Title: Secret Places of the Heart
Author: Wells, H. G. (Herbert George), 1866-1946
Language: English
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THE SECRET PLACES OF THE HEART


By H. G. Wells


1922



CONTENTS

     Chapter

     1. THE CONSULTATION

     2. LADY HARDY

     3. THE DEPARTURE

     4. AT MAIDENHEAD

     5. IN THE LAND OF THE FORGOTTEN PEOPLES

     6. THE ENCOUNTER AT STONEHENGE

     7. COMPANIONSHIP

     8. FULL MOON

     9. THE LAST DAYS OF SIR RICHMOND HARDY



THE SECRET PLACES OF THE HEART



CHAPTER THE FIRST

THE CONSULTATION

Section 1

The maid was a young woman of great natural calmness; she was accustomed
to let in visitors who had this air of being annoyed and finding one
umbrella too numerous for them. It mattered nothing to her that the
gentleman was asking for Dr. Martineau as if he was asking for something
with an unpleasant taste. Almost imperceptibly she relieved him of his
umbrella and juggled his hat and coat on to a massive mahogany stand.
"What name, Sir?" she asked, holding open the door of the consulting
room.

"Hardy," said the gentleman, and then yielding it reluctantly with its
distasteful three-year-old honour, "Sir Richmond Hardy."

The door closed softly behind him and he found himself in undivided
possession of the large indifferent apartment in which the nervous and
mental troubles of the outer world eddied for a time on their way to
the distinguished specialist. A bowl of daffodils, a handsome bookcase
containing bound Victorian magazines and antiquated medical works, some
paintings of Scotch scenery, three big armchairs, a buhl clock, and
a bronze Dancing Faun, by their want of any collective idea enhanced
rather than mitigated the promiscuous disregard of the room. He drifted
to the midmost of the three windows and stared out despondently at
Harley Street.

For a minute or so he remained as still and limp as an empty jacket on
its peg, and then a gust of irritation stirred him.

"Damned fool I was to come here," he said... "DAMNED fool!

"Rush out of the place?...

"I've given my name."...

He heard the door behind him open and for a moment pretended not to
hear. Then he turned round. "I don't see what you can do for me," he
said.

"I'm sure _I_ don't," said the doctor. "People come here and talk."

There was something reassuringly inaggressive about the figure that
confronted Sir Richmond. Dr. Martineau's height wanted at least three
inches of Sir Richmond's five feet eleven; he was humanly plump, his
face was round and pink and cheerfully wistful, a little suggestive of
the full moon, of what the full moon might be if it could get fresh air
and exercise. Either his tailor had made his trousers too short or he
had braced them too high so that he seemed to have grown out of them
quite recently. Sir Richmond had been dreading an encounter with some
dominating and mesmeric personality; this amiable presence dispelled his
preconceived resistances.

Dr. Martineau, a little out of breath as though he had been running
upstairs, with his hands in his trouser pockets, seemed intent only on
disavowals. "People come here and talk. It does them good, and sometimes
I am able to offer a suggestion.

"Talking to someone who understands a little," he expanded the idea.

"I'm jangling damnably...overwork....."

"Not overwork," Dr. Martineau corrected. "Not overwork. Overwork never
hurt anyone. Fatigue stops that. A man can work--good straightforward
work, without internal resistance, until he drops,--and never hurt
himself. You must be working against friction."

"Friction! I'm like a machine without oil. I'm grinding to death....
And it's so DAMNED important I SHOULDN'T break down. It's VITALLY
important."

He stressed his words and reinforced them with a quivering gesture
of his upraised clenched hand. "My temper's in rags. I explode at any
little thing. I'm RAW. I can't work steadily for ten minutes and I can't
leave off working."

"Your name," said the doctor, "is familiar. Sir Richmond Hardy? In the
papers. What is it?"

"Fuel."

"Of course! The Fuel Commission. Stupid of me! We certainly can't afford
to have you ill."

"I AM ill. But you can't afford to have me absent from that Commission."

"Your technical knowledge--"

"Technical knowledge be damned! Those men mean to corner the national
fuel supply. And waste it! For their profits. That's what I'm up
against. You don't know the job I have to do. You don't know what a
Commission of that sort is. The moral tangle of it. You don't know how
its possibilities and limitations are canvassed and schemed about, long
before a single member is appointed. Old Cassidy worked the whole thing
with the prime minister. I can see that now as plain as daylight. I
might have seen it at first.... Three experts who'd been got at; they
thought _I_'d been got at; two Labour men who'd do anything you wanted
them to do provided you called them 'level-headed.' Wagstaffe the
socialist art critic who could be trusted to play the fool and make
nationalization look silly, and the rest mine owners, railway managers,
oil profiteers, financial adventurers...."

He was fairly launched. "It's the blind folly of it! In the days before
the war it was different. Then there was abundance. A little grabbing
or cornering was all to the good. All to the good. It prevented things
being used up too fast. And the world was running by habit; the inertia
was tremendous. You could take all sorts of liberties. But all this
is altered. We're living in a different world. The public won't stand
things it used to stand. It's a new public. It's--wild. It'll smash up
the show if they go too far. Everything short and running shorter--food,
fuel, material. But these people go on. They go on as though nothing had
changed.... Strikes, Russia, nothing will warn them. There are men on
that Commission who would steal the brakes off a mountain railway just
before they went down in it.... It's a struggle with suicidal imbeciles.
It's--! But I'm talking! I didn't come here to talk Fuel."

"You think there may be a smash-up?"

"I lie awake at night, thinking of it."

"A social smash-up."

"Economic. Social. Yes. Don't you?"

"A social smash-up seems to me altogether a possibility. All sorts of
people I find think that," said the doctor. "All sorts of people lie
awake thinking of it."

"I wish some of my damned Committee would!"

The doctor turned his eyes to the window. "I lie awake too," he said and
seemed to reflect. But he was observing his patient acutely--with his
ears.

"But you see how important it is," said Sir Richmond, and left his
sentence unfinished.

"I'll do what I can for you," said the doctor, and considered swiftly
what line of talk he had best follow.

Section 2

"This sense of a coming smash is epidemic," said the doctor. "It's at
the back of all sorts of mental trouble. It is a new state of mind.
Before the war it was abnormal--a phase of neurasthenia. Now it is
almost the normal state with whole classes of intelligent people.
Intelligent, I say. The others always have been casual and adventurous
and always will be. A loss of confidence in the general background of
life. So that we seem to float over abysses."

"We do," said Sir Richmond.

"And we have nothing but the old habits and ideas acquired in the days
of our assurance. There is a discord, a jarring."

The doctor pursued his train of thought. "A new, raw and dreadful sense
of responsibility for the universe. Accompanied by a realization that
the job is overwhelmingly too big for us."

"We've got to stand up to the job," said Sir Richmond. "Anyhow, what
else is there to do? We MAY keep things together.... I've got to do my
bit. And if only I could hold myself at it, I could beat those fellows.
But that's where the devil of it comes in. Never have I been so desirous
to work well in my life. And never have I been so slack and weak-willed
and inaccurate.... Sloppy.... Indolent.... VICIOUS!..."

The doctor was about to speak, but Sir Richmond interrupted him. "What's
got hold of me? What's got hold of me? I used to work well enough. It's
as if my will had come untwisted and was ravelling out into separate
strands. I've lost my unity. I'm not a man but a mob. I've got to
recover my vigour. At any cost."

Again as the doctor was about to speak the word was taken out of his
mouth. "And what I think of it, Dr. Martineau, is this: it's fatigue.
It's mental and moral fatigue. Too much effort. On too high a level. And
too austere. One strains and fags. FLAGS! 'Flags' I meant to say. One
strains and flags and then the lower stuff in one, the subconscious
stuff, takes control."

There was a flavour of popularized psychoanalysis about this, and the
doctor drew in the corners of his mouth and gave his head a critical
slant. "M'm." But this only made Sir Richmond raise his voice and
quicken his speech. "I want," he said, "a good tonic. A pick-me-up,
a stimulating harmless drug of some sort. That's indicated anyhow. To
begin with. Something to pull me together, as people say. Bring me up to
the scratch again."

"I don't like the use of drugs," said the doctor.

The expectation of Sir Richmond's expression changed to disappointment.
"But that's not reasonable," he cried. "That's not reasonable. That's
superstition. Call a thing a drug and condemn it! Everything is a drug.
Everything that affects you. Food stimulates or tranquillizes. Drink.
Noise is a stimulant and quiet an opiate. What is life but response to
stimulants? Or reaction after them? When I'm exhausted I want food. When
I'm overactive and sleepless I want tranquillizing. When I'm dispersed I
want pulling together."

"But we don't know how to use drugs," the doctor objected.

"But you ought to know."

Dr. Martineau fixed his eye on a first floor window sill on the opposite
side of Harley Street. His manner suggested a lecturer holding on to his
theme.

"A day will come when we shall be able to manipulate drugs--all sorts
of drugs--and work them in to our general way of living. I have no
prejudice against them at all. A time will come when we shall correct
our moods, get down to our reserves of energy by their help, suspend
fatigue, put off sleep during long spells of exertion. At some sudden
crisis for example. When we shall know enough to know just how far to
go with this, that or the other stuff. And how to wash out its after
effects.... I quite agree with you,--in principle.... But that time
hasn't come yet.... Decades of research yet.... If we tried that sort
of thing now, we should be like children playing with poisons and
explosives.... It's out of the question."

"I've been taking a few little things already. Easton Syrup for
example."

"Strychnine. It carries you for a time and drops you by the way. Has it
done you any good--any NETT good? It has--I can see--broken your sleep."

The doctor turned round again to his patient and looked up into his
troubled face.

"Given physiological trouble I don't mind resorting to a drug. Given
structural injury I don't mind surgery. But except for any little
mischief your amateur drugging may have done you do not seem to me to
be either sick or injured. You've no trouble either of structure or
material. You are--worried--ill in your mind, and otherwise perfectly
sound. It's the current of your thoughts, fermenting. If the trouble is
in the mental sphere, why go out of the mental sphere for a treatment?
Talk and thought; these are your remedies. Cool deliberate thought.
You're unravelled. You say it yourself. Drugs will only make this or
that unravelled strand behave disproportionately. You don't want that.
You want to take stock of yourself as a whole--find out where you stand.

"But the Fuel Commission?"

"Is it sitting now?"

"Adjourned till after Whitsuntide. But there's heaps of work to be done.

"Still," he added, "this is my one chance of any treatment."

The doctor made a little calculation. "Three weeks.... It's scarcely
time enough to begin."

"You're certain that no regimen of carefully planned and chosen
tonics--"

"Dismiss the idea. Dismiss it." He decided to take a plunge. "I've just
been thinking of a little holiday for myself. But I'd like to see you
through this. And if I am to see you through, there ought to be some
sort of beginning now. In this three weeks. Suppose...."

Sir Richmond leapt to his thought. "I'm free to go anywhere."

"Golf would drive a man of your composition mad?"

"It would."

"That's that. Still--. The country must be getting beautiful again
now,--after all the rain we have had. I have a little two-seater. I
don't know.... The repair people promise to release it before Friday."

"But _I_ have a choice of two very comfortable little cars. Why not be
my guest?"

"That might be more convenient."

"I'd prefer my own car."

"Then what do you say?"

"I agree. Peripatetic treatment."

"South and west. We could talk on the road. In the evenings. By the
wayside. We might make the beginnings of a treatment. ... A simple tour.
Nothing elaborate. You wouldn't bring a man?"

"I always drive myself."

Section 3

"There's something very pleasant," said the doctor, envisaging his own
rash proposal, "in travelling along roads you don't know and seeing
houses and parks and villages and towns for which you do not feel in
the slightest degree responsible. They hide all their troubles from the
road. Their backyards are tucked away out of sight, they show a brave
face; there's none of the nasty self-betrayals of the railway approach.
And everything will be fresh still. There will still be a lot of
apple-blossom--and bluebells.... And all the while we can be getting on
with your affair."

He was back at the window now. "I want the holiday myself," he said.

He addressed Sir Richmond over his shoulder. "Have you noted how fagged
and unstable EVERYBODY is getting? Everybody intelligent, I mean."

"It's an infernally worrying time."

"Exactly. Everybody suffers."

"It's no GOOD going on in the old ways--"

"It isn't. And it's a frightful strain to get into any new ways. So here
we are.

"A man," the doctor expanded, "isn't a creature in vacuo. He's himself
and his world. He's a surface of contact, a system of adaptations,
between his essential self and his surroundings. Well, our surroundings
have become--how shall I put it?--a landslide. The war which seemed
such a definable catastrophe in 1914 was, after all, only the first loud
crack and smash of the collapse. The war is over and--nothing is over.
This peace is a farce, reconstruction an exploded phrase. The slide goes
on,--it goes, if anything, faster, without a sign of stopping. And all
our poor little adaptations! Which we have been elaborating and trusting
all our lives!... One after another they fail us. We are stripped....
We have to begin all over again.... I'm fifty-seven and I feel at times
nowadays like a chicken new hatched in a thunderstorm."

The doctor walked towards the bookcase and turned.

"Everybody is like that...it isn't--what are you going to do? It
isn't--what am I going to do? It's--what are we all going to do!... Lord!
How safe and established everything was in 1910, say. We talked of this
great war that was coming, but nobody thought it would come. We had been
born in peace, comparatively speaking; we had been brought up in peace.
There was talk of wars. There were wars--little wars--that altered
nothing material.... Consols used to be at 112 and you fed your
household on ten shillings a head a week. You could run over all Europe,
barring Turkey and Russia, without even a passport. You could get to
Italy in a day. Never were life and comfort so safe--for respectable
people. And we WERE respectable people.... That was the world that made
us what we are. That was the sheltering and friendly greenhouse in
which we grew. We fitted our minds to that.... And here we are with the
greenhouse falling in upon us lump by lump, smash and clatter, the wild
winds of heaven tearing in through the gaps."

Upstairs on Dr. Martineau's desk lay the typescript of the opening
chapters of a book that was intended to make a great splash in the
world, his PSYCHOLOGY OF A NEW AGE. He had his metaphors ready.

"We said: 'This system will always go on. We needn't bother about it.'
We just planned our lives accordingly. It was like a bird building
its nest of frozen snakes. My father left me a decent independence. I
developed my position; I have lived between here and the hospital, doing
good work, enormously interested, prosperous, mildly distinguished. I
had been born and brought up on the good ship Civilization. I assumed
that someone else was steering the ship all right. I never knew; I never
enquired."

"Nor did I," said Sir Richmond, "but--"

"And nobody was steering the ship," the doctor went on. "Nobody had ever
steered the ship. It was adrift."

"I realized that. I--"

"It is a new realization. Always hitherto men have lived by faith--as
children do, as the animals do. At the back of the healthy mind, human
or animal, has been this persuasion: 'This is all right. This will go
on. If I keep the rule, if I do so and so, all will be well. I need not
trouble further; things are cared for.'"

"If we could go on like that!" said Sir Richmond.

"We can't. That faith is dead. The war--and the peace--have killed it."

The doctor's round face became speculative. His resemblance to the full
moon increased. He seemed to gaze at remote things. "It may very well
be that man is no more capable of living out of that atmosphere of
assurance than a tadpole is of living out of water. His mental
existence may be conditional on that. Deprived of it he may become
incapable of sustained social life. He may become frantically
self-seeking--incoherent... a stampede.... Human sanity may--DISPERSE.

"That's our trouble," the doctor completed. "Our fundamental trouble.
All our confidences and our accustomed adaptations are destroyed. We fit
together no longer. We are--loose. We don't know where we are nor what
to do. The psychology of the former time fails to give safe responses,
and the psychology of the New Age has still to develop."

Section 4

"That is all very well," said Sir Richmond in the resolute voice of one
who will be pent no longer. "That is all very well as far as it goes.
But it does not cover my case. I am not suffering from inadaptation. I
HAVE adapted. I have thought things out. I think--much as you do. Much
as you do. So it's not that. But--... Mind you, I am perfectly clear
where I am. Where we are. What is happening to us all is the breakup
of the entire system. Agreed! We have to make another system or perish
amidst the wreckage. I see that clearly. Science and plan have to
replace custom and tradition in human affairs. Soon. Very soon. Granted.
Granted. We used to say all that. Even before the war. Now we mean it.
We've muddled about in the old ways overlong. Some new sort of world,
planned and scientific, has to be got going. Civilization renewed.
Rebuilding civilization--while the premises are still occupied and busy.
It's an immense enterprise, but it is the only thing to be done. In some
ways it's an enormously attractive enterprise. Inspiring. It grips my
imagination. I think of the other men who must be at work. Working as I
do rather in the dark as yet. With whom I shall presently join up... The
attempt may fail; all things human may fail; but on the other hand
it may succeed. I never had such faith in anything as I have in the
rightness of the work I am doing now. I begin at that. But here is where
my difficulty comes in. The top of my brain, my innermost self says all
that I have been saying, but--The rest of me won't follow. The rest of
me refuses to attend, forgets, straggles, misbehaves."

"Exactly."

The word irritated Sir Richmond. "Not 'exactly' at all. 'Amazingly,'
if you like.... I have this unlimited faith in our present tremendous
necessity--for work--for devotion; I believe my share, the work I am
doing, is essential to the whole thing--and I work sluggishly. I work
reluctantly. I work damnably."

"Exact--" The doctor checked himself. "All that is explicable. Indeed it
is. Listen for a moment to me! Consider what you are. Consider what
we are. Consider what a man is before you marvel at his ineptitudes
of will. Face the accepted facts. Here is a creature not ten thousand
generations from the ape, his ancestor. Not ten thousand. And that ape
again, not a score of thousands from the monkey, his forebear. A man's
body, his bodily powers, are just the body and powers of an ape, a
little improved, a little adapted to novel needs. That brings me to my
point. CAN HIS MIND AND WILL BE ANYTHING BETTER? For a few generations,
a few hundreds at most, knowledge and wide thought have flared out on
the darknesses of life.... But the substance of man is ape still. He may
carry a light in his brain, but his instincts move in the darkness. Out
of that darkness he draws his motives."

"Or fails to draw them," said Sir Richmond.

"Or fails.... And that is where these new methods of treatment come in.
We explore that failure. Together. What the psychoanalyst does-and I
will confess that I owe much to the psychoanalyst--what he does is to
direct thwarted, disappointed and perplexed people to the realities of
their own nature. Which they have been accustomed to ignore and
forget. They come to us with high ambitions or lovely illusions about
themselves, torn, shredded, spoilt. They are morally denuded. Dreams
they hate pursue them; abhorrent desires draw them; they are the prey of
irresistible yet uncongenial impulses; they succumb to black despairs.
The first thing we ask them is this: 'What else could you expect?'"

"What else could I expect?" Sir Richmond repeated, looking down on him.
"H'm!"

"The wonder is not that you are sluggish, reluctantly unselfish,
inattentive, spasmodic. The wonder is that you are ever anything
else.... Do you realize that a few million generations ago, everything
that stirs in us, everything that exalts human life, self-devotions,
heroisms, the utmost triumphs of art, the love--for love it is--that
makes you and me care indeed for the fate and welfare of all this round
world, was latent in the body of some little lurking beast that crawled
and hid among the branches of vanished and forgotten Mesozoic trees?
A petty egg-laying, bristle-covered beast it was, with no more of the
rudiments of a soul than bare hunger, weak lust and fear.... People
always seem to regard that as a curious fact of no practical importance.
It isn't: it's a vital fact of the utmost practical importance. That
is what you are made of. Why should you expect--because a war and a
revolution have shocked you--that you should suddenly be able to reach
up and touch the sky?"

"H'm!" said Sir Richmond. "Have I been touching the sky!"

"You are trying to play the part of an honest rich man."

"I don't care to see the whole system go smash."

"Exactly," said the doctor, before he could prevent himself.

"But is it any good to tell a man that the job he is attempting is above
him--that he is just a hairy reptile twice removed--and all that sort of
thing?"

"Well, it saves him from hoping too much and being too greatly
disappointed. It recalls him to the proportions of the job. He gets
something done by not attempting everything. ... And it clears him up.
We get him to look into himself, to see directly and in measurable
terms what it is that puts him wrong and holds him back. He's no longer
vaguely incapacitated. He knows."

"That's diagnosis. That's not treatment."

"Treatment by diagnosis. To analyze a mental knot is to untie it."

"You propose that I shall spend my time, until the Commission meets, in
thinking about myself. I wanted to forget myself."

"Like a man who tries to forget that his petrol is running short and
a cylinder missing fire.... No. Come back to the question of what you
are," said the doctor. "A creature of the darkness with new lights. Lit
and half-blinded by science and the possibilities of controlling the
world that it opens out. In that light your will is all for service;
you care more for mankind than for yourself. You begin to understand
something of the self beyond your self. But it is a partial and a shaded
light as yet; a little area about you it makes clear, the rest is
still the old darkness--of millions of intense and narrow animal
generations.... You are like someone who awakens out of an immemorial
sleep to find himself in a vast chamber, in a great and ancient house, a
great and ancient house high amidst frozen and lifeless mountains--in a
sunless universe. You are not alone in it. You are not lord of all you
survey. Your leadership is disputed. The darkness even of the room you
are in is full of ancient and discarded but quite unsubjugated powers
and purposes.... They thrust ambiguous limbs and claws suddenly out of
the darkness into the light of your attention. They snatch things out
of your hand, they trip your feet and jog your elbow. They crowd and
cluster behind you. Wherever your shadow falls, they creep right up to
you, creep upon you and struggle to take possession of you. The souls
of apes, monkeys, reptiles and creeping things haunt the passages and
attics and cellars of this living house in which your consciousness has
awakened...."

The doctor gave this quotation from his unpublished book the advantages
of an abrupt break and a pause.

Sir Richmond shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "And you propose a
vermin hunt in the old tenement?"

"The modern man has to be master in his own house. He has to take stock
and know what is there."

"Three weeks of self vivisection."

"To begin with. Three weeks of perfect honesty with yourself. As an
opening.... It will take longer than that if we are to go through with
the job."

"It is a considerable--process."

"It is."

"Yet you shrink from simple things like drugs!"

"Self-knowledge--without anaesthetics."

"Has this sort of thing ever done anyone any good at all?"

"It has turned hundreds back to sanity and steady work."

"How frank are we going to be? How full are we going to be? Anyhow--we
can break off at any time.... We'll try it. We'll try it.... And so for
this journey into the west of England.... And--if we can get there--I'm
not sure that we can get there--into the secret places of my heart."



CHAPTER THE SECOND

LADY HARDY

The patient left the house with much more self possession than he had
shown when entering it. Dr. Martineau had thrust him back from his
intenser prepossessions to a more generalized view of himself, had made
his troubles objective and detached him from them. He could even find
something amusing now in his situation. He liked the immense scope of
the theoretical duet in which they had indulged. He felt that most of it
was entirely true--and, in some untraceable manner, absurd. There were
entertaining possibilities in the prospect of the doctor drawing him
out--he himself partly assisting and partly resisting.

He was a man of extensive reservations. His private life was in some
respects exceptionally private.

"I don't confide.... Do I even confide in myself? I imagine I do.... Is
there anything in myself that I haven't looked squarely in the face?...
How much are we going into? Even as regards facts?

"Does it really help a man--to see himself?..."

Such thoughts engaged him until he found himself in his study. His desk
and his writing table were piled high with a heavy burthen of work.
Still a little preoccupied with Dr. Martineau's exposition, he began to
handle this confusion....

At half past nine he found himself with three hours of good work behind
him. It had seemed like two. He had not worked like this for many weeks.
"This is very cheering," he said. "And unexpected. Can old Moon-face
have hypnotized me? Anyhow--... Perhaps I've only imagined I was ill....
Dinner?" He looked at his watch and was amazed at the time. "Good Lord!
I've been at it three hours. What can have happened? Funny I didn't hear
the gong."

He went downstairs and found Lady Hardy reading a magazine in a
dining-room armchair and finely poised between devotion and martyrdom. A
shadow of vexation fell athwart his mind at the sight of her.

"I'd no idea it was so late," he said. "I heard no gong."

"After you swore so at poor Bradley I ordered that there should be no
gongs when we were alone. I did come up to your door about half past
eight. I crept up. But I was afraid I might upset you if I came in."

"But you've not waited--"

"I've had a mouthful of soup." Lady Hardy rang the bell.

"I've done some work at last," said Sir Richmond, astride on the
hearthrug.

"I'm glad," said Lady Hardy, without gladness. "I waited for three
hours."

Lady Hardy was a frail little blue-eyed woman with uneven shoulders and
a delicate sweet profile. Hers was that type of face that under even
the most pleasant and luxurious circumstances still looks bravely and
patiently enduring. Her refinement threw a tinge of coarseness over his
eager consumption of his excellent clear soup.

"What's this fish, Bradley?" he asked.

"Turbot, Sir Richmond."

"Don't you have any?" he asked his wife.

"I've had a little fish," said Lady Hardy.

When Bradley was out of the room, Sir Richmond remarked: "I saw that
nerves man, Dr. Martineau, to-day. He wants me to take a holiday."

The quiet patience of the lady's manner intensified. She said nothing.
A flash of resentment lit Sir Richmond's eyes. When he spoke again, he
seemed to answer unspoken accusations. "Dr. Martineau's idea is that he
should come with me."

The lady adjusted herself to a new point of view.

"But won't that be reminding you of your illness and worries?"

"He seems a good sort of fellow.... I'm inclined to like him. He'll
be as good company as anyone.... This TOURNEDOS looks excellent. Have
some."

"I had a little bird," said Lady Hardy, "when I found you weren't
coming."

"But I say--don't wait here if you've dined. Bradley can see to me."

She smiled and shook her head with the quiet conviction of one who knew
her duty better. "Perhaps I'll have a little ice pudding when it comes,"
she said.

Sir Richmond detested eating alone in an atmosphere of observant
criticism. And he did not like talking with his mouth full to an
unembarrassed interlocutor who made no conversational leads of her own.
After a few mouthfuls he pushed his plate away from him. "Then let's
have up the ice pudding," he said with a faint note of bitterness.

"But have you finished--?"

"The ice pudding!" he exploded wrathfully. "The ice pudding!"

Lady Hardy sat for a moment, a picture of meek distress. Then, her
delicate eyebrows raised, and the corners of her mouth drooping, she
touched the button of the silver table-bell.



CHAPTER THE THIRD

THE DEPARTURE

Section 1

No wise man goes out upon a novel expedition without misgivings. And
between their first meeting and the appointed morning both Sir Richmond
Hardy and Dr. Martineau were the prey of quite disagreeable doubts about
each other, themselves, and the excursion before them. At the time
of their meeting each had been convinced that he gauged the other
sufficiently for the purposes of the proposed tour. Afterwards each
found himself trying to recall the other with greater distinctness
and able to recall nothing but queer, ominous and minatory traits.
The doctor's impression of the great fuel specialist grew ever darker,
leaner, taller and more impatient. Sir Richmond took on the likeness of
a monster obdurate and hostile, he spread upwards until like the Djinn
out of the bottle, he darkened the heavens. And he talked too much. He
talked ever so much too much. Sir Richmond also thought that the doctor
talked too much. In addition, he read into his imperfect memory of the
doctor's face, an expression of protruded curiosity. What was all this
problem of motives and inclinations that they were "going into" so
gaily? He had merely consulted the doctor on a simple, straightforward
need for a nervous tonic--that was what he had needed--a tonic. Instead
he had engaged himself for--he scarcely knew what--an indiscreet,
indelicate, and altogether undesirable experiment in confidences.

Both men were considerably reassured when at last they set eyes on
each other again. Indeed each was surprised to find something almost
agreeable in the appearance of the other. Dr. Martineau at once
perceived that the fierceness of Sir Richmond was nothing more than the
fierceness of an overwrought man, and Sir Richmond realized at a glance
that the curiosity of Dr. Martineau's bearing had in it nothing personal
or base; it was just the fine alertness of the scientific mind.

Sir Richmond had arrived nearly forty minutes late, and it would have
been evident to a much less highly trained observer than Dr. Martineau
that some dissension had arisen between the little, ladylike, cream and
black Charmeuse car and its owner. There was a faint air of resentment
and protest between them. As if Sir Richmond had been in some way rude
to it.

The cap of the radiator was adorned with a little brass figure of a
flying Mercury. Frozen in a sprightly attitude, its stiff bound and its
fixed heavenward stare was highly suggestive of a forced and tactful
disregard of current unpleasantness.

Nothing was said, however, to confirm or dispel this suspicion of a
disagreement between the man and the car. Sir Richmond directed and
assisted Dr. Martineau's man to adjust the luggage at the back, and Dr.
Martineau watched the proceedings from his dignified front door. He was
wearing a suit of fawn tweeds, a fawn Homburg hat and a light Burberry,
with just that effect of special preparation for a holiday which betrays
the habitually busy man. Sir Richmond's brown gauntness was, he noted,
greatly set off by his suit of grey. There had certainly been some sort
of quarrel. Sir Richmond was explaining the straps to Dr. Martineau's
butler with the coldness a man betrays when he explains the uncongenial
habits of some unloved intimate. And when the moment came to start and
the little engine did not immediately respond to the electric starter,
he said: "Oh! COME up, you--!"

His voice sank at the last word as though it was an entirely
confidential communication to the little car. And it was an extremely
low and disagreeable word. So Dr. Martineau decided that it was not his
business to hear it....

It was speedily apparent that Sir Richmond was an experienced and
excellent driver. He took the Charmeuse out into the traffic of
Baker Street and westward through brisk and busy streets and roads
to Brentford and Hounslow smoothly and swiftly, making a score of
unhesitating and accurate decisions without apparent thought. There
was very little conversation until they were through Brentford. Near
Shepherd's Bush, Sir Richmond had explained, "This is not my own
particular car. That was butted into at the garage this morning and
its radiator cracked. So I had to fall back on this. It's quite a good
little car. In its way. My wife drives it at times. It has one or two
constitutional weaknesses--incidental to the make--gear-box over the
back axle for example--gets all the vibration. Whole machine rather on
the flimsy side. Still--"

He left the topic at that.

Dr. Martineau said something of no consequence about its being a very
comfortable little car.

Somewhere between Brentford and Hounslow, Sir Richmond plunged into
the matter between them. "I don't know how deep we are going into these
psychological probings of yours," he said. "But I doubt very much if we
shall get anything out of them."

"Probably not," said Dr. Martineau.

"After all, what I want is a tonic. I don't see that there is anything
positively wrong with me. A certain lack of energy--"

"Lack of balance," corrected the doctor. "You are wasting energy upon
internal friction."

"But isn't that inevitable? No machine is perfectly efficient. No man
either. There is always a waste. Waste of the type; waste of the
individual idiosyncrasy. This little car, for instance, isn't pulling as
she ought to pull--she never does. She's low in her class. So with
myself; there is a natural and necessary high rate of energy waste.
Moods of apathy and indolence are natural to me. (Damn that omnibus! All
over the road!)"

"We don't deny the imperfection--" began the doctor.

"One has to fit oneself to one's circumstances," said Sir Richmond,
opening up another line of thought.

"We don't deny the imperfection" the doctor stuck to it. "These new
methods of treatment are based on the idea of imperfection. We begin
with that. I began with that last Tuesday...."

Sir Richmond, too, was sticking to his argument. "A man, and for
that matter the world he lives in, is a tangle of accumulations. Your
psychoanalyst starts, it seems to me, with a notion of stripping down
to something fundamental. The ape before was a tangle of accumulations,
just as we are. So it was with his forebears. So it has always been. All
life is an endless tangle of accumulations."

"Recognize it," said the doctor.

"And then?" said Sir Richmond, controversially.

"Recognize in particular your own tangle."

"Is my particular tangle very different from the general tangle? (Oh!
Damn this feeble little engine!) I am a creature of undecided will,
urged on by my tangled heredity to do a score of entirely incompatible
things. Mankind, all life, is that."

"But our concern is the particular score of incompatible things you are
urged to do. We examine and weigh--we weigh--"

The doctor was still saying these words when a violent and ultimately
disastrous struggle began between Sir Richmond and the little Charmeuse
car. The doctor stopped in mid-sentence.

It was near Taplow station that the mutual exasperation of man and
machine was brought to a crisis by the clumsy emergence of a laundry
cart from a side road. Sir Richmond was obliged to pull up smartly and
stopped his engine. It refused an immediate obedience to the electric
starter. Then it picked up, raced noisily, disengaged great volumes of
bluish smoke, and displayed an unaccountable indisposition to run on any
gear but the lowest. Sir Richmond thought aloud, unpleasing thoughts.
He addressed the little car as a person; he referred to ancient disputes
and temperamental incompatibilities. His anger betrayed him a coarse,
ill-bred man. The little car quickened under his reproaches. There were
some moments of hope, dashed by the necessity of going dead slow behind
an interloping van. Sir Richmond did not notice the outstretched arm
of the driver of the van, and stalled his engine for a second time. The
electric starter refused its office altogether.

For some moments Sir Richmond sat like a man of stone.

"I must wind it up," he said at last in a profound and awful voice. "I
must wind it up."

"I get out, don't I?" asked the doctor, unanswered, and did so. Sir
Richmond, after a grim search and the displacement and replacement of
the luggage, produced a handle from the locker at the back of the car
and prepared to wind.

There was a little difficulty. "Come UP!" he said, and the small engine
roared out like a stage lion.

The two gentlemen resumed their seats. The car started and then by an
unfortunate inadvertency Sir Richmond pulled the gear lever over from
the first speed to the reverse. There was a metallic clangour beneath
the two gentlemen, and the car slowed down and stopped although the
engine was still throbbing wildly, and the dainty veil of blue smoke
still streamed forward from the back of the car before a gentle breeze.
The doctor got out almost precipitately, followed by a gaunt madman,
mouthing vileness, who had only a minute or so before been a decent
British citizen. He made some blind lunges at the tremulous but obdurate
car, but rather as if he looked for offences and accusations than for
displacements to adjust. Quivering and refusing, the little car was
extraordinarily like some recalcitrant little old aristocratic lady
in the hands of revolutionaries, and this made the behaviour of Sir
Richmond seem even more outrageous than it would otherwise have done. He
stopped the engine, he went down on his hands and knees in the road to
peer up at the gear-box, then without restoring the spark, he tried
to wind up the engine again. He spun the little handle with an insane
violence, faster and faster for--as it seemed to the doctor--the better
part of a minute. Beads of perspiration appeared upon his brow and ran
together; he bared his teeth in a snarl; his hat slipped over one eye.
He groaned with rage. Then, using the starting handle as a club, he
assailed the car. He smote the brazen Mercury from its foothold and sent
it and a part of the radiator cap with it flying across the road. He
beat at the wings of the bonnet, until they bent in under his blows.
Finally, he hurled the starting-handle at the wind-screen and smashed
it. The starting-handle rattled over the bonnet and fell to the
ground....

