make your fortune, and you found your fate. Well—well—things are as they are; but I do not deny that recently I had formed very different plans for you.’

‘Do not think me presumptuous, sir, if I answer I feared as much. And that is my reason for telling you what I have told no other human being—what, indeed, I had hoped to keep locked inviolably in my own breast as long as I live.’

Something in my tone or in my narrative must have stirred him deeply, for he rose and took a turn up and down the room, as though with difficulty retaining his composure. For my part, I own, I felt broken, carried out of myself. It had been searching work, dislocating work, to lay bare my innermost heart thus. But only so, as I judged, could the mention of Alice Dynevor’s name be avoided between us. It was better to sacrifice myself, if by so doing I could at once spare her and arrive at a clear understanding. Of this I was glad. I think the Master was glad too; for, his rather agitated walk ended, he stood beside me and spoke most kindly.

‘Your secret is perfectly safe with me, Brownlow, rest assured. I give you my word I will never reveal it. You have behaved honourably and high-mindedly throughout. Your conduct commands my respect and admiration,—though I could wish some matters had turned out otherwise. But now as to this marriage—real or supposed—of poor Hartover’s and all the ugly plotting of which, I fear with you, he is the victim. I do not think I can find it in my conscience to stand by, or encourage you to stand by, with folded hands.’

‘That is exactly what I was coming to, sir,’ I said, choking down alike my thanks and my emotion. ‘If, as you inform me, Lord Longmoor’s health is so precarious, the poor dear boy’s future must not be left to chance.’

‘No, no,’ he answered warmly. ‘His foes, I fear, are very literally of his own household. If this woman is legally his wife, we, as his friends, are called upon to stand by the marriage and, on grounds of public policy, make the best of what, I admit, strikes me as a very bad business. If she is not legally his wife, if there is any flaw in the marriage, we must take means to establish the fact of that flaw and set him free. Whether he is grateful to us for our self-imposed labours affects our duty neither one way nor the other at this stage of the proceedings. But, should she prove the unscrupulous person I take her to be, he will very certainly thank us in the end. And now, Brownlow, it occurs to me the sooner we move in all this the better. There is no time to be lost.’

He gave me reasons for his opinion, in which I fully agreed; and we sat talking far into the night, with the result that within a fortnight I travelled, first to Yorkshire, and then up to town.

CHAPTER XXXII.

About my Yorkshire journey it is unnecessary to say much. I saw Hover once more, stately as ever, but lifeless. The great house shut up, its many treasures swathed in dust sheets and brown paper. When it would be opened again none knew. Probably Colonel Esdaile would bring some gentlemen down in August for grouse-shooting, or for covert-shooting in October. He would hunt there during the winter.—The Colonel, always and only the Colonel, as man in possession?

I said as much to Warcop—to whom my visit was made—sitting before the empty stove in that queer sanctum of his, hung round with prints and spoils of the stud-farm and the chase. Whereupon he stuck out his bulldog under-jaw and mournfully shook his big grizzled head.

Yes, he answered, that was pretty well what it all came to. Would to God it did not!—always and only Colonel Jack at Hover in these days. And my lord lay a-dying, so they said, at Bath; and my young lord gave no sign. And her ladyship flitted in, like some great bright-painted butterfly, for a day and a night. Looked round the stables and gardens with a laugh, hanging on the Colonel’s arm, and flitted off again, as gay as you please, to London or Bath, or Old Nick knew where; while Colonel Jack, with a face like thunder and a temper like tinder, cursed the very guts out of anyone unlucky enough to cross his path for full twenty-four hours afterwards. Colonel Esdaile was a changed man, as I gathered; his swaggering manner and jovial good-humour a thing of the past, save at rare intervals or when her ladyship happened to be about.

All of which was bad hearing. The more so as, without going all lengths with Braithwaite in his condemnation of our hereditary nobility, I believed then—and believe firmly still—that if a great nobleman, or great landowner, is to justify his position—aye, and his very existence—he must live on his estate, keep in close touch with, and hold himself directly responsible for the welfare of, all ranks of its population—labourers, artisans, rent-payers great and small, alike. The middle-man, however just or able an administrator, introduces, and must always introduce, a cold-blooded, mechanical relation as between landlord and tenant, employer and employed. And, now listening to Warcop’s lament, I trembled lest the curse of absenteeism—which during recent years has worked such havoc of class hatred and disaffection in Ireland—should set its evil mark upon this English country-side.

In this connection it was inevitable that memories of my former dreams and ambitions for Hover should come back to me with a bitter sense of failure and of regret. Dreams and ambitions of so educating and training my dear pupil as to make him an ideal landowner, an ideal nobleman, to whom no corner of his vast possessions, the lives lived and work done there, would be a matter of indifference; but who would accept and obey the divinely ordained law of rulership and ownership which reminds us every privilege carries with it a corresponding obligation, and that the highest duty of him who governs is to serve.

Where had all those fair dreams and ambitions departed now? Were they for ever undone and dissipated? It seemed so, alas! Yet who could tell? Had I not promised Nellie, and that in some sort against my dearest interests, to watch over Hartover to the best of my power, and care for him still? And if a poor faulty human creature, such as I, could be faithful, how much more God, his Maker! Yes, I would set my hope, both for him and for Hover, firmly there, black though things looked at present. For Almighty God, loving him infinitely more than I—much though I loved him—would surely find means for his redemption, and, notwithstanding his many temptations, still make for him a way of escape.