The paroxysm was over. Ten seconds later this cataclysmal lunatic had
reverted to sanity--a rather sheepish sanity.

He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and turned his back on the
car. He remarked in a voice of melancholy detachment: "It was a mistake
to bring that coupe."

Dr. Martineau had assumed an attitude of trained observation on the side
path. His hands rested on his hips and his hat was a little on one
side. He was inclined to agree with Sir Richmond. "I don't know," he
considered. "You wanted some such blow-off as this."

"Did I?"

"The energy you have! That car must be somebody's whipping boy."

"The devil it is!" said Sir Richmond, turning round sharply and staring
at it as if he expected it to display some surprising and yet familiar
features. Then he looked questioningly and suspiciously at his
companion.

"These outbreaks do nothing to amend the originating grievance," said
the doctor. "No. And at times they are even costly. But they certainly
lift a burthen from the nervous system.... And now I suppose we have to
get that little ruin to Maidenhead."

"Little ruin!" repeated Sir Richmond. "No. There's lots of life in the
little beast yet."

He reflected. "She'll have to be towed." He felt in his breast pocket.
"Somewhere I have the R.A.C. order paper, the Badge that will Get
You Home. We shall have to hail some passing car to take it into
Maidenhead."

Dr. Martineau offered and Sir Richmond took and lit a cigarette.

For a little while conversation hung fire. Then for the first time Dr.
Martineau heard his patient laugh.

"Amazing savage," said Sir Richmond. "Amazing savage!"

He pointed to his handiwork. "The little car looks ruffled. Well it
may."

He became grave again. "I suppose I ought to apologize."

Dr. Martineau weighed the situation. "As between doctor and patient,"
he said. "No."

"Oh!" said Sir Richmond, turned to a new point of view. "But where the
patient ends and the host begins.... I'm really very sorry." He reverted
to his original train of thought which had not concerned Dr. Martineau
at all. "After all, the little car was only doing what she was made to
do."

Section 2

The affair of the car effectively unsealed Sir Richmond's mind. Hitherto
Dr. Martineau had perceived the possibility and danger of a defensive
silence or of a still more defensive irony; but now that Sir Richmond
had once given himself away, he seemed prepared to give himself away to
an unlimited extent. He embarked upon an apologetic discussion of the
choleric temperament.

He began as they stood waiting for the relief car from the Maidenhead
garage. "You were talking of the ghosts of apes and monkeys that
suddenly come out from the darkness of the subconscious...."

"You mean--when we first met at Harley Street?"

"That last apparition of mine seems to have been a gorilla at least."

The doctor became precise. "Gorillaesque. We are not descended from
gorillas."

"Queer thing a fit of rage is!"

"It's one of nature's cruder expedients. Crude, but I doubt if it is
fundamental. There doesn't seem to be rage in the vegetable world, and
even among the animals--? No, it is not universal." He ran his mind over
classes and orders. "Wasps and bees certainly seem to rage, but if one
comes to think, most of the invertebrata show very few signs of it."

"I'm not so sure," said Sir Richmond. "I've never seen a snail in a
towering passion or an oyster slamming its shell behind it. But these
are sluggish things. Oysters sulk, which is after all a smouldering sort
of rage. And take any more active invertebrate. Take a spider. Not
a smashing and swearing sort of rage perhaps, but a disciplined,
cold-blooded malignity. Crabs fight. A conger eel in a boat will rage
dangerously."

"A vertebrate. Yes. But even among the vertebrata; who has ever seen a
furious rabbit?"

"Don't the bucks fight?" questioned Sir Richmond.

Dr. Martineau admitted the point.

"I've always had these fits of passion. As far back as I can remember.
I was a kicking, screaming child. I threw things. I once threw a fork
at my elder brother and it stuck in his forehead, doing no serious
damage--happily. There were whole days of wrath--days, as I remember
them. Perhaps they were only hours.... I've never thought before what
a peculiar thing all this raging is in the world. WHY do we rage? They
used to say it was the devil. If it isn't the devil, then what the devil
is it? After all," he went on as the doctor was about to answer his
question; "as you pointed out, it isn't the lowlier things that rage.
It's the HIGHER things and US."

"The devil nowadays," the doctor reflected after a pause, "so far as
man is concerned, is understood to be the ancestral ape. And more
particularly the old male ape."

But Sir Richmond was away on another line of thought. "Life itself,
flaring out. Brooking no contradiction." He came round suddenly to the
doctor's qualification. "Why male? Don't little girls smash things just
as much?"

"They don't," said Dr. Martineau. "Not nearly as much."

Sir Richmond went off at a tangent again. "I suppose you have watched
any number of babies?"'

"Not nearly as many as a general practitioner would do. There's a lot of
rage about most of them at first, male or female."

"Queer little eddies of fury.... Recently--it happens--I've been seeing
one. A spit of red wrath, clenching its fists and squalling threats at a
damned disobedient universe."

The doctor was struck by an idea and glanced quickly and questioningly
at his companion's profile.

"Blind driving force," said Sir Richmond, musing.

"Isn't that after all what we really are?" he asked the doctor.
"Essentially--Rage. A rage in dead matter, making it alive."

"Schopenhauer," footnoted the doctor. "Boehme."

"Plain fact," said Sir Richmond. "No Rage--no Go."

"But rage without discipline?"

"Discipline afterwards. The rage first."

"But rage against what? And FOR what?"

"Against the Universe. And for--? That's more difficult. What IS the
little beast squalling itself crimson for? Ultimately? ... What is it
clutching after? In the long run, what will it get?"

("Yours the car in distress what sent this?" asked an unheeded voice.)

"Of course, if you were to say 'desire'," said Dr. Martineau, "then you
would be in line with the psychoanalysts. They talk of LIBIDO, meaning
a sort of fundamental desire. Jung speaks of it at times almost as if it
were the universal driving force."

"No," said Sir Richmond, in love with his new idea. "Not desire. Desire
would have a definite direction, and that is just what this driving
force hasn't. It's rage."

"Yours the car in distress what sent this?" the voice repeated. It was
the voice of a mechanic in an Overland car. He was holding up the blue
request for assistance that Sir Richmond had recently filled in.

The two philosophers returned to practical matters.

Section 3

For half an hour after the departure of the little Charmeuse car with
Sir Richmond and Dr. Martineau, the brass Mercury lay unheeded in the
dusty roadside grass. Then it caught the eye of a passing child.

He was a bright little boy of five. From the moment when he caught the
gleam of brass he knew that he had made the find of his life. But his
nurse was a timorous, foolish thing. "You did ought to of left it there,
Masterrarry," she said.

"Findings ain't keepings nowadays, not by no manner of means,
Masterrarry.

"Yew'd look silly if a policeman came along arsting people if they seen
a goldennimage.

"Arst yer 'ow you come by it and look pretty straight at you."

All of which grumblings Master Harry treated with an experienced
disregard. He knew definitely that he would never relinquish this bright
and lovely possession again. It was the first beautiful thing he had
ever possessed. He was the darling of fond and indulgent parents and his
nursery was crowded with hideous rag and sawdust dolls, golliwogs, comic
penguins, comic lions, comic elephants and comic policemen and every
variety of suchlike humorous idiocy and visual beastliness. This figure,
solid, delicate and gracious, was a thing of a different order.

There was to be much conflict and distress, tears and wrath, before
the affinity of that clean-limbed, shining figure and his small soul was
recognized. But he carried his point at last. The Mercury became his
inseparable darling, his symbol, his private god, the one dignified
and serious thing in a little life much congested by the quaint, the
burlesque, and all the smiling, dull condescensions of adult love.



CHAPTER THE FOURTH

AT MAIDENHEAD

Section 1

The little Charmeuse was towed to hospital and the two psychiatrists
took up their quarters at the Radiant Hotel with its pleasant lawns and
graceful landing stage at the bend towards the bridge. Sir Richmond,
after some trying work at the telephone, got into touch with his own
proper car. A man would bring the car down in two days' time at latest,
and afterwards the detested coupe could go back to London. The day was
still young, and after lunch and coffee upon a sunny lawn a boat seemed
indicated. Sir Richmond astonished the doctor by going to his room,
reappearing dressed in tennis flannels and looking very well in them. It
occurred to the doctor as a thing hitherto unnoted that Sir Richmond was
not indifferent to his personal appearance. The doctor had no flannels,
but he had brought a brown holland umbrella lined with green that he had
acquired long ago in Algiers, and this served to give him something of
the riverside quality.

The day was full of sunshine and the river had a Maytime animation. Pink
geraniums, vivid green lawns, gay awnings, bright glass, white paint and
shining metal set the tone of Maidenhead life. At lunch there had been
five or six small tables with quietly affectionate couples who talked in
undertones, a tableful of bright-coloured Jews who talked in overtones,
and a family party from the Midlands, badly smitten with shyness, who
did not talk at all. "A resort, of honeymoon couples," said the doctor,
and then rather knowingly: "Temporary honeymoons, I fancy, in one or two
of the cases."

"Decidedly temporary," said Sir Richmond, considering the company--"in
most of the cases anyhow. The two in the corner might be married. You
never know nowadays."

He became reflective....

After lunch and coffee he rowed the doctor up the river towards
Cliveden.

"The last time I was here," he said, returning to the subject, "I was
here on a temporary honeymoon."

The doctor tried to look as though he had not thought that could be
possible.

"I know my Maidenhead fairly well," said Sir Richmond. "Aquatic
activities, such as rowing, punting, messing about with a boat-hook,
tying up, buzzing about in motor launches, fouling other people's boats,
are merely the stage business of the drama. The ruling interests of this
place are love--largely illicit--and persistent drinking.... Don't you
think the bridge charming from here?"

"I shouldn't have thought--drinking," said Dr. Martineau, after he had
done justice to the bridge over his shoulder.

"Yes, the place has a floating population of quiet industrious soakers.
The incurable river man and the river girl end at that."

Dr. Martineau encouraged Sir Richmond by an appreciative silence.

"If we are to explore the secret places of the heart," Sir Richmond went
on, "we shall have to give some attention to this Maidenhead side of
life. It is very material to my case. I have,--as I have said--BEEN
HERE. This place has beauty and charm; these piled-up woods behind which
my Lords Astor and Desborough keep their state, this shining mirror
of the water, brown and green and sky blue, this fringe of reeds and
scented rushes and forget-me-not and lilies, and these perpetually
posing white swans: they make a picture. A little artificial it is true;
one feels the presence of a Conservancy Board, planting the rushes and
industriously nicking the swans; but none the less delightful. And this
setting has appealed to a number of people as an invitation, as, in a
way, a promise. They come here, responsive to that promise of beauty
and happiness. They conceive of themselves here, rowing swiftly and
gracefully, punting beautifully, brandishing boat-hooks with ease and
charm. They look to meet, under pleasant or romantic circumstances,
other possessors and worshippers of grace and beauty here. There will
be glowing evenings, warm moonlight, distant voices singing....There is
your desire, doctor, the desire you say is the driving force of life.
But reality mocks it. Boats bump and lead to coarse ungracious
quarrels; rowing can be curiously fatiguing; punting involves dreadful
indignities. The romance here tarnishes very quickly. Romantic
encounters fail to occur; in our impatience we resort to--accosting.
Chilly mists arise from the water and the magic of distant singing
is provided, even excessively, by boatloads of cads--with collecting
dishes. When the weather keeps warm there presently arises an
extraordinary multitude of gnats, and when it does not there is a need
for stimulants. That is why the dreamers who come here first for a light
delicious brush with love, come down at last to the Thamesside barmaid
with her array of spirits and cordials as the quintessence of all
desire."

"I say," said the doctor. "You tear the place to pieces."

"The desires of the place," said Sir Richmond.

"I'm using the place as a symbol."

He held his sculls awash, rippling in the water.

"The real force of life, the rage of life, isn't here," he said. "It's
down underneath, sulking and smouldering. Every now and then it strains
and cracks the surface. This stretch of the Thames, this pleasure
stretch, has in fact a curiously quarrelsome atmosphere. People scold
and insult one another for the most trivial things, for passing too
close, for taking the wrong side, for tying up or floating loose. Most
of these notice boards on the bank show a thoroughly nasty spirit.
People on the banks jeer at anyone in the boats. You hear people
quarrelling in boats, in the hotels, as they walk along the towing path.
There is remarkably little happy laughter here. The RAGE, you see, is
hostile to this place, the RAGE breaks through.... The people who
drift from one pub to another, drinking, the people who fuddle in the
riverside hotels, are the last fugitives of pleasure, trying to forget
the rage...."

"Isn't it that there is some greater desire at the back of the human
mind?" the doctor suggested. "Which refuses to be content with pleasure
as an end?"

"What greater desire?" asked Sir Richmond, disconcertingly.

"Oh!..." The doctor cast about.

"There is no such greater desire," said Sir Richmond. "You cannot name
it. It is just blind drive. I admit its discontent with pleasure as an
end--but has it any end of its own? At the most you can say that the
rage in life is seeking its desire and hasn't found it."

"Let us help in the search," said the doctor, with an afternoon smile
under his green umbrella. "Go on."

Section 2

"Since our first talk in Harley Street," said Sir Richmond, "I have been
trying myself over in my mind. (We can drift down this backwater.)"

"Big these trees are," said the doctor with infinite approval.

"I am astonished to discover what a bundle of discordant motives I am.
I do not seem to deserve to be called a personality. I cannot discover
even a general direction. Much more am I like a taxi-cab in which all
sorts of aims and desires have travelled to their destination and got
out. Are we all like that?"

"A bundle held together by a name and address and a certain thread of
memory?" said the doctor and considered. "More than that. More than
that. We have leading ideas, associations, possessions, liabilities."

"We build ourselves a prison of circumstances that keeps us from
complete dispersal."

"Exactly," said the doctor. "And there is also something, a consistency,
that we call character."

"It changes."

"Consistently with itself."

"I have been trying to recall my sexual history," said Sir Richmond,
going off at a tangent. "My sentimental education. I wonder if it
differs very widely from yours or most men's."

"Some men are more eventful in these matters than others," said the
doctor,--it sounded--wistfully.

"They have the same jumble of motives and traditions, I suspect, whether
they are eventful or not. The brakes may be strong or weak but the drive
is the same. I can't remember much of the beginnings of curiosity and
knowledge in these matters. Can you?"

"Not much," said the doctor. "No."

"Your psychoanalysts tell a story of fears, suppressions, monstrous
imaginations, symbolic replacements. I don't remember much of that sort
of thing in my own case. It may have faded out of my mind. There were
probably some uneasy curiosities, a grotesque dream or so perhaps; I
can't recall anything of that sort distinctly now. I had a very lively
interest in women, even when I was still quite a little boy, and a
certain--what shall I call it?--imaginative slavishness--not towards
actual women but towards something magnificently feminine. My first
love--"

Sir Richmond smiled at some secret memory. "My first love was Britannia
as depicted by Tenniel in the cartoons in PUNCH. I must have been a very
little chap at the time of the Britannia affair. I just clung to her in
my imagination and did devoted things for her. Then I recall, a little
later, a secret abject adoration for the white goddesses of the Crystal
Palace. Not for any particular one of them that I can remember,--for all
of them. But I don't remember anything very monstrous or incestuous
in my childish imaginations,--such things as Freud, I understand, lays
stress upon. If there was an Oedipus complex or anything of that sort
in my case it has been very completely washed out again. Perhaps a child
which is brought up in a proper nursery of its own and sees a lot of
pictures of the nude human body, and so on, gets its mind shifted off
any possible concentration upon the domestic aspect of sex. I got to
definite knowledge pretty early. By the time I was eleven or twelve."

"Normally?"

"What is normally? Decently, anyhow. Here again I may be forgetting much
secret and shameful curiosity. I got my ideas into definite form out of
a little straightforward physiological teaching and some dissecting of
rats and mice. My schoolmaster was a capable sane man in advance of
his times and my people believed in him. I think much of this distorted
perverse stuff that grows up in people's minds about sex and develops
into evil vices and still more evil habits, is due to the mystery we
make about these things."

"Not entirely," said the doctor.

"Largely. What child under a modern upbringing ever goes through the
stuffy horrors described in James Joyce's PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A
YOUNG MAN."

"I've not read it."

"A picture of the Catholic atmosphere; a young soul shut up in darkness
and ignorance to accumulate filth. In the name of purity and decency and
under threats of hell fire."

"Horrible!"

"Quite. A study of intolerable tensions, the tensions that make young
people write unclean words in secret places."

"Yes, we certainly ventilate and sanitate in those matters nowadays.
Where nothing is concealed, nothing can explode."

"On the whole I came up to adolescence pretty straight and clean," said
Sir Richmond. "What stands out in my memory now is this idea, of a
sort of woman goddess who was very lovely and kind and powerful and
wonderful. That ruled my secret imaginations as a boy, but it was very
much in my mind as I grew up."

"The mother complex," said Dr. Martineau as a passing botanist might
recognize and name a flower.

Sir Richmond stared at him for a moment.

"It had not the slightest connexion with my mother or any mother or any
particular woman at all. Far better to call it the goddess complex."

"The connexion is not perhaps immediately visible," said the doctor.

"There was no connexion," said Sir Richmond. "The women of my adolescent
dreams were stripped and strong and lovely. They were great creatures.
They came, it was clearly traceable, from pictures sculpture--and from
a definite response in myself to their beauty. My mother had nothing
whatever to do with that. The women and girls about me were fussy
bunches of clothes that I am sure I never even linked with that dream
world of love and worship."

"Were you co-educated?"

"No. But I had a couple of sisters, one older, one younger than myself,
and there were plenty of girls in my circle. I thought some of them
pretty--but that was a different affair. I know that I didn't connect
them with the idea of the loved and worshipped goddesses at all, because
I remember when I first saw the goddess in a real human being and how
amazed I was at the discovery.... I was a boy of twelve or thirteen. My
people took me one summer to Dymchurch in Romney Marsh; in those days
before the automobile had made the Marsh accessible to the Hythe and
Folkestone crowds, it was a little old forgotten silent wind-bitten
village crouching under the lee of the great sea wall. At low water
there were miles of sand as smooth and shining as the skin of a savage
brown woman. Shining and with a texture--the very same. And one day as I
was mucking about by myself on the beach, boy fashion,--there were some
ribs of a wrecked boat buried in the sand near a groin and I was busy
with them--a girl ran out from a tent high up on the beach and across
the sands to the water. She was dressed in a tight bathing dress and
not in the clumsy skirts and frills that it was the custom to inflict
on women in those days. Her hair was tied up in a blue handkerchief. She
ran swiftly and gracefully, intent upon the white line of foam ahead. I
can still remember how the sunlight touched her round neck and cheek as
she went past me. She was the loveliest, most shapely thing I have
ever seen--to this day. She lifted up her arms and thrust through the
dazzling white and green breakers and plunged into the water and swam;
she swam straight out for a long way as it seemed to me, and presently
came in and passed me again on her way back to her tent, light and
swift and sure. The very prints of her feet on the sand were beautiful.
Suddenly I realized that there could be living people in the world as
lovely as any goddess.... She wasn't in the least out of breath.

"That was my first human love. And I love that girl still. I doubt
sometimes whether I have ever loved anyone else. I kept the thing very
secret. I wonder now why I have kept the thing so secret. Until now I
have never told a soul about it. I resorted to all sorts of tortuous
devices and excuses to get a chance of seeing her again without
betraying what it was I was after."

Dr. Martineau retained a simple fondness for a story.

"And did you meet her again?"

"Never. Of course I may have seen her as a dressed-up person and not
recognized her. A day or so later I was stabbed to the heart by the
discovery that the tent she came out of had been taken away."

"She had gone?"

"For ever."

Sir Richmond smiled brightly at the doctor's disappointment.

Section 3

"I was never wholehearted and simple about sexual things," Sir Richmond
resumed presently. "Never. I do not think any man is. We are too
much plastered-up things, too much the creatures of a tortuous and
complicated evolution."

Dr. Martineau, under his green umbrella, nodded his conceded agreement.

"This--what shall I call it?--this Dream of Women, grew up in my mind as
I grew up--as something independent of and much more important than the
reality of Women. It came only very slowly into relation with that. That
girl on the Dymchurch beach was one of the first links, but she ceased
very speedily to be real--she joined the women of dreamland at last
altogether. She became a sort of legendary incarnation. I thought of
these dream women not only as something beautiful but as something
exceedingly kind and helpful. The girls and women I met belonged to a
different creation...."

Sir Richmond stopped abruptly and rowed a few long strokes.

Dr. Martineau sought information.

"I suppose," he said, "there was a sensuous element in these dreamings?"

"Certainly. A very strong one. It didn't dominate but it was a very
powerful undertow."

"Was there any tendency in all this imaginative stuff to concentrate?
To group itself about a single figure, the sort of thing that Victorians
would have called an ideal?"

"Not a bit of it," said Sir Richmond with conviction. "There was always
a tremendous lot of variety in my mind. In fact the thing I liked least
in the real world was the way it was obsessed by the idea of pairing off
with one particular set and final person. I liked to dream of a blonde
goddess in her own Venusberg one day, and the next I would be off over
the mountains with an armed Brunhild."

"You had little thought of children?"

"As a young man?"

"Yes."

"None at all. I cannot recall a single philoprogenitive moment. These
dream women were all conceived of, and I was conceived of, as being
concerned in some tremendous enterprise--something quite beyond
domesticity. It kept us related--gave us dignity.... Certainly it wasn't
babies."

"All this is very interesting, very interesting, from the scientific
point of view. A PRIORI it is not what one might have expected.
Reasoning from the idea that all instincts and natural imaginations are
adapted to a biological end and seeing that sex is essentially a method
of procreation, one might reasonably expect a convergence, if not a
complete concentration, upon the idea of offspring. It is almost as
if there were other ends to be served. It is clear that Nature has
not worked this impulse out to any sight of its end. Has not perhaps
troubled to do so. The instinct of the male for the female isn't
primarily for offspring--not even in the most intelligent and farseeing
types. The desire just points to glowing satisfactions and illusions.
Quite equally I think the desire of the female for the male ignores its
end. Nature has set about this business in a CHEAP sort of way. She is
like some pushful advertising tradesman. She isn't frank with us; she
just humbugs us into what she wants with us. All very well in the early
Stone Age--when the poor dear things never realized that their mutual
endearments meant all the troubles and responsibilities of parentage.
But NOW--!"

He shook his head sideways and twirled the green umbrella like an
animated halo around his large broad-minded face.

Sir Richmond considered. "Desire has never been the chief incentive of
my relations with women. Never. So far as I can analyze the thing, it
has been a craving for a particular sort of life giving companionship."

"That I take it is Nature's device to keep the lovers together in the
interest of the more or less unpremeditated offspring."

"A poor device, if that is its end. It doesn't keep parents together;
more often it tears them apart. The wife or the mistress, so soon as
she is encumbered with children, becomes all too manifestly not the
companion goddess...."

Sir Richmond brooded over his sculls and thought.

"Throughout my life I have been an exceedingly busy man. I have done a
lot of scientific work and some of it has been very good work. And
very laborious work. I've travelled much. I've organized great business
developments. You might think that my time has been fairly well
filled without much philandering. And all the time, all the time, I've
been--about women--like a thirsty beast looking for water.... Always.
Always. All through my life."

Dr. Martineau waited through another silence.

"I was very grave about it at first. I married young. I married very
simply and purely. I was not one of those young men who sow a large crop
of wild oats. I was a fairly decent youth. It suddenly appeared to me
that a certain smiling and dainty girl could make herself into all the
goddesses of my dreams. I had but to win her and this miracle would
occur. Of course I forget now the exact things I thought and felt then,
but surely I had some such persuasion. Or why should I have married her?
My wife was seven years younger than myself,--a girl of twenty. She
was charming. She is charming. She is a wonderfully intelligent and
understanding woman. She has made a home for me--a delightful home. I am
one of those men who have no instinct for home making. I owe my home and
all the comfort and dignity of my life to her ability. I have no excuse
for any misbehaviour--so far as she is concerned. None at all. By
all the rules I should have been completely happy. But instead of my
marriage satisfying me, it presently released a storm of long-controlled
desires and imprisoned cravings. A voice within me became more and more
urgent. 'This will not do. This is not love. Where are your goddesses?
This is not love.'... And I was unfaithful to my wife within four years
of my marriage. It was a sudden overpowering impulse. But I suppose the
ground had been preparing for a long time. I forget now all the emotions
of that adventure. I suppose at the time it seemed beautiful and
wonderful.... I do not excuse myself. Still less do I condemn myself. I
put the facts before you. So it was."

"There were no children by your marriage?"

"Your line of thought, doctor, is too philoprogenitive. We have had
three. My daughter was married two years ago. She is in America. One
little boy died when he was three. The other is in India, taking up the
Mardipore power scheme again now that he is out of the army.... No, it
is simply that I was hopelessly disappointed with everything that a
good woman and a decent marriage had to give me. Pure disappointment and
vexation. The anti-climax to an immense expectation built up throughout
an imaginative boyhood and youth and early manhood. I was shocked
and ashamed at my own disappointment. I thought it mean and base.
Nevertheless this orderly household into which I had placed my life,
these almost methodical connubialities...."

He broke off in mid-sentence.

Dr. Martineau shook his head disapprovingly.

"No," he said, "it wasn't fair to your wife."

"It was shockingly unfair. I have always realized that. I've done what
I could to make things up to her.... Heaven knows what counter
disappointments she has concealed.... But it is no good arguing about
rights and wrongs now. This is not an apology for my life. I am telling
you what happened.

"Not for me to judge," said Dr. Martineau. "Go on."

"By marrying I had got nothing that my soul craved for, I had satisfied
none but the most transitory desires and I had incurred a tremendous
obligation. That obligation didn't restrain me from making desperate
lunges at something vaguely beautiful that I felt was necessary to me;
but it did cramp and limit these lunges. So my story flops down into the
comedy of the lying, cramped intrigues of a respectable, married man...I
was still driven by my dream of some extravagantly beautiful inspiration
called love and I sought it like an area sneak. Gods! What a story it
is when one brings it all together! I couldn't believe that the glow and
sweetness I dreamt of were not in the world--somewhere. Hidden away
from me. I seemed to catch glimpses of the dear lost thing, now in the
corners of a smiling mouth, now in dark eyes beneath a black smoke of
hair, now in a slim form seen against the sky. Often I cared nothing for
the woman I made love to. I cared for the thing she seemed to be hiding
from me...."

Sir Richmond's voice altered.

"I don't see what possible good it can do to talk over these things." He
began to row and rowed perhaps a score of strokes. Then he stopped
and the boat drove on with a whisper of water at the bow and over the
outstretched oar blades.

"What a muddle and mockery the whole thing is!" he cried. "What a
fumbling old fool old Mother Nature has been! She drives us into
indignity and dishonour: and she doesn't even get the children which are
her only excuse for her mischief. See what a fantastic thing I am when
you take the machine to pieces! I have been a busy and responsible man
throughout my life. I have handled complicated public and industrial
affairs not unsuccessfully and discharged quite big obligations fully
and faithfully. And all the time, hidden away from the public eye,
my life has been laced by the thread of these--what can one call
them?--love adventures. How many? you ask. I don't know. Never have I
been a whole-hearted lover; never have I been able to leave love
alone.... Never has love left me alone.

"And as I am made," said Sir Richmond with sudden insistence, "AS I AM
MADE--I do not believe that I could go on without these affairs. I know
that you will be disposed to dispute that."

Dr. Martineau made a reassuring noise.

"These affairs are at once unsatisfying and vitally necessary. It is
only latterly that I have begun to perceive this. Women MAKE life
for me. Whatever they touch or see or desire becomes worth while
and otherwise it is not worth while. Whatever is lovely in my world,
whatever is delightful, has been so conveyed to me by some woman.
Without the vision they give me, I should be a hard dry industry in the
world, a worker ant, a soulless rage, making much, valuing nothing."

He paused.

"You are, I think, abnormal," considered the doctor.

"Not abnormal. Excessive, if you like. Without women I am a wasting
fever of distressful toil. Without them there is no kindness in
existence, no rest, no sort of satisfaction. The world is a battlefield,
trenches, barbed wire, rain, mud, logical necessity and utter
desolation--with nothing whatever worth fighting for. Whatever justifies
effort, whatever restores energy is hidden in women...."

"An access of sex," said Dr. Martineau. "This is a phase...."

"It is how I am made," said Sir Richmond.

A brief silence fell upon that. Dr. Martineau persisted. "It isn't how
you are made. We are getting to something in all this. It is, I insist,
a mood of how you are made. A distinctive and indicative mood."

Sir Richmond went on, almost as if he soliloquized.

"I would go through it all again.... There are times when the love
of women seems the only real thing in the world to me. And always it
remains the most real thing. I do not know how far I may be a normal man
or how far I may not be, so to speak, abnormally male, but to me life
has very little personal significance and no value or power until it
has a woman as intermediary. Before life can talk to me and say anything
that matters a woman must be present as a medium. I don't mean that it
has no significance mentally and logically; I mean that irrationally and
emotionally it has no significance. Works of art, for example, bore me,
literature bores me, scenery bores me, even the beauty of a woman bores
me, unless I find in it some association with a woman's feeling. It
isn't that I can't tell for myself that a picture is fine or a mountain
valley lovely, but that it doesn't matter a rap to me whether it is or
whether it isn't until there is a feminine response, a sexual motif, if
you like to call it that, coming in. Whatever there is of loveliness
or pride in life doesn't LIVE for me until somehow a woman comes in and
breathes upon it the breath of life. I cannot even rest until a woman
makes holiday for me. Only one thing can I do without women and that is
work, joylessly but effectively, and latterly for some reason that it is
up to you to discover, doctor, even the power of work has gone from me."

Section 4

"This afternoon brings back to me very vividly my previous visit here.
It was perhaps a dozen or fifteen years ago. We rowed down this same
backwater. I can see my companion's hand--she had very pretty hands with
rosy palms--trailing in the water, and her shadowed face smiling quietly
under her sunshade, with little faint streaks of sunlight, reflected
from the ripples, dancing and quivering across it. She was one of those
people who seem always to be happy and to radiate happiness.

"By ordinary standards," said Sir Richmond, "she was a thoroughly bad
lot. She had about as much morality, in the narrower sense of the word,
as a monkey. And yet she stands out in my mind as one of the most honest
women I have ever met. She was certainly one of the kindest. Part of
that effect of honesty may have been due to her open brow, her candid
blue eyes, the smiling frankness of her manner.... But--no! She was
really honest.

"We drifted here as we are doing now. She pulled at the sweet rushes
and crushed them in her hand. She adds a remembered brightness to this
afternoon.

"Honest. Friendly. Of all the women I have known, this woman who was
here with me came nearest to being my friend. You know, what we call
virtue in a woman is a tremendous handicap to any real friendliness with
a man. Until she gets to an age when virtue and fidelity are no longer
urgent practical concerns, a good woman, by the very definition of
feminine goodness, isn't truly herself. Over a vast extent of her being
she is RESERVED. She suppresses a vast amount of her being, holds back,
denies, hides. On the other hand, there is a frankness and honesty in
openly bad women arising out of the admitted fact that they are bad,
that they hide no treasure from you, they have no peculiarly precious
and delicious secrets to keep, and no poverty to conceal. Intellectually
they seem to be more manly and vigorous because they are, as people say,
unsexed. Many old women, thoroughly respectable old women, have the
same quality. Because they have gone out of the personal sex business.
Haven't you found that?"

"I have never," said the doctor, "known what you call an openly bad
woman,--at least, at all intimately...."

Sir Richmond looked with quick curiosity at his companion. "You have
avoided them!"

"They don't attract me."

"They repel you?"

"For me," said the doctor, "for any friendliness, a woman must be
modest.... My habits of thought are old-fashioned, I suppose, but
the mere suggestion about a woman that there were no barriers, no
reservation, that in any fashion she might more than meet me half
way..."

His facial expression completed his sentence.

"Now I wonder," whispered Sir Richmond, and hesitated for a moment
before he carried the great research into the explorer's country.
"You are afraid of women?" he said, with a smile to mitigate the
impertinence.

"I respect them."

"An element of fear."

"Well, I am afraid of them then. Put it that way if you like. Anyhow I
do not let myself go with them. I have never let myself go."

"You lose something. You lose a reality of insight."

There was a thoughtful interval.

"Having found so excellent a friend," said the doctor, "why did you ever
part from her?"

Sir Richmond seemed indisposed to answer, but Dr. Martineau's
face remained slantingly interrogative. He had found the effective
counterattack and he meant to press it. "I was jealous of her," Sir
Richmond admitted. "I couldn't stand that side of it."

Section 5

After a meditative silence the doctor became briskly professional again.

"You care for your wife," he said. "You care very much for your wife.
She is, as you say, your great obligation and you are a man to respect
obligations. I grasp that. Then you tell me of these women who have come
and gone.... About them too you are perfectly frank... There remains
someone else." Sir Richmond stared at his physician.

"Well," he said and laughed. "I didn't pretend to have made my
autobiography anything more than a sketch."

"No, but there is a special person, the current person."

"I haven't dilated on my present situation, I admit."

"From some little things that have dropped from you, I should say there
is a child."

"That," said Sir Richmond after a brief pause, "is a good guess."

"Not older than three."

"Two years and a half."

"You and this lady who is, I guess, young, are separated. At any rate,
you can't go to her. That leaves you at loose ends, because for some
time, for two or three years at least, you have ceased to be--how
shall I put it?--an emotional wanderer."

"I begin to respect your psychoanalysis."

"Hence your overwhelming sense of the necessity of feminine
companionship for weary men. I guess she is a very jolly companion to be
with, amusing, restful--interesting."

"H'm," said Sir Richmond. "I think that is a fair description. When she
cares, that is. When she is in good form."

"Which she isn't at present," hazarded the doctor. He exploded a mine of
long-pent exasperation.

"She is the clumsiest hand at keeping well that I have ever known.
Health is a woman's primary duty. But she is incapable of the most
elementary precautions. She is maddeningly receptive to every infection.
At the present moment, when I am ill, when I am in urgent need of help
and happiness, she has let that wretched child get measles and
she herself won't let me go near her because she has got something
disfiguring, something nobody else could ever have or think of having,
called CARBUNCLE. Carbuncle!"

"It is very painful," said Dr. Martineau. "No doubt it is," said Sir
Richmond.

"No doubt it is." His voice grew bitter. He spoke with deliberation. "A
perfectly aimless, useless illness,--and as painful as it CAN be."