And with that I turned my mind resolutely to the practical inquiry which had brought me north, questioning Warcop concerning the disappearance of Marsigli and the theft, with which he stood charged, of jewels and of plate.

Warcop’s first words in reply, I own, set my heart beating.

‘Best ask French Mamzelle, sir,’ he said, with a snarl. ‘For, as sure as my name’s Jesse Warcop, she’d the main finger in that pie. Picked out t’ fattest o’ the plums for herself, too, and fathered the job upon Marsigli to rid herself of the fellow.’

‘To rid herself of him?’

‘’Od, an’ why not? So long as ye were here wi’ us, sir, what she’d set her mind to have was out of her reach. But, you safe gone, she’d na more stomach for my lord’s Italian butler, bless you—must fly at higher game than that.’

‘Lord Hartover?’

‘And who else? Eh! but she’s a canny one; none of your hot-heads, rushing into a thing afore they’ve fairly planned it. She’d her plan pat enough. Laid her train or ever she struck a match; waited till she kenned it was all over between t’ dear lad and Braithwaite’s lass. Had Marsigli muzzled, seeing that to tell on her was to tell on himself. And others, that should ha’ shown her up, durstn’t do it, lest she opened her mouth and set scandal yelping after them. So she’d a muzzle onto them too, and could afford to laugh t’ whole lot in the face—upstairs as well as down—and follow her own fancy.’

He ruminated, chewing viciously at the straw he carried in his mouth.

‘And, as the talk goes, she’s followed it to a finish,’ he added, ‘and fixed her devil she-kite’s claws in my young lord, poor dear lad, safe enough. Is the talk true, sir?’

I answered, sadly, I feared it was so; but that, as some method might still possibly be found of unfixing those same kite’s claws, I had come in search of any information he could give.

‘Then you mean to put up a fight, sir?’ he said, his jaw hard and his eyes bright. ‘For all your colleging and your black coat, you’re o’ the same kidney as when ye rode t’ little brown horse across the fells and saved t’ pack.’

And therewith he settled down to recount all he had puzzled out, all he believed and thought. Inferential rather than circumstantial, this, alas! for the most part; yet to me valuable, from the man’s caution, honesty, power of close observation, shrewd intelligence and mother-wit. In his opinion the theft had been carried out at Fédore’s instigation, and upon her undertaking to join Marsigli as soon as it was accomplished, and fly with him to his native city of Milan. Having thus involved the Italian—whose long-standing passion for, and jealousy of her, were matters of common knowledge among the servants, Warcop said—she evidently played him false, although covering his escape by putting the police on a wrong scent. Where was he now? In England, Warcop opined, probably hiding in London, still hoping to induce Fédore to redeem her promise. Were the two man and wife? Over that Warcop shook his head. Who could say, save the two themselves? Yet, if they were, there must needs be a record of the marriage, which would have taken place during the period of my tutorship at Hover, at some time when her ladyship was in Grosvenor Square.

Here, at last, I had a definite starting-point. For the church could be found, the clergyman who performed the ceremony could be found, always supposing any such ceremony had really taken place.

I returned to Cambridge to talk everything over with the Master; and subsequently journeyed up to town, where, under seal of the strictest secrecy, I placed matters in the hands of Inspector Lavender, of the Detective Police. He must find the church, the clergyman—above all, must find Marsigli.—This was a desperate game to play. I knew it. Would the dear boy ever forgive me for interfering in his affairs thus? I knew not. But I did know it had to be risked both for his fortune and his honour’s sake. Further, was I not bound by my word solemnly given to Nellie? Still more, then, had it to be done for my own oath’s sake.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

And now we were well on into the May term. The noble elms towers of dense and solid green; lilac and laburnum giving place to roses in the Fellows’ Garden; and the river, a little shrunken by the summer heat, slipping past smooth lawns and beneath the weeping willows’ graceful shade with truly academic deliberation and repose.

Never had I enjoyed my daily work so much, or met with so hearty and intelligent a response. An excellent set of men were in college that year; gentlemanlike, eager to learn, in some cases notably clever, in almost all agreeable to deal with. My popularity—enhanced by that episode of the fire at the Master’s Lodge—was great. Why should I hesitate to say so, since thankfulness rather than vanity did, I can honestly affirm, fill my heart? I had arranged to take a reading party to North Wales during the long vacation, and to this I looked forward as a new and interesting experience. Halidane, moreover, for cause unknown, had ceased from troubling me. Ever since his return, at the beginning of term, he had worn a somewhat hang-dog look; and, though almost cringingly civil when we chanced to meet, appeared, as I thought, to shun rather than seek my society. What had happened to the fellow? Had the change in his demeanour any connection with the Master’s visit to his ‘sainted patron,’ Lord Longmoor, at Bath? I did not know, nor did I greatly care, so long as I continued to be relieved of his officious and unsavoury attentions.

And so, taking things all round, it seemed to me, just now, the lines had after all fallen to me in pleasant places. Temptation had been resisted, difficulties overcome, honour—and my conscience—satisfied. If much had been denied, yet much remained—sufficient, and more than sufficient, to make life a gift, not only good but glad—though after, perhaps, a somewhat serious pattern.

Then came an afternoon the events of which stand out very forcibly in my memory. They marked a turning-point; a parting of the ways, abrupt as it was unexpected.

For, neglecting alike the attractions of the glorious weather and of ‘the boats’—it was during the June races—I stayed in my rooms to look through a set of mathematical papers. Some pleased me by their ability. Others amused—or irritated—me by their blunders. Heavens, what thick heads some of those youngsters had! After about an hour’s work, lulled by the stillness and the sunny warmth—droning of bees in the clematis below my window, chippering cries and glancing flight of swallows back and forth to their nests under the parapet above—I laid aside the papers, and, leaning back in my chair, sank into a brown study.

The morning’s post had brought me a brief communication from Lavender, the detective. After weeks of silent pursuit he had reason to believe he was on Marsigli’s track at last. My own sensations in face of this announcement surprised me a little. By all rules of the game I should of course have felt unalloyed gratification. But did I really feel that? With a movement of shame, I was obliged to confess I did not. For a certain moral indolence had overtaken me. I was established in a routine from which I had no wish to break away. My college work, into which I threw myself at first mainly as a refuge from haunting desires and disturbing thoughts, had become an end in itself. It engrossed me. I found it restful—in that, while making small demand on my emotions, it gave scope for such talents, whether intellectual or practical, as I possessed. I found it exhilarating to deal with these young men, in the first flush of their mental powers, to—in some measure at all events—form their minds, influence their conduct and their thought. It was delightful, moreover, to have time and opportunity for private study; to read books, and ever more books. The scholar’s life, the life of the university, held me as never before. Hence this obtrusion of Lavender, hunter of crime and of criminals, this obtrusion of wretched Marsigli, the absconding Italian butler, were, to be honest, displeasing rather than welcome. I cried off further demands upon my energies in the direction of conflict and adventure. Leave the student to his library, the teacher to his lecture-room, unvexed by the passions and tumult of the world without.

In fastidious repulsion, in something, heaven forgive me, approaching disgust, I turned away from both thief and thief-catcher, all they were and all they stood for, as beneath my notice, common and unclean. Almost angrily I prayed to be let alone, let be. Prayed no fresh exertion might be required of me; but that I might pursue my course, as a comfortable, well-read, well-fed Cambridge don, in security and peace.

And, mercifully, my lazy prayer was not heard, not answered; or, more truly, was both heard and answered, though in a manner conspicuously the reverse of my intention in offering it.

For, as I mused thus, the calm of the summer afternoon was disturbed by a sudden loud knocking at my door. The door was flung open. On the threshold a man stood. No learned brother fellow, no ordinary gownsman; but, with his pride of bearing, his air of fashion, the finest young fine gentleman I had ever seen—in long drab driving coat, smartly outstanding from the waist, and white top hat with rakish up-curled brim.

For an instant I gazed in stupid amazement. Then, as the door closed behind him and he came from out the shadow, I sprang to my feet and ran forward, with a cry. And, almost before I knew what was happening, his two hands gripped my shoulders, and he backed me into the full light of the window, holding me away from him at arms’ length and looking down into my face. He was a good half head taller than I.

‘Dearest Brownlow—my dear old man, my dear old man,’ he repeated, and his grip tightened while his voice was tender as a girl’s.

Then, while I stammered in my excitement and surprise, he gave a naughty little laugh.

‘Oh! I am no ghost,’ he said. ‘You needn’t be afraid. I’m very solid flesh and blood; worse luck for you, perhaps, old man. Gad, but it’s good, though, to see you once again.’

He threw down his hat among the papers on the table, tossed his gloves into it, and drew me on to the window-seat beside him.

Already the spell began to work, the spell of his extraordinary personal charm. Already he captivated me, firing my somewhat sluggish imagination. Already I asked nothing better than to devote myself to him, spend myself for him, stamp out the evil and nourish the good in him, at whatever loss or disadvantage to myself.

I inquired what had brought him to Cambridge.

‘I am in trouble, Brownlow,’ he answered simply, while his face hardened. ‘It’s an ugly sort of trouble, which I have not the pluck to meet single-handed. I cannot see my way through or out of it. I tell you, it was beginning to make me feel rather desperate. And I remembered your wisdom of old’—

He smiled at me, patting my knee.

‘So, as I do not want to take to drink—which last night seemed the only alternative—I took the road this morning instead, and came to look for you. Perhaps it is a rather presumptuous proceeding on my part. I have no claim on you, for I have been neglectful and selfish. I know that well enough—not by any means a model pupil, dear old man, not any great credit to you. But you cared for me once.’

Cared for him? God was my witness that I did!

‘And, as I tell you, I have not courage to meet this trouble alone. It raises a devil of suspicion and anger in me. I am afraid of being unjust, of losing my head and doing some wild thing I shall regret for the rest of my life. But we need not go into all this just yet, and spoil our first half-hour together. It will keep.’

And he looked away, avoiding my eyes with a certain shyness, as I fancied; glanced round the room, at its sober colouring, solid furniture, ranges of bookshelves and many books; glanced through the window at the fine trees, the bright garden, and quiet river glistening in the still June sunlight.

‘Gad! but what a delightful place!’ he said. ‘I am glad to know where you live, Brownlow, and I could find it in my heart to envy you, I think. The wheels must run very smooth.’

I thought of Nellie, of my home-coming from Westrea. Verily, less smooth than he imagined—sometimes.