He spoke as if he slammed a door viciously. And indeed he had slammed
a door. The doctor realized that for the present there was no more
self-dissection to be got from Sir Richmond.

For some time Sir Richmond had been keeping the boat close up to the
foaming weir to the left of the lock by an occasional stroke. Now with
a general air of departure he swung the boat round and began to row down
stream towards the bridge and the Radiant Hotel.

"Time we had tea," he said.

Section 6

After tea Dr. Martineau left Sir Richmond in a chair upon the lawn,
brooding darkly--apparently over the crime of the carbuncle. The doctor
went to his room, ostensibly to write a couple of letters and put on
a dinner jacket, but really to make a few notes of the afternoon's
conversation and meditate over his impressions while they were fresh.

His room proffered a comfortable armchair and into this he sank...
A number of very discrepant things were busy in his mind. He had
experienced a disconcerting personal attack. There was a whirl of active
resentment in the confusion.

"Apologetics of a rake," he tried presently.

"A common type, stripped of his intellectual dressing. Every third
manufacturer from the midlands or the north has some such undertow
of 'affairs.' A physiological uneasiness, an imaginative laxity,
the temptations of the trip to London--weakness masquerading as a
psychological necessity. The Lady of the Carbuncle seems to have got
rather a hold upon him. She has kept him in order for three or four
years."

The doctor scrutinized his own remarks with a judicious expression.

"I am not being fair. He ruffled me. Even if it is true, as I said, that
every third manufacturer from the midlands is in much the same case as
he is, that does not dismiss the case. It makes it a more important
one, much more important: it makes it a type case with the exceptional
quality of being self-expressive. Almost too selfexpressive.

"Sir Richmond does, after all, make out a sort of case for himself....

"A valid case?"

The doctor sat deep in his chair, frowning judicially with the fingers
of one hand apposed to the fingers of the other. "He makes me bristle
because all his life and ideas challenge my way of living. But if I
eliminate the personal element?"

He pulled a sheet of note-paper towards him and began to jot down notes
with a silver-cased pencil. Soon he discontinued writing and sat tapping
his pencil-case on the table. "The amazing selfishness of his attitude!
I do not think that once--not once--has he judged any woman except as
a contributor to his energy and peace of mind.... Except in the case of
his wife....

"For her his habit of respect was formed before his ideas developed....

"That I think explains HER....

"What was his phrase about the unfortunate young woman with the
carbuncle?... 'Totally Useless and unnecessary illness,' was it?...

"Now has a man any right by any standards to use women as this man has
used them?

"By any standards?"

The doctor frowned and nodded his head slowly with the corners of his
mouth drawn in.

For some years now an intellectual reverie had been playing an
increasing part in the good doctor's life. He was writing this book of
his, writing it very deliberately and laboriously, THE PSYCHOLOGY OF A
NEW AGE, but much more was he dreaming and thinking about this book.
Its publication was to mark an epoch in human thought and human affairs
generally, and create a considerable flutter of astonishment in the
doctor's own little world. It was to bring home to people some various
aspects of one very startling proposition: that human society had
arrived at a phase when the complete restatement of its fundamental
ideas had become urgently necessary, a phase when the slow, inadequate,
partial adjustments to two centuries of changing conditions had to give
place to a rapid reconstruction of new fundamental ideas. And it was
a fact of great value in the drama of these secret dreams that the
directive force towards this fundamentally reconstructed world should be
the pen of an unassuming Harley Street physician, hitherto not suspected
of any great excesses of enterprise.

The written portions of this book were already in a highly polished
state. They combined a limitless freedom of proposal with a smooth
urbanity of manner, a tacit denial that the thoughts of one intelligent
being could possibly be shocking to another. Upon this the doctor was
very insistent. Conduct, he held, could never be sufficiently discreet,
thought could never be sufficiently free. As a citizen, one had to treat
a law or an institution as a thing as rigidly right as a natural law.
That the social well-being demands. But as a scientific man, in one's
stated thoughts and in public discussion, the case was altogether
different. There was no offence in any possible hypothesis or in the
contemplation of any possibility. Just as when one played a game one was
bound to play in unquestioning obedience to the laws and spirit of the
game, but if one was not playing that game then there was no reason why
one should not contemplate the completest reversal of all its methods
and the alteration and abandonment of every rule. Correctness of
conduct, the doctor held, was an imperative concomitant of all really
free thinking. Revolutionary speculation is one of those things that
must be divorced absolutely from revolutionary conduct. It was to the
neglect of these obvious principles, as the doctor considered them, that
the general muddle in contemporary marital affairs was very largely due.
We left divorce-law revision to exposed adulterers and marriage reform
to hot adolescents and craving spinsters driven by the furies
within them to assertions that established nothing and to practical
demonstrations that only left everybody thoroughly uncomfortable. Far
better to leave all these matters to calm, patient men in easy chairs,
weighing typical cases impartially, ready to condone, indisposed to
envy.

In return for which restraint on the part of the eager and adventurous,
the calm patient man was prepared in his thoughts to fly high and
go far. Without giving any guarantee, of course, that he might not
ultimately return to the comfortable point of inaction from which he
started.

In Sir Richmond, Dr. Martineau found the most interesting and
encouraging confirmation of the fundamental idea of THE PSYCHOLOGY OF A
NEW AGE, the immediate need of new criteria of conduct altogether. Here
was a man whose life was evidently ruled by standards that were at once
very high and very generous. He was overworking himself to the pitch
of extreme distress and apparently he was doing this for ends that
were essentially unselfish. Manifestly there were many things that an
ordinary industrial or political magnate would do that Sir Richmond
would not dream of doing, and a number of things that such a man would
not feel called upon to do that he would regard as imperative duties.
And mixed up with so much fine intention and fine conduct was this
disreputable streak of intrigue and this extraordinary claim that such
misconduct was necessary to continued vigour of action.

"To energy of thought it is not necessary," said Dr. Martineau, and
considered for a time. "Yet--certainly--I am not a man of action. I
admit it. I make few decisions."

The chapters of THE PSYCHOLOGY OF A NEW AGE dealing with women were
still undrafted, but they had already greatly exercised the doctor's
mind. He found now that the case of Sir Richmond had stirred his
imagination. He sat with his hands apposed, his head on one side, and
an expression of great intellectual contentment on his face while these
emancipated ideas gave a sort of gala performance in his mind.

The good doctor did not dislike women, he had always guarded himself
very carefully against misogyny, but he was very strongly disposed to
regard them as much less necessary in the existing scheme of things than
was generally assumed. Women, he conceded, had laid the foundations of
social life. Through their contrivances and sacrifices and patience the
fierce and lonely patriarchal family-herd of a male and his women
and off spring had grown into the clan and tribe; the woven tissue of
related families that constitute the human comity had been woven by the
subtle, persistent protection of sons and daughters by their mothers
against the intolerant, jealous, possessive Old Man. But that was a
thing, of the remote past. Little was left of those ancient struggles
now but a few infantile dreams and nightmares. The greater human
community, human society, was made for good. And being made, it had
taken over the ancient tasks of the woman, one by one, until now in its
modern forms it cherished more sedulously than she did, it educated, it
housed and comforted, it clothed and served and nursed, leaving the wife
privileged, honoured, protected, for the sake of tasks she no longer did
and of a burthen she no longer bore. "Progress has TRIVIALIZED women,"
said the doctor, and made a note of the word for later consideration.

"And woman has trivialized civilization," the doctor tried.

"She has retained her effect of being central, she still makes the
social atmosphere, she raises men's instinctive hopes of help and
direction. Except," the doctor stipulated, "for a few highly developed
modern types, most men found the sense of achieving her a necessary
condition for sustained exertion. And there is no direction in her any
more.

"She spends," said the doctor, "she just spends. She spends excitingly
and competitively for her own pride and glory, she drives all the energy
of men over the weirs of gain....

"What are we to do with the creature?" whispered the doctor.

Apart from the procreative necessity, was woman an unavoidable evil? The
doctor's untrammelled thoughts began to climb high, spin, nose dive and
loop the loop. Nowadays we took a proper care of the young, we had no
need for high birth rates, quite a small proportion of women with a gift
in that direction could supply all the offspring that the world wanted.
Given the power of determining sex that science was slowly winning
today, and why should we have so many women about? A drastic elimination
of the creatures would be quite practicable. A fantastic world to a
vulgar imagination, no doubt, but to a calmly reasonable mind by no
means fantastic. But this was where the case of Sir Richmond became
so interesting. Was it really true that the companionship of women was
necessary to these energetic creative types? Was it the fact that the
drive of life towards action, as distinguished from contemplation, arose
out of sex and needed to be refreshed by the reiteration of that motive?
It was a plausible proposition: it marched with all the doctor's ideas
of natural selection and of the conditions of a survival that have made
us what we are. It was in tune with the Freudian analyses.

"SEX NOT ONLY A RENEWAL OF LIFE IN THE SPECIES," noted the doctor's
silver pencil; "SEX MAY BE ALSO A RENEWAL OF ENERGY IN THE INDIVIDUAL."

After some musing he crossed out "sex" and wrote above it "sexual love."

"That is practically what he claims," Dr. Martineau said. "In which
case we want the completest revision of all our standards of sexual
obligation. We want a new system of restrictions and imperatives
altogether."

It was a fixed idea of the doctor's that women were quite incapable of
producing ideas in the same way that men do, but he believed that with
suitable encouragement they could be induced to respond quite generously
to such ideas. Suppose therefore we really educated the imaginations of
women; suppose we turned their indubitable capacity for service towards
social and political creativeness, not in order to make them the rivals
of men in these fields, but their moral and actual helpers. "A man of
this sort wants a mistress-mother," said the doctor. "He wants a sort of
woman who cares more for him and his work and honour than she does for
child or home or clothes or personal pride."

"But are there such women? Can there be such a woman?"

"His work needs to be very fine to deserve her help. But admitting its
fineness?...

"The alternative seems to be to teach the sexes to get along without
each other."

"A neutralized world. A separated world. How we should jostle in the
streets! But the early Christians have tried it already. The thing is
impossible."

"Very well, then, we have to make women more responsible again. In a
new capacity. We have to educate them far more seriously as sources of
energy--as guardians and helpers of men. And we have to suppress them
far more rigorously as tempters and dissipaters. Instead of mothering
babies they have to mother the race...."

A vision of women made responsible floated before his eyes.

"Is that man working better since you got hold of him? If not, why not?"

"Or again,--Jane Smith was charged with neglecting her lover to the
common danger.... The inspector said the man was in a pitiful state,
morally quite uncombed and infested with vulgar, showy ideas...."

The doctor laughed, telescoped his pencil and stood up.

Section 7

It became evident after dinner that Sir Richmond also had been thinking
over the afternoon's conversation.

He and Dr. Martineau sat in wide-armed cane chairs on the lawn with a
wickerwork table bearing coffee cups and little glasses between them. A
few other diners chatted and whispered about similar tables but not too
close to our talkers to disturb them; the dining room behind them had
cleared its tables and depressed its illumination. The moon, in its
first quarter, hung above the sunset, sank after twilight, shone
brighter and brighter among the western trees, and presently had gone,
leaving the sky to an increasing multitude of stars. The Maidenhead
river wearing its dusky blue draperies and its jewels of light had
recovered all the magic Sir Richmond had stripped from it in the
afternoon. The grave arches of the bridge, made complete circles by the
reflexion of the water, sustained, as if by some unifying and justifying
reason, the erratic flat flashes and streaks and glares of traffic that
fretted to and fro overhead. A voice sang intermittently and a banjo
tinkled, but remotely enough to be indistinct and agreeable.

"After all," Sir Richmond began abruptly, "the search for some sort of
sexual modus vivendi is only a means to an end. One does not want to
live for sex but only through sex. The main thing in my life has always
been my work. This afternoon, under the Maidenhead influence, I talked
too much of sex. I babbled. Of things one doesn't usually..."

"It was very illuminating," said the doctor.

"No doubt. But a temporary phase. It is the defective bearing talks....
Just now--I happen to be irritated."

The darkness concealed a faint smile on the doctor's face.

"The work is the thing," said Sir Richmond. "So long as one can keep
one's grip on it."

"What," said the doctor after a pause, leaning back and sending wreaths
of smoke up towards the star-dusted zenith, "what is your idea of your
work? I mean, how do you see it in relation to yourself--and things
generally?"

"Put in the most general terms?"

"Put in the most general terms."

"I wonder if I can put it in general terms for you at all. It is hard to
put something one is always thinking about in general terms or to think
of it as a whole.... Now.... Fuel?...

"I suppose it was my father's business interests that pushed me towards
specialization in fuel. He wanted me to have a thoroughly scientific
training in days when a scientific training was less easy to get for a
boy than it is today. And much more inspiring when you got it. My mind
was framed, so to speak, in geology and astronomical physics. I grew up
to think on that scale. Just as a man who has been trained in history
and law grows to think on the scale of the Roman empire. I don't know
what your pocket map of the universe is, the map, I mean, by which you
judge all sorts of other general ideas. To me this planet is a little
ball of oxides and nickel steel; life a sort of tarnish on its surface.
And we, the minutest particles in that tarnish. Who can nevertheless, in
some unaccountable way, take in the idea of this universe as one whole,
who begin to dream of taking control of it."

"That is not a bad statement of the scientific point of view. I
suppose I have much the same general idea of the world. On rather more
psychological lines."

"We think, I suppose, said Sir Richmond, of life as something that is
only just beginning to be aware of what it is--and what it might be."

"Exactly," said the doctor. "Good."

He went on eagerly. "That is precisely how I see it. You and I are just
particles in the tarnish, as you call it, who are becoming dimly awake
to what we are, to what we have in common. Only a very few of us have
got as far even as this. These others here, for example...."

He indicated the rest of Maidenhead by a movement.

"Desire, mutual flattery, egotistical dreams, greedy solicitudes fill
them up. They haven't begun to get out of themselves."

"We, I suppose, have," doubted Sir Richmond.

"We have."

The doctor had no doubt. He lay back in his chair, with his hands behind
his head and his smoke ascending vertically to heaven. With the greatest
contentment he began quoting himself. "This getting out of one's
individuality--this conscious getting out of one's individuality--is one
of the most important and interesting aspects of the psychology of
the new age that is now dawning. As compared with any previous age.
Unconsciously, of course, every true artist, every philosopher, every
scientific investigator, so far as his art or thought went, has always
got out of himself,--has forgotten his personal interests and become Man
thinking for the whole race. And intimations of the same thing have been
at the heart of most religions. But now people are beginning to get
this detachment without any distinctively religious feeling or any
distinctive aesthetic or intellectual impulse, as if it were a plain
matter of fact. Plain matter of fact, that we are only incidentally
ourselves. That really each one of us is also the whole species, is
really indeed all life."

"A part of it."

"An integral part-as sight is part of a man... with no absolute
separation from all the rest--no more than a separation of the
imagination. The whole so far as his distinctive quality goes. I do not
know how this takes shape in your mind, Sir Richmond, but to me this
idea of actually being life itself upon the world, a special phase of it
dependent upon and connected with all other phases, and of being one
of a small but growing number of people who apprehend that, and want to
live in the spirit of that, is quite central. It is my fundamental idea.
We,--this small but growing minority--constitute that part of life which
knows and wills and tries to rule its destiny. This new realization, the
new psychology arising out of it is a fact of supreme importance in the
history of life. It is like the appearance of self-consciousness in some
creature that has not hitherto had self-consciousness. And so far as we
are concerned, we are the true kingship of the world. Necessarily. We
who know, are the true king....I wonder how this appeals to you. It
is stuff I have thought out very slowly and carefully and written and
approved. It is the very core of my life.... And yet when one comes
to say these things to someone else, face to face.... It is much more
difficult to say than to write."

Sir Richmond noted how the doctor's chair creaked as he rolled to and
fro with the uneasiness of these intimate utterances.

"I agree," said Sir Richmond presently. "One DOES think in this fashion.
Something in this fashion. What one calls one's work does belong to
something much bigger than ourselves.

"Something much bigger," he expanded.

"Which something we become," the doctor urged, "in so far as our work
takes hold of us."

Sir Richmond made no answer to this for a little while. "Of course we
trail a certain egotism into our work," he said.

"Could we do otherwise? But it has ceased to be purely egotism. It is
no longer, 'I am I' but 'I am part.'... One wants to be an honourable
part."

"You think of man upon his planet," the doctor pursued. "I think of
life rather as a mind that tries itself over in millions and millions of
trials. But it works out to the same thing."

"I think in terms of fuel," said Sir Richmond.

He was still debating the doctor's generalization. "I suppose it would
be true to say that I think of myself as mankind on his planet, with
very considerable possibilities and with only a limited amount of fuel
at his disposal to achieve them. Yes.... I agree that I think in that
way.... I have not thought much before of the way in which I think about
things--but I agree that it is in that way. Whatever enterprises mankind
attempts are limited by the sum total of that store of fuel upon the
planet. That is very much in my mind. Besides that he has nothing but
his annual allowance of energy from the sun."

"I thought that presently we were to get unlimited energy from atoms,"
said the doctor.

"I don't believe in that as a thing immediately practicable. No doubt
getting a supply of energy from atoms is a theoretical possibility,
just as flying was in the time of Daedalus; probably there were actual
attempts at some sort of glider in ancient Crete. But before we get
to the actual utilization of atomic energy there will be ten thousand
difficult corners to turn; we may have to wait three or four thousand
years for it. We cannot count on it. We haven't it in hand. There may be
some impasse. All we have surely is coal and oil,--there is no surplus
of wood now--only an annual growth. And water-power is income also,
doled out day by day. We cannot anticipate it. Coal and oil are our only
capital. They are all we have for great important efforts. They are a
gift to mankind to use to some supreme end or to waste in trivialities.
Coal is the key to metallurgy and oil to transit. When they are done
we shall either have built up such a fabric of apparatus, knowledge and
social organization that we shall be able to manage without them--or
we shall have travelled a long way down the slopes of waste towards
extinction.... To-day, in getting, in distribution, in use we
waste enormously....As we sit here all the world is wasting fuel
fantastically."

"Just as mentally--educationally we waste," the doctor interjected.

"And my job is to stop what I can of that waste, to do what I can to
organize, first of all sane fuel getting and then sane fuel using. And
that second proposition carries us far. Into the whole use we are making
of life.

"First things first," said Sir Richmond. If we set about getting fuel
sanely, if we do it as the deliberate, co-operative act of the whole
species, then it follows that we shall look very closely into the use
that is being made of it. When all the fuel getting is brought into one
view as a common interest, then it follows that all the fuel burning
will be brought into one view. At present we are getting fuel in a kind
of scramble with no general aim. We waste and lose almost as much as we
get. And of what we get, the waste is idiotic.

"I won't trouble you," said Sir Richmond, "with any long discourse on
the ways of getting fuel in this country. But land as you know is owned
in patches and stretches that were determined in the first place chiefly
by agricultural necessities. When it was divided up among its present
owners nobody was thinking about the minerals beneath. But the lawyers
settled long ago that the landowner owned his land right down to the
centre of the earth. So we have the superficial landlord as coal owner
trying to work his coal according to the superficial divisions, quite
irrespective of the lie of the coal underneath. Each man goes for the
coal under his own land in his own fashion. You get three shafts where
one would suffice and none of them in the best possible place. You get
the coal coming out of this point when it would be far more convenient
to bring it out at that--miles away. You get boundary walls of coal
between the estates, abandoned, left in the ground for ever. And each
coal owner sells his coal in his own pettifogging manner... But you
know of these things. You know too how we trail the coal all over the
country, spoiling it as we trail it, until at last we get it into
the silly coal scuttles beside the silly, wasteful, airpoisoning,
fog-creating fireplace.

"And this stuff," said Sir Richmond, bringing his hand down so smartly
on the table that the startled coffee cups cried out upon the tray; "was
given to men to give them power over metals, to get knowledge with, to
get more power with."

"The oil story, I suppose, is as bad."

"The oil story is worse....

"There is a sort of cant," said Sir Richmond in a fierce parenthesis,
"that the supplies of oil are inexhaustible--that you can muddle about
with oil anyhow.... Optimism of knaves and imbeciles.... They don't want
to be pulled up by any sane considerations...."

For some moments he kept silence--as if in unspeakable commination.

"Here I am with some clearness of vision--my only gift; not very clever,
with a natural bad temper, and a strong sexual bias, doing what I can
to get a broader handling of the fuel question--as a common interest
for all mankind. And I find myself up against a lot of men, subtle men,
sharp men, obstinate men, prejudiced men, able to get round me, able to
get over me, able to blockade me.... Clever men--yes, and all of them
ultimately damned--oh! utterly damned--fools. Coal owners who think only
of themselves, solicitors who think backwards, politicians who think
like a game of cat's-cradle, not a gleam of generosity not a gleam."

"What particularly are you working for?" asked the doctor.

"I want to get the whole business of the world's fuel discussed and
reported upon as one affair so that some day it may be handled as one
affair in the general interest."

"The world, did you say? You meant the empire?"

"No, the world. It is all one system now. You can't work it in bits. I
want to call in foreign representatives from the beginning."

"Advisory--consultative?"

"No. With powers. These things interlock now internationally both
through labour and finance. The sooner we scrap this nonsense about an
autonomous British Empire complete in itself, contra mundum, the better
for us. A world control is fifty years overdue. Hence these disorders."

"Still--it's rather a difficult proposition, as things are."

"Oh, Lord! don't I know it's difficult!" cried Sir Richmond in the tone
of one who swears. "Don't I know that perhaps it's impossible! But it's
the only way to do it. Therefore, I say, let's try to get it done. And
everybody says, difficult, difficult, and nobody lifts a finger to try.
And the only real difficulty is that everybody for one reason or another
says that it's difficult. It's against human nature. Granted! Every
decent thing is. It's socialism. Who cares? Along this line of
comprehensive scientific control the world has to go or it will
retrogress, it will muddle and rot...."

"I agree," said Dr. Martineau.

"So I want a report to admit that distinctly. I want it to go
further than that. I want to get the beginnings, the germ, of a world
administration. I want to set up a permanent world commission of
scientific men and economists--with powers, just as considerable powers
as I can give them--they'll be feeble powers at the best--but still some
sort of SAY in the whole fuel supply of the world. A say--that may grow
at last to a control. A right to collect reports and receive
accounts for example, to begin with. And then the right to make
recommendations.... You see?... No, the international part is not the
most difficult part of it. But my beastly owners and their beastly
lawyers won't relinquish a scrap of what they call their freedom of
action. And my labour men, because I'm a fairly big coal owner myself,
sit and watch and suspect me, too stupid to grasp what I am driving at
and too incompetent to get out a scheme of their own. They want a world
control on scientific lines even less than the owners. They try to think
that fuel production can carry an unlimited wages bill and the owners
try to think that it can pay unlimited profits, and when I say; 'This
business is something more than a scramble for profits and wages; it's a
service and a common interest,' they stare at me--" Sir Richmond was
at a loss for an image. "Like a committee in a thieves' kitchen when
someone has casually mentioned the law."

"But will you ever get your Permanent Commission?"

"It can be done. If I can stick it out."

"But with the whole Committee against you!"

"The curious thing is that the whole Committee isn't against me. Every
individual is...."

Sir Richmond found it difficult to express. "The psychology of my
Committee ought to interest you.... It is probably a fair sample of the
way all sorts of things are going nowadays. It's curious.... There is
not a man on that Committee who is quite comfortable within himself
about the particular individual end he is there to serve. It's there I
get them. They pursue their own ends bitterly and obstinately I admit,
but they are bitter and obstinate because they pursue them against an
internal opposition--which is on my side. They are terrified to think,
if once they stopped fighting me, how far they might not have to go with
me."

"A suppressed world conscience in fact. This marches very closely with
my own ideas."

"A world conscience? World conscience? I don't know. But I do know that
there is this drive in nearly every member of the Committee, some drive
anyhow, towards the decent thing. It is the same drive that drives me.
But I am the most driven. It has turned me round. It hasn't turned them.
I go East and they go West. And they don't want to be turned round.
Tremendously, they don't."

"Creative undertow," said Dr. Martineau, making notes, as it were.
"An increasing force in modern life. In the psychology of a new age
strengthened by education--it may play a directive part."

"They fight every little point. But, you see, because of this creative
undertow--if you like to call it that--we do get along. I am leader or
whipper-in, it is hard to say which, of a bolting flock....I believe
they will report for a permanent world commission; I believe I have got
them up to that; but they will want to make it a bureau of this League
of Nations, and I have the profoundest distrust of this League of
Nations. It may turn out to be a sort of side-tracking arrangement for
all sorts of important world issues. And they will find they have to
report for some sort of control. But there again they will shy. They
will report for it and then they will do their utmost to whittle it down
again. They will refuse it the most reasonable powers. They will alter
the composition of the Committee so as to make it innocuous."

"How?"

"Get rid of the independent scientific men, load it up so far as Britain
is concerned with muck of the colonial politician type and tame labour
representatives, balance with shady new adventurer millionaires, get in
still shadier stuff from abroad, let these gentry appoint their own tame
experts after their own hearts,--experts who will make merely advisory
reports, which will not be published...."

"They want in fact to keep the old system going under the cloak of YOUR
Committee, reduced to a cloak and nothing more?"

"That is what it amounts to. They want to have the air of doing
right--indeed they do want to have the FEEL of doing right--and still
leave things just exactly what they were before. And as I suffer under
the misfortune of seeing the thing rather more clearly, I have to
shepherd the conscience of the whole Committee.... But there is a
conscience there. If I can hold out myself, I can hold the Committee."

He turned appealingly to the doctor. "Why should I have to be the
conscience of that damned Committee? Why should I do this exhausting
inhuman job?.... In their hearts these others know.... Only they won't
know.... Why should it fall on me?"

"You have to go through with it," said Dr. Martineau.

"I have to go through with it, but it's a hell of utterly inglorious
squabbling. They bait me. They have been fighting the same fight within
themselves that they fight with me. They know exactly where I am, that I
too am doing my job against internal friction. The one thing before all
others that they want to do is to bring me down off my moral high
horse. And I loathe the high horse. I am in a position of special moral
superiority to men who are on the whole as good men as I am or better.
That shows all the time. You see the sort of man I am. I've a broad
streak of personal vanity. I fag easily. I'm short-tempered. I've other
things, as you perceive. When I fag I become obtuse, I repeat and bore,
I get viciously ill-tempered, I suffer from an intolerable sense of
ill usage. Then that ass, Wagstaffe, who ought to be working with me
steadily, sees his chance to be pleasantly witty. He gets a laugh round
the table at my expense. Young Dent, the more intelligent of the labour
men, reads me a lecture in committee manners. Old Cassidy sees HIS
opening and jabs some ridiculous petty accusation at me and gets me
spluttering self-defence like a fool. All my stock goes down, and as my
stock goes down the chances of a good report dwindle. Young Dent grieves
to see me injuring my own case. Too damned a fool to see what will
happen to the report! You see if only they can convince themselves I am
just a prig and an egotist and an impractical bore, they escape from a
great deal more than my poor propositions. They escape from the doubt
in themselves. By dismissing me they dismiss their own consciences.
And then they can scamper off and be sensible little piggy-wigs and not
bother any more about what is to happen to mankind in the long run....
Do you begin to realize the sort of fight, upside down in a dustbin,
that that Committee is for me?"

"You have to go through with it," Dr. Martineau repeated.

"I have. If I can. But I warn you I have been near breaking point. And
if I tumble off the high horse, if I can't keep going regularly there
to ride the moral high horse, that Committee will slump into utter
scoundrelism. It will turn out a long, inconsistent, botched, unreadable
report that will back up all sorts of humbugging bargains and sham
settlements. It will contain some half-baked scheme to pacify the miners
at the expense of the general welfare. It won't even succeed in doing
that. But in the general confusion old Cassidy will get away with
a series of hauls that may run into millions. Which will last his
time--damn him! And that is where we are.... Oh! I know! I know!.... I
must do this job. I don't need any telling that my life will be nothing
and mean nothing unless I bring this thing through....

"But the thanklessness of playing this lone hand!"

The doctor watched his friend's resentful black silhouette against the
lights on the steely river, and said nothing for awhile.

"Why did I ever undertake to play it?" Sir Richmond appealed. "Why has
it been put upon me? Seeing what a poor thing I am, why am I not a poor
thing altogether?"

Section 8

"I think I understand that loneliness of yours, said the doctor after an
interval.

"I am INTOLERABLE to myself."

"And I think it explains why it is that you turn to women as you do. You
want help; you want reassurance. And you feel they can give it."

"I wonder if it has been quite like that," Sir Richmond reflected.

By an effort Dr. Martineau refrained from mentioning the mother complex.
"You want help and reassurance as a child does," he said. "Women and
women alone seem capable of giving that, of telling you that you are
surely right, that notwithstanding your blunders you are right; that
even when you are wrong it doesn't so much matter, you are still in
spirit right. They can show their belief in you as no man can. With all
their being they can do that."

"Yes, I suppose they could."

"They can. You have said already that women are necessary to make things
real for you."

"Not my work," said Sir Richmond. "I admit that it might be like that,
but it isn't like that. It has not worked out like that. The two drives
go on side by side in me. They have no logical connexion. All I can say
is that for me, with my bifid temperament, one makes a rest from the
other, and is so far refreshment and a renewal of energy. But I do not
find women coming into my work in any effectual way."

The doctor reflected further. "I suppose," he began and stopped short.

He heard Sir Richmond move in his chair, creaking an interrogation.

"You have never," said the doctor, "turned to the idea of God?"

Sir Richmond grunted and made no other answer for the better part of a
minute.

As Dr. Martineau waited for his companion to speak, a falling star
streaked the deep blue above them.

"I can't believe in a God," said Sir Richmond.

"Something after the fashion of a God," said the doctor insidiously.

"No," said Sir Richmond. "Nothing that reassures."

"But this loneliness, this craving for companionship...."

"We have all been through that," said Sir Richmond. "We have all in our
time lain very still in the darkness with our souls crying out for the
fellowship of God, demanding some sign, some personal response. The
faintest feeling of assurance would have satisfied us."

"And there has never been a response?"

"Have YOU ever had a response?"

"Once I seemed to have a feeling of exaltation and security."

"Well?"

"Perhaps I only persuaded myself that I had. I had been reading
William James on religious experiences and I was thinking very much of
Conversion. I tried to experience Conversion...."

"Yes?"

"It faded."

"It always fades," said Sir Richmond with anger in his voice. "I wonder
how many people there are nowadays who have passed through this last
experience of ineffectual invocation, this appeal to the fading shadow
of a vanished God. In the night. In utter loneliness. Answer me! Speak
to me! Does he answer? In the silence you hear the little blood vessels
whisper in your ears. You see a faint glow of colour on the darkness...."

Dr. Martineau sat without a word.

"I can believe that over all things Righteousness rules. I can believe
that. But Righteousness is not friendliness nor mercy nor comfort nor
any such dear and intimate things. This cuddling up to Righteousness! It
is a dream, a delusion and a phase. I've tried all that long ago. I've
given it up long ago. I've grown out of it. Men do--after forty. Our
souls were made in the squatting-place of the submen of ancient times.
They are made out of primitive needs and they die before our bodies as
those needs are satisfied. Only young people have souls, complete. The
need for a personal God, feared but reassuring, is a youth's need. I no
longer fear the Old Man nor want to propitiate the Old Man nor believe
he matters any more. I'm a bit of an Old Man myself I discover. Yes. But
the other thing still remains."

"The Great Mother of the Gods," said Dr. Martineau--still clinging to
his theories.

"The need of the woman," said Sir Richmond. "I want mating because it is
my nature to mate. I want fellowship because I am a social animal and I
want it from another social animal. Not from any God--any inconceivable
God. Who fades and disappears. No....

"Perhaps that other need will fade presently. I do not know. Perhaps it
lasts as long as life does. How can I tell?"

He was silent for a little while. Then his voice sounded in the night,
as if he spoke to himself. "But as for the God of All Things consoling
and helping! Imagine it! That up there--having fellowship with me! I
would as soon think of cooling my throat with the Milky Way or shaking
hands with those stars."



CHAPTER THE FIFTH

IN THE LAND OF THE FORGOTTEN PEOPLES


Section 1

A gust of confidence on the part of a person naturally or habitually
reserved will often be followed by a phase of recoil. At breakfast
next morning their overnight talk seemed to both Sir Richmond and
Dr. Martineau like something each had dreamt about the other, a quite
impossible excess of intimacy. They discussed the weather, which seemed
to be settling down to the utmost serenity of which the English spring
is capable, they talked of Sir Richmond's coming car and of the possible
routes before them. Sir Richmond produced the Michelin maps which he
had taken out of the pockets of the little Charmeuse. The Bath Road lay
before them, he explained, Reading, Newbury, Hungerford, Marlborough,
Silbury Hill which overhangs Avebury. Both travellers discovered a
common excitement at the mention of Avebury and Silbury Hill. Both took
an intelligent interest in archaeology. Both had been greatly stimulated
by the recent work of Elliot Smith and Rivers upon what was then known
as the Heliolithic culture. It had revived their interest in Avebury and
Stonehenge. The doctor moreover had been reading Hippisley Cox's GREEN
ROADS OF ENGLAND.

Neither gentleman had ever seen Avebury, but Dr. Martineau had once
visited Stonehenge.

"Avebury is much the oldest," said the doctor. "They must have made
Silbury Hill long before 2000 B.C. It may be five thousand years old
or even more. It is the most important historical relic in the British
Isles. And the most neglected."

They exchanged archaeological facts. The secret places of the heart
rested until the afternoon.

Then Sir Richmond saw fit to amplify his confessions in one particular.

Section 2

The doctor and his patient had discovered a need for exercise as the
morning advanced. They had walked by the road to Marlow and had lunched
at a riverside inn, returning after a restful hour in an arbour on the
lawn of this place to tea at Maidenhead. It was as they returned that
Sir Richmond took up the thread of their overnight conversation again.

"In the night," he said, "I was thinking over the account I tried to
give you of my motives. A lot of it was terribly out of drawing."

"Facts?" asked the doctor.

"No, the facts were all right. It was the atmosphere, the
proportions.... I don't know if I gave you the effect of something Don
Juanesque?..."

"Vulgar poem," said the doctor remarkably. "I discounted that."

"Vulgar!"

"Intolerable. Byron in sexual psychology is like a stink in a kitchen."

Sir Richmond perceived he had struck upon the sort of thing that used to
be called a pet aversion.