‘Why, why did not they let me come here,’ he broke out—‘as I implored them to, after the row about—about—at Hover, I mean, when you left me? I would have given anything to come up to the university then, and work, and have you with me still. Ah! how different everything would be now! But my father refused to listen. The plan did not suit some people’s book, I suppose; and they worked upon him, making him hopelessly obstinate. Nothing would do, but into the Guards I must go. I begged for if only a year with you here, at Cambridge, first. But not a bit of it. Out they pitched me, neck and crop, into the London whirlpool, to sink or swim as I could—sink for choice, I fancy, as far as they were concerned.’

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘It is to be hoped they are better satisfied at the result than I am,’ he added, with an oath. ‘But what is done is done—and, curse it, there is no going back. As you make your bed—or as others make it for you—so must you lie on it.’

Sad words from a boy of barely one-and-twenty, as I thought. Surely punishment awaited those, somewhere and somewhen, who had taught him so harsh a lesson, and taught it him so young.

Meanwhile, my first surprise and excitement over, I watched Hartover carefully, fearing to see in him signs of past dissipation and excess. But his beauty was as great as ever. His flesh firm, moreover, his eyes and skin clear. He had matured rather than altered, grown considerably taller and filled-out, though his figure remained gracefully alert and slight. Two points only did I observe which I did not quite like—namely an aspect of anxiety and care upon the brow, and little bitter lines at the corners of the handsome mouth, giving a singular arrogance to his expression when the face was in repose.

We talked for a while of indifferent matters, and he asked me to walk with him to the Bull Hotel, where he had left the post-chaise in which he drove down from town, and where he invited me to dine with him and stay the night as his guest.

‘Give me what time you can, Brownlow,’ he said. ‘Leave all the good boys, the white sheep of your numerous flock, to take care of themselves for once; and look after the bad boy, the black sheep—the scapegoat, rather. For, upon my soul, it amounts to that. The sins of others are loaded on to my unhappy head, I promise you, with a vengeance.’

I could not but be aware of curious and admiring glances, as I walked up King’s Parade in his company. Reflected glory covered me, while he, royally careless of the observation he excited, was quick to note the grace of the different college buildings, the effects of light and colour, to ask a hundred pertinent questions, make a hundred pertinent remarks on all which caught his eye. What a delightful mind he had, open both to poetic and humorous impressions; instinctively using the right word, moreover, and striking out the happy phrase when it suited him to lay aside his slang.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

We dined in a private room on the first floor, which overlooked the street. Hartover proved a brilliant host. Once or twice, after anecdotes a trifle too highly salted for my white tie and clerical coat, he checked himself with a pretty air of penitence, expressing a mischievous hope I ‘wasn’t shocked.’ Shocked I was not, being no puritan; but somewhat grieved, I must admit, his wit should take so gross a turn. Yet what wonder? The guard-room is hardly mealy-mouthed, I supposed; neither, I could imagine, was French Mademoiselle—in intimacy. To her, by the way, I observed, Hartover made so far no smallest allusion.

But he spoke of Braithwaite, asking, with an indifference too studied to carry conviction, if my friendship still continued with the father and daughter, and—‘were they well?’ I answered both questions briefly in the affirmative; and there, to my relief, the subject dropped.

Towards the end of dinner his high spirits, which, entertaining though he had been, struck me all along as slightly forced, deserted him, and he became silent and preoccupied. Were we approaching disclosure of the trouble which, as he asserted, brought him here hot-foot, to Cambridge and to me? How gladly would I have made the way of confession easy for him! But I had sense to know I must be passive in the matter. Whatever confidence he gave must be given spontaneously. To question him, however circumspectly, would be to put him off by arousing his sensitive pride.

As the waiter brought in coffee and lights, Hartover rose, swung out onto the balcony, and, leaning his elbows on the high iron rail of it, stood gazing down into the street. The June twilight lingered, disputing the feeble glimmer of the street lamps. Roofs, gables, pinnacles and towers showed velvet black against the sweet translucence of an almost colourless sky. Footsteps, voices, a grind of wheels and cloppet, cloppet, of horse-hoofs over the stones; the scream of swifts in the buoyant rush of their evening flight, and the tang of a chapel bell, a single reiterated note. Some five minutes must have elapsed while these varied sounds reached me from without. Then Hartover raised his head, calling imperatively over his shoulder——

‘Brownlow, Brownlow, where are you? I want you. Come here.’

Evidently he had reached some crisis of purpose or of feeling. I went out into the warm evening air and stood beside him. His head was lowered, and again he gazed down into the street.

‘I am sorry, I am ashamed, Brownlow,’ he said, an odd thickness in his speech, ‘but I am afraid I have come here to-day and disturbed you on false pretences. I am afraid I cannot bring myself to talk to you about this matter after all.’

He paused as asking an answer.

‘Very well,’ I replied. ‘I, at all events, have gained by your coming, in that I have had the joy of seeing you again. Leave the rest if you think fit. You alone can know what you wish—know what appears to you right under the circumstances. You must use your own judgment.’

‘Ah! there you have me,’ he returned sharply. ‘I don’t know what I wish. I am uncertain what is right. I distrust my own judgment. In short I’m cornered, Brownlow, miserably, detestably cornered. To speak looks to me, at this moment, like an act of unpardonable treachery. Yet, if I don’t speak, I may be rushed before many days are out, by my own mad anger, into something even worse than treachery. Do you understand?’

In a sense I did understand, by intuition born of affection and sympathy. But, unless I was greatly mistaken in my reading of him, all this was merely preliminary. If I waited, I should understand, or at least hear, the whole. And that it would be well for him I should hear the whole I had—God helping me—no shadow of doubt.

Slowly the twilight expired, while the blue of the night sky, opaque, profound, travelled stealthily, almost imperceptibly, downward from the zenith. The joyous scream of the swifts ceased, and the bell tanged irregularly, nearing its finish. As it did so, a little group of gownsmen, gathered upon the pavement immediately below, seized by an irresponsible spirit of frolic—as most young animals are prone to be at dusk—started laughing and skylarking, their black raiment fluttering, batlike, as they skirmished across the greyness of the street.

Whether the sudden outcry jarred his already strained nerves, or whether the careless whole-hearted fun and laughter of these men, so little younger than himself, offered too mordant a contrast to his own troubled state, Hartover flung in from the balcony with an oath, hesitated for an instant, then blew out the lights and threw himself into an armchair.

‘No, I’m not strong enough to hold my tongue. Wretched weakling that I am,’ he groaned, ‘I must blab. And concerning a woman too.’

He extended his hand, through the semi-darkness, motioning me to a chair.

‘Sit there, please,’ he said. ‘My God, when it comes to the point how I despise myself, Brownlow! It’s—it’s about her, about Fédore.’

‘Yes,’ I replied, as calmly as I could, for his tone moved me deeply. And the subject, too! I trembled, penetrated alike by fear and hope of what I should hear next.

‘For the last month or six weeks something’s been wrong—some mystery on hand I cannot fathom. Somebody who has, or imagines they have, a hold over her is pressing her for money, as far as I can make out. I believe—oh! it is an abominable suspicion, but I cannot rid my mind of it—this person visits the house when she is sure I shall be away. I have no idea who, Brownlow; but someone belonging to her old life, before I married her. Each time lately that I have been with her she has insisted upon my telling her exactly when I intend to come again. Nothing will pacify her but that I must fix a date and hour. Her persistence has vexed me once or twice. We nearly quarrelled over it. She says’—he choked a little—‘it is only that she may be able to put on a pretty gown, prepare a nice little dinner, and have everything smart and charming for me. But I don’t believe that is her sole reason—perhaps I am just a jealous brute—but I can’t. I wish to heaven I could!’

He waited, fighting down his emotion.

‘Yesterday matters came to a head. I went with’—he mentioned the names of several young men, well known, not to say notorious, in fashionable and sporting circles—‘to a race meeting at ——. I meant to stop the week. But racing bores me after a little while, and the play was too high at night. Positively I couldn’t afford it. So I cut my stay short, went back to town, and to Chelsea. I can’t deny I had been living rather hard, and I was cross with myself—I really have kept awfully straight for the last six months, Brownlow—and a bit seedy and out of sorts.’

Again he waited.

‘I let myself in at the garden door, and then at the house-door—as a matter of course. I had no intention of jumping any surprise on her. I was not thinking about my suspicions or any little tiff we had had. I only wanted to get to her, Brownlow, because I knew she’d put me into good conceit with myself—tease and pet and amuse me, you know—she can be devilish amusing when she likes’——

His voice broke.

‘Yes,’ I said quietly, ‘yes’——

My heart bled for him; but I must be cautious and husband my resources. The time to speak would surely come, but it was not yet.

‘I found the house empty,’ he went on presently, recovering himself, ‘windows bolted and doors locked. I called her, and looked for her upstairs and down; but neither she nor the maid was at home. I was disappointed, of course; but I would not let myself be angry. I had told her I should be away till the end of the week, so she had a perfect right to go out if she wanted to. Finally I went into the drawing-room, meaning to wait there till she came in. But, somehow, I received a new impression of the house. It struck me as grubby, fusty, low-class. I wondered why I had never observed this before, or whether it was merely the effect of my disappointment at her absence. There were scraps of a torn-up letter on the carpet, for one thing, which I greatly disliked. I began to pick them up, and casually—I did not attempt to read it of course—I remarked the writing was in French. Then I thought I would smoke, to pass the time until she came back. I wanted something with which to cut off the end of my cigar, but found I had brought no penknife, so I rummaged in her little worktable for a pair of scissors. I could not find any in the top workbox part, and tried to pull out the square silk-covered drawer arrangement underneath, as I remembered often seeing her put her scissors away in it with her work. But the beastly thing was locked or jammed. Like a fool, I lost my temper over it, and dragged and poked till the catch gave and the drawer flew open. And—and, Brownlow, inside I saw a couple of white leather jewel-cases—oh! the whole thing was so incredible, such a profanation—it made me sick—stamped with a monogram and coronet. I recognised them at once. They belonged to my mother—own mother I mean’—

His tone grew fierce.

‘Not her Magnificence. Her hands have never touched, and touching defiled them, I am thankful to think.—These jewels would come to me, in the ordinary course of events, with certain other possessions of my mother’s, at my majority. Meanwhile they have always been kept in the strong-room at Hover. And, Brownlow—this is the point of the whole hateful business—they were among the valuables that scoundrel, Marsigli—you remember him, my step-mother’s beloved Italian butler?—made off with last year, and which by some to my mind incomprehensible stupidity on the part of the police—I have often talked it over with Fédore—have never yet been traced.’