"I don't want you to think that I run about after women in an habitual
and systematic manner. Or that I deliberately hunt them in the interests
of my work and energy. Your questions had set me theorizing about
myself. And I did my best to improvise a scheme of motives yesterday.
It was, I perceive, a jerry-built scheme, run up at short notice. My
nocturnal reflections convinced me of that. I put reason into things
that are essentially instinctive. The truth is that the wanderings of
desire have no single drive. All sorts of motives come in, high and low,
down to sheer vulgar imitativeness and competitiveness. What was true
in it all was this, that a man with any imagination in a fatigue
phase falls naturally into these complications because they are more
attractive to his type and far easier and more refreshing to the mind,
at the outset, than anything else. And they do work a sort of recovery
in him, They send him back to his work refreshed--so far, that is, as
his work is concerned."

"At the OUTSET they are easier," said the doctor.

Sir Richmond laughed. "When one is fagged it is only the outset counts.
The more tired one is the more readily one moves along the line of least
resistance....

"That is one footnote to what I said. So far as the motive of my work
goes, I think we got something like the spirit of it. What I said about
that was near the truth of things....

"But there is another set of motives altogether," Sir Richmond went on
with an air of having cleared the ground for his real business, "that I
didn't go into at all yesterday."

He considered. "It arises out of these other affairs. Before you
realize it your affections are involved. I am a man much swayed by my
affections."

Mr. Martineau glanced at him. There was a note of genuine self-reproach
in Sir Richmond's voice.

"I get fond of people. It is quite irrational, but I get fond of them.
Which is quite a different thing from the admiration and excitement of
falling in love. Almost the opposite thing. They cry or they come some
mental or physical cropper and hurt themselves, or they do something
distressingly little and human and suddenly I find they've GOT me. I'm
distressed. I'm filled with something between pity and an impulse of
responsibility. I become tender towards them. I am impelled to take care
of them. I want to ease them off, to reassure them, to make them stop
hurting at any cost. I don't see why it should be the weak and sickly
and seamy side of people that grips me most, but it is. I don't know why
it should be their failures that gives them power over me, but it is. I
told you of this girl, this mistress of mine, who is ill just now. SHE'S
got me in that way; she's got me tremendously."

"You did not speak of her yesterday with any morbid excess of pity," the
doctor was constrained to remark.

"I abused her very probably. I forget exactly what I said...."

The doctor offered no assistance.

"But the reason why I abuse her is perfectly plain. I abuse her because
she distresses me by her misfortunes and instead of my getting anything
out of her, I go out to her. But I DO go out to her. All this time at
the back of my mind I am worrying about her. She has that gift of making
one feel for her. I am feeling that damned carbuncle almost as if it had
been my affair instead of hers.

"That carbuncle has made me suffer FRIGHTFULLY.... Why should I? It
isn't mine."

He regarded the doctor earnestly. The doctor controlled a strong desire
to laugh.

"I suppose the young lady--" he began.

"Oh! SHE puts in suffering all right. I've no doubt about that.

"I suppose," Sir Richmond went on, "now that I have told you so much
of this affair, I may as well tell you all. It is a sort of comedy, a
painful comedy, of irrelevant affections."

The doctor was prepared to be a good listener. Facts he would always
listen to; it was only when people told him their theories that he would
interrupt with his "Exactly."

"This young woman is a person of considerable genius. I don't know if
you have seen in the illustrated papers a peculiar sort of humorous
illustrations usually with a considerable amount of bite in them over
the name of Martin Leeds?

"Extremely amusing stuff."

"It is that Martin Leeds. I met her at the beginning of her career. She
talks almost as well as she draws. She amused me immensely. I'm not
the sort of man who waylays and besieges women and girls. I'm not the
pursuing type. But I perceived that in some odd way I attracted her
and I was neither wise enough nor generous enough not to let the thing
develop."

"H'm," said Dr. Martineau.

"I'd never had to do with an intellectually brilliant woman before. I
see now that the more imaginative force a woman has, the more likely she
is to get into a state of extreme self-abandonment with any male thing
upon which her imagination begins to crystallize. Before I came along
she'd mixed chiefly with a lot of young artists and students, all doing
nothing at all except talk about the things they were going to do. I
suppose I profited by the contrast, being older and with my hands full
of affairs. Perhaps something had happened that had made her recoil
towards my sort of thing. I don't know. But she just let herself go at
me."

"And you?"

"Let myself go too. I'd never met anything like her before. It was her
wit took me. It didn't occur to me that she wasn't my contemporary
and as able as I was. As able to take care of herself. All sorts of
considerations that I should have shown to a sillier woman I never
dreamt of showing to her. I had never met anyone so mentally brilliant
before or so helpless and headlong. And so here we are on each other's
hands!"

"But the child?

"It happened to us. For four years now things have just happened to us.
All the time I have been overworking, first at explosives and now at
this fuel business. She too is full of her work.

"Nothing stops that though everything seems to interfere with it. And
in a distraught, preoccupied way we are abominably fond of each other.
'Fond' is the word. But we are both too busy to look after either
ourselves or each other.

"She is much more incapable than I am," said Sir Richmond as if he
delivered a weighed and very important judgment.

"You see very much of each other?"

"She has a flat in Chelsea and a little cottage in South Cornwall, and
we sometimes snatch a few days together, away somewhere in Surrey or up
the Thames or at such a place as Southend where one is lost in a crowd
of inconspicuous people. Then things go well--they usually go well at
the start--we are glorious companions. She is happy, she is creative,
she will light up a new place with flashes of humour, with a keenness of
appreciation...."

"But things do not always go well?"

"Things," said Sir Richmond with the deliberation of a man who measures
his words, "are apt to go wrong.... At the flat there is constant
trouble with the servants; they bully her. A woman is more entangled
with servants than a man. Women in that position seem to resent the work
and freedom of other women. Her servants won't leave her in peace as
they would leave a man; they make trouble for her.... And when we have
had a few days anywhere away, even if nothing in particular has gone
wrong--"

Sir Richmond stopped short.

"When they go wrong it is generally her fault," the doctor sounded.

"Almost always."

"But if they don't?" said the psychiatrist.

"It is difficult to describe.... The essential incompatibility of the
whole thing comes out."

The doctor maintained his expression of intelligent interest.

"She wants to go on with her work. She is able to work anywhere. All she
wants is just cardboard and ink. My mind on the other hand turns back to
the Fuel Commission...."

"Then any little thing makes trouble."

"Any little thing makes trouble. And we always drift round to the same
discussion; whether we ought really to go on together."

"It is you begin that?"

"Yes, I start that. You see she is perfectly contented when I am about.
She is as fond of me as I am of her."

"Fonder perhaps."

"I don't know. But she is--adhesive. Emotionally adhesive. All she wants
to do is just to settle down when I am there and go on with her work.
But then, you see, there is MY work."

"Exactly.... After all it seems to me that your great trouble is not
in yourselves but in social institutions. Which haven't yet fitted
themselves to people like you two. It is the sense of uncertainty makes
her, as you say, adhesive. Nervously so. If we were indeed living in a
new age Instead of the moral ruins of a shattered one--"

"We can't alter the age we live in," said Sir Richmond a little testily.

"No. Exactly. But we CAN realize, in any particular situation, that it
is not the individuals to blame but the misfit of ideas and forms and
prejudices."

"No," said Sir Richmond, obstinately rejecting this pacifying
suggestion; "she could adapt herself. If she cared enough."

"But how?"

"She will not take the slightest trouble to adjust herself to the
peculiarities of our position.... She could be cleverer. Other women are
cleverer. Any other woman almost would be cleverer than she is."

"But if she was cleverer, she wouldn't be the genius she is. She would
just be any other woman."

"Perhaps she would," said Sir Richmond darkly and desperately. "Perhaps
she would. Perhaps it would be better if she was."

Dr. Martineau raised his eyebrows in a furtive aside.

"But here you see that it is that in my case, the fundamental
incompatibility between one's affections and one's wider conception of
duty and work comes in. We cannot change social institutions in a year
or a lifetime. We can never change them to suit an individual case.
That would be like suspending the laws of gravitation in order to move
a piano. As things are, Martin is no good to me, no help to me. She is a
rival to my duty. She feels that. She is hostile to my duty. A definite
antagonism has developed. She feels and treats fuel--and everything to
do with fuel as a bore. It is an attack. We quarrel on that. It isn't as
though I found it so easy to stick to my work that I could disregard her
hostility. And I can't bear to part from her. I threaten it, distress
her excessively and then I am overcome by sympathy for her and I go back
to her.... In the ordinary course of things I should be with her now."

"If it were not for the carbuncle?"

"If it were not for the carbuncle. She does not care for me to see her
disfigured. She does not understand--" Sir Richmond was at a loss for a
phrase--"that it is not her good looks."

"She won't let you go to her?"

"It amounts to that.... And soon there will be all the trouble about
educating the girl. Whatever happens, she must have as good a chance
as--anyone...."

"Ah! That is worrying you too!"

"Frightfully at times. If it were a boy it would be easier. It needs
constant tact and dexterity to fix things up. Neither of us have any. It
needs attention...."

Sir Richmond mused darkly.

Dr. Martineau thought aloud. "An incompetent delightful person with
Martin Leeds's sense of humour. And her powers of expression. She must
be attractive to many people. She could probably do without you. If once
you parted."

Sir Richmond turned on him eagerly.

"You think I ought to part from her? On her account?"

"On her account. It might pain her. But once the thing was done--"

"I want to part. I believe I ought to part."

"Well?"

"But then my affection comes in."

"That extraordinary--TENDERNESS of yours?"

"I'm afraid."

"Of what?"

"Anyone might get hold of her--if I let her down. She hasn't a tithe of
the ordinary coolheaded calculation of an average woman.... I've a duty
to her genius. I've got to take care of her."

To which the doctor made no reply.

"Nevertheless the idea of parting has been very much in my mind lately."

"Letting her go FREE?"

"You can put it in that way if you like."

"It might not be a fatal operation for either of you."

"And yet there are moods when parting is an intolerable idea. When one
is invaded by a flood of affection..... And old habits of association."

Dr. Martineau thought. Was that the right word,--affection? Perhaps it
was.

They had come out on the towing path close by the lock and they found
themselves threading their way through a little crowd of boating people
and lookers-on. For a time their conversation was broken. Sir Richmond
resumed it.

"But this is where we cease to be Man on his Planet and all the rest of
it. This is where the idea of a definite task, fanatically followed to
the exclusion of all minor considerations, breaks down. When the work
is good, when we are sure we are all right, then we may carry off things
with a high hand. But the work isn't always good, we aren't always
sure. We blunder, we make a muddle, we are fatigued. Then the
sacrificed affections come in as accusers. Then it is that we want to be
reassured."

"And then it is that Miss Martin Leeds--?"

"Doesn't," Sir Richmond snapped.

Came a long pause.

"And yet--It is extraordinarily difficult to think of parting from
Martin."

Section 3

In the evening after dinner Dr. Martineau sought, rather unsuccessfully,
to go on with the analysis of Sir Richmond.

But Sir Richmond was evidently a creature of moods. Either he regretted
the extent of his confidences or the slight irrational irritation
that he felt at waiting for his car affected his attitude towards his
companion, or Dr. Martineau's tentatives were ill-chosen. At any rate he
would not rise to any conversational bait that the doctor could devise.
The doctor found this the more regrettable because it seemed to him that
there was much to be worked upon in this Martin Leeds affair. He was
inclined to think that she and Sir Richmond were unduly obsessed by the
idea that they had to stick together because of the child, because
of the look of the thing and so forth, and that really each might be
struggling against a very strong impulse indeed to break off the affair.
It seemed evident to the doctor that they jarred upon and annoyed each
other extremely. On the whole separating people appealed to a doctor's
mind more strongly than bringing them together. Accordingly he framed
his enquiries so as to make the revelation of a latent antipathy as easy
as possible.

He made several not very well-devised beginnings. At the fifth Sir
Richmond was suddenly conclusive. "It's no use," he said, "I can't
fiddle about any more with my motives to-day."

An awkward silence followed. On reflection Sir Richmond seemed to
realize that this sentence needed some apology. "I admit," he said,
"that this expedition has already been a wonderfully good thing for me.
These confessions have made me look into all sorts of things--squarely.
But--I'm not used to talking about myself or even thinking directly
about myself. What I say, I afterwards find disconcerting to recall.
I want to alter it. I can feel myself wallowing into a mess of
modifications and qualifications."

"Yes, but--"

"I want a rest anyhow...."

There was nothing for Dr. Martineau to say to that.

The two gentlemen smoked for some time in a slightly uncomfortable
silence. Dr. Martineau cleared his throat twice and lit a second cigar.
They then agreed to admire the bridge and think well of Maidenhead. Sir
Richmond communicated hopeful news about his car, which was to arrive
the next morning before ten--he'd just ring the fellow up presently to
make sure--and Dr. Martineau retired early and went rather thoughtfully
to bed. The spate of Sir Richmond's confidences, it was evident, was
over.

Section 4

Sir Richmond's car arrived long before ten, brought down by a young
man in a state of scared alacrity--Sir Richmond had done some vigorous
telephoning before turning in,--the Charmeuse set off in a repaired and
chastened condition to town, and after a leisurely breakfast our two
investigators into the springs of human conduct were able to resume
their westward journey. They ran through scattered Twyford with its
pleasant looking inns and through the commonplace urbanities of Reading,
by Newbury and Hungerford's pretty bridge and up long wooded slopes to
Savernake forest, where they found the road heavy and dusty, still in
its war-time state, and so down a steep hill to the wide market street
which is Marlborough. They lunched in Marlborough and went on in the
afternoon to Silbury Hill, that British pyramid, the largest artificial
mound in Europe. They left the car by the roadside and clambered to the
top and were very learned and inconclusive about the exact purpose of
this vast heap of chalk and earth, this heap that men had made before
the temples at Karnak were built or Babylon had a name.

Then they returned to the car and ran round by a winding road into the
wonder of Avebury. They found a clean little inn there kept by pleasant
people, and they garaged the car in the cowshed and took two rooms for
the night that they might the better get the atmosphere of the ancient
place. Wonderful indeed it is, a vast circumvallation that was already
two thousand years old before the dawn of British history; a great wall
of earth with its ditch most strangely on its inner and not on its outer
side; and within this enclosure gigantic survivors of the great circles
of unhewn stone that, even as late as Tudor days, were almost complete.
A whole village, a church, a pretty manor house have been built, for the
most part, out of the ancient megaliths; the great wall is sufficient to
embrace them all with their gardens and paddocks; four cross-roads meet
at the village centre. There are drawings of Avebury before these things
arose there, when it was a lonely wonder on the plain, but for the most
part the destruction was already done before the MAYFLOWER sailed. To
the southward stands the cone of Silbury Hill; its shadow creeps up and
down the intervening meadows as the seasons change. Around this lonely
place rise the Downs, now bare sheep pastures, in broad undulations,
with a wart-like barrow here and there, and from it radiate, creeping
up to gain and hold the crests of the hills, the abandoned trackways
of that forgotten world. These trackways, these green roads of England,
these roads already disused when the Romans made their highway past
Silbury Hill to Bath, can still be traced for scores of miles through
the land, running to Salisbury and the English Channel, eastward to
the crossing at the Straits and westward to Wales, to ferries over the
Severn, and southwestward into Devon and Cornwall.

The doctor and Sir Richmond walked round the walls, surveyed the shadow
cast by Silbury upon the river flats, strolled up the down to the
northward to get a general view of the village, had tea and smoked
round the walls again in the warm April sunset. The matter of their
conversation remained prehistoric. Both were inclined to find fault
with the archaeological work that had been done on the place. "Clumsy
treasure hunting," Sir Richmond said. "They bore into Silbury Hill and
expect to find a mummified chief or something sensational of that sort,
and they don't, and they report nothing. They haven't sifted finely
enough; they haven't thought subtly enough. These walls of earth ought
to tell what these people ate, what clothes they wore, what woods they
used. Was this a sheep land then as it is now, or a cattle land? Were
these hills covered by forests? I don't know. These archaeologists don't
know. Or if they do they haven't told me, which is just as bad. I don't
believe they know.

"What trade came here along these tracks? So far as I know, they had no
beasts of burthen. But suppose one day someone were to find a potsherd
here from early Knossos, or a fragment of glass from Pepi's Egypt."

The place had stirred up his imagination. He wrestled with his ignorance
as if he thought that by talking he might presently worry out some
picture of this forgotten world, without metals, without beasts of
burthen, without letters, without any sculpture that has left a trace,
and yet with a sense of astronomical fact clear enough to raise the
great gnomon of Silbury, and with a social system complex enough to give
the large and orderly community to which the size of Avebury witnesses
and the traffic to which the green roads testify.

The doctor had not realized before the boldness and liveliness of his
companion's mind. Sir Richmond insisted that the climate must have been
moister and milder in those days; he covered all the downlands with
woods, as Savernake was still covered; beneath the trees he restored a
thicker, richer soil. These people must have done an enormous lot with
wood. This use of stones here was a freak. It was the very strangeness
of stones here that had made them into sacred things. One thought too
much of the stones of the Stone Age. Who would carve these lumps of
quartzite when one could carve good oak? Or beech--a most carvable wood.
Especially when one's sharpest chisel was a flint. "It's wood we ought
to look for," said Sir Richmond. "Wood and fibre." He declared that
these people had their tools of wood, their homes of wood, their gods
and perhaps their records of wood. "A peat bog here, even a few feet of
clay, might have pickled some precious memoranda.... No such luck....
Now in Glastonbury marshes one found the life of the early iron
age--half way to our own times--quite beautifully pickled."

Though they wrestled mightily with the problem, neither Sir Richmond nor
the doctor could throw a gleam of light upon the riddle why the ditch
was inside and not outside the great wall.

"And what was our Mind like in those days?" said Sir Richmond. "That, I
suppose, is what interests you. A vivid childish mind, I guess, with not
a suspicion as yet that it was Man ruling his Planet or anything of that
sort."

The doctor pursed his lips. "None," he delivered judicially. "If one
were able to recall one's childhood--at the age of about twelve or
thirteen--when the artistic impulse so often goes into abeyance and one
begins to think in a troubled, monstrous way about God and Hell, one
might get something like the mind of this place."

"Thirteen. You put them at that already?... These people, you think,
were religious?"

"Intensely. In that personal way that gives death a nightmare terror.
And as for the fading of the artistic impulse, they've left not a trace
of the paintings and drawings and scratchings of the Old Stone people
who came before them."

"Adults with the minds of thirteen-year-old children. Thirteen-year-old
children with the strength of adults--and no one to slap them or tell
them not to.... After all, they probably only thought of death now and
then. And they never thought of fuel. They supposed there was no end to
that. So they used up their woods and kept goats to nibble and kill the
new undergrowth. DID these people have goats?"

"I don't know," said the doctor. "So little is known."

"Very like children they must have been. The same unending days. They
must have thought that the world went on for ever-just as they knew
it--like my damned Committee does.... With their fuel wasting away and
the climate changing imperceptibly, century by century.... Kings and
important men followed one another here for centuries and centuries....
They had lost their past and had no idea of any future.. .. They had
forgotten how they came into the land... When I was a child I believed
that my father's garden had been there for ever....

"This is very like trying to remember some game one played when one was
a child. It is like coming on something that one built up with bricks
and stones in some forgotten part of the garden...."

"The life we lived here," said the doctor, "has left its traces in
traditions, in mental predispositions, in still unanalyzed fundamental
ideas."

"Archaeology is very like remembering," said Sir Richmond. "Presently we
shall remember a lot more about all this. We shall remember what it was
like to live in this place, and the long journey hither, age by age out
of the south. We shall remember the sacrifices we made and the crazy
reasons why we made them. We sowed our corn in blood here. We had
strange fancies about the stars. Those we brought with us out of the
south where the stars are brighter. And what like were those wooden gods
of ours? I don't remember.... But I could easily persuade myself that I
had been here before."

They stood on the crest of the ancient wall and the setting sun cast
long shadows of them athwart a field of springing wheat.

"Perhaps we shall come here again," the doctor carried on Sir Richmond's
fancy; "after another four thousand years or so, with different names
and fuller minds. And then I suppose that this ditch won't be the riddle
it is now."

"Life didn't seem so complicated then," Sir Richmond mused. "Our muddles
were unconscious. We drifted from mood to mood and forgot. There was
more sunshine then, more laughter perhaps, and blacker despair. Despair
like the despair of children that can weep itself to sleep.... It's
over.... Was it battle and massacre that ended that long afternoon here?
Or did the woods catch fire some exceptionally dry summer, leaving black
hills and famine? Or did strange men bring a sickness--measles, perhaps,
or the black death? Or was it cattle pest? Or did we just waste our
woods and dwindle away before the new peoples that came into the land
across the southern sea? I can't remember...."

Sir Richmond turned about. "I would like to dig up the bottom of
this ditch here foot by foot--and dry the stuff and sift it--very
carefully.... Then I might begin to remember things."

Section 5

In the evening, after a pleasant supper, they took a turn about the
walls with the moon sinking over beyond Silbury, and then went in and
sat by lamplight before a brightly fussy wood fire and smoked. There
were long intervals of friendly silence.

"I don't in the least want to go on talking about myself," said Sir
Richmond abruptly.

"Let it rest then," said the doctor generously.

"To-day, among these ancient memories, has taken me out of myself
wonderfully. I can't tell you how good Avebury has been for me. This
afternoon half my consciousness has seemed to be a tattooed creature
wearing a knife of stone...."

"The healing touch of history."

"And for the first time my damned Committee has mattered scarcely a rap."

Sir Richmond stretched himself in his chair and blinked cheerfully at
his cigar smoke.

"Nevertheless," he said, "this confessional business of yours has been
an excellent exercise. It has enabled me to get outside myself, to look
at myself as a Case. Now I can even see myself as a remote Case. That
I needn't bother about further.... So far as that goes, I think we have
done all that there is to be done."

"I shouldn't say that--quite--yet," said the doctor.

"I don't think I'm a subject for real psychoanalysis at all. I'm not
an overlaid sort of person. When I spread myself out there is not much
indication of a suppressed wish or of anything masked or buried of that
sort. What you get is a quite open and recognized discord of two sets of
motives."

The doctor considered. "Yes, I think that is true. Your LIBIDO is, I
should say, exceptionally free. Generally you are doing what you want to
do--overdoing, in fact, what you want to do and getting simply tired."

"Which is the theory I started with. I am a case of fatigue under
irritating circumstances with very little mental complication or
concealment."

"Yes," said the doctor. "I agree. You are not a case for psychoanalysis,
strictly speaking, at all. You are in open conflict with yourself, upon
moral and social issues. Practically open. Your problems are problems of
conscious conduct."

"As I said."

"Of what renunciations you have consciously to make."

Sir Richmond did not answer that....

"This pilgrimage of ours," he said, presently, "has made for
magnanimity. This day particularly has been a good day. When we stood on
this old wall here in the sunset I seemed to be standing outside myself
in an immense still sphere of past and future. I stood with my feet
upon the Stone Age and saw myself four thousand years away, and all my
distresses as very little incidents in that perspective. Away there in
London the case is altogether different; after three hours or so of
the Committee one concentrates into one little inflamed moment of
personality. There is no past any longer, there is no future, there is
only the rankling dispute. For all those three hours, perhaps, I have
been thinking of just what I had to say, just how I had to say it,
just how I looked while I said it, just how much I was making myself
understood, how I might be misunderstood, how I might be misrepresented,
challenged, denied. One draws in more and more as one is used up. At
last one is reduced to a little, raw, bleeding, desperately fighting,
pin-point of SELF.... One goes back to one's home unable to recover.
Fighting it over again. All night sometimes.... I get up and walk about
the room and curse.... Martineau, how is one to get the Avebury frame of
mind to Westminster?"

"When Westminster is as dead as Avebury," said the doctor, unhelpfully.
He added after some seconds, "Milton knew of these troubles. 'Not
without dust and heat' he wrote--a great phrase."

"But the dust chokes me," said Sir Richmond.

He took up a copy of THE GREEN ROADS OF ENGLAND that lay beside him on
the table. But he did not open it. He held it in his hand and said the
thing he had had in mind to say all that evening. "I do not think that
I shall stir up my motives any more for a time. Better to go on into
the west country cooling my poor old brain in these wide shadows of the
past."

"I can prescribe nothing better," said Dr. Martineau. "Incidentally,
we may be able to throw a little more light on one or two of your minor
entanglements."

"I don't want to think of them," said Sir Richmond. "Let me get right
away from everything. Until my skin has grown again."



CHAPTER THE SIXTH

THE ENCOUNTER AT STONEHENGE

Section 1

Next day in the early afternoon after a farewell walk over the downs
round Avebury they went by way of Devizes and Netheravon and Amesbury to
Stonehenge.

Dr. Martineau had seen this ancient monument before, but now, with
Avebury fresh in his mind, he found it a poorer thing than he had
remembered it to be. Sir Richmond was frankly disappointed. After the
real greatness and mystery of the older place, it seemed a poor little
heap of stones; it did not even dominate the landscape; it was some way
from the crest of the swelling down on which it stood and it was further
dwarfed by the colossal air-ship hangars and clustering offices of the
air station that the great war had called into existence upon the slopes
to the south-west. "It looks," Sir Richmond said, "as though some old
giantess had left a discarded set of teeth on the hillside." Far more
impressive than Stonehenge itself were the barrows that capped the
neighbouring crests.

The sacred stones were fenced about, and our visitors had to pay for
admission at a little kiosk by the gate. At the side of the road stood
a travel-stained middle-class automobile, with a miscellany of dusty
luggage, rugs and luncheon things therein--a family automobile with
father no doubt at the wheel. Sir Richmond left his own trim coupe at
its tail.

They were impeded at the entrance by a difference of opinion between the
keeper of the turnstile and a small but resolute boy of perhaps five or
six who proposed to leave the enclosure. The custodian thought that it
would be better if his nurse or his mother came out with him.

"She keeps on looking at it," said the small boy. "It isunt anything. I
want to go and clean the car."

"You won't SEE Stonehenge every day, young man," said the custodian, a
little piqued.

"It's only an old beach," said the small boy, with extreme conviction.
"It's rocks like the seaside. And there isunt no sea."

The man at the turnstile mutely consulted the doctor.

"I don't see that he can get into any harm here," the doctor advised,
and the small boy was released from archaeology.

He strolled to the family automobile, produced an EN-TOUT-CAS
pocket-handkerchief and set himself to polish the lamps with great
assiduity. The two gentlemen lingered at the turnstile for a moment or
so to watch his proceedings. "Modern child," said Sir Richmond. "Old
stones are just old stones to him. But motor cars are gods."

"You can hardly expect him to understand--at his age," said the
custodian, jealous for the honor of Stonehenge....

"Reminds me of Martin's little girl," said Sir Richmond, as he and Dr.
Martineau went on towards the circle. "When she encountered her first
dragon-fly she was greatly delighted. 'Oh, dee' lill' a'eplane,' she
said."

As they approached the grey old stones they became aware of a certain
agitation among them. A voice, an authoritative bass voice, was audible,
crying, "Anthony!" A nurse appeared remotely going in the direction of
the aeroplane sheds, and her cry of "Master Anthony" came faintly on the
breeze. An extremely pretty young woman of five or six and twenty became
visible standing on one of the great prostrate stones in the centre of
the place. She was a black-haired, sun-burnt individual and she stood
with her arms akimbo, quite frankly amused at the disappearance of
Master Anthony, and offering no sort of help for his recovery. On the
greensward before her stood the paterfamilias of the family automobile,
and he was making a trumpet with his hands in order to repeat the name
of Anthony with greater effect. A short lady in grey emerged from among
the encircling megaliths, and one or two other feminine personalities
produced effects of movement rather than of individuality as they
flitted among the stones. "Well," said the lady in grey, with that
rising intonation of humorous conclusion which is so distinctively
American, "those Druids have GOT him."

"He's hiding," said the automobilist, in a voice that promised
chastisement to a hidden hearer. "That's what he is doing. He ought not
to play tricks like this. A great boy who is almost six."

"If you are looking for a small, resolute boy of six," said Sir
Richmond, addressing himself to the lady on the rock rather than to the
angry parent below, "he's perfectly safe and happy. The Druids haven't
got him. Indeed, they've failed altogether to get him. 'Stonehenge,' he
says, 'is no good.' So he's gone back to clean the lamps of your car."

"Aa-oo. So THAT'S it!" said Papa. "Winnie, go and tell Price he's
gone back to the car.... They oughtn't to have let him out of the
enclosure...."

The excitement about Master Anthony collapsed. The rest of the people
in the circles crystallized out into the central space as two apparent
sisters and an apparent aunt and the nurse, who was packed off at
once to supervise the lamp cleaning. The head of the family found some
difficulty, it would seem, in readjusting his mind to the comparative
innocence of Anthony, and Sir Richmond and the young lady on the rock
sought as if by common impulse to establish a general conversation.
There were faint traces of excitement in her manner, as though there
had been some controversial passage between herself and the family
gentleman.

"We were discussing the age of this old place," she said, smiling in the
frankest and friendliest way. "How old do YOU think it is?"

The father of Anthony intervened, also with a shadow of controversy in
his manner. "I was explaining to the young lady that it dates from
the early bronze age. Before chronology existed.... But she insists on
dates."

"Nothing of bronze has ever been found here," said Sir Richmond.

"Well, when was this early bronze age, anyhow?" said the young lady.

Sir Richmond sought a recognizable datum. "Bronze got to Britain
somewhere between the times of Moses and Solomon."

"Ah!" said the young lady, as who should say, 'This man at least talks
sense.'

"But these stones are all shaped," said the father of the family. "It is
difficult to see how that could have been done without something harder
than stone."

"I don't SEE the place," said the young lady on the stone. "I can't
imagine how they did it up--not one bit."

"Did it up!" exclaimed the father of the family in the tone of one
accustomed to find a gentle sport in the intellectual frailties of his
womenkind.

"It's just the bones of a place. They hung things round it. They draped
it."

"But what things?" asked Sir Richmond.

"Oh! they had things all right. Skins perhaps. Mats of rushes. Bast
cloth. Fibre of all sorts. Wadded stuff."

"Stonehenge draped! It's really a delightful idea;" said the father of
the family, enjoying it.

"It's quite a possible one," said Sir Richmond.

"Or they may have used wicker," the young lady went on, undismayed. She
seemed to concede a point. "Wicker IS likelier."

"But surely," said the father of the family with the expostulatory voice
and gesture of one who would recall erring wits to sanity, "it is
far more impressive standing out bare and noble as it does. In lonely
splendour."

"But all this country may have been wooded then," said Sir Richmond. "In
which case it wouldn't have stood out. It doesn't stand out so very much
even now."

"You came to it through a grove," said the young lady, eagerly picking
up the idea.

"Probably beech," said Sir Richmond.

"Which may have pointed to the midsummer sunrise," said Dr. Martineau,
unheeded.

"These are NOVEL ideas," said the father of the family in the reproving
tone of one who never allows a novel idea inside HIS doors if he can
prevent it.

"Well," said the young lady, "I guess there was some sort of show here
anyhow. And no human being ever had a show yet without trying to shut
people out of it in order to make them come in. I guess this was covered
in all right. A dark hunched old place in a wood. Beech stems, smooth,
like pillars. And they came to it at night, in procession, beating
drums, and scared half out of their wits. They came in THERE and went
round the inner circle with their torches. And so they were shown. The
torches were put out and the priests did their mysteries. Until dawn
broke. That is how they worked it."

"But even you can't tell what the show was, V.V." said the lady in grey,
who was standing now at Dr. Martineau's elbow.

"Something horrid," said Anthony's younger sister to her elder in a
stage whisper.

"BLUGGY," agreed Anthony's elder sister to the younger, in a noiseless
voice that certainly did not reach father. "SQUEALS!...."

This young lady who was addressed as "V.V." was perhaps one or two and
twenty, Dr. Martineau thought,--he was not very good at feminine ages.
She had a clear sun-browned complexion, with dark hair and smiling lips.
Her features were finely modelled, with just that added touch of breadth
in the brow and softness in the cheek bones, that faint flavour of the
Amerindian, one sees at times in American women. Her voice was a very
soft and pleasing voice, and she spoke persuasively and not assertively
as so many American women do. Her determination to make the dry bones of
Stonehenge live shamed the doctor's disappointment with the place. And
when she had spoken, Dr. Martineau noted that she looked at Sir Richmond
as if she expected him at least to confirm her vision. Sir Richmond was
evidently prepared to confirm it.

With a queer little twinge of infringed proprietorship, the doctor saw
Sir Richmond step up on the prostrate megalith and stand beside her, the
better to appreciate her point of view. He smiled down at her. "Now why
do you think they came in THERE?" he asked.

The young lady was not very clear about her directions. She did not know
of the roadway running to the Avon river, nor of the alleged race course
to the north, nor had she ever heard that the stones were supposed to be
of two different periods and that some of them might possibly have been
brought from a very great distance.

Section 2

Neither Dr. Martineau nor the father of the family found the imaginative
reconstruction of the Stonehenge rituals quite so exciting as the two
principals. The father of the family endured some further particulars
with manifest impatience, no longer able, now that Sir Richmond was
encouraging the girl, to keep her in check with the slightly derisive
smile proper to her sex. Then he proclaimed in a fine loud tenor, "All
this is very imaginative, I'm afraid." And to his family, "Time we were
pressing on. Turps, we must go-o. Come, Phoebe!"

As he led his little flock towards the exit his voice came floating
back. "Talking wanton nonsense.... Any professional archaeologist would
laugh, simply laugh...."

He passed out of the world.

With a faint intimation of dismay Dr. Martineau realized that the two
talkative ladies were not to be removed in the family automobile with
the rest of the party. Sir Richmond and the younger lady went on very
cheerfully to the population, agriculture, housing and general scenery
of the surrounding Downland during the later Stone Age. The shorter,
less attractive lady, whose accent was distinctly American, came now and
stood at the doctor's elbow. She seemed moved to play the part of chorus
to the two upon the stone.

"When V.V. gets going," she remarked, "she makes things come alive."

Dr. Martineau hated to be addressed suddenly by strange ladies. He
started, and his face assumed the distressed politeness of the moon at
its full. "Your friend," he said, "interested in archaeology?"

"Interested!" said the stouter lady. "Why! She's a fiend at it. Ever
since we came on Carnac."

"You've visited Carnac?"

"That's where the bug bit her." said the stout lady with a note of
querulous humour. "Directly V.V. set eyes on Carnac, she just turned
against all her up-bringing. 'Why wasn't I told of this before?' she
said. 'What's Notre Dame to this? This is where we came from. This is
the real starting point of the MAYFLOWER. Belinda,' she said, 'we've got
to see all we can of this sort of thing before we go back to America.
They've been keeping this from us.' And that's why we're here right
now instead of being shopping in Paris or London like decent American
women."