‘Were the contents of the cases intact?’ I asked.

He hesitated.

‘No—’ he said at last, unwillingly, almost I thought despairingly—‘and that makes it all the more intolerable. The cases were empty; and from the position in which I found them it seemed to me they had been thrown into the drawer just anyhow, by a person in a frantic hurry—too great a hurry to make sure the drawer was actually locked. For, if it had been properly locked, it would not have given way so easily when I tried to force it. These signs of haste increased my fears, Brownlow. For think,’ he cried with sudden passion, ‘only think what it all points to, what it may all mean! How could these precious things of my mother’s have found their way into the drawer of Fédore’s worktable—unless? The conjunction of ideas would be positively grotesque if—if it were not so damnable.—Does not it occur to you what horrible possibilities are opened out?’

It did. I gauged those possibilities far more clearly than he, indeed, remembering my conversation with Warcop in the stables at Hover but a few weeks back. For was not Warcop’s theory in process of being proven up to the hilt? But how could I speak of either theory or proof to Hartover, distracted and tortured as he was? To do so would be incomparably cruel. No, I must play a waiting game still. The truth—or, to be exact, that which I firmly and increasingly believed to be the truth—must reach him by degrees, lest he should be driven into recklessness or violence. I would temporise, try to find excuses even, so as to retard rather than hasten the shock of that most ugly disclosure.

‘All which you tell me is very strange and perplexing,’ I said. ‘But do not let us be hurried into rash and possibly unjust conclusions. There may be some explanation which will put a very different complexion upon affairs. Have you asked for any?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It was too soon to think of that. I could not meet her, could not trust myself to see or speak to her then. My one impulse was to get away, to get out of the house in which, as it seemed to me, I had been so shamelessly betrayed and tricked. I was half mad with rage and grief. For—ah! don’t you understand, Brownlow?—I do love her. Not as I loved Nellie Braithwaite. That was unique—a love more of the soul than the senses. Pure and clean as a wind of morning, blowing straight out of paradise. The love of my youth, of—in a way—my virginity; such as can never come twice in my or any man’s life.’

He stopped, a sob in his throat. But not for long. The floodgates were open—all the proud, wayward, undisciplined, sensitive nature in revolt.

‘My love for Fédore is different—no morning wind from Eden about that. How should there be? In the interval I had very effectually parted company with all claims to the angelic state. But think—she nursed me, dragged me back from the very mouth of hell; protected me from those who sought to ruin me; gave herself to me; made a home for me, too, of a sort—oh! that poor, poor, hateful little Chelsea house!—coaxed me, flirted with me, kept me from gambling and from drink. How could I do otherwise than marry her, and love her, out of the merest decency of ordinary gratitude? I owe her so much—— And now’——

Here Hartover gave way completely. I felt rather than saw him—there was no light in the room save that thrown upward from the lamps in the street—fling himself sideways in the chair, crushing his face down upon the arm of it in a paroxysm of weeping.

Only a woman should look on a man’s tears, since the motherhood resident in every woman—whether potential or as an accomplished act—has power to staunch those tears without humiliation and offence. To his fellow-man the sight is disabling; painful or unseemly according to individual quality, but, in either case, excluding all possibility of approach.

I rose, went over to the window, and waited there. The boy should have his cry out, unhindered by my neighbourhood, since I knew he was beyond my clumsy male capacity of consolation. Later, when he came to himself, he would understand I had withdrawn not through callousness, but through reverence. Meanwhile, what a position and what a prospect! My heart sank. How, in heaven’s name, could he be drawn up out of this pit he had digged for himself? And he loved Nellie still. And, whatever his faults, whatever his weaknesses—vices even—his beauty and charm remained, beguiling, compelling, as ever. What woman could resist him? The thought gave me a pang. I put it from me sternly. Self, and again self—would self never die? Even in this hour of my dear boy’s agony, as he lay sobbing his hot young heart out within half a dozen paces of me, must I think of myself and of my private sorrow?

I looked up into the vast serenity of the star-gemmed sky above the black irregular outline of the buildings opposite, and renewed my vow to Nellie—remembering no greater love hath any man than this, that he lay down his life—life of the body, or far dearer life of emotions, the affections—for his friend.

And presently, as I still mused, I became aware of a movement in the room and of Hartover close beside me, his right arm cast about my neck.

‘Dear old man, dear old man,’ he said hoarsely, yet very gently, ‘forgive me. I have felt for these past twenty-four hours as though the last foothold had gone, the last foothold between me and perdition. But it isn’t so—you are left. Stay by me, Brownlow. See me through. Before God, I want to do right. Your worthless pupil wants for once to be a credit to you. But I cannot stand alone. I am afraid of myself. I distrust my own nature. If I go to her—to Fédore—with those empty jewel boxes of my mother’s in my hand and she lies to me, I shall want to kill her. And if she tells we what I can’t but believe is the truth, I shall want to blow my own brains out. For she has been very much to me. She is my wife—and what can the future hold for either of us but estrangement, misery and disgrace?’

He waited, steadied his voice, and then—

‘I know it is no small thing I ask of you; but will you come back to town with me to-morrow? And will you see her first, and so give me time to get myself in hand and decide what is to be done, before she and I meet? Will you stand between me and the devils of revenge and despair who tempt me? Will you do this because—barring you, Brownlow—I have nothing, no one, left?’