The younger lady looked down on her companion with something of the calm
expert attention that a plumber gives to a tap that is misbehaving, and
like a plumber refrained from precipitate action. She stood with the
backs of her hands resting on her hips.

"Well," she said slowly, giving most of the remark to Sir Richmond and
the rest to the doctor. "It is nearer the beginnings of things than
London or Paris."

"And nearer to us," said Sir Richmond.

"I call that just--paradoxical," said the shorter lady, who appeared to
be called Belinda.

"Not paradoxical," Dr. Martineau contradicted gently. "Life is always
beginning again. And this is a time of fresh beginnings."

"Now that's after V.V.'s own heart," cried the stout lady in grey.
"She'll agree to all that. She's been saying it right across Europe.
Rome, Paris, London; they're simply just done. They don't signify any
more. They've got to be cleared away."

"You let me tell my own opinions, Belinda," said the young lady who was
called V.V. "I said that if people went on building with fluted pillars
and Corinthian capitals for two thousand years, it was time they were
cleared up and taken away."

"Corinthian capitals?" Sir Richmond considered it and laughed
cheerfully. "I suppose Europe does rather overdo that sort of thing."

"The way she went on about the Victor Emmanuele Monument!" said the
lady who answered to the name of Belinda. "It gave me cold shivers to
think that those Italian officers might understand English."

The lady who was called V.V. smiled as if she smiled at herself, and
explained herself to Sir Richmond. "When one is travelling about, one
gets to think of history and politics in terms of architecture. I do
anyhow. And those columns with Corinthian capitals have got to be a sort
of symbol for me for everything in Europe that I don't want and have no
sort of use for. It isn't a bad sort of capital in its way, florid and
pretty, but not a patch on the Doric;--and that a whole continent should
come up to it and stick at it and never get past it!..."

"It's the classical tradition."

"It puzzles me."

"It's the Roman Empire. That Corinthian column is a weed spread by the
Romans all over western Europe."

"And it smothers the history of Europe. You can't see Europe because
of it. Europe is obsessed by Rome. Everywhere Marble Arches and ARCS DE
TRIOMPHE. You never get away from it. It is like some old gentleman who
has lost his way in a speech and keeps on repeating the same thing. And
can't sit down. 'The empire, gentlemen--the Empire. Empire.' Rome itself
is perfectly frightful. It stares at you with its great round stupid
arches as though it couldn't imagine that you could possibly want
anything else for ever. Saint Peter's and that frightful Monument are
just the same stuff as the Baths of Caracalla and the palaces of the
Caesars. Just the same. They will make just the same sort of ruins. It
goes on and goes on."

"AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS," said Dr. Martineau.

"This Roman empire seems to be Europe's first and last idea. A fixed
idea. And such a poor idea!... America never came out of that. It's no
good-telling me that it did. It escaped from it.... So I said to Belinda
here, 'Let's burrow, if we can, under all this marble and find out what
sort of people we were before this Roman empire and its acanthus weeds
got hold of us.'"

"I seem to remember at Washington, something faintly Corinthian,
something called the Capitol," Sir Richmond reflected. "And other
buildings. A Treasury."

"That is different," said the young lady, so conclusively that it seemed
to leave nothing more to be said on that score.

"A last twinge of Europeanism," she vouchsafed. "We were young in those
days."

"You are well beneath the marble here."

She assented cheerfully.

"A thousand years before it."

"Happy place! Happy people!"

"But even this place isn't the beginning of things here. Carnac was
older than this. And older still is Avebury. Have you heard in America
of Avebury? It may have predated this place, they think, by another
thousand years."

"Avebury?" said the lady who was called Belinda.

"But what is this Avebury?" asked V.V. "I've never heard of the place."

"I thought it was a lord," said Belinda.

Sir Richmond, with occasional appeals to Dr. Martineau, embarked upon
an account of the glory and wonder of Avebury. Possibly he exaggerated
Avebury....

It was Dr. Martineau who presently brought this disquisition upon
Avebury to a stop by a very remarkable gesture. He looked at his watch.
He drew it out ostentatiously, a thick, respectable gold watch, for
the doctor was not the sort of man to wear his watch upon his wrist. He
clicked it open and looked at it. Thereby he would have proclaimed his
belief this encounter was an entirely unnecessary interruption of his
healing duologue with Sir Richmond, which must now be resumed.

But this action had scarcely the effect he had intended it to have. It
set the young lady who was called Belinda asking about ways and means of
getting to Salisbury; it brought to light the distressing fact that V.V.
had the beginnings of a chafed heel. Once he had set things going they
moved much too quickly for the doctor to deflect their course. He
found himself called upon to make personal sacrifices to facilitate the
painless transport of the two ladies to Salisbury, where their luggage
awaited them at the Old George Hotel. In some way too elusive to trace,
it became evident that he and Sir Richmond were to stay at this same Old
George Hotel. The luggage was to be shifted to the top of the coupe,
the young lady called V.V. was to share the interior of the car with
Sir Richmond, while the lady named Belinda, for whom Dr. Martineau
was already developing a very strong dislike, was to be thrust into an
extreme proximity with him and the balance of the luggage in the dicky
seat behind.

Sir Richmond had never met with a young woman with a genuine historical
imagination before, and he was evidently very greatly excited and
resolved to get the utmost that there was to be got out of this
encounter.

Section 3

Sir Richmond displayed a complete disregard of the sufferings of Dr.
Martineau, shamefully compressed behind him. Of these he was to hear
later. He ran his overcrowded little car, overcrowded so far as the
dicky went, over the crest of the Down and down into Amesbury and on
to Salisbury, stopping to alight and stretch the legs of the party when
they came in sight of Old Sarum.

"Certainly they can do with a little stretching," said Dr. Martineau
grimly.

This charming young woman had seized upon the imagination of Sir
Richmond to the temporary exclusion of all other considerations. The
long Downland gradients, quivering very slightly with the vibration of
the road, came swiftly and easily to meet and pass the throbbing little
car as he sat beside her and talked to her. He fell into that expository
manner which comes so easily to the native entertaining the visitor from
abroad.

"In England, it seems to me there are four main phases of history. Four.
Avebury, which I would love to take you to see to-morrow. Stonehenge.
Old Sarum, which we shall see in a moment as a great grassy mound on our
right as we come over one of these crests. Each of them represents
about a thousand years. Old Sarum was Keltic; it, saw the Romans and the
Saxons through, and for a time it was a Norman city. Now it is pasture
for sheep. Latest as yet is Salisbury,--English, real English. It may
last a few centuries still. It is little more than seven hundred years
old. But when I think of those great hangars back there by Stonehenge,
I feel that the next phase is already beginning. Of a world one will
fly to the ends of, in a week or so. Our world still. Our people, your
people and mine, who are going to take wing so soon now, were made in
all these places. We are visiting the old homes. I am glad I came back
to it just when you were doing the same thing."

"I'm lucky to have found a sympathetic fellow traveller," she said;
"with a car."

"You're the first American I've ever met whose interest in history
didn't seem--" He sought for an inoffensive word.

"Silly? Oh! I admit it. It's true of a lot of us. Most of us. We come
over to Europe as if it hadn't anything to do with us except to supply
us with old pictures and curios generally. We come sight-seeing. It's
romantic. It's picturesque. We stare at the natives--like visitors at
a Zoo. We don't realize that we belong.... I know our style.... But we
aren't all like that. Some of us are learning a bit better than that.
We have one or two teachers over there to lighten our darkness. There's
Professor Breasted for instance. He comes sometimes to my father's
house. And there's James Harvey Robinson and Professor Hutton Webster.
They've been trying to restore our memory."

"I've never heard of any of them," said Sir Richmond.

"You hear so little of America over here. It's quite a large country and
all sorts of interesting things happen there nowadays. And we are waking
up to history. Quite fast. We shan't always be the most ignorant people
in the world. We are beginning to realize that quite a lot of things
happened between Adam and the Mayflower that we ought to be told about.
I allow it's a recent revival. The United States has been like one of
those men you read about in the papers who go away from home and turn up
in some distant place with their memories gone. They've forgotten what
their names were or where they lived or what they did for a living;
they've forgotten everything that matters. Often they have to begin
again and settle down for a long time before their memories come back.
That's how it has been with us. Our memory is just coming back to us."

"And what do you find you are?"

"Europeans. Who came away from kings and churches-@-and Corinthian
capitals."

"You feel all this country belongs to you?"

"As much as it does to you." Sir Richmond smiled radiantly at her. "But
if I say that America belongs to me as much as it does to you?"

"We are one people," she said.

"We?"

"Europe. These parts of Europe anyhow. And ourselves."

"You are the most civilized person I've met for weeks and weeks."

"Well, you are the first civilized person I've met in Europe for a long
time. If I understand you."

"There are multitudes of reasonable, civilized people in Europe."

"I've heard or seen very little of them.

"They're scattered, I admit."

"And hard to find."

"So ours is a lucky meeting. I've wanted a serious talk to an American
for some time. I want to know very badly what you think you are up to
with the world,--our world."

"I'm equally anxious to know what England thinks she is doing. Her
ways recently have been a little difficult to understand. On any
hypothesis--that is honourable to her."

"H'm," said Sir Richmond.

"I assure you we don't like it. This Irish business. We feel a sort of
ownership in England. It's like finding your dearest aunt torturing the
cat."

"We must talk of that," said Sir Richmond.

"I wish you would."

"It is a cat and a dog--and they have been very naughty animals. And
poor Aunt Britannia almost deliberately lost her temper. But I admit she
hits about in a very nasty fashion."

"And favours the dog."

"She does."

"I want to know all you admit."

"You shall. And incidentally my friend and I may have the pleasure of
showing you Salisbury and Avebury. If you are free?"

"We're travelling together, just we two. We are wandering about the
south of England on our way to Falmouth. Where I join a father in a few
days' time, and I go on with him to Paris. And if you and your friend
are coming to the Old George--"

"We are," said Sir Richmond.

"I see no great scandal in talking right on to bedtime. And seeing
Avebury to-morrow. Why not? Perhaps if we did as the Germans do and gave
our names now, it might mitigate something of the extreme informality of
our behaviour."

"My name is Hardy. I've been a munition manufacturer. I was slightly
wounded by a stray shell near Arras while I was inspecting some plant I
had set up, and also I was hit by a stray knighthood. So my name is
now Sir Richmond Hardy. My friend is a very distinguished Harley Street
physician. Chiefly nervous and mental cases. His name is Dr. Martineau.
He is quite as civilized as I am. He is also a philosophical writer. He
is really a very wise and learned man indeed. He is full of ideas. He's
stimulated me tremendously. You must talk to him."

Sir Richmond glanced over his shoulder at the subject of these
commendations. Through the oval window glared an expression of malignity
that made no impression whatever on his preoccupied mind.

"My name," said the young lady, "is Grammont. The war whirled me over
to Europe on Red Cross work and since the peace I've been settling up
things and travelling about Europe. My father is rather a big business
man in New York."

"The oil Grammont?"

"He is rather deep in oil, I believe. He is coming over to Europe
because he does not like the way your people are behaving in
Mesopotamia. He is on his way to Paris now. Paris it seems is where
everything is to be settled against you. Belinda is a sort of companion
I have acquired for the purposes of independent travel. She was Red
Cross too. I must have somebody and I cannot bear a maid. Her name is
Belinda Seyffert. From Philadelphia originally. You have that? Seyffert,
Grammont?"

"And Hardy?"

"Sir Richmond and Dr. Martineau."

"And--Ah!--That great green bank there just coming into sight must be Old
Sarum. The little ancient city that faded away when Salisbury lifted its
spire into the world. We will stop here for a little while...."

Then it was that Dr. Martineau was grim about the stretching of his
legs.

Section 4

The sudden prospect which now opened out before Sir Richmond of talking
about history and suchlike topics with a charming companion for perhaps
two whole days instead of going on with this tiresome, shamefaced,
egotistical business of self-examination was so attractive to him that
it took immediate possession of his mind, to the entire exclusion
and disregard of Dr. Martineau's possible objections to any such
modification of their original programme. When they arrived in
Salisbury, the doctor did make some slight effort to suggest a different
hotel from that in which the two ladies had engaged their rooms, but
on the spur of the moment and in their presence he could produce no
sufficient reason for refusing the accommodation the Old George had
ready for him. He was reduced to a vague: "We don't want to inflict
ourselves--" He could not get Sir Richmond aside for any adequate
expression of his feelings about Miss Seyffert, before the four of them
were seated together at tea amidst the mediaeval modernity of the Old
George smoking-room. And only then did he begin to realize the depth and
extent of the engagements to which Sir Richmond had committed himself.

"I was suggesting that we run back to Avebury to-morrow," said Sir
Richmond. "These ladies were nearly missing it."

The thing took the doctor's breath away. For the moment he could say
nothing. He stared over his tea-cup dour-faced. An objection formulated
itself very slowly. "But that dicky," he whispered.

His whisper went unnoted. Sir Richmond was talking of the completeness
of Salisbury. From the very beginning it had been a cathedral city; it
was essentially and purely that. The church at its best, in the full
tide of its mediaeval ascendancy, had called it into being. He was
making some extremely loose and inaccurate generalizations about the
buildings and ruins each age had left for posterity, and Miss Grammont
was countering with equally unsatisfactory qualifications. "Our age
will leave the ruins of hotels," said Sir Richmond. "Railway arches and
hotels."

"Baths and aqueducts," Miss Grammont compared. "Rome of the Empire comes
nearest to it...."

As soon as tea was over, Dr. Martineau realized, they meant to walk
round and about Salisbury. He foresaw that walk with the utmost
clearness. In front and keeping just a little beyond the range of his
intervention, Sir Richmond would go with Miss Grammont; he himself and
Miss Seyffert would bring up the rear. "If I do," he muttered, "I'll be
damned!" an unusually strong expression for him.

"You said--?" asked Miss Seyffert.

"That I have some writing to do--before the post goes," said the doctor
brightly.

"Oh! come and see the cathedral!" cried Sir Richmond with ill-concealed
dismay. He was, if one may put it in such a fashion, not looking at Miss
Seyffert in the directest fashion when he said this.

"I'm afraid," said the doctor mulishly. "Impossible."

(With the unspoken addition of, "You try her for a bit.")

Miss Grammont stood up. Everybody stood up. "We can go first to look
for shops," she said. "There's those things you want to buy, Belinda;
a fountain pen and the little books. We can all go together as far as
that. And while you are shopping, if you wouldn't mind getting one or
two things for me...."

It became clear to Dr. Martineau that Sir Richmond was to be let off
Belinda. It seemed abominably unjust. And it was also clear to him that
he must keep closely to his own room or he might find Miss Seyffert
drifting back alone to the hotel and eager to resume with him....

Well, a quiet time in his room would not be disagreeable. He could think
over his notes....

But in reality he thought over nothing but the little speeches he would
presently make to Sir Richmond about the unwarrantable, the absolutely
unwarrantable, alterations that were being made without his consent in
their common programme....

For a long time Sir Richmond had met no one so interesting and amusing
as this frank-minded young woman from America. "Young woman" was how he
thought of her; she didn't correspond to anything so prim and restrained
and extensively reserved and withheld as a "young lady "; and though
he judged her no older than five and twenty, the word "girl" with its
associations of virginal ignorances, invisible purdah, and trite ideas
newly discovered, seemed even less appropriate for her than the word
"boy." She had an air of having in some obscure way graduated in life,
as if so far she had lived each several year of her existence in a
distinctive and conclusive manner with the utmost mental profit and no
particular tarnish or injury. He could talk with her as if he talked
with a man like himself--but with a zest no man could give him.

It was evident that the good things she had said at first came as the
natural expression of a broad stream of alert thought; they were no mere
display specimens from one of those jackdaw collections of bright things
so many clever women waste their wits in accumulating. She was not
talking for effect at all, she was talking because she was tremendously
interested in her discovery of the spectacle of history, and delighted
to find another person as possessed as she was.

Belinda having been conducted to her shops, the two made their way
through the bright evening sunlight to the compact gracefulness of the
cathedral. A glimpse through a wrought-iron gate of a delightful
garden of spring flowers, alyssum, aubrietia, snow-upon-the-mountains,
daffodils, narcissus and the like, held them for a time, and then they
came out upon the level, grassy space, surrounded by little ripe old
houses, on which the cathedral stands. They stood for some moments
surveying it.

"It's a perfect little lady of a cathedral," said Sir Richmond. "But
why, I wonder, did we build it?"

"Your memory ought to be better than mine," she said, with her
half-closed eyes blinking up at the sunlit spire sharp against the blue.
"I've been away for so long-over there-that I forget altogether. Why DID
we build it?"

She had fallen in quite early with this freak of speaking and thinking
as if he and she were all mankind. It was as if her mind had been
prepared for it by her own eager exploration in Europe. "My friend,
the philosopher," he had said, "will not have it that we are really the
individuals we think we are. You must talk to him--he is a very curious
and subtle thinker. We are just thoughts in the Mind of the Race,
he says, passing thoughts. We are--what does he call it?--Man on his
Planet, taking control of life."

"Man and woman," she had amended.

But just as man on his planet taking control of life had failed
altogether to remember why the ditch at Avebury was on the inside
instead of the outside of the vallum, so now Miss Grammont and Sir
Richmond found very great difficulty in recalling why they had built
Salisbury Cathedral.

"We built temples by habit and tradition," said Sir Richmond. "But the
impulse was losing its force."

She looked up at the spire and then at him with a faintly quizzical
expression.

But he had his reply ready.

"We were beginning to feel our power over matter. We were already very
clever engineers. What interested us here wasn't the old religion any
more. We wanted to exercise and display our power over stone. We made
it into reeds and branches. We squirted it up in all these spires and
pinnacles. The priest and his altar were just an excuse. Do you think
people have ever feared and worshipped in this--this artist's lark--as
they did in Stonehenge?"

"I certainly do not remember that I ever worshipped here," she said.

Sir Richmond was in love with his idea. "The spirit of the Gothic
cathedrals," he said, "is the spirit of the sky-scrapers. It is
architecture in a mood of flaming ambition. The Freemasons on the
building could hardly refrain from jeering at the little priest they had
left down below there, performing antiquated puerile mysteries at his
altar. He was just their excuse for doing it all."

"Sky-scrapers?" she conceded. "An early display of the sky-scraper
spirit.... You are doing your best to make me feel thoroughly at home."

"You are more at home here still than in that new country of ours
over the Atlantic. But it seems to me now that I do begin to remember
building this cathedral and all the other cathedrals we built in
Europe.... It was the fun of building made us do it..."

"H'm," she said. "And my sky-scrapers?"

"Still the fun of building. That is the thing I envy most about America.
It's still large enough, mentally and materially, to build all sorts of
things.... Over here, the sites are frightfully crowded...."

"And what do you think we are building now? And what do you think you
are building over here?"

"What are we building now? I believe we have almost grown up. I believe
it is time we began to build in earnest. For good...."

"But are we building anything at all?"

"A new world."

"Show it me," she said.

"We're still only at the foundations," said Sir Richmond. "Nothing shows
as yet."

"I wish I could believe they were foundations."

"But can you doubt we are scrapping the old?..."

It was too late in the afternoon to go into the cathedral, so they
strolled to and fro round and about the west end and along the path
under the trees towards the river, exchanging their ideas very frankly
and freely about the things that had recently happened to the world and
what they thought they ought to be doing in it.

Section 5

After dinner our four tourists sat late and talked in a corner of the
smoking-room. The two ladies had vanished hastily at the first dinner
gong and reappeared at the second, mysteriously and pleasantly changed
from tweedy pedestrians to indoor company. They were quietly but
definitely dressed, pretty alterations had happened to their coiffure, a
silver band and deep red stones lit the dusk of Miss Grammont's hair
and a necklace of the same colourings kept the peace between her jolly
sun-burnt cheek and her soft untanned neck. It was evident her recent
uniform had included a collar of great severity. Miss Seyffert had
revealed a plump forearm and proclaimed it with a clash of bangles. Dr.
Martineau thought her evening throat much too confidential.

The conversation drifted from topic to topic. It had none of the
steady continuity of Sir Richmond's duologue with Miss Grammont. Miss
Seyffert's methods were too discursive and exclamatory. She broke every
thread that appeared. The Old George at Salisbury is really old;
it shows it, and Miss Seyffert laced the entire evening with her
recognition of the fact. "Just look at that old beam!" she would cry
suddenly. "To think it was exactly where it is before there was a Cabot
in America!"

Miss Grammont let her companion pull the talk about as she chose. After
the animation of the afternoon a sort of lazy contentment had taken
possession of the younger lady. She sat deep in a basket chair and spoke
now and then. Miss Seyffert gave her impressions of France and Italy.
She talked of the cabmen of Naples and the beggars of Amalfi.

Apropos of beggars, Miss Grammont from the depths of her chair threw out
the statement that Italy was frightfully overpopulated. "In some parts
of Italy it is like mites on a cheese. Nobody seems to be living.
Everyone is too busy keeping alive."

"Poor old women carrying loads big enough for mules," said Miss
Seyffert.

"Little children working like slaves," said Miss Grammont.

"And everybody begging. Even the people at work by the roadside. Who
ought to be getting wages--sufficient...."

"Begging--from foreigners--is just a sport in Italy," said Sir Richmond.
"It doesn't imply want. But I agree that a large part of Italy is
frightfully overpopulated. The whole world is. Don't you think so,
Martineau?"

"Well--yes--for its present social organization."

"For any social organization," said Sir Richmond.

"I've no doubt of it," said Miss Seyffert, and added amazingly: "I'm out
for Birth Control all the time."

A brief but active pause ensued. Dr. Martineau in a state of sudden
distress attempted to drink out of a cold and empty coffee cup.

"The world swarms with cramped and undeveloped lives," said Sir
Richmond. "Which amount to nothing. Which do not even represent
happiness. And which help to use up the resources, the fuel and surplus
energy of the world."

"I suppose they have a sort of liking for their lives," Miss Grammont
reflected.

"Does that matter? They do nothing to carry life on. They are just vain
repetitions--imperfect dreary, blurred repetitions of one common life.
All that they feel has been felt, all that they do has been done
better before. Because they are crowded and hurried and underfed and
undereducated. And as for liking their lives, they need never have had
the chance."

"How many people are there in the world?" she asked abruptly.

"I don't know. Twelve hundred, fifteen hundred millions perhaps."

"And in your world?"

"I'd have two hundred and fifty millions, let us say. At most. It would
be quite enough for this little planet, for a time, at any rate. Don't
you think so, doctor?"

"I don't know," said Dr. Martineau. "Oddly enough, I have never thought
about that question before. At least, not from this angle."

"But could you pick out two hundred and fifty million aristocrats?"
began Miss Grammont. "My native instinctive democracy--"

"Need not be outraged," said Sir Richmond. "Any two hundred and fifty
million would do, They'd be able to develop fully, all of them. As
things are, only a minority can do that. The rest never get a chance."

"That's what I always say," said Miss Seyffert.

"A New Age," said Dr. Martineau; "a New World. We may be coming to
such a stage, when population, as much as fuel, will be under a world
control. If one thing, why not the other? I admit that the movement of
thought is away from haphazard towards control--"

"I'm for control all the time," Miss Seyffert injected, following up her
previous success.

"I admit," the doctor began his broken sentence again with marked
patience, "that the movement of thought is away from haphazard towards
control--in things generally. But is the movement of events?"

"The eternal problem of man," said Sir Richmond. "Can our wills
prevail?"

There came a little pause.

Miss Grammont smiled an enquiry at Miss Seyffert. "If YOU are," said
Belinda.

"I wish I could imagine your world," said Miss Grammont, rising, "of two
hundred and fifty millions of fully developed human beings with room
to live and breathe in and no need for wars. Will they live in palaces?
Will they all be healthy?... Machines will wait on them. No! I can't
imagine it. Perhaps I shall dream of it. My dreaming self may be
cleverer."

She held out her hand to Sir Richmond. Just for a moment they stood hand
in hand, appreciatively....

"Well!" said Dr. Martineau, as the door closed behind the two Americans,
"This is a curious encounter."

"That young woman has brains," said Sir Richmond, standing before the
fireplace. There was no doubt whatever which young woman he meant. But
Dr. Martineau grunted.

"I don't like the American type," the doctor pronounced judicially.

"I do," Sir Richmond countered.

The doctor thought for a moment or so. "You are committed to the project
of visiting Avebury?" he said.

"They ought to see Avebury," said Sir Richmond.

"H'm," said the doctor, ostentatiously amused by his thoughts and
staring at the fire. "Birth Control! I NEVER did."

Sir Richmond smiled down on the top of the doctor's head and said
nothing.

"I think," said the doctor and paused. "I shall leave this Avebury
expedition to you."

"We can be back in the early afternoon," said Sir Richmond. "To give
them a chance of seeing the cathedral. The chapter house here is not one
to miss...."

"And then I suppose we shall go on?

"As you please," said Sir Richmond insincerely.

"I must confess that four people make the car at any rate seem
tremendously overpopulated. And to tell the truth, I do not find this
encounter so amusing as you seem to do.... I shall not be sorry when we
have waved good-bye to those young ladies, and resume our interrupted
conversation."

Sir Richmond considered something mulish in the doctor's averted face.

"I find Miss Grammont an extremely interesting--and stimulating human
being.

"Evidently."

The doctor sighed, stood up and found himself delivering one of the
sentences he had engendered during his solitary meditations in his room
before dinner. He surprised himself by the plainness of his speech. "Let
me be frank," he said, regarding Sir Richmond squarely. "Considering
the general situation of things and your position, I do not care very
greatly for the part of an accessory to what may easily develop, as you
know very well, into a very serious flirtation. An absurd, mischievous,
irrelevant flirtation. You may not like the word. You may pretend it is
a conversation, an ordinary intellectual conversation. That is not
the word. Simply that is not the word. You people eye one another....
Flirtation. I give the affair its proper name. That is all. Merely that.
When I think--But we will not discuss it now.... Good night.... Forgive
me if I put before you, rather bluntly, my particular point of view."

Sir Richmond found himself alone. With his eyebrows raised.

Section 6

After twenty-four eventful hours our two students of human motives
found themselves together again by the fireplace in the Old George
smoking-room. They had resumed their overnight conversation, in a state
of considerable tension.

"If you find the accommodation of the car insufficient," said Sir
Richmond in a tone of extreme reasonableness, and I admit it is, we can
easily hire a larger car in a place like this.

I would not care if you hired an omnibus, said Dr. Martineau. "I am not
coming on if these young women are."

"But if you consider it scandalous--and really, Martineau, really! as
one man to another, it does seem to me to be a bit pernickety of you, a
broad and original thinker as you are--"

"Thought is one matter. Rash, inconsiderate action quite another. And
above all, if I spend another day in or near the company of Miss Belinda
Seyffert I shall--I shall be extremely rude to her."

"But," said Sir Richmond and bit his lower lip and considered.

"We might drop Belinda," he suggested turning to his friend and speaking
in low, confidential tones. "She is quite a manageable person. Quite.
She could--for example--be left behind with the luggage and sent on by
train. I do not know if you realize how the land lies in that quarter.
It needs only a word to Miss Grammont."

There was no immediate reply. For a moment he had a wild hope that his
companion would agree, and then he perceived that the doctor's silence
meant only the preparation of an ultimatum.

"I object to Miss Grammont and that side of the thing, more than I do to
Miss Seyffert."

Sir Richmond said nothing.

"It may help you to see this affair from a slightly different angle if
I tell you that twice today Miss Seyffert has asked me if you were a
married man."

"And of course you told her I was."

"On the second occasion."

Sir Richmond smiled again.

"Frankly," said the doctor, "this adventure is altogether uncongenial
to me. It is the sort of thing that has never happened in my life. This
highway coupling--"

"Don't you think," said Sir Richmond, "that you are attaching rather too
much--what shall I say--romantic?--flirtatious?--meaning to this affair?
I don't mind that after my rather lavish confessions you should
consider me a rather oversexed person, but isn't your attitude rather
unfair,--unjust, indeed, and almost insulting, to this Miss Grammont?
After all, she's a young lady of very good social position indeed.
She doesn't strike you--does she?--as an undignified or helpless human
being. Her manners suggest a person of considerable self-control. And
knowing less of me than you do, she probably regards me as almost as
safe as--a maiden aunt say. I'm twice her age. We are a party of four.
There are conventions, there are considerations.... Aren't you really,
my dear Martineau, overdoing all this side of this very pleasant little
enlargement of our interests."

"AM I?" said Dr. Martineau and brought a scrutinizing eye to bear on Sir
Richmond's face.

"I want to go on talking to Miss Grammont for a day or so," Sir Richmond
admitted.

"Then I shall prefer to leave your party."

There were some moments of silence.

"I am really very sorry to find myself in this dilemma," said Sir
Richmond with a note of genuine regret in his voice.

"It is not a dilemma," said Dr. Martineau, with a corresponding loss of
asperity. "I grant you we discover we differ upon a question of taste
and convenience. But before I suggested this trip, I had intended to
spend a little time with my old friend Sir Kenelm Latter at Bournemouth.
Nothing simpler than to go to him now...."

"I shall be sorry all the same."

"I could have wished," said the doctor, "that these ladies had happened
a little later...."

The matter was settled. Nothing more of a practical nature remained to
be said. But neither gentleman wished to break off with a harsh and bare
decision.

"When the New Age is here," said Sir Richmond, "then, surely, a
friendship between a man and a woman will not be subjected to the--the
inconveniences your present code would set about it? They would travel
about together as they chose?"

"The fundamental principle of the new age," said the doctor, "will be
Honi soit qui mal y pense. In these matters. With perhaps Fay ce
que vouldras as its next injunction. So long as other lives are not
affected. In matters of personal behaviour the world will probably be
much more free and individuals much more open in their conscience
and honour than they have ever been before. In matters of property,
economics and public conduct it will probably be just the reverse. Then,
there will be much more collective control and much more insistence,
legal insistence, upon individual responsibility. But we are not living
in a new age yet; we are living in the patched-up ruins of a very old
one. And you--if you will forgive me--are living in the patched up
remains of a life that had already had its complications. This young
lady, whose charm and cleverness I admit, behaves as if the new age were
already here. Well, that may be a very dangerous mistake both for her
and for you.... This affair, if it goes on for a few days more, may
involve very serious consequences indeed, with which I, for one, do not
wish to be involved."

Sir Richmond, upon the hearthrug, had a curious feeling that he was back
in the head master's study at Caxton.

Dr. Martineau went on with a lucidity that Sir Richmond found rather
trying, to give his impression of Miss Grammont and her position in
life.

"She is," he said, "manifestly a very expensively educated girl. And
in many ways interesting. I have been watching her. I have not been
favoured with very much of her attention, but that fact has enabled
me to see her in profile. Miss Seyffert is a fairly crude mixture of
frankness, insincerity and self-explanatory egotism, and I have been
able to disregard a considerable amount of the conversation she has
addressed to me. Now I guess this Miss Grammont has had no mother since
she was quite little."

"Your guesses, doctor, are apt to be pretty good," said Sir Richmond.

"You know that?"

"She has told me as much."

"H'm. Well--She impressed me as having the air of a girl who has had
to solve many problems for which the normal mother provides ready made
solutions. That is how I inferred that there was no mother. I don't
think there has been any stepmother, either friendly or hostile?
There hasn't been. I thought not. She has had various governesses and
companions, ladies of birth and education, engaged to look after her
and she has done exactly what she liked with them. Her manner with Miss
Seyffert, an excellent manner for Miss Seyffert, by the bye, isn't the
sort of manner anyone acquires in a day. Or for one person only. She is
a very sure and commanding young woman."

Sir Richmond nodded.

"I suppose her father adores and neglects her, and whenever she has
wanted a companion or governess butchered, the thing has been done....
These business Americans, I am told, neglect their womenkind, give them
money and power, let them loose on the world.... It is a sort of moral
laziness masquerading as affection.... Still I suppose custom and
tradition kept this girl in her place and she was petted, honoured,
amused, talked about but not in a harmful way, and rather bored right
up to the time when America came into the war. Theoretically she had a
tremendously good time."

"I think this must be near the truth of her biography," said Sir
Richmond.

"I suppose she has lovers."

"You don't mean--?"

"No, I don't. Though that is a matter that ought to have no special
interest for you. I mean that she was surrounded by a retinue of men who
wanted to marry her or who behaved as though they wanted to marry her or
who made her happiness and her gratifications and her condescensions
seem a matter of very great importance to them. She had the flattery of
an extremely uncritical and unexacting admiration. That is the sort of
thing that gratifies a silly woman extremely. Miss Grammont is not silly
and all this homage and facile approval probably bored her more than she
realized. To anyone too intelligent to be steadily excited by buying
things and wearing things and dancing and playing games and going to
places of entertainment, and being given flowers, sweets, jewellery, pet
animals, and books bound in a special sort of leather, the prospect of
being a rich man's only daughter until such time as it becomes advisable
to change into a rich man's wealthy wife, is probably not nearly so
amusing as envious people might suppose. I take it Miss Grammont had got
all she could out of that sort of thing some time before the war, and
that she had already read and thought rather more than most young women
in her position. Before she was twenty I guess she was already looking
for something more interesting in the way of men than a rich admirer
with an automobile full of presents. Those who seek find."

"What do you think she found?"

"What would a rich girl find out there in America? I don't know. I
haven't the material to guess with. In London a girl might find a
considerable variety of active, interesting men, rising politicians,
university men of distinction, artists and writers even, men of science,
men--there are still such men--active in the creative work of the
empire.

"In America I suppose there is at least an equal variety, made up of
rather different types. She would find that life was worth while to such
people in a way that made the ordinary entertainments and amusements of
her life a monstrous silly waste of time. With the facility of her sex
she would pick up from one of them the idea that made life worth while
for him. I am inclined to think there was someone in her case who did
seem to promise a sort of life that was worth while. And that somehow
the war came to alter the look of that promise.

"How?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I am only romancing. But for this young woman
I am convinced this expedition to Europe has meant experience, harsh
educational experience and very profound mental disturbance. There have
been love experiences; experiences that were something more than the
treats and attentions and proposals that made up her life when she was
sheltered over there. And something more than that. What it is I don't
know. The war has turned an ugly face to her. She has seen death and
suffering and ruin. Perhaps she has seen people she knew killed. Perhaps
the man has been killed. Or she has met with cowardice or cruelty or
treachery where she didn't expect it. She has been shocked out of the
first confidence of youth. She has ceased to take the world for granted.
It hasn't broken her but it has matured her. That I think is why history
has become real to her. Which so attracts you in her. History, for her,
has ceased to be a fabric of picturesque incidents; it is the study of a
tragic struggle that still goes on. She sees history as you see it and I
see it. She is a very grown-up young woman.