Needless to set down here what I answered. He should have his way. How, in God’s name, could I refuse him?

Then, as on that first night of my arrival at Hover long ago, I got him away to bed. Sat by him till he slept—at first restlessly, feverishly, murmuring to himself; and once—it cut me to the quick—calling Fédore by name, as one who calls for help in limitless distress.

The brief summer night was over and the dawn breaking before I felt free to leave him, seek my room, and take some much-needed rest.

(To be continued.)

FOOTNOTES:

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

LEST WE FORGET.

A WORD ON WAR MEMORIALS.

An old friend of mine, who was a boy at Rugby under the kindly, orthodox and dignified Dr. Goulburn, told me that on his first evening at that great school, a bewildered and timid little creature, after he had been much catechised and derided by a lot of cheerful youngsters, and with a terrible perspective before him of endless interviews with countless strange and not necessarily amiable mortals, a loud bell rang, and all trooped down to prayers. He sat on a bench in a big bare hall with a timbered roof, a door opened and a grave butler appeared, carrying two wax candles in silver candlesticks, followed by the Headmaster in silk gown and bands, in unimaginable state. The candles were set down on a table. The Headmaster opened a great Bible, and in a sonorous voice read the twelfth chapter of the Book of Joshua, a gloomy enough record, which begins, ‘Now these are the kings of the land, which the Children of Israel smote,’ and ends up with a sinister catalogue, ‘The king of Jericho, one; the king of Ai, one’—and so on for many verses, finishing up with ‘The king of the nations of Gilgal, one; the king of Tirzah, one; all the kings, thirty and one.’ After which pious and edifying exercise, the book was closed, and prayer offered.

My old friend was an impressionable boy, and it seemed to him, he said, that there was a fearful and ominous significance in this list of slaughtered monarchs, depicting and emphasizing the darker side of life. But I have often thought that a few words from the Headmaster, on the vanity of human greatness and the triumph of the divine purpose, might have turned these lean and bitter memorials of the dead into an unforgettable parable. What, for instance, could be more profoundly moving in the scene of the ‘Passing of Arthur,’ where the knight steps slowly in the moonlight from the ruined shrine and the place of tombs:

‘Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,

Old knights—and over them the sea-wind sang

Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam’?

That seems to lend the last touch of mystery and greatness to a scene of human endeavour, that the earth beneath the living feet should cover the bones, the hardy and heroic limbs of those who had lived and fought worthily. As the dying king, with the poignant accent of passion cries aloud:

‘“Such a sleep

They sleep—the men I loved!”’

For nothing surely in the world can be so utterly and simply moving as the record of dead greatness—unless perhaps it be the oblivion which is the end of all greatness at the last. There is a place on the bleak top of the South Downs, a great tumulus, with an earth-work round it, all grassy now and tufted with gorse, the sheep grazing over it, which looks for miles north and east and west over the fertile weald, with shadowy hills on the horizon; and to the south, where the great ridges fold together, you can catch through the haze a golden glint of the sea. I never pass the place without a deep and strange thrill. It is called the Mound of the Seven Kings; it looks over a grassy space which is known as ‘Terrible Down,’ and of what day and what doom it is the record, who shall say?

It seems impossible to us now, just as it seemed to the old hill-men who raised that tumulus, that as the world welters and widens onward, the great tragedies and losses and sacrifices which we have seen with our eyes, and the thought of which has so possessed our souls with a sense of grief and glory combined, should become but a tale that is told. But it is one of the thoughts which lie deepest and noblest in the mind and soul of man, the thought of old and infinite strife and endeavour, pain and death, courage and hope so richly blended, till it seems too great for the heart to hold. The mystery of it is that, as the Psalmist says: ‘I see that all things come to an end; but Thy commandment is exceeding broad.’ The thought, if I can define it, leaps like fire from crumbling ashes—all this great pageant of energy and heroism and fame fading farther and farther into the past—and yet, in spite of the hush of the tolling bell and the solemn music, the certainty that it is all worth doing and enduring, that we must wrest the great values out of life and make of it a noble thing; and that while memory fades and honour seems to perish, yet the seed once sown, it springs up again and again in life and beyond death, beyond all possibility of extinction.

One of the things for which, in a great time like the present—great for all its sadness, and perhaps because of its sadness—one of the things for which I thank God is that this war has revealed as nothing else could have done the latent heroism of our nation. If only it could make us poets and cure us of being prophets! I have often been ashamed to the bottom of my heart of the cries of panic-mongers and crabbed pessimists shrieking in our ears that we were a nation sunk in sloth and luxury and indifference. I have lived all my life among the young, and if ever there was a thing of which I was certain, it was that our youth was brave and modest and manly—as this long and bitter fight has daily and hourly proved.

And we have a task before us—to see that the memory of those who have fought for us and died for us should be as stably and as durably commemorated as possible. It is not that I think of a memorial as being in any sense a reward for the honoured dead. If there is one thing which our heart tells us, it is that they have a nobler reward than that. A new life, doubtless, a passing from strength to strength. But as Shelley so immortally said, ‘Fame is love disguised,’ and we owe it to our love and gratitude not only to remember, but to commemorate. I defy anyone, however simple and stolid, to set foot in our great Abbey, and not be thrilled with the thought, ‘After all, humanity is a splendid thing, so full of devotion and greatness as it is!’ Statesmen, monarchs, writers, artists, men of science, men of learning, there they sleep; there is a generous glow in many young hearts, which may thus be kindled. The poet of boyhood makes the boy, just disengaging himself from the beloved school and stepping into the world, say to himself:

‘Much lost I: something stayed behind,

A snatch maybe of ancient song,

Some breathings of a deathless mind;

Some love of truth; some hate of wrong.