"It's just that," said Sir Richmond. "It's just that. If you see as much
in Miss Grammont as all that, why don't you want to come on with us? You
see the interest of her."

"I see a lot more than that. You don't know what an advantage it is to
be as I am, rather cold and unresponsive to women and unattractive and
negligible--negligible, that is the exact word--to them. YOU can't look
at a woman for five minutes without losing sight of her in a mist
of imaginative excitement. Because she looks back at you. I have the
privilege of the negligible--which is a cool head. Miss Grammont has a
startled and matured mind, an original mind. Yes. And there is something
more to be said. Her intelligence is better than her character."

"I don't quite see what you are driving at."

"The intelligence of all intelligent women is better than their
characters. Goodness in a woman, as we understand it, seems to imply
necessarily a certain imaginative fixity. Miss Grammont has an impulsive
and adventurous character. And as I have been saying she was a spoilt
child, with no discipline.... You also are a person of high intelligence
and defective controls. She is very much at loose ends. You--on account
of the illness of that rather forgotten lady, Miss Martin Leeds--"
"Aren't you rather abusing the secrets of the confessional?"

"This IS the confessional. It closes to-morrow morning but it is the
confessional still. Look at the thing frankly. You, I say, are also at
loose ends. Can you deny it? My dear sir, don't we both know that ever
since we left London you have been ready to fall in love with any
pretty thing in petticoats that seemed to promise you three ha'porth of
kindness. A lost dog looking for a master! You're a stray man looking
for a mistress. Miss Grammont being a woman is a little more selective
than that. But if she's at a loose end as I suppose, she isn't protected
by the sense of having made her selection. And she has no preconceptions
of what she wants. You are a very interesting man in many ways. You
carry marriage and entanglements lightly. With an air of being neither
married nor entangled. She is quite prepared to fall in love with you."

"But you don't really think that?" said Sir Richmond, with an
ill-concealed eagerness.

Dr. Martineau rolled his face towards Sir Richmond. "These
miracles--grotesquely--happen," he said. "She knows nothing of Martin
Leeds.... You must remember that....

"And then," he added, "if she and you fall in love, as the phrase goes,
what is to follow?"

There was a pause.

Sir Richmond looked at his toes for a moment or so as if he took counsel
with them and then decided to take offence.

"Really!" he said, "this is preposterous. You talk of falling in love as
though it was impossible for a man and woman to be deeply interested in
each other without that. And the gulf in our ages--in our quality! From
the Psychologist of a New Age I find this amazing. Are men and women
to go on for ever--separated by this possibility into two hardly
communicating and yet interpenetrating worlds? Is there never to be
friendship and companionship between men and women without passion?"

"You ought to know even better than I do that there is not. For such
people as you two anyhow. And at present the world is not prepared to
tolerate friendship and companionship WITH that accompaniment. That is
the core of this situation."

A pause fell between the two gentlemen. They had smoothed over the
extreme harshness of their separation and there was very little more to
be said.

"Well," said Sir Richmond in conclusion, "I am very sorry indeed,
Martineau, that we have to part like this."



CHAPTER THE SEVENTH

COMPANIONSHIP

Section 1

"Well," said Dr. Martineau, extending his hand to Sir Richmond on the
Salisbury station platform, "I leave you to it."

His round face betrayed little or no vestiges of his overnight
irritation.

"Ought you to leave me to it?" smiled Sir Richmond.

"I shall be interested to learn what happens."

"But if you won't stay to see!"

"Now Sir, please," said the guard respectfully but firmly, and Dr.
Martineau got in.

Sir Richmond walked thoughtfully down the platform towards the exit.

"What else could I do?" he asked aloud to nobody in particular.

For a little while he thought confusedly of the collapse of his
expedition into the secret places of his own heart with Dr. Martineau,
and then his prepossession with Miss Grammont resumed possession of his
mind. Dr. Martineau was forgotten.

Section 2

For the better part of forty hours, Sir Richmond had either been talking
to Miss Grammont, or carrying on imaginary conversations with her in her
absence, or sleeping and dreaming dreams in which she never failed
to play a part, even if at times it was an altogether amazing and
incongruous part. And as they were both very frank and expressive
people, they already knew a very great deal about each other.

For an American Miss Grammont was by no means autobiographical. She
gave no sketches of her idiosyncrasies, and she repeated no remembered
comments and prophets of her contemporaries about herself. She either
concealed or she had lost any great interest in her own personality. But
she was interested in and curious about the people she had met in life,
and her talk of them reflected a considerable amount of light upon her
own upbringing and experiences. And her liking for Sir Richmond was
pleasingly manifest. She liked his turn of thought, she watched him
with a faint smile on her lips as he spoke, and she spread her opinions
before him carefully in that soft voice of hers like a shy child showing
its treasures to some suddenly trusted and favoured visitor.

Their ways of thought harmonized. They talked at first chiefly about the
history of the world and the extraordinary situation of aimlessness in a
phase of ruin to which the Great War had brought all Europe, if not all
mankind. The world excited them both in the same way; as a crisis in
which they were called upon to do something--they did not yet clearly
know what. Into this topic they peered as into some deep pool, side by
side, and in it they saw each other reflected.

The visit to Avebury had been a great success. It had been a
perfect springtime day, and the little inn had been delighted at the
reappearance of Sir Richmond's car so soon after its departure. Its
delight was particularly manifest in the cream and salad it produced
for lunch. Both Miss Grammont and Miss Seyffert displayed an intelligent
interest in their food. After lunch they had all gone out to the stones
and the wall. Half a dozen sunburnt children were putting one of the
partially overturned megaliths to a happy use by clambering to the top
of it and sliding on their little behinds down its smooth and sloping
side amidst much mirthful squealing.

Sir Richmond and Miss Grammont had walked round the old circumvallation
together, but Belinda Seyffert had strayed away from them, professing
an interest in flowers. It was not so much that she felt they had to be
left together that made her do this as her own consciousness of being
possessed by a devil who interrupted conversations.

When Miss Grammont was keenly interested in a conversation, then Belinda
had learnt from experience that it was wiser to go off with her devil
out of the range of any temptation to interrupt.

"You really think," said Miss Grammont, "that it would be possible to
take this confused old world and reshape it, set it marching towards
that new world of yours--of two hundred and fifty million fully
developed, beautiful and happy people?"

"Why not? Nobody is doing anything with the world except muddle about.
Why not give it a direction?"

"You'd take it in your hands like clay?"

"Obdurate clay with a sort of recalcitrant, unintelligent life of its
own."

Her imagination glowed in her eyes and warmed her voice. "I believe what
you say is possible. If people dare."

"I am tired of following little motives that are like flames that go out
when you get to them. I am tired of seeing all the world doing the
same. I am tired of a world in which there is nothing great but great
disasters. Here is something mankind can attempt, that we can attempt."

"And will?"

"I believe that as Mankind grows up this is the business Man has to
settle down to and will settle down to."

She considered that.

"I've been getting to believe something like this. But--... it frightens
me. I suppose most of us have this same sort of dread of taking too much
upon ourselves."

"So we just live like pigs. Sensible little piggywiggys. I've got a
Committee full of that sort of thing. We live like little modest pigs.
And let the world go hang. And pride ourselves upon our freedom from the
sin of presumption.

"Not quite that!"

"Well! How do you put it?"

"We are afraid," she said. "It's too vast. We want bright little lives
of our own."

"Exactly--sensible little piggy-wiggys."

"We have a right to life--and happiness.

"First," said Sir Richmond, "as much right as a pig has to food. But
whether we get life and happiness or fail to get them we human beings
who have imaginations want something more nowadays.... Of course we want
bright lives, of course we want happiness. Just as we want food, just as
we want sleep. But when we have eaten, when we have slept, when we have
jolly things about us--it is nothing. We have been made an exception
of--and got our rations. The big thing confronts us still. It is vast,
I agree, but vast as it is it is the thing we have to think about. I
do not know why it should be so, but I am compelled by something in my
nature to want to serve this idea of a new age for mankind. I want it
as my culminating want. I want a world in order, a disciplined mankind
going on to greater things. Don't you?"

"Now you tell me of it," she said with a smile, "I do."

"But before--?"

"No. You've made it clear. It wasn't clear before."

"I've been talking of this sort of thing with my friend Dr. Martineau.
And I've been thinking as well as talking. That perhaps is why I'm so
clear and positive."

"I don't complain that you are clear and positive. I've been coming
along the same way.... It's refreshing to meet you."

"I found it refreshing to meet Martineau." A twinge of conscience about
Dr. Martineau turned Sir Richmond into a new channel. "He's a most
interesting man," he said. "Rather shy in some respects. Devoted to his
work. And he's writing a book which has saturated him in these ideas.
Only two nights ago we stood here and talked about it. The Psychology of
a New Age. The world, he believes, is entering upon a new phase in its
history, the adolescence, so to speak, of mankind. It is an idea that
seizes the imagination. There is a flow of new ideas abroad, he thinks,
widening realizations, unprecedented hopes and fears. There is a
consciousness of new powers and new responsibilities. We are sharing the
adolescence of our race. It is giving history a new and more intimate
meaning for us. It is bringing us into directer relation with public
affairs,--making them matter as formerly they didn't seem to matter.
That idea of the bright little private life has to go by the board."

"I suppose it has," she said, meditatively, as though she had been
thinking over some such question before.

"The private life," she said, "has a way of coming aboard again."

Her reflections travelled fast and broke out now far ahead of him.

"You have some sort of work cut out for you," she said abruptly.

"Yes. Yes, I have."

"I haven't," she said.

"So that I go about," she added, "like someone who is looking for
something. I'd like to know if it's not jabbing too searching a question
at you--what you have found."

Sir Richmond considered. "Incidentally," he smiled, "I want to get
a lasso over the neck of that very forcible and barbaric person, your
father. I am doing my best to help lay the foundation of a scientific
world control of fuel production and distribution. We have a Fuel
Commission in London with rather wide powers of enquiry into the whole
world problem of fuel. We shall come out to Washington presently with
proposals."

Miss Grammont surveyed the landscape. "I suppose," she said, "poor
father IS rather like an unbroken mule in business affairs. So many of
our big business men in America are. He'll lash out at you."

"I don't mind if only he lashes out openly in the sight of all men."

She considered and turned on Sir Richmond gravely.

"Tell me what you want to do to him. You find out so many things for me
that I seem to have been thinking about in a sort of almost invisible
half-conscious way. I've been suspecting for a long time that
Civilization wasn't much good unless it got people like my father under
some sort of control. But controlling father--as distinguished from
managing him!" She reviewed some private and amusing memories. "He is a
most intractable man."

Section 3

They had gone on to talk of her father and of the types of men who
controlled international business. She had had plentiful opportunities
for observation in their homes and her own. Gunter Lake, the big banker,
she knew particularly well, because, it seemed, she had been engaged
or was engaged to marry him. "All these people," she said, "are pushing
things about, affecting millions of lives, hurting and disordering
hundreds of thousands of people. They don't seem to know what they
are doing. They have no plans in particular.... And you are getting
something going that will be a plan and a direction and a conscience
and a control for them? You will find my father extremely difficult, but
some of our younger men would love it.

"And," she went on; "there are American women who'd love it too. We're
petted. We're kept out of things. We aren't placed. We don't get enough
to do. We're spenders and wasters--not always from choice. While these
fathers and brothers and husbands of ours play about with the fuel and
power and life and hope of the world as though it was a game of poker.
With all the empty unspeakable solemnity of the male. And treat us as
though we ought to be satisfied if they bring home part of the winnings.

"That can't go on," she said.

Her eyes went back to the long, low, undulating skyline of the downs.
She spoke as though she took up the thread of some controversy that had
played a large part in her life. "That isn't going on," she said with an
effect of conclusive decision.

Sir Richmond recalled that little speech now as he returned from
Salisbury station to the Old George after his farewell to Martineau. He
recalled too the soft firmness of her profile and the delicate line of
her lifted chin. He felt that this time at any rate he was not being
deceived by the outward shows of a charming human being. This young
woman had real firmness of character to back up her free and independent
judgments. He smiled at the idea of any facile passion in the
composition of so sure and gallant a personality. Martineau was very
fine-minded in many respects, but he was an old maid; and like all old
maids he saw man and woman in every encounter. But passion was a thing
men and women fell back upon when they had nothing else in common. When
they thought in the pleasantest harmony and every remark seemed to weave
a fresh thread of common interest, then it wasn't so necessary. It might
happen, but it wasn't so necessary.... If it did it would be a secondary
thing to companionship. That's what she was,--a companion.

But a very lovely and wonderful companion, the companion one would not
relinquish until the very last moment one could keep with her.

Her views about America and about her own place in the world seemed
equally fresh and original to Sir Richmond.

"I realize I've got to be a responsible American citizen," she had said.
That didn't mean that she attached very much importance to her recently
acquired vote. She evidently classified voters into the irresponsible
who just had votes and the responsible who also had a considerable
amount of property as well. She had no illusions about the power of the
former class. It didn't exist. They were steered to their decisions by
people employed, directed or stimulated by "father" and his friends and
associates, the owners of America, the real "responsible citizens." Or
they fell a prey to the merely adventurous leading of "revolutionaries."
But anyhow they were steered. She herself, it was clear, was bound
to become a very responsible citizen indeed. She would some day, she
laughed, be swimming in oil and such like property. Her interest in
Sir Richmond's schemes for a scientific world management of fuel was
therefore, she realized, a very direct one. But it was remarkable to
find a young woman seeing it like that.

Father it seemed varied very much in his attitude towards her. He
despised and distrusted women generally, and it was evident he had made
it quite clear to her how grave an error it was on her part to persist
in being a daughter and not a son. At moments it seemed to Sir
Richmond that she was disposed to agree with father upon that. When Mr.
Grammont's sense of her regrettable femininity was uppermost, then he
gave his intelligence chiefly to schemes for tying her up against the
machinations of adventurers by means of trustees, partners, lawyers,
advisers, agreements and suchlike complications, or for acquiring a
workable son by marriage. To this last idea it would seem the importance
in her life of the rather heavily named Gunter Lake was to be ascribed.
But another mood of the old man's was distrust of anything that could
not be spoken of as his "own flesh and blood," and then he would direct
his attention to a kind of masculinization of his daughter and to
schemes for giving her the completest control of all he had to leave her
provided she never married nor fell under masculine sway. "After all,"
he would reflect as he hesitated over the practicability of his life's
ideal, "there was Hetty Green."

This latter idea had reft her suddenly at the age of seventeen from
the educational care of an English gentlewoman warranted to fit her for
marriage with any prince in Europe, and thrust her for the mornings and
a moiety of the afternoons of the better part of a year, after a swift
but competent training, into a shirt waist and an office down town. She
had been entrusted at first to a harvester concern independent of Mr.
Grammont, because he feared his own people wouldn't train her hard. She
had worked for ordinary wages and ordinary hours, and at the end of the
day, she mentioned casually, a large automobile with two menservants
and a trustworthy secretary used to pick her out from the torrent of
undistinguished workers that poured out of the Synoptical Building. This
masculinization idea had also sent her on a commission of enquiry into
Mexico. There apparently she had really done responsible work.

But upon the question of labour Mr. Grammont was fierce, even for an
American business man, and one night at a dinner party he discovered
his daughter displaying what he considered an improper familiarity
with socialist ideas. This had produced a violent revulsion towards the
purdah system and the idea of a matrimonial alliance with Gunter Lake.
Gunter Lake, Sir Richmond gathered, wasn't half a bad fellow. Generally
it would seem Miss Grammont liked him, and she had a way of speaking
about him that suggested that in some way Mr. Lake had been rather
hardly used and had acquired merit by his behaviour under bad treatment.
There was some story, however, connected with her war services in Europe
upon which Miss Grammont was evidently indisposed to dwell. About that
story Sir Richmond was left at the end of his Avebury day and after his
last talk with Dr. Martineau, still quite vaguely guessing.

So much fact about Miss Grammont as we have given had floated up in
fragments and pieced itself together in Sir Richmond's mind in the
course of a day and a half. The fragments came up as allusions or by way
of illustration. The sustaining topic was this New Age Sir Richmond
fore shadowed, this world under scientific control, the Utopia of fully
developed people fully developing the resources of the earth. For a
number of trivial reasons Sir Richmond found himself ascribing the
project of this New Age almost wholly to Dr. Martineau, and presenting
it as a much completer scheme than he was justified in doing. It was
true that Dr. Martineau had not said many of the things Sir Richmond
ascribed to him, but also it was true that they had not crystallized out
in Sir Richmond's mind before his talks with Dr. Martineau. The idea of
a New Age necessarily carries with it the idea of fresh rules of conduct
and of different relationships between human beings. And it throws
those who talk about it into the companionship of a common enterprise.
To-morrow the New Age will be here no doubt, but today it is the hope
and adventure of only a few human beings.

So that it was natural for Miss Grammont and Sir Richmond to ask: "What
are we to do with such types as father?" and to fall into an idiom that
assumed a joint enterprise. They had agreed by a tacit consent to a
common conception of the world they desired as a world scientifically
ordered, an immense organization of mature commonsense, healthy and
secure, gathering knowledge and power for creative adventures as yet
beyond dreaming. They were prepared to think of the makers of the
Avebury dyke as their yesterday selves, of the stone age savages as
a phase, in their late childhood, and of this great world order Sir
Richmond foresaw as a day where dawn was already at hand. And in such
long perspectives, the states, governments and institutions of to-day
became very temporary-looking and replaceable structures indeed. Both
these two people found themselves thinking in this fashion with an
unwonted courage and freedom because the other one had been disposed to
think in this fashion before. Sir Richmond was still turning over in
his mind the happy mutual release of the imagination this chance
companionship had brought about when he found himself back again at the
threshold of the Old George.

Section 4

Sir Richmond Hardy was not the only man who was thinking intently about
Miss Grammont at that particular moment. Two gentlemen were coming
towards her across the Atlantic whose minds, it chanced, were very
busily occupied by her affairs. One of these was her father, who
was lying in his brass bed in his commodious cabin on the Hollandia,
regretting his diminishing ability to sleep in the early morning now,
even when he was in the strong and soothing air of mid-Atlantic, and
thinking of V.V. because she had a way of coming into his mind when it
was undefended; and the other was Mr. Gunter Lake on the Megantic,
one day out from Sandy Hook, who found himself equally sleepless and
preoccupied. And although Mr. Lake was a man of vast activities and
complicated engagements he was coming now to Europe for the express
purpose of seeing V.V. and having things out with her fully and
completely because, in spite of all that had happened, she made such an
endless series of delays in coming to America.

Old Grammont as he appeared upon the pillow of his bed by the light of a
rose-shaded bedside lamp, was a small-headed, grey-haired gentleman with
a wrinkled face and sunken brown eyes. Years of business experience,
mitigated only by such exercise as the game of poker affords, had
intensified an instinctive inexpressiveness. Under the most solitary
circumstances old Grammont was still inexpressive, and the face that
stared at the ceiling of his cabin and the problem of his daughter
might have been the face of a pickled head in a museum, for any
indication it betrayed of the flow of thought within. He lay on his back
and his bent knees lifted the bed-clothes into a sharp mountain. He was
not even trying to sleep.

Why, he meditated, had V.V. stayed on in Europe so much longer than she
need have done? And why had Gunter Lake suddenly got into a state of
mind about her? Why didn't the girl confide in her father at least
about these things? What was afoot? She had thrown over Lake once and
it seemed she was going to turn him down again. Well, if she was an
ordinary female person that was a silly sort of thing to do. With her
fortune and his--you could buy the world. But suppose she was not all
ordinary female person.... Her mother hadn't been ordinary anyhow,
whatever else you called her, and no one could call Grammont blood all
ordinary fluid. ... Old Grammont had never had any delusions about Lake.
If Lake's father hadn't been a big man Lake would never have counted for
anything at all. Suppose she did turn him down. In itself that wasn't a
thing to break her father's heart.

What did matter was not whether she threw Lake over but what she threw
him over for. If it was because he wasn't man enough, well and good. But
if it was for some other lover, some good-looking, worthless impostor,
some European title or suchlike folly--!

At the thought of a lover for V.V. a sudden flood of anger poured across
the old man's mind, behind the still mask of his face. It infuriated
him even to think of V.V., his little V.V., his own girl, entertaining
a lover, being possibly--most shameful thought--IN LOVE! Like some
ordinary silly female, sinking to kisses, to the deeds one could buy
and pay for. His V.V.! The idea infuriated and disgusted him. He fought
against it as a possibility. Once some woman in New York had ventured
to hint something to him of some fellow, some affair with an artist,
Caston; she had linked this Caston with V.V.'s red cross nursing in
Europe.... Old Grammont had made that woman sorry she spoke. Afterwards
he had caused enquiries to be made about this Caston, careful enquiries.
It seems that he and V.V. had known each other, there had been
something. But nothing that V.V. need be ashamed of. When old Grammont's
enquiry man had come back with his report, old Grammont had been very
particular about that. At first the fellow had not been very clear,
rather muddled indeed as to how things were--no doubt he had wanted
to make out there was something just to seem to earn his money. Old
Grammont had struck the table sharply and the eyes that looked out of
his mask had blazed. "What have you found out against her?" he had asked
in a low even voice. "Absolutely nothing, Sir," said the agent, suddenly
white to the lips....

Old Grammont stared at his memory of that moment for a while. That
affair was all right, quite all right. Of course it was all right. And
also, happily, Caston was among the dead. But it was well her broken
engagement with Lake had been resumed as though it had never been broken
off. If there had been any talk that fact answered it. And now that Lake
had served his purpose old Grammont did not care in the least if he was
shelved. V.V. could stand alone.

Old Grammont had got a phrase in his mind that looked like dominating
the situation. He dreamt of saying to V.V.: "V.V., I'm going to make
a man of you--if you're man enough." That was a large proposition; it
implied--oh! it implied all sorts of things. It meant that she would
care as little for philandering as an able young business man. Perhaps
some day, a long time ahead, she might marry. There wasn't much reason
for it, but it might be she would not wish to be called a spinster.
"Take a husband," thought old Grammont, "when I am gone, as one takes a
butler, to make the household complete." In previous meditations on his
daughter's outlook old Grammont had found much that was very suggestive
in the precedent of Queen Victoria. She had had no husband of the lord
and master type, so to speak, but only a Prince Consort, well in hand.
Why shouldn't the Grammont heiress dominate her male belonging, if it
came to that, in the same fashion? Why shouldn't one tie her up and tie
the whole thing up, so far as any male belonging was concerned, leaving
V.V. in all other respects free? How could one do it?

The speculative calm of the sunken brown eyes deepened.

His thoughts went back to the white face of the private enquiry agent.
"Absolutely nothing, Sir." What had the fellow thought of hinting?
Nothing of that kind in V.V.'s composition, never fear. Yet it was a
curious anomaly that while one had a thousand ways of defending one's
daughter and one's property against that daughter's husband, there was
no power on earth by which a father could stretch his dead hand between
that daughter and the undue influence of a lover. Unless you tied her up
for good and all, lover or none....

One was left at the mercy of V.V.'s character....

"I ought to see more of her," he thought. "She gets away from me. Just
as her mother did." A man need not suspect his womenkind but he should
know what they are doing. It is duty, his protective duty to them. These
companions, these Seyffert women and so forth, were all very well in
their way; there wasn't much they kept from you if you got them cornered
and asked them intently. But a father's eye is better. He must go about
with the girl for a time, watch her with other men, give her chances
to talk business with him and see if she took them. "V.V., I'm going
to make a man of you," the phrase ran through his brain. The deep
instinctive jealousy of the primordial father was still strong in old
Grammont's blood. It would be pleasant to go about with her on his
right hand in Paris, HIS girl, straight and lovely, desirable and
unapproachable,--above that sort of nonsense, above all other masculine
subjugation.

"V.V., I'm going to make a man of you...."

His mind grew calmer. Whatever she wanted in Paris should be hers. He'd
just let her rip. They'd be like sweethearts together, he and his girl.

Old Grammont dozed off into dreamland.

Section 5

The imaginations of Mr. Gunter Lake, two days behind Mr. Grammont upon
the Atlantic, were of a gentler, more romantic character. In them V.V.
was no longer a daughter in the fierce focus of a father's jealousy, but
the goddess enshrined in a good man's heart. Indeed the figure that the
limelight of the reverie fell upon was not V.V. at all but Mr. Gunter
Lake himself, in his favourite role of the perfect lover.

An interminable speech unfolded itself. "I ask for nothing in return.
I've never worried you about that Caston business and I never will.
Married to me you shall be as free as if you were unmarried. Don't I
know, my dear girl, that you don't love me yet. Let that be as you wish.
I want nothing you are not willing to give me, nothing at all. All I
ask is the privilege of making life happy--and it shall be happy--for
you.... All I ask. All I ask. Protect, guard, cherish...."

For to Mr. Gunter Lake it seemed there could be no lovelier thing in
life than a wife "in name only" slowly warmed into a glow of passion by
the steadfast devotion and the strength and wisdom of a mate at first
despised. Until at last a day would come....

"My darling!" Mr. Gunter Lake whispered to the darkness. "My little
guurl. IT HAS BEEN WORTH THE WAITING...."

Section 6

Miss Grammont met Sir Richmond in the bureau of the Old George with a
telegram in her hand. "My father reported his latitude and longitude by
wireless last night. The London people think he will be off Falmouth
in four days' time. He wants me to join his liner there and go on to
Cherbourg and Paris. He's arranged that. He is the sort of man who can
arrange things like that. There'll be someone at Falmouth to look after
us and put us aboard the liner. I must wire them where I can pick up a
telegram to-morrow."

"Wells in Somerset," said Sir Richmond.

His plans were already quite clear. He explained that he wanted her
first to see Shaftesbury, a little old Wessex town that was three or
four hundred years older than Salisbury, perched on a hill, a Saxon
town, where Alfred had gathered his forces against the Danes and where
Canute, who had ruled over all Scandinavia and Iceland and Greenland,
and had come near ruling a patch of America, had died. It was a little
sleepy place now, looking out dreamily over beautiful views. They
would lunch in Shaftesbury and walk round it. Then they would go in
the afternoon through the pleasant west country where the Celts had
prevailed against the old folk of the Stonehenge temple and the Romans
against the Celts and the Saxons against the Romanized Britons and the
Danes against the Saxons, a war-scarred landscape, abounding in dykes
and entrenchments and castles, sunken now into the deepest peace, to
Glastonbury to see what there was to see of a marsh village the Celts
had made for themselves three or four hundred years before the
Romans came. And at Glastonbury also there were the ruins of a great
Benedictine church and abbey that had once rivalled Salisbury. Thence
they would go on to Wells to see yet another great cathedral and to dine
and sleep. Glastonbury Abbey and Wells Cathedral brought the story of
Europe right up to Reformation times.

"That will be a good day for us," said Sir Richmond. "It will be like
turning over the pages of the history of our family, to and fro. There
will be nothing nearly so old as Avebury in it, but there will be
something from almost every chapter that comes after Stonehenge. Rome
will be poorly represented, but that may come the day after at Bath. And
the next day too I want to show you something of our old River Severn.
We will come right up to the present if we go through Bristol. There
we shall have a whiff of America, our new find, from which the tobacco
comes, and we shall be reminded of how we set sail thither--was it
yesterday or the day before? You will understand at Bristol how it
is that the energy has gone out of this dreaming land--to Africa and
America and the whole wide world. It was the good men of Bristol, by the
bye, with their trade from Africa to America, who gave you your colour
problem. Bristol we may go through to-morrow and Gloucester, mother of I
don't know how many American Gloucesters. Bath we'll get in somehow.
And then as an Anglo-American showman I shall be tempted to run you
northward a little way past Tewkesbury, just to go into a church here
and there and show you monuments bearing little shields with the stars
and stripes upon them, a few stars and a few stripes, the Washington
family monuments."

"It was not only from England that America came," said Miss Grammont.

"But England takes an American memory back most easily and most
fully--to Avebury and the Baltic Northmen, past the emperors and the
Corinthian columns that smothered Latin Europe.... For you and me anyhow
this is our past, this was our childhood, and this is our land." He
interrupted laughing as she was about to reply. "Well, anyhow," he said,
"it is a beautiful day and a pretty country before us with the ripest
history in every grain of its soil. So we'll send a wire to your London
people and tell them to send their instructions to Wells."

"I'll tell Belinda," she said, "to be quick with her packing."

Section 7

As Miss Grammont and Sir Richmond Hardy fulfilled the details of his
excellent programme and revised their impressions of the past and their
ideas about the future in the springtime sunlight of Wiltshire and
Somerset, with Miss Seyffert acting the part of an almost ostentatiously
discreet chorus, it was inevitable that their conversation should
become, by imperceptible gradations, more personal and intimate. They
kept up the pose, which was supposed to represent Dr. Martineau's
philosophy, of being Man and Woman on their Planet considering its
Future, but insensibly they developed the idiosyncrasies of their
position. They might profess to be Man and Woman in the most general
terms, but the facts that she was the daughter not of Everyman but old
Grammont and that Sir Richmond was the angry leader of a minority upon
the Fuel Commission became more and more important. "What shall we do
with this planet of ours?" gave way by the easiest transitions to "What
are you and I doing and what have we got to do? How do you feel about it
all? What do you desire and what do you dare?"

It was natural that Sir Richmond should talk of his Fuel Commission to
a young woman whose interests in fuel were even greater than his own.
He found that she was very much better read than he was in the recent
literature of socialism, and that she had what he considered to be a
most unfeminine grasp of economic ideas. He thought her attitude
towards socialism a very sane one because it was also his own. So far as
socialism involved the idea of a scientific control of natural resources
as a common property administered in the common interest, she and he
were very greatly attracted by it; but so far as it served as a form of
expression for the merely insubordinate discontent of the many with
the few, under any conditions, so long as it was a formula for class
jealousy and warfare, they were both repelled by it. If she had had any
illusions about the working class possessing as a class any profounder
political wisdom or more generous public impulses than any other class,
those illusions had long since departed. People were much the same, she
thought, in every class; there was no stratification of either rightness
or righteousness.

He found he could talk to her of his work and aims upon the Fuel
Commission and of the conflict and failure of motives he found in
himself, as freely as he had done to Dr. Martineau and with a surer
confidence of understanding. Perhaps his talks with the doctor had got
his ideas into order and made them more readily expressible than they
would have been otherwise. He argued against the belief that any
class could be good as a class or bad as a class, and he instanced the
conflict of motives he found in all the members of his Committee and
most so in himself. He repeated the persuasion he had already confessed
to Dr. Martineau that there was not a single member of the Fuel
Commission but had a considerable drive towards doing the right thing
about fuel, and not one who had a single-minded, unencumbered drive
towards the right thing. "That," said Sir Richmond, "is what makes life
so interesting and, in spite of a thousand tragic disappointments, so
hopeful. Every man is a bad man, every man is a feeble man and every
man is a good man. My motives come and go. Yours do the same. We vary in
response to the circumstances about us. Given a proper atmosphere, most
men will be public-spirited, right-living, generous. Given perplexities
and darkness, most of us can be cowardly and vile. People say you cannot
change human nature and perhaps that is true, but you can change its
responses endlessly. The other day I was in Bohemia, discussing Silesian
coal with Benes, and I went to see the Festival of the Bohemian Sokols.
Opposite to where I sat, far away across the arena, was a great bank of
men of the Sokol organizations, an unbroken brown mass wrapped in their
brown uniform cloaks. Suddenly the sun came out and at a word the whole
body flung back their cloaks, showed their Garibaldi shirts and became
one solid blaze of red. It was an amazing transformation until one
understood what had happened. Yet nothing material had changed but the
sunshine. And given a change in laws and prevailing ideas, and the
very same people who are greedy traders, grasping owners and revolting
workers to-day will all throw their cloaks aside and you will find them
working together cheerfully, even generously, for a common end.
They aren't traders and owners and workers and so forth by any inner
necessity. Those are just the ugly parts they play in the present drama.
Which is nearly at the end of its run."

"That's a hopeful view," said Miss Grammont. "I don't see the flaw in
it--if there is a flaw."

"There isn't one," said Sir Richmond. "It is my chief discovery about
life. I began with the question of fuel and the energy it affords
mankind, and I have found that my generalization applies to all
human affairs. Human beings are fools, weaklings, cowards, passionate
idiots,--I grant you. That is the brown cloak side of them, so to speak.
But they are not such fools and so forth that they can't do pretty well
materially if once we hammer out a sane collective method of getting and
using fuel. Which people generally will understand--in the place of
our present methods of snatch and wrangle. Of that I am absolutely
convinced. Some work, some help, some willingness you can get out of
everybody. That's the red. And the same principle applies to most labour
and property problems, to health, to education, to population, social
relationships and war and peace. We haven't got the right system, we
have inefficient half-baked systems, or no system at all, and a wild
confusion and war of ideas in all these respects. But there is a right
system possible none the less. Let us only hammer our way through to the
sane and reasonable organization in this and that and the other human
affairs, and once we have got it, we shall have got it for good. We may
not live to see even the beginnings of success, but the spirit of order,
the spirit that has already produced organized science, if only there
are a few faithful, persistent people to stick to the job, will in the
long run certainly save mankind and make human life clean and splendid,
happy work in a clear mind. If I could live to see it!"

"And as for us--in our time?"

"Measured by the end we serve, we don't matter. You know we don't
matter."

"We have to find our fun in the building and in our confidence that we
do really build."

"So long as our confidence lasts there is no great hardship," said Sir
Richmond.

"So long as our confidence lasts," she repeated after him.

"Ah!" cried Sir Richmond. "There it is! So long as our confidence lasts!
So long as one keeps one's mind steady. That is what I came away with
Dr. Martineau to discuss. I went to him for advice. I haven't known him
for more than a month. It's amusing to find myself preaching forth to
you. It was just faith I had lost. Suddenly I had lost my power of work.
My confidence in the rightness of what I was doing evaporated. My will
failed me. I don't know if you will understand what that means. It
wasn't that my reason didn't assure me just as certainly as ever that
what I was trying to do was the right thing to try to do. But somehow
that seemed a cold and personally unimportant proposition. The life had
gone out of it...."

He paused as if arrested by a momentary doubt.

"I don't know why I tell you these things," he said.

"You tell them me," she said.

"It's a little like a patient in a hydropath retailing his ailments."

"No. No. Go on."