And to myself in games I said,

“What mean the books? Can I win fame?

I would be like the faithful dead,

A fearless man and pure of blame.”’

This, then, is our present task—to see that our dead are worthily commemorated for our own sakes and for the sake of those who come after. How shall we do it?

In the first place, we must not do it idly and carelessly—we must take thought, have a plan and a purpose, not be in too great a hurry. Hurry is the worst foe of memorials. We have a national habit—I think it is rather a sign of greatness—not to do anything until we are obliged; but the result of that often is a loss of grace and fineness; because people who must act, and are a little ashamed of not having acted, accept any solution.

What I hope we shall do is to take careful thought where our memorials shall be set, so that they may be most constantly and plainly seen; and then how they may best fulfil their purpose, which is to remind us first, and next to kindle emotion and imagination. We have an ugly habit of combining, if we can, local utility with a memorial, as in the well-known story of the benevolent clergyman who read out the announcement of the death of a great statesman and added, ‘That is just what we wanted! We have long needed a new water supply!’ That is like using a grandfather’s sword to trim a privet-hedge with! I do not believe in fitting things in. If we commemorate, let us commemorate by a memorial which arrests and attracts the eye, is long and gratefully remembered, and by an inscription which touches the heart, and does not merely merge a man among the possessors of all human gifts and virtues. I remember a Georgian monument in a cathedral, where a lean man in a toga peeped anxiously out of an arbour of fluted columns, and of whom it was announced that in him ‘every talent which adorns the human spirit was united with every virtue which sustains it.’ How different is the little tablet in a church I know on which a former choir-boy is commemorated! He had joined the army, and had won a Victoria Cross in the Boer War which he did not live to receive. The facts were most briefly told; and below were the words, which I can hardly read without tears:

‘Thou hast put a new song in my mouth.’

What we want, then, are beauty, dignity, simplicity, and force. We want what appeals directly to the eye, and then darts a strong emotion into the heart, an emotion in which gratitude and hope are blended.

I must not here attempt to unfold a wide technical scheme; indeed I could not if I would; but I may perhaps outline a few principles.

First comes the difficulty that places like to manage their own affairs; and that the men who administer local interests, however devotedly and industriously, do not acquire their influence by artistic tastes. The next difficulty is that our artistic instinct in England is not widely diffused. When Walter Pater’s attention was called to some expensive tribute, and he became aware that an expression of admiration was required, he used to say in his soft voice, ‘Very costly, no doubt,’ and this was always accepted as an appropriate compliment, he said. A third difficulty is the deep-seated mistrust in England of the expert—it is all part of our independence—but the expert is often regarded simply as a man who lets you in for heavier expense than you had intended.

It would be well if some central advisory board could be established—a central authority can hardly be expected, and indeed would not even be desirable. The nature of memorials should be carefully scrutinised. We are always weak in allegorical representation, and perhaps for that very reason have a great fondness for it. Our civic heraldry, for instance, is woefully weak, not by excess of symbolism, so much as by a desperate inclusiveness of all local tradition, till the shield becomes a landscape in which a company of travellers have hung their private property on every bush.

Thus with our taste for representing and explaining and accounting and cataloguing, our memorials become architectural first, with every cornice loaded with precarious figures, like the painting described by Dickens of six angels carrying a stout gentleman to heaven in festoons with some difficulty. Our inscriptions become biographies. Again, the surrounding scene is little regarded. A statesman in a bronze frock-coat and trousers reading aloud a bronze manuscript behind the railings of a city square, embowered in acacias, has no power over the mind except the power of a ludicrous sense of embarrassment. A statue, majestic enough in a pillared alcove, is only uncomfortable in a storm of wind and rain.

We ought, I believe, to fight shy of elaborate designs, because the pantomime of allegory at once begins. What we rather need is simplicity of statement, with perhaps a touch of emblem, no more, of characteristic material, of perfect gravity, so that the gazer can see at once that the matter recorded is great and significant, and desires to know more. It is said that an inscription was once to be seen in India, marking one of the farthest points of the advance of Alexander the Great. It was a slab with the words:

ΕΝΤΑΥΘΑ · ΕϹΤΗΝ

‘Here I stood’—upon it. What could be more impressive, what more calculated to sow a seed of wonder in an imaginative mind?

These memorials should, I believe, evoke the spirit of the artist, as a craftsman, rather than as a designer. Alike in inscriptions and in representations, the wholesome and humble appeal must be direct and personal, avoiding rhetoric and over-emphasis, as well as elaborate conventions which other hands will dully and mechanically reproduce. If, as in cast metal-work, reproduction is natural and inevitable, let the designs be perfectly simple and sincere; if again it be painter, sculptor, carver, or builder that is called upon to create a memorial, let the responsibility and originality of the craft be his, and not be superseded or overruled by the authority of the design—for this indeed is, as Professor Prior said wittily to me the other day, as though a surgeon should provide a specification and an estimate for an operation, and leave the execution of it to other hands.