"I began to think now that what took the go out of me as my work went
on was the lack of any real fellowship in what I was doing. It was the
pressure of the opposition in the Committee, day afterday. It was being
up against men who didn't reason against me but who just showed by
everything they did that the things I wanted to achieve didn't matter
to them one rap. It was going back to a home, lunching in clubs, reading
papers, going about a world in which all the organization, all the
possibility of the organization I dream of is tacitly denied. I don't
know if it seems an extraordinary confession of weakness to you,
but that steady refusal of the majority of my Committee to come into
co-operation with me has beaten me--or at any rate has come very near to
beating me. Most of them you know are such able men. You can FEEL their
knowledge and commonsense. They, and everybody about me, seemed busy and
intent upon more immediate things, that seemed more real to them than
this remote, theoretical, PRIGGISH end I have set for myself...."

He paused.

"Go on," said Miss Grammont. "I think I understand this."

"And yet I know I am right."

"I know you are right. I'm certain. Go on.

"If one of those ten thousand members of the Sokol Society had thrown
back his brown cloak and shown red when all the others still kept them
selves cloaked--if he was a normal sensitive man--he might have felt
something of a fool. He might have felt premature and presumptuous. Red
he was and the others he knew were red also, but why show it? That is
the peculiar distress of people like ourselves, who have some sense
of history and some sense of a larger life within us than our merely
personal life. We don't want to go on with the old story merely. We want
to live somehow in that larger life and to live for its greater ends and
lose something unbearable of ourselves, and in wanting to do that we are
only wanting to do what nearly everybody perhaps is ripe to do and will
presently want to do. When the New Age Martineau talks about begins to
come it may come very quickly--as the red came at Prague. But for the
present everyone hesitates about throwing back the cloak."

"Until the cloak becomes unbearable," she said, repeating his word.

"I came upon this holiday in the queerest state. I thought I was ill.
I thought I was overworked. But the real trouble was a loneliness that
robbed me of all driving force. Nobody seemed thinking and feeling with
me.... I have never realized until now what a gregarious beast man is.
It needed only a day or so with Martineau, in the atmosphere of ideas
and beliefs like my own, to begin my restoration. Now as I talk to
you--That is why I have clutched at your company. Because here you are,
coming from thousands of miles away, and you talk my ideas, you fall
into my ways of thought as though we had gone to the same school."

"Perhaps we HAVE gone to the same school," she said.

"You mean?"

"Disappointment. Disillusionment. Having to find something better in
life than the first things it promised us."

"But you--? Disappointed? I thought that in America people might be
educating already on different lines--"

"Even in America," Miss Grammont said, "crops only grow on the ploughed
land."

Section 8

Glastonbury in the afternoon was wonderful; they talked of Avalon and of
that vanished legendary world of King Arthur and his knights, and in
the early evening they came to Wells and a pleasant inn, with a
quaint little garden before its front door that gave directly upon the
cathedral. The three tourists devoted a golden half hour before dinner
to the sculptures on the western face. The great screen of wrought stone
rose up warmly, grey and clear and distinct against a clear blue sky in
which the moon hung, round and already bright. That western facade with
its hundreds of little figures tells the whole story of God and Man from
Adam to the Last Judgment, as the mediaeval mind conceived it. It is an
even fuller exposition than the carved Bible history that goes round
the chapter house at Salisbury. It presented the universe, said Sir
Richmond, as a complete crystal globe. It explained everything in
life in a simple and natural manner, hope, heaven, devil and despair.
Generations had lived and died mentally within that crystal globe,
convinced that it was all and complete.

"And now," said Miss Grammont, "we are in limitless space and time. The
crystal globe is broken."

"And?" said Belinda amazingly--for she had been silent for some time,
"the goldfish are on the floor, V.V. Free to flop about. Are they any
happier?"

It was one of those sudden rhetorical triumphs that are best left alone.
"I trow not," said Belinda, giving the last touch to it.

After dinner Sir Richmond and Miss Grammont walked round the cathedral
and along by the moat of the bishop's palace, and Miss Seyffert stayed
in the hotel to send off postcards to her friends, a duty she had
neglected for some days. The evening was warm and still and the moon
was approaching its full and very bright. Insensibly the soft afterglow
passed into moonlight.

At first the two companions talked very little. Sir Richmond was well
content with this tacit friendliness and Miss Grammont was preoccupied
because she was very strongly moved to tell him things about herself
that hitherto she had told to no one. It was not merely that she wanted
to tell him these things but also that for reasons she did not put as
yet very clearly to herself she thought they were things he ought to
know. She talked of herself at first in general terms. "Life comes on
anyone with a rush, childhood seems lasting for ever and then suddenly
one tears into life," she said. It was even more so for women than it
was for men. You are shown life, a crowded vast spectacle full of what
seems to be intensely interesting activities and endless delightful and
frightful and tragic possibilities, and you have hardly had time to
look at it before you are called upon to make decisions. And there is
something in your blood that urges you to decisive acts. Your mind,
your reason resists. "Give me time," it says. "They clamour at you with
treats, crowds, shows, theatres, all sorts of things; lovers buzz at
you, each trying to fix you part of his life when you are trying to get
clear to live a little of your own." Her father had had one merit at any
rate. He had been jealous of her lovers and very ready to interfere.

"I wanted a lover to love," she said. "Every girl of course wants that.
I wanted to be tremendously excited.... And at the same time I dreaded
the enormous interference....

"I wasn't temperamentally a cold girl. Men interested and excited me,
but there were a lot of men about and they clashed with each other.
Perhaps way down in some out of the way place I should have fallen in
love quite easily with the one man who came along. But no man fixed his
image. After a year or so I think I began to lose the power which is
natural to a young girl of falling very easily into love. I became
critical of the youths and men who were attracted to me and I became
analytical about myself....

"I suppose it is because you and I are going to part so soon that I can
speak so freely to you.... But there are things about myself that I have
never had out even with myself. I can talk to myself in you--"

She paused baffled. "I know exactly," said Sir Richmond.

"In my composition I perceive there have always been two ruling strains.
I was a spoilt child at home, a rather reserved girl at school, keen on
my dignity. I liked respect. I didn't give myself away. I suppose one
would call that personal pride. Anyhow it was that streak made me value
the position of being a rich married woman in New York. That was why
I became engaged to Lake. He seemed to be as good a man as there was
about. He said he adored me and wanted me to crown his life. He wasn't
ill-looking or ill-mannered. The second main streak in my nature
wouldn't however fit in with that."

She stopped short.

"The second streak," said Sir Richmond.

"Oh!--Love of beauty, love of romance. I want to give things their
proper names; I don't want to pretend to you.... It was more or less
than that.... It was--imaginative sensuousness. Why should I pretend it
wasn't in me? I believe that streak is in all women."

"I believe so too. In all properly constituted women."

"I tried to devote that streak to Lake," she said. "I did my best for
him. But Lake was much too much of a gentleman or an idealist about
women, or what you will, to know his business as a lover. And that side
of me fell in love, the rest of me protesting, with a man named Caston.
It was a notorious affair. Everybody in New York couples my name with
Caston. Except when my father is about. His jealousy has blasted an
area of silence--in that matter--all round him. He will not know of that
story. And they dare not tell him. I should pity anyone who tried to
tell it him."

"What sort of man was this Caston?"

Miss Grammont seemed to consider. She did not look at Sir Richmond; she
kept her profile to him.

"He was," she said deliberately, "a very rotten sort of man."

She spoke like one resolved to be exact and judicial. "I believe I
always knew he wasn't right. But he was very handsome. And ten years
younger than Lake. And nobody else seemed to be all right, so I
swallowed that. He was an artist, a painter. Perhaps you know his work."
Sir Richmond shook his head. "He could make American business men look
like characters out of the Three Musketeers, they said, and he was
beginning to be popular. He made love to me. In exactly the way Lake
didn't. If I shut my eyes to one or two things, it was delightful. I
liked it. But my father would have stood a painter as my husband almost
as cheerfully as he would a man of colour. I made a fool of myself, as
people say, about Caston. Well--when the war came, he talked in a way
that irritated me. He talked like an East Side Annunzio, about art and
war. It made me furious to know it was all talk and that he didn't mean
business.... I made him go."

She paused for a moment. "He hated to go."

"Then I relented. Or I missed him and I wanted to be made love to. Or
I really wanted to go on my own account. I forget. I forget my motives
altogether now. That early war time was a queer time for everyone. A
kind of wildness got into the blood.... I threw over Lake. All the time
things had been going on in New York I had still been engaged to Lake.
I went to France. I did good work. I did do good work. And also things
were possible that would have seemed fantastic in America. You know
something of the war-time atmosphere. There was death everywhere and
people snatched at gratifications. Caston made 'To-morrow we die' his
text. We contrived three days in Paris together--not very cleverly. All
sorts of people know about it.... We went very far."

She stopped short. "Well?" said Sir Richmond.

"He did die...."

Another long pause. "They told me Caston had been killed. But someone
hinted--or I guessed--that there was more in it than an ordinary
casualty.

"Nobody, I think, realizes that I know. This is the first time I have
ever confessed that I do know. He was--shot. He was shot for cowardice."

"That might happen to any man," said Sir Richmond presently. "No man
is a hero all round the twenty-four hours. Perhaps he was caught by
circumstances, unprepared. He may have been taken by surprise."

"It was the most calculated, cold-blooded cowardice imaginable. He let
three other men go on and get killed..."


"No. It is no good your inventing excuses for a man you know nothing
about. It was vile, contemptible cowardice and meanness. It fitted in
with a score of ugly little things I remembered. It explained them all.
I know the evidence and the judgment against him were strictly just and
true, because they were exactly in character.... And that, you see, was
my man. That was the lover I had chosen. That was the man to whom I had
given myself with both hands."

Her soft unhurrying voice halted for a time, and then resumed in the
same even tones of careful statement. "I wasn't disgusted, not even with
myself. About him I was chiefly sorry, intensely sorry, because I had
made him come out of a life that suited and protected him, to the
war. About myself, I was stunned and perplexed. I had the clearest
realization that what you and I have been calling the bright little
personal life had broken off short and was spoilt and over and done
with. I felt as though it was my body they had shot. And there I was,
with fifty years of life left in me and nothing particular to do with
them."

"That was just the prelude to life, said Sir Richmond.

"It didn't seem so at the time. I felt I had to got hold of something or
go to pieces. I couldn't turn to religion. I had no religion. And Duty?
What is Duty? I set myself to that. I had a kind of revelation one
night. 'Either I find out what all this world is about, I said, or I
perish.' I have lost myself and I must forget myself by getting hold of
something bigger than myself. And becoming that. That's why I have
been making a sort of historical pilgrimage.... That's my story, Sir
Richmond. That's my education.... Somehow though your troubles are
different, it seems to me that my little muddle makes me understand how
it is with you. What you've got, this idea of a scientific ordering of
the world, is what I, in my younger, less experienced way, have been
feeling my way towards. I want to join on. I want to got hold of
this idea of a great fuel control in the world and of a still greater
economic and educational control of which it is a part. I want to make
that idea a part of myself. Rather I want to make myself a part of it.
When you talk of it I believe in it altogether."

"And I believe in it, when I talk of it to you."

Section 9

Sir Richmond was stirred very deeply by Miss Grammont's confidences. His
dispute with Dr. Martineau was present in his mind, so that he did not
want to make love to her. But he was extremely anxious to express his
vivid sense of the value of her friendship. And while he hesitated over
this difficult and unfamiliar task she began to talk again of herself,
and in such a way as to give a new turn to Sir Richmond's thoughts.

"Perhaps I ought to tell you a little more about myself," she said; "now
that I have told you so much. I did a thing that still puzzles me. I was
filled with a sense of hopeless disaster in France and I suppose I had
some sort of desperate idea of saving something out of the situation....
I renewed my correspondence with Gunter Lake. He made the suggestion I
knew he would make, and I renewed our engagement."

"To go back to wealth and dignity in New York?"

"Yes."

"But you don't love him?"

"That's always been plain to me. But what I didn't realize, until I had
given my promise over again, was that I dislike him acutely."

"You hadn't realized that before?"

"I hadn't thought about him sufficiently. But now I had to think about
him a lot. The other affair had given me an idea perhaps of what it
means to be married to a man. And here I am drifting back to him. The
horrible thing about him is the steady ENVELOPING way in which he has
always come at me. Without fellowship. Without any community of ideas.
Ready to make the most extraordinary bargains. So long as he can in any
way fix me and get me. What does it mean? What is there behind those
watching, soliciting eyes of his? I don't in the least love him, and
this desire and service and all the rest of it he offers me--it's not
love. It's not even such love as Caston gave me. It's a game he plays
with his imagination."

She had released a flood of new ideas in Sir Richmond's mind. "This
is illuminating," he said. "You dislike Lake acutely. You always have
disliked him."

"I suppose I have. But it's only now I admit it to myself."

"Yes. And you might, for example, have married him in New York before
the war."

"It came very near to that."

"And then probably you wouldn't have discovered you disliked him. You
wouldn't have admitted it to yourself."

"I suppose I shouldn't. I suppose I should have tried to believe I loved
him."

"Women do this sort of thing. Odd! I never realized it before. And there
are endless wives suppressing an acute dislike. My wife does. I see now
quite clearly that she detests me. Reasonably enough. From her angle I'm
entirely detestable. But she won't admit it, won't know of it. She never
will. To the end of my life, always, she will keep that detestation
unconfessed. She puts a face on the matter. We both do. And this affair
of yours.... Have you thought how unjust it is to Lake?"

"Not nearly so much as I might have done."

"It is unfair to him. Atrociously unfair. He's not my sort of man,
perhaps, but it will hurt him cruelly according to the peculiar laws
of his being. He seems to me a crawling sort of lover with an immense
self-conceit at the back of his crawlingness."

"He has," she endorsed.

"He backs himself to crawl--until he crawls triumphantly right over
you.... I don't like to think of the dream he has.... I take it he will
lose. Is it fair to go into this game with him?"

"In the interests of Lake," she said, smiling softly at Sir Richmond in
the moonlight. "But you are perfectly right."

"And suppose he doesn't lose!"

Sir Richmond found himself uttering sentiments.

"There is only one decent way in which a civilized man and a civilized
woman may approach one another. Passionate desire is not enough. What is
called love is not enough. Pledges, rational considerations, all these
things are worthless. All these things are compatible with hate.
The primary essential is friendship, clear understanding, absolute
confidence. Then within that condition, in that elect relationship, love
is permissible, mating, marriage or no marriage, as you will--all things
are permissible...."

Came a long pause between them.

"Dear old cathedral," said Miss Grammont, a little irrelevantly. She
had an air of having concluded something that to Sir Richmond seemed
scarcely to have begun. She stood looking at the great dark facade edged
with moonlight for some moments, and then turned towards the hotel,
which showed a pink-lit window.

"I wonder," she said, "if Belinda is still up, And what she will think
when I tell her of the final extinction of Mr. Lake. I think she rather
looked forward to being the intimate friend, secrets and everything, of
Mrs. Gunter Lake."

Section 10

Sir Richmond woke up at dawn and he woke out of an extraordinary dream.
He was saying to Miss Grammont: "There is no other marriage than the
marriage of true minds. There is no other marriage than the marriage of
true minds." He saw her as he had seen her the evening before, light and
cool, coming towards him in the moonlight from the hotel. But also in
the inconsistent way of dreams he was very close to her kind, faintly
smiling face, and his eyes were wet with tears and he was kissing
her hand. "My dear wife and mate," he was saying, and suddenly he was
kissing her cool lips.

He woke up and stared at his dream, which faded out only very slowly
before the fresh sun rise upon the red tiles and tree boughs outside the
open window, and before the first stir and clamour of the birds.

He felt like a court in which some overwhelmingly revolutionary piece of
evidence had been tendered. All the elaborate defence had broken down at
one blow. He sat up on the edge of his bed, facing the new fact.

"This is monstrous and ridiculous," he said, "and Martineau judged me
exactly. I am in love with her.... I am head over heels in love with
her. I have never been so much in love or so truly in love with anyone
before."

Section 11

That was the dawn of a long day of tension for Sir Richmond and Miss
Grammont. Because each was now vividly aware of being in love with the
other and so neither was able to see how things were with the other.
They were afraid of each other. A restraint had come upon them both, a
restraint that was greatly enhanced by their sense of Belinda, acutely
observant, ostentatiously tactful and self-effacing, and prepared at the
slightest encouragement to be overwhelmingly romantic and sympathetic.
Their talk waned, and was revived to an artificial activity and waned
again. The historical interest had evaporated from the west of England
and left only an urgent and embarrassing present.

But the loveliness of the weather did not fail, and the whole day was
set in Severn landscapes. They first saw the great river like a sea
with the Welsh mountains hanging in the sky behind as they came over the
Mendip crest above Shipham. They saw it again as they crossed the hill
before Clifton Bridge, and so they continued, climbing to hill crests
for views at Alveston and near Dursley, and so to Gloucester and the
lowest bridge and thence back down stream again through fat meadow lands
at first and much apple-blossom and then over gentle hills through wide,
pale Nownham and Lidney and Alvington and Woolaston to old Chepstow and
its brown castle, always with the widening estuary to the left of them
and its foaming shoals and shining sand banks. From Chepstow they turned
back north along the steep Wye gorge to Tintern, and there at the snug
little Beaufort Arms with its prim lawn and flower garden they ended the
day's journey.

Tintern Abbey they thought a poor graceless mass of ruin down beside
the river, and it was fenced about jealously and locked up from their
invasion. After dinner Sir Richmond and Miss Grammont went for a walk in
the mingled twilight and moonlight up the hill towards Chepstow. Both of
them were absurdly and nervously pressing to Belinda to come with them,
but she was far too wise to take this sudden desire for her company
seriously. Her dinner shoes, she said, were too thin. Perhaps she
would change and come out a little later. "Yes, come later," said Miss
Grammont and led the way to the door.

They passed through the garden. "I think we go up the hill? " said Sir
Richmond.

"Yes," she agreed, "up the hill."

Followed a silence.

Sir Richmond made an effort, but after some artificial and disconnected
talk about Tintern Abbey, concerning, which she had no history ready,
and then, still lamer, about whether Monmouthshire is in England
or Wales, silence fell again. The silence lengthened, assumed a
significance, a dignity that no common words might break.

Then Sir Richmond spoke. "I love, you," he said, "with all my heart."

Her soft voice came back after a stillness. "I love you," she said,
"with all myself."

"I had long ceased to hope," said Sir Richmond, "that I should ever find
a friend... a lover... perfect companionship...."

They went on walking side by side, without touching each other or
turning to each other.

"All the things I wanted to think I believe have come alive in me," she
said....

"Cool and sweet," said Sir Richmond. "Such happiness as I could not have
imagined."

The light of a silent bicycle appeared above them up the hill and swept
down upon them, lit their two still faces brightly and passed.

"My dear," she whispered in the darkness between the high hedges.

They stopped short and stood quite still, trembling. He saw her face,
dim and tender, looking up to his.

Then he took her in his arms and kissed her lips as he had desired in
his dream....

When they returned to the inn Belinda Seyffert offered flat explanations
of why she had not followed them, and enlarged upon the moonlight effect
of the Abbey ruins from the inn lawn. But the scared congratulations
in her eyes betrayed her recognition that momentous things had happened
between the two.



CHAPTER THE EIGHTH

FULL MOON

Section 1

Sir Richmond had talked in the moonlight and shadows of having found
such happiness as he could not have imagined. But when he awoke in the
night that happiness had evaporated. He awoke suddenly out of this love
dream that had lasted now for nearly four days and he awoke in a mood of
astonishment and dismay.

He had thought that when he parted from Dr. Martineau he had parted also
from that process of self-exploration that they had started together,
but now he awakened to find it established and in full activity in his
mind. Something or someone, a sort of etherealized Martineau-Hardy, an
abstracted intellectual conscience, was demanding what he thought he was
doing with Miss Grammont and whither he thought he was taking her, how
he proposed to reconcile the close relationship with her that he was now
embarked upon with, in the first place, his work upon and engagements
with the Fuel Commission, and, in the second place, Martin Leeds.
Curiously enough Lady Hardy didn't come into the case at all. He had
done his utmost to keep Martin Leeds out of his head throughout the
development of this affair. Now in an unruly and determined way that was
extremely characteristic of her she seemed resolute to break in.

She appeared as an advocate, without affection for her client but
without any hostility, of the claims of Miss Grammont to be let alone.
The elaborate pretence that Sir Richmond had maintained to himself that
he had not made love to Miss Grammont, that their mutual attraction had
been irresistible and had achieved its end in spite of their resolute
and complete detachment, collapsed and vanished from his mind. He
admitted to himself that driven by a kind of instinctive necessity he
had led their conversation step by step to a realization and declaration
of love, and that it did not exonerate him in the least that Miss
Grammont had been quite ready and willing to help him and meet him half
way. She wanted love as a woman does, more than a man does, and he
had steadily presented himself as a man free to love, able to love and
loving.

"She wanted a man to love, she wanted perfected fellowship, and you have
made her that tremendous promise. That was implicit in your embrace. And
how can you keep that promise?"

It was as if Martin spoke; it was her voice; it was the very quality of
her thought.

"You belong to this work of yours, which must needs be interrupted or
abandoned if you take her. Whatever is not mortgaged to your work is
mortgaged to me. For the strange thing in all this is that you and I
love one another--and have no power to do otherwise. In spite of all
this.

"You have nothing to give her but stolen goods," said the shadow of
Martin. "You have nothing to give anyone personally any more....

"Think of the love that she desires and think of this love that you can
give....

"Is there any new thing in you that you can give her that you haven't
given me? You and I know each other very well; perhaps I know YOU too
well. Haven't you loved me as much as you can love anyone? Think of all
that there has been between us that you are ready now, eager now to set
aside and forget as though it had never been. For four days you have
kept me out of your mind in order to worship her. Yet you have known
I was there--for all you would not know. No one else will ever be so
intimate with you as I am. We have quarrelled together, wept together,
jested happily and jested bitterly. You have spared me not at all.
Pitiless and cruel you have been to me. You have reckoned up all my
faults against me as though they were sins. You have treated me at times
unlovingly--never was lover treated so unlovingly as you have sometimes
treated me. And yet I have your love--as no other woman can ever have
it. Even now when you are wildly in love with this girl's freshness and
boldness and cleverness I come into your mind by right and necessity."

"She is different," argued Sir Richmond.

"But you are the same," said the shadow of Martin with Martin's
unsparing return. "Your love has never been a steadfast thing. It comes
and goes like the wind. You are an extravagantly imperfect lover. But
I have learnt to accept you, as people accept the English weather....
Never in all your life have you loved, wholly, fully, steadfastly--as
people deserve to be loved--not your mother nor your father, not your
wife nor your children, nor me, nor our child, nor any living thing.
Pleasant to all of us at times--at times bitterly disappointing. You
do not even love this work of yours steadfastly, this work to which you
sacrifice us all in turn. You do not love enough. That is why you have
these moods and changes, that is why you have these lassitudes. So it is
you are made....

"And that is why you must not take this brave young life, so much
simpler and braver than your own, and exalt it--as you can do--and then
fail it, as you will do...."

Sir Richmond's mind and body lay very still for a time.

"Should I fail her?..."

For a time Martin Leeds passed from the foreground of his mind.

He was astonished to think how planless, instinctive and unforeseeing
his treatment of Miss Grammont had been. It had been just a blind drive
to get hold of her and possess her....

Suddenly his passion for her became active in its defence again.

"But is there such a thing as a perfect love? Is YOURS a perfect love,
my dear Martin, with its insatiable jealousy, its ruthless criticism?
Has the world ever seen a perfect lover yet? Isn't it our imperfection
that brings us together in a common need? Is Miss Grammont, after all,
likely to get a more perfect love in all her life than this poor love of
mine? And isn't it good for her that she should love?"

"Perfect love cherishes. Perfect love foregoes."

Sir Richmond found his mind wandering far away from the immediate
question. "Perfect love," the phrase was his point of departure. Was
it true that he could not love passionately and completely? Was that
fundamentally what was the matter with him? Was that perhaps what was
the matter with the whole world of mankind? It had not yet come to
that power of loving which makes action full and simple and direct and
unhesitating. Man upon his planet has not grown up to love, is still an
eager, egotistical and fluctuating adolescent. He lacks the courage to
love and the wisdom to love. Love is here. But it comes and goes, it
is mixed with greeds and jealousies and cowardice and cowardly
reservations. One hears it only in snatches and single notes. It is like
something tuning up before the Music begins.... The metaphor altogether
ran away with Sir Richmond's half dreaming mind. Some day perhaps all
life would go to music.

Love was music and power. If he had loved enough he need never have
drifted away from his wife. Love would have created love, would have
tolerated and taught and inspired. Where there is perfect love there
is neither greed nor impatience. He would have done his work calmly.
He would have won his way with his Committee instead of fighting and
quarrelling with it perpetually....

"Flimsy creatures," he whispered. "Uncertain health. Uncertain
strength. A will that comes and goes. Moods of baseness. Moods of utter
beastliness.... Love like April sunshine. April?..."

He dozed and dreamt for a time of spring passing into a high summer
sunshine, into a continuing music, of love. He thought of a world like
some great playhouse in which players and orchestra and audience all
co-operate in a noble production without dissent or conflict. He thought
he was the savage of thirty thousand years ago dreaming of the great
world that is still perhaps thirty thousand years ahead. His effort to
see more of that coming world than indistinct and cloudy pinnacles and
to hear more than a vague music, dissolved his dream and left him awake
again and wrestling with the problem of Miss Grammont.

Section 2

The shadow of Martin stood over him, inexorable. He had to release Miss
Grammont from the adventure into which he had drawn her. This decision
stood out stern-and inevitable in his mind with no conceivable
alternative.

As he looked at the task before him he began to realize its difficulty.
He was profoundly in love with her, he was still only learning how
deeply, and she was not going to play a merely passive part in this
affair. She was perhaps as deeply in love with him....

He could not bring himself to the idea of confessions and disavowals. He
could not bear to think of her disillusionment. He felt that he owed it
to her not to disillusion her, to spoil things for her in that fashion.
"To turn into something mean and ugly after she has believed in me....
It would be like playing a practical joke upon her. It would be like
taking her into my arms and suddenly making a grimace at her.... It
would scar her with a second humiliation...."

Should he take her on to Bath or Exeter to-morrow and contrive by some
sudden arrival of telegrams that he had to go from her suddenly? But a
mere sudden parting would not end things between them now unless he
went off abruptly without explanations or any arrangements for further
communications. At the outset of this escapade there had been a tacit
but evident assumption that it was to end when she joined her father at
Falmouth. It was with an effect of discovery that Sir Richmond realized
that now it could not end in that fashion, that with the whisper of love
and the touching of lips, something had been started that would go on,
that would develop. To break off now and go away without a word would
leave a raw and torn end, would leave her perplexed and perhaps even
more humiliated with an aching mystery to distress her. "Why did he go?
Was it something I said?--something he found out or imagined?"

Parting had disappeared as a possible solution of this problem. She and
he had got into each other's lives to stay: the real problem was
the terms upon which they were to stay in each other's lives. Close
association had brought them to the point of being, in the completest
sense, lovers; that could not be; and the real problem was the
transmutation of their relationship to some form compatible with his
honour and her happiness. A word, an idea, from some recent reading
floated into Sir Richmond's head. "Sublimate," he whispered. "We have
to sublimate this affair. We have to put this relationship upon a Higher
Plane."

His mind stopped short at that.

Presently his voice sounded out of the depths of his heart. "God! How I
loathe the Higher Plane!....

"God has put me into this Higher Plane business like some poor little
kid who has to wear irons on its legs."

"I WANT her.... Do you hear, Martin? I want her."

As if by a lightning flash he saw his car with himself and Miss
Grammont--Miss Seyffert had probably fallen out--traversing Europe and
Asia in headlong flight. To a sunlit beach in the South Seas....

His thoughts presently resumed as though these unmannerly and fantastic
interruptions had not occurred.

"We have to carry the whole affair on to a Higher Plane--and keep it
there. We two love one another--that has to be admitted now. (I ought
never to have touched her. I ought never to have thought of touching
her.) But we two are too high, our aims and work and obligations are too
high for any ordinary love making. That sort of thing would embarrass
us, would spoil everything.

"Spoil everything," he repeated, rather like a small boy who learns an
unpalatable lesson.

For a time Sir Richmond, exhausted by moral effort, lay staring at the
darkness.

"It has to be done. I believe I can carry her through with it if I can
carry myself. She's a finer thing than I am.... On the whole I am glad
it's only one more day. Belinda will be about.... Afterwards we can
write to each other.... If we can get over the next day it will be all
right. Then we can write about fuel and politics--and there won't be
her voice and her presence. We shall really SUBLIMATE.... First class
idea--sublimate!.... And I will go back to dear old Martin who's all
alone there and miserable; I'll be kind to her and play my part and tell
her her Carbuncle scar rather becomes her.... And in a little while I
shall be altogether in love with her again.

"Queer what a brute I've always been to Martin."

"Queer that Martin can come in a dream to me and take the upper hand
with me.

"Queer that NOW--I love Martin."

He thought still more profoundly. "By the time the Committee meets again
I shall have been tremendously refreshed."

He repeated:--"Put things on the Higher Plane and keep them there. Then
go back to Martin. And so to the work. That's it...."

Nothing so pacifies the mind as a clear-cut purpose. Sir Richmond fell
asleep during the fourth recapitulation of this programme.

Section 3

When Miss Grammont appeared at breakfast Sir Richmond saw at once that
she too had had a restless night. When she came into the little long
breakfast room of the inn with its brown screens and its neat white
tables it seemed to him that the Miss Grammont of his nocturnal
speculations, the beautiful young lady who had to be protected and
managed and loved unselfishly, vanished like some exorcised intruder.
Instead was this real dear young woman, who had been completely
forgotten during the reign of her simulacrum and who now returned
completely remembered, familiar, friendly, intimate. She touched his
hand for a moment, she met his eyes with the shadow of a smile in her
own.

"Oranges!" said Belinda from the table by the window. "Beautiful
oranges."

She had been preparing them, poor Trans-atlantic exile, after the
fashion in which grape fruits are prepared upon liners and in the
civilized world of the west. "He's getting us tea spoons," said Belinda,
as they sat down.

"This is realler England than ever," she said. "I've been up an hour.
I found a little path down to the river bank. It's the greenest morning
world and full of wild flowers. Look at these."

"That's lady's smock," said Sir Richmond. "It's not really a flower;
it's a quotation from Shakespeare."

"And there are cowslips!"

"CUCKOO BUDS OF YELLOW HUE. DO PAINT THE MEADOWS WITH DELIGHT. All the
English flowers come out of Shakespeare. I don't know what we did before
his time."

The waiter arrived with the tea spoons for the oranges.

Belinda, having distributed these, resumed her discourse of enthusiasm
for England. She asked a score of questions about Gloucester and
Chepstow, the Severn and the Romans and the Welsh, and did not wait for
the answers. She did not want answers; she talked to keep things going.
Her talk masked a certain constraint that came upon her companions after
the first morning's greetings were over.

Sir Richmond as he had planned upstairs produced two Michelin maps.
"To-day," he said, "we will run back to Bath--from which it will be easy
for you to train to Falmouth. We will go by Monmouth and then turn back
through the Forest of Dean, where you will get glimpses of primitive
coal mines still worked by two men and a boy with a windlass and a pail.
Perhaps we will go through Cirencester. I don't know. Perhaps it is
better to go straight to Bath. In the very heart of Bath you will
find yourselves in just the same world you visited at Pompeii. Bath is
Pompeii overlaid by Jane Austen's England."

He paused for a moment. "We can wire to your agents from here before we
start and we can pick up their reply at Gloucester or Nailsworth or even
Bath itself. So that if your father is nearer than we suppose--But I
think to-morrow afternoon will be soon enough for Falmouth, anyhow."

He stopped interrogatively.

Miss Grammont's face was white. "That will do very well," she said.

Section 4.

They started, but presently they came to high banks that showed such
masses of bluebells, ragged Robin, great stitchwort and the like that
Belinda was not to be restrained. She clamoured to stop the car and go
up the bank and pick her hands full, and so they drew up by the roadside
and Sir Richmond and Miss Grammont sat down near the car while Belinda
carried her enthusiastic onslaught on the flowers up the steep bank and
presently out of earshot.

The two lovers said unheeded things about the flowers to each other
and then fell silent. Then Miss Grammont turned her head and seemed
deliberately to measure her companion's distance. Evidently she judged
her out of earshot.

"Well," said Miss Grammont in her soft even voice. "We love one another.
Is that so still?"

"I could not love you more."

"It wasn't a dream?"

"No."

"And to-morrow we part?"

He looked her in the eyes. "I have been thinking of that all night," he
said at last.

"I too."

"And you think--?"

"That we must part. Just as we arranged it when was it? Three days or
three ages ago? There is nothing else in the world to do except for us
to go our ways.... I love you. That means for a woman--It means that I
want to be with you. But that is impossible.... Don't doubt whether I
love you because I say--impossible...."

Sir Richmond, faced with his own nocturnal decision, was now moved to
oppose it flatly. "Nothing that one can do is impossible."

She glanced again at Belinda and bent down towards him. "Suppose," she
said, "you got back into that car with me; suppose that instead of going
on as we have planned, you took me away. How much of us would go?"

"You would go," said Sir Richmond, "and my heart."

"And this work of yours? And your honour? For the honour of a man in
this New Age of yours will be first of all in the work he does for the
world. And you will leave your work to be just a lover. And the work
that I might do because of my father's wealth; all that would vanish
too. We should leave all of that, all of our usefulness, all that
much of ourselves. But what has made me love you? Just your breadth of
vision, just the sense that you mattered. What has made you love me?
Just that I have understood the dream of your work. All that we should
have to leave behind. We should specialize, in our own scandal. We
should run away just for one thing. To think, by sharing the oldest,
simplest, dearest indulgences in the world, that we had got each other.
When really we had lost each other, lost all that mattered...."

Her face was flushed with the earnestness of her conviction. Her eyes
were bright with tears. "Don't think I don't love you. It's so hard to
say all this. Somehow it seems like going back on something--something
supreme. Our instincts have got us.... Don't think I'd hold myself from
you, dear. I'd give myself to you with both hands. I love you--When a
woman loves--I at any rate--she loves altogether. But this thing--I am
convinced--cannot be. I must go my own way, the way I have to go. My
father is the man, obstinate, more than half a savage. For me--I know
it--he has the jealousy of ten husbands. If you take me--If our secret
becomes manifest--If you are to take me and keep me, then his life and
your life will become wholly this Feud, nothing but this Feud. You have
to fight him anyhow--that is why I of all people must keep out of
the quarrel. For him, it would be an immense excitement, full of the
possibility of fierce satisfactions; for you, whether you won me or lost
me, it would be utter waste and ruin."

She paused and then went on:--"And for me too, waste and ruin. I shall
be a woman fought over. I shall be fought over as dogs fight over a
bone. I shall sink back to the level of Helen of Troy. I shall cease to
be a free citizen, a responsible free person. Whether you win me or lose
me it will be waste and ruin for us both. Your Fuel Commission will go
to pieces, all the wide, enduring work you have set me dreaming about
will go the same way. We shall just be another romantic story.... No!"

Sir Richmond sat still, a little like a sullen child, she thought. "I
hate all this," he said slowly. "I didn't think of your father before,
and now I think of him it sets me bristling for a fight. It makes
all this harder to give up. And yet, do you know, in the night I was
thinking, I was coming to conclusions, very like yours. For quite other
reasons. I thought we ought not to--We have to keep friends anyhow and
hear of each other?"

"That goes without saying."

"I thought we ought not to go on to be lovers in any way that Would
affect you, touch you too closely.... I was sorry--I had kissed you."

"Not I. No. Don't be sorry for that. I am glad we have fallen in love,
more glad than I have been of anything else in my life, and glad we have
spoken plainly.... Though we have to part. And--"

Her whisper came close to him. "For a whole day yet, all round the clock
twice, you and I have one another."

Miss Seyffert began speaking as soon as she was well within earshot.

"I don't know the name of a single one of these flowers," she cried,
"except the bluebells. Look at this great handful I've gotten!
Springtime in Italy doesn't compare with it, not for a moment."

Section 5

Because Belinda Seyffert was in the dicky behind them with her alert
interest in their emotions all too thinly and obviously veiled, it
seemed more convenient to Sir Richmond and Miss Grammont to talk not
of themselves but of Man and Woman and of that New Age according to the
prophet Martineau, which Sir Richmond had partly described and
mainly invented and ascribed to his departed friend. They talked
anthropologically, philosophically, speculatively, with an absurd
pretence of detachment, they sat side by side in the little car,
scarcely glancing at one another, but side by side and touching each
other, and all the while they were filled with tenderness and love and
hunger for one another.

In the course of a day or so they had touched on nearly every phase in
the growth of Man and Woman from that remote and brutish past which has
left its traces in human bones mingled with the bones of hyaenas and
cave bears beneath the stalagmites of Wookey Hole near Wells. In those
nearly forgotten days the mind of man and woman had been no more than
an evanescent succession of monstrous and infantile imaginations. That
brief journey in the west country had lit up phase after phase in the
long teaching and discipline of man as he had developed depth of memory
and fixity of purpose out of these raw beginnings, through the dreaming
childhood of Avebury and Stonehenge and the crude boyhood of ancient
wars and massacres. Sir Richmond recalled those phases now, and how, as
they had followed one another, man's idea of woman and woman's idea of
man had changed with them, until nowadays in the minds of civilized men
brute desire and possession and a limitless jealousy had become almost
completely overlaid by the desire for fellowship and a free mutual
loyalty. "Overlaid," he said. "The older passions are still there like
the fires in an engine." He invented a saying for Dr. Martineau that the
Man in us to-day was still the old man of Palaeolithic times, with his
will, his wrath against the universe increased rather than diminished.
If to-day he ceases to crack his brother's bones and rape and bully his
womenkind, it is because he has grown up to a greater game and means to
crack this world and feed upon its marrow and wrench their secrets from
the stars.

And furthermore it would seem that the prophet Martineau had declared
that in this New Age that was presently to dawn for mankind, jealousy
was to be disciplined even as we had disciplined lust and anger; instead
of ruling our law it was to be ruled by law and custom. No longer were
the jealousy of strange peoples, the jealousy of ownership and the
jealousy of sex to determine the framework of human life. There was to
be one peace and law throughout the world, one economic scheme and a
universal freedom for men and women to possess and give themselves.

"And how many generations yet must there be before we reach that
Utopia?" Miss Grammont asked.

"I wouldn't put it at a very great distance."

"But think of all the confusions of the world!"

"Confusions merely. The world is just a muddle of states and religions
and theories and stupidities. There are great lumps of disorderly
strength in it, but as a whole it is a weak world. It goes on by habit.
There's no great idea in possession and the only possible great idea is
this one. The New Age may be nearer than we dare to suppose."

"If I could believe that!"

"There are many more people think as we do than you suppose. Are you and
I such very strange and wonderful and exceptional people?"

"No. I don't think so."

"And yet the New World is already completely established in our hearts.
What has been done in our minds can be done in most minds. In a little
while the muddled angry mind of Man upon his Planet will grow clear and
it will be this idea that will have made it clear. And then life will
be very different for everyone. That tyranny of disorder which oppresses
every life on earth now will be lifted. There will be less and less
insecurity, less and less irrational injustice. It will be a better
instructed and a better behaved world. We shall live at our ease, not
perpetually anxious, not resentful and angry. And that will alter all
the rules of love. Then we shall think more of the loveliness of other
people because it will no longer be necessary to think so much of the
dangers and weaknesses and pitifulliesses of other people. We shall not
have to think of those who depend upon us for happiness and selfrespect.
We shall not have to choose between a wasteful fight for a personal end
or the surrender of our heart's desire."

"Heart's desire," she whispered. "Am I indeed your heart's desire?"

Sir Richmond sank his head and voice in response.

"You are the best of all things. And I have to let you go."

Sir Richmond suddenly remembered Miss Seyffert and half turned his face
towards her. Her forehead was just visible over the hood of the open
coupe. She appeared to be intelligently intent upon the scenery. Then he
broke out suddenly into a tirade against the world. "But I am bored
by this jostling unreasonable world. At the bottom of my heart I am
bitterly resentful to-day. This is a world of fools and brutes in which
we live, a world of idiotic traditions, imbecile limitations, cowardice,
habit, greed and mean cruelty. It is a slum of a world, a congested
district, an insanitary jumble of souls and bodies. Every good thing,
every sweet desire is thwarted--every one. I have to lead the life of a
slum missionary, a sanitary inspector, an underpaid teacher. I am bored.
Oh God! how I am bored! I am bored by our laws and customs. I am bored
by our rotten empire and its empty monarchy. I am bored by its parades
and its flags and its sham enthusiasms. I am bored by London and its
life, by its smart life and by its servile life alike. I am bored
by theatres and by books and by every sort of thing that people call
pleasure. I am bored by the brag of people and the claims of people and
the feelings of people. Damn people! I am bored by profiteers and by the
snatching they call business enterprise. Damn every business man! I am
bored by politics and the universal mismanagement of everything. I am
bored by France, by Anglo-Saxondom, by German self-pity, by Bolshevik
fanaticism. I am bored by these fools' squabbles that devastate the
world. I am bored by Ireland, Orange and Green. Curse the Irish--north
and south together! Lord! how I HATE the Irish from Carson to the last
Sinn Feiner! And I am bored by India and by Egypt. I am bored by Poland
and by Islam. I am bored by anyone who professes to have rights. Damn
their rights! Curse their rights! I am bored to death by this year and
by last year and by the prospect of next year. I am bored--I am horribly
bored--by my work. I am bored by every sort of renunciation. I want to
live with the woman I love and I want to work within the limits of my
capacity. Curse all Hullo! Damn his eyes!--Steady, ah! The spark!...
Good! No skid."

He had come round a corner at five and twenty miles an hour and had
stopped his spark and pulled up neatly within a yard of the fore-wheel
of a waggon that was turning in the road so as to block the way
completely.

"That almost had me....

"And now you feel better?" said Miss Grammont.

"Ever so much," said Sir Richmond and chuckled.

The waggoner cleared the road and the car started up again.

For a minute or so neither spoke.

"You ought to be smacked hard for that outbreak,--my dear," said Miss
Grammont.

"I ought--MY dear. I have no right to be ill-tempered. We two are
among the supremely fortunate ones of our time. We have no excuse for
misbehaviour. Got nothing to grumble at. Always I am lucky. THAT--with
the waggon--was a very near thing. God spoils us.

"We two," he went on, after a pause, "are among the most fortunate
people alive. We are both rich and easily rich. That gives us freedoms
few people have. We have a vision of the whole world in which we live.
It's in a mess--but that is by the way. The mass of mankind never gets
enough education to have even a glimpse of the world as a whole. They
never get a chance to get the hang of it. It is really possible for us
to do things that will matter in the world. All our time is our own;
all our abilities we are free to use. Most people, most intelligent and
educated people, are caught in cages of pecuniary necessity; they
are tied to tasks they can't leave, they are driven and compelled and
limited by circumstances they can never master. But we, if we have
tasks, have tasks of our own choosing. We may not like the world, but
anyhow we are free to do our best to alter it. If I were a clerk in
Hoxton and you were a city typist, then we MIGHT swear."

"It was you who swore," smiled Miss Grammont.

"It's the thought of that clerk in Hoxton and that city typist who
really keep me at my work. Any smacking ought to come from them.
I couldn't do less than I do in the face of their helplessness.
Nevertheless a day will come--through what we do and what we refrain
from doing when there will be no bound and limited clerks in Hoxton and
no captive typists in the city. And nobody at all to consider."

"According to the prophet Martineau," said Miss Grammont.

"And then you and I must contrive to be born again."

"Heighho!" cried Miss Grammont. "A thousand years ahead! When fathers
are civilized. When all these phanton people who intervene on your
side--no! I don't want to know anything about them, but I know of them
by instinct--when they also don't matter."

"Then you and I can have things out with each other--THOROUGHLY," said
Sir Richmond, with a surprising ferocity in his voice, charging the
little hill before him as though he charged at Time.

Section 6

They had to wait at Nailsworth for a telegram from Mr. Grammont's
agents; they lunched there and drove on to Bath in the afternoon. They
came into the town through unattractive and unworthy outskirts, and only
realized the charm of the place after they had garaged their car at the
Pulteney Hotel and walked back over the Pulteney Bridge to see the Avon
with the Pump Room and the Roman Baths. The Pulteney they found hung
with pictures and adorned with sculpture to an astonishing extent; some
former proprietor must have had a mania for replicas and the place is
eventful with white marble fauns and sylphs and lions and Caesars and
Queen Victorias and packed like an exhibition with memories of Rome,
Florence, Milan, Paris, the National Gallery and the Royal Academy,
amidst which splendours a competent staff administers modern comforts
with an old-fashioned civility. But round and about the Pulteney one
has still the scenery of Georgian England, the white, faintly classical
terraces and houses of the days of Fielding, Smollett, Fanny Burney and
Jane Austen, the graceful bridge with the bright little shops full of
"presents from Bath"; the Pump Room with its water drinkers and a fine
array of the original Bath chairs.

Down below the Pump Room our travellers explored the memories of
the days when the world was Latin from York to the Tigris, and the
Corinthian capital flourished like a weed from Bath to Baalbek. And they
considered a little doubtfully the seventeenth century statue of Bladud,
who is said to have been healed by the Bath waters and to have founded
the city in the days when Stonehenge still flourished, eight hundred
years before the Romans came.

In the afternoon Miss Seyffert came with Sir Richmond and Miss Grammont
and was very enthusiastic about everything, but in the evening after
dinner it was clear that her role was to remain in the hotel. Sir
Richmond and Miss Grammont went out into the moonlit gloaming; they
crossed the bridge again and followed the road beside the river towards
the old Abbey Church, that Lantern of the West. Away in some sunken
gardens ahead of them a band was playing, and a cluster of little lights
about the bandstand showed a crowd of people down below dancing on the
grass. These little lights, these bobbing black heads and the lilting
music, this little inflamed Centre of throbbing sounds and ruddy
illumination, made the dome of the moonlit world about it seem very vast
and cool and silent. Our visitors began to realize that Bath could
be very beautiful. They went to the parapet above the river and stood
there, leaning over it elbow to elbow and smoking cigarettes. Miss
Grammont was moved to declare the Pulteney Bridge, with its noble arch,
its effect of height over the swirling river, and the cluster of houses
above, more beautiful than the Ponte Vecchio at Florence. Down below was
a man in waders with a fishing-rod going to and fro along the foaming
weir, and a couple of boys paddled a boat against the rush of the water
lower down the stream.

"Dear England!" said Miss Grammont, surveying this gracious spectacle.
"How full it is of homely and lovely and kindly things!"

"It is the home we come from."

"You belong to it still."

"No more than you do. I belong to a big overworking modern place called
London which stretches its tentacles all over the world. I am as much a
home-coming tourist as you are. Most of this western country I am seeing
for the first time."

She said nothing for a space. "I've not a word to say to-night," she
said. "I'm just full of a sort of animal satisfaction in being close to
you.... And in being with you among lovely things.... Somewhere--Before
we part to-night--...."

"Yes?" he said to her pause, and his face came very near to hers.

"I want you to kiss me."

"Yes," he said awkwardly, glancing over his shoulder, acutely aware of
the promenaders passing close to them.

"It's a promise?"

"Yes."

Very timidly and guiltily his hand sought hers beside it and gripped it
and pressed it. "My dear!" he whispered, tritest and most unavoidable
of expressions. It was not very like Man and Woman loving upon their
Planet; it was much more like the shy endearments of the shop boys and
work girls who made the darkling populous about them with their silent
interchanges.

"There are a thousand things I want to talk about to you," she said.
"After we have parted to-morrow I shall begin to think of them. But
now--every rational thing seems dissolved in this moonlight...."

Presently she made an effort to restore the intellectual dignity of
their relationship.

"I suppose I ought to be more concerned tonight about the work I have to
do in the world and anxious for you to tell me this and that, but indeed
I am not concerned at all about it. I seem to have it in outline all
perfectly clear. I mean to play a man's part in the world just as
my father wants me to do. I mean to win his confidence and work with
him--like a partner. Then some day I shall be a power in the world of
fuel. And at the same time I must watch and read and think and learn
how to be the servant of the world.... We two have to live like trusted
servants who have been made guardians of a helpless minor. We have
to put things in order and keep them in order against the time when
Man--Man whom we call in America the Common Man--can take hold of his
world--"

"And release his servants," said Sir Richmond.

"All that is perfectly clear in my mind. That is what I am going to live
for; that is what I have to do."

She stopped abruptly. "All that is about as interesting to-night--in
comparison with the touch of your dear fingers--as next month's railway
time-table."

But later she found a topic that could hold their attention for a time.

"We have never said a word about religion," she said.

Sir Richmond paused for a moment. "I am a godless man," he said. "The
stars and space and time overwhelm my imagination. I cannot imagine
anything above or beyond them."

She thought that over. "But there are divine things," she said.

"YOU are divine.... I'm not talking lovers' nonsense," he hastened to
add. "I mean that there is something about human beings--not just the
everyday stuff of them, but something that appears intermittently--as
though a light shone through something translucent. If I believe in any
divinity at all it is a divinity revealed to me by other people--And
even by myself in my own heart.

"I'm never surprised at the badness of human beings," said Sir Richmond;
"seeing how they have come about and what they are; but I have been
surprised time after time by fine things.... Often in people I disliked
or thought little of.... I can understand that I find you full of divine
quality, because I am in love with you and all alive to you. Necessarily
I keep on discovering loveliness in you. But I have seen divine things
in dear old Martineau, for example. A vain man, fussy, timid--and yet
filled with a passion for truth, ready to make great sacrifices and to
toil tremendously for that. And in those men I am always cursing,
my Committee, it is astonishing at times to discover what streaks of
goodness even the really bad men can show.... But one can't make use
of just anyone's divinity. I can see the divinity in Martineau but it
leaves me cold. He tired me and bored me.... But I live on you. It's
only through love that the God can reach over from one human being to
another. All real love is a divine thing, a reassurance, a release of
courage. It is wonderful enough that we should take food and drink and
turn them into imagination, invention and creative energy; it is still
more wonderful that we should take an animal urging and turn it into a
light to discover beauty and an impulse towards the utmost achievements
of which we are capable. All love is a sacrament and all lovers are
priests to each other. You and I--"

Sir Richmond broke off abruptly. "I spent three days trying to tell this
to Dr. Martineau. But he wasn't the priest I had to confess to and the
words wouldn't come. I can confess it to you readily enough...."

"I cannot tell," said Miss Grammont, "whether this is the last wisdom in
life or moonshine. I cannot tell whether I am thinking or feeling; but
the noise of the water going over the weir below is like the stir in
my heart. And I am swimming in love and happiness. Am I awake or am I
dreaming you, and are we dreaming one another? Hold my hand--hold it
hard and tight. I'm trembling with love for you and all the world.... If
I say more I shall be weeping."

For a long time they stood side by side saying not a word to one
another.

Presently the band down below and the dancing ceased and the little
lights were extinguished. The silent moon seemed to grow brighter and
larger and the whisper of the waters louder. A crowd of young people
flowed out of the gardens and passed by on their way home. Sir Richmond
and Miss Grammont strolled through the dispersing crowd and over the
Toll Bridge and went exploring down a little staircase that went down
from the end of the bridge to the dark river, and then came back to
their old position at the parapet looking upon the weir and the Pulteney
Bridge. The gardens that had been so gay were already dark and silent as
they returned, and the streets echoed emptily to the few people who were
still abroad.

"It's the most beautiful bridge in the world," said Miss Grammont, and
gave him her hand again.

Some deep-toned clock close by proclaimed the hour eleven.

The silence healed again.

"Well?" said Sir Richmond.

"Well?" said Miss Grammont smiling very faintly.

"I suppose we must go out of all this beauty now, back to the lights of
the hotel and the watchful eyes of your dragon."

"She has not been a very exacting dragon so far, has she?"

"She is a miracle of tact."

"She does not really watch. But she is curious--and very sympathetic."

"She is wonderful."....

"That man is still fishing," said Miss Grammont.

For a time she peered down at the dark figure wading in the foam below
as though it was the only thing of interest in the world. Then she
turned to Sir Richmond.

"I would trust Belinda with my life," she said. "And anyhow--now--we need
not worry about Belinda."

Section 7

At the breakfast table it was Belinda who was the most nervous of the
three, the most moved, the most disposed to throw a sacramental air over
their last meal together. Her companions had passed beyond the idea of
separation; it was as if they now cherished a secret satisfaction at the
high dignity of their parting. Belinda in some way perceived they had
become different. They were no longer tremulous lovers; they seemed
sure of one another and with a new pride in their bearing. It would have
pleased Belinda better, seeing how soon they were to be torn apart, if
they had not made quite such excellent breakfasts. She even suspected
them of having slept well. Yet yesterday they had been deeply stirred.
They had stayed out late last night, so late that she had not heard them
come in. Perhaps then they had passed the climax of their emotions. Sir
Richmond, she learnt, was to take the party to Exeter, where there would
be a train for Falmouth a little after two. If they started from Bath
about nine that would give them an ample margin of time in which to deal
with a puncture or any such misadventure.

They crested the Mendips above Shepton Mallet, ran through Tilchester
and Ilminster into the lovely hill country about Up-Ottery and so
to Honiton and the broad level road to Exeter. Sir Richmond and Miss
Grammont were in a state of happy gravity; they sat contentedly side by
side, talking very little. They had already made their arrangements for
writing to one another. There was to be no stream of love-letters or
protestations. That might prove a mutual torment. Their love was to be
implicit. They were to write at intervals about political matters
and their common interests, and to keep each other informed of their
movements about the world.

"We shall be working together," she said, speaking suddenly out of a
train of thought she had been following, "we shall be closer together
than many a couple who have never spent a day apart for twenty years."

Then presently she said: "In the New Age all lovers will have to be
accustomed to meeting and parting. We women will not be tied very much
by domestic needs. Unless we see fit to have children. We shall be going
about our business like men; we shall have world-wide businesses--many
of us--just as men will....

"It will be a world full of lovers' meetings."

"Some day--somewhere--we two will certainly meet again."

"Even you have to force circumstances a little," said Sir Richmond.

"We shall meet," she said, "without doing that."

"But where?" he asked unanswered....

"Meetings and partings," she said. "Women will be used to seeing their
lovers go away. Even to seeing them go away to other women who have
borne them children and who have a closer claim on them."

"No one--" began Sir Richmond, startled.

"But I don't mind very much. It's how things are. If I were a perfectly
civilized woman I shouldn't mind at all. If men and women are not to be
tied to each other there must needs be such things as this."

"But you," said Sir Richmond. "I at any rate am not like that. I cannot
bear the thought that YOU--"

"You need not bear it, my dear. I was just trying to imagine this world
that is to be. Women I think are different from men in their jealousy.
Men are jealous of the other man; women are jealous for their man--and
careless about the other woman. What I love in you I am sure about. My
mind was empty when it came to you and now it is full to overflowing. I
shall feel you moving about in the same world with me. I'm not likely to
think of anyone else for a very long time.... Later on, who knows? I may
marry. I make no vows. But I think until I know certainly that you do
not want me any more it will be impossible for me to marry or to have a
lover. I don't know, but that is how I believe it will be with me. And
my mind feels beautifully clear now and settled. I've got your idea and
made it my own, your idea that we matter scarcely at all, but that the
work we do matters supremely. I'll find my rope and tug it, never fear.
Half way round the world perhaps some day you will feel me tugging."

"I shall feel you're there," he said, "whether you tug or not...."

"Three miles left to Exeter," he reported presently.

She glanced back at Belinda.

"It is good that we have loved, my dear," she whispered. "Say it is
good."

"The best thing in all my life," he said, and lowered his head and voice
to say: "My dearest dear."

"Heart's desire--still--?"

"Heart's delight.... Priestess of life.... Divinity."

She smiled and nodded and suddenly Belinda, up above their lowered
heads, accidentally and irrelevantly, no doubt, coughed.

At Exeter Station there was not very much time to spare after all.
Hardly had Sir Richmond secured a luncheon basket for the two travellers
before the train came into the station. He parted from Miss Grammont
with a hand clasp. Belinda was flushed and distressed at the last
but her friend was quiet and still. "Au revoir," said Belinda without
conviction when Sir Richmond shook her hand.

Section 8.

Sir Richmond stood quite still on the platform as the train ran out of
the station. He did not move until it had disappeared round the bend.
Then he turned, lost in a brown study, and walked very slowly towards
the station exit.

"The most wonderful thing in my life," he thought. "And already--it is
unreal.

"She will go on to her father whom she knows ten thousand times more
thoroughly than she knows me; she will go on to Paris, she will pick up
all the threads of her old story, be reminded of endless things in her
life, but never except in the most casual way of these days: they will
be cut off from everything else that will serve to keep them real; and
as for me--this connects with nothing else in my life at all.... It is
as disconnected as a dream.... Already it is hardly more substantial
than a dream....

"We shall write letters. Do letters breathe faster or slower as you read
them?

"We may meet.

"Where are we likely to meet again?... I never realized before how
improbable it is that we shall meet again. And if we meet?...

"Never in all our lives shall we be really TOGETHER again. It's
over--With a completeness....

"Like death."

He came opposite the bookstalls and stopped short and stared with
unseeing eyes at the display of popular literature. He was wondering now
whether after all he ought to have let her go. He experienced something
of the blank amazement of a child who has burst its toy balloon. His
golden globe of satisfaction in an instant had gone. An irrational sense
of loss was flooding every other feeling about V.V. If she had loved him
truly and altogether could she have left him like this? Neither of them
surely had intended so complete a separation. He wanted to go back and
recall that train.

A few seconds more, he realized, and he would give way to anger.
Whatever happened that must not happen. He pulled himself together. What
was it he had to do now? He had not to be angry, he had not even to be
sorry. They had done the right thing. Outside the station his car was
waiting.

He went outside the station and stared at his car. He had to go
somewhere. Of course! down into Cornwall to Martin's cottage. He had to
go down to her and be kind and comforting about that carbuncle. To
be kind?... If this thwarted feeling broke out into anger he might be
tempted to take it out of Martin. That at any rate he must not do. He
had always for some inexplicable cause treated Martin badly. Nagged her
and blamed her and threatened her. That must stop now. No shadow of this
affair must lie on Martin.... And Martin must never have a suspicion of
any of this....

The image of Martin became very vivid in his mind. He thought of her as
he had seen her many times, with the tears close, fighting with her back
to the wall, with all her wit and vigour gone, because she loved him
more steadfastly than he did her. Whatever happened he must not take it
out of Martin. It was astonishing how real she had become now--as V.V.
became a dream. Yes, Martin was astonishingly real. And if only he could
go now and talk to Martin--and face all the facts of life with her, even
as he had done with that phantom Martin in his dream....

But things were not like that.

He looked to see if his car was short of water or petrol; both needed
replenishing, and so he would have to go up the hill into Exeter town
again. He got into his car and sat with his fingers on the electric
starter.

Martin! Old Friend! Eight days were still left before the Committee met
again, eight days for golden kindness. He would distress Martin by no
clumsy confession. He would just make her happy as she loved to be made
happy.... Nevertheless. Nevertheless....

Was it Martin who failed him or he who failed Martin?

Incessant and insoluble dispute. Well, the thing now was to go to
Martin.... And then the work!

He laughed suddenly.

"I'll take it out of the damned Commission. I'll make old Rumford Brown
sit up."

He was astonished to find himself thinking of the affairs of the
Commission with a lively interest and no trace of fatigue. He had
had his change; he had taken his rest; he was equal to his task again
already. He started his engine and steered his way past a van and a
waiting cab.

"Fuel," he said.



CHAPTER THE NINTH

THE LAST DAYS OF SIR RICHMOND HARDY

Section 1

The Majority and Minority Reports of the Fuel Commission were received
on their first publication with much heat and disputation, but there is
already a fairly general agreement that they are great and significant
documents, broadly conceived and historically important. They do lift
the questions of fuel supply and distribution high above the level of
parochial jealousies and above the petty and destructive profiteering of
private owners and traders, to a view of a general human welfare. They
form an important link in a series of private and public documents
that are slowly opening out a prospect of new economic methods, methods
conceived in the generous spirit of scientific work, that may yet arrest
the drift of our western civilization towards financial and commercial
squalor and the social collapse that must ensue inevitably on that.
In view of the composition of the Committee, the Majority Report is in
itself an amazing triumph of Sir Richmond's views; it is astonishing
that he was able to drive his opponents so far and then leave them there
securely advanced while he carried on the adherents he had altogether
won, including, of course, the labour representatives, to the further
altitudes of the Minority Report.

After the Summer recess the Majority Report was discussed and adopted.
Sir Richmond had shown signs of flagging energy in June, but he had
come back in September in a state of exceptional vigour; for a time
he completely dominated the Committee by the passionate force of his
convictions and the illuminating scorn he brought to bear on the various
subterfuges and weakening amendments by which the meaner interests
sought to save themselves in whole or in part from the common duty of
sacrifice. But toward the end he fell ill. He had worked to the pitch of
exhaustion. He neglected a cold that settled on his chest. He began to
cough persistently and betray an increasingly irritable temper. In the
last fights in the Committee his face was bright with fever and he spoke
in a voiceless whisper, often a vast angry whisper. His place at table
was marked with scattered lozenges and scraps of paper torn to the
minutest shreds. Such good manners as had hitherto mitigated his
behaviour on the Committee departed from him, He carried his last
points, gesticulating and coughing and wheezing rather than speaking.
But he had so hammered his ideas into the Committee that they took the
effect of what he was trying to say.

He died of pneumonia at his own house three days after the passing of
the Majority Report. The Minority Report, his own especial creation, he
never signed. It was completed by Wast and Carmichael....

After their parting at Salisbury station Dr. Martineau heard very
little of Sir Richmond for a time except through the newspapers, which
contained frequent allusions to the Committee. Someone told him that Sir
Richmond had been staying at Ruan in Cornwall where Martin Leeds had a
cottage, and someone else had met him at Bath on his way, he said,
in his car from Cornwall to a conference with Sir Peter Davies in
Glamorganshire.

But in the interim Dr. Martineau had the pleasure of meeting Lady Hardy
at a luncheon party. He was seated next to her and he found her a very
pleasing and sympathetic person indeed. She talked to him freely and
simply of her husband and of the journey the two men had taken together.
Either she knew nothing of the circumstances of their parting or if she
did she did not betray her knowledge. "That holiday did him a world of
good," she said. "He came back to his work like a giant. I feel very
grateful to you."

Dr. Martineau said it was a pleasure to have helped Sir Richmond's work
in any way. He believed in him thoroughly. Sir Richmond was inspired by
great modern creative ideas.

"Forgive me if I keep you talking about him," said Lady Hardy. "I wish I
could feel as sure that I had been of use to him."

Dr. Martineau insisted. "I know very well that you are."

"I do what I can to help him carry his enormous burthen of toil," she
said. "I try to smooth his path. But he is a strange silent creature at
times."

Her eyes scrutinized the doctor's face.

It was not the doctor's business to supplement Sir Richmond's silences.
Yet he wished to meet the requirements of this lady if he could. "He is
one of those men," he said, "who are driven by forces they do not fully
understand. A man of genius."

"Yes," she said in an undertone of intimacy. "Genius.... A great
irresponsible genius.... Difficult to help.... I wish I could do more
for him."

A very sweet and charming lady. It was with great regret that the doctor
found the time had come to turn to his left-hand neighbour.

Section 2

It was with some surprise that Dr. Martineau received a fresh appeal
for aid from Sir Richmond. It was late in October and Sir Richmond was
already seriously ill. But he was still going about his business as
though he was perfectly well. He had not mistaken his man. Dr. Martineau
received him as though there had never been a shadow of offence between
them.

He came straight to the point. "Martineau," he said, "I must have those
drugs I asked you for when first I came to you now. I must be bolstered
up. I can't last out unless I am. I'm at the end of my energy. I come to
you because you will understand. The Commission can't go on now for more
than another three weeks. Whatever happens afterwards I must keep going
until then."

The doctor did understand. He made no vain objections. He did what he
could to patch up his friend for his last struggles with the opposition
in the Committee. "Pro forma," he said, stethoscope in hand, "I must
order you to bed. You won't go. But I order you. You must know that
what you are doing is risking your life. Your lungs are congested,
the bronchial tubes already. That may spread at any time. If this open
weather lasts you may go about and still pull through. But at any time
this may pass into pneumonia. And there's not much in you just now to
stand up against pneumonia...."

"I'll take all reasonable care."

"Is your wife at home!"

"She is in Wales with her people. But the household is well trained. I
can manage."

"Go in a closed car from door to door. Wrap up like a mummy. I wish
the Committee room wasn't down those abominable House of Commons
corridors...."

They parted with an affectionate handshake.

Section 3

Death approved of Sir Richmond's determination to see the Committee
through. Our universal creditor gave this particular debtor grace to the
very last meeting. Then he brushed a gust of chilly rain across the face
of Sir Richmond as he stood waiting for his car outside the strangers'
entrance to the House. For a couple of days Sir Richmond felt almost
intolerably tired, but scarcely noted the changed timbre of the wheezy
notes in his throat. He rose later each day and with ebbing vigour,
jotted down notes and corrections upon the proofs of the Minority
Report. He found it increasingly difficult to make decisions; he would
correct and alter back and then repeat the correction, perhaps half a
dozen times. On the evening of the second day his lungs became painful
and his breathing difficult. His head ached and a sense of some great
impending evil came upon him. His skin was suddenly a detestable garment
to wear. He took his temperature with a little clinical thermometer he
kept by him and found it was a hundred and one. He telephoned hastily
for Dr. Martineau and without waiting for his arrival took a hot bath
and got into bed. He was already thoroughly ill when the doctor arrived.

"Forgive my sending for you," he said. "Not your line. I know.... My
wife's G.P.--an exasperating sort of ass. Can't stand him. No one else."

He was lying on a narrow little bed with a hard pillow that the doctor
replaced by one from Lady Hardy's room. He had twisted the bed-clothes
into a hopeless muddle, the sheet was on the floor.

Sir Richmond's bedroom was a large apartment in which sleep seemed to
have been an admitted necessity rather than a principal purpose. On one
hand it opened into a business-like dressing and bath room, on the other
into the day study. It bore witness to the nocturnal habits of a man who
had long lived a life of irregular impulses to activity and dislocated
hours and habits. There was a desk and reading lamp for night work near
the fireplace, an electric kettle for making tea at night, a silver
biscuit tin; all the apparatus for the lonely intent industry of the
small hours. There was a bookcase of bluebooks, books of reference and
suchlike material, and some files. Over the mantelpiece was an enlarged
photograph of Lady Hardy and a plain office calendar. The desk was
littered with the galley proofs of the Minority Report upon which Sir
Richmond had been working up to the moment of his hasty retreat to bed.
And lying among the proofs, as though it had been taken out and looked
at quite recently was the photograph of a girl. For a moment Dr.
Martineau's mind hung in doubt and then he knew it for the young
American of Stonehenge. How that affair had ended he did not know. And
now it was not his business to know.

These various observations printed themselves on Dr. Martineau's mind
after his first cursory examination of his patient and while he cast
about for anything that would give this large industrious apartment a
little more of the restfulness and comfort of a sick room. "I must
get in a night nurse at once," he said. "We must find a small table
somewhere to put near the bed.

"I am afraid you are very ill," he said, returning to the bedside. "This
is not, as you say, my sort of work. Will you let me call in another
man, a man we can trust thoroughly, to consult?"

"I'm in your hands, said Sir Richmond. I want to pull through."

"He will know better where to get the right sort of nurse for the
case--and everything."

The second doctor presently came, with the right sort of nurse hard on
his heels. Sir Richmond submitted almost silently to his expert handling
and was sounded and looked to and listened at.

"H'm," said the second doctor, and then encouragingly to Sir Richmond:
"We've got to take care of you.

"There's a lot about this I don't like," said the second doctor and
drew Dr. Martineau by the arm towards the study. For a moment or so Sir
Richmond listened to the low murmur of their voices, but he did not feel
very deeply interested in what they were saying. He began to think what
a decent chap Dr. Martineau was, how helpful and fine and forgiving his
professional training had made him, how completely he had ignored the
smothered incivilities of their parting at Salisbury. All men ought
to have some such training, Not a bad idea to put every boy and girl
through a year or so of hospital service.... Sir Richmond must have
dozed, for his next perception was of Dr. Martineau standing over him
and saying "I am afraid, my dear Hardy, that you are very ill indeed.
Much more so than I thought you were at first."

Sir Richmond's raised eyebrows conveyed that he accepted this fact.

"I think Lady Hardy ought to be sent for."

Sir Richmond shook his head with unexpected vigour.

"Don't want her about," he said, and after a pause, "Don't want anybody
about."

"But if anything happens-?"

"Send then."

An expression of obstinate calm overspread Sir Richmond's face. He
seemed to regard the matter as settled. He closed his eyes.

For a time Dr. Martineau desisted. He went to the window and turned to
look again at the impassive figure on the bed. Did Sir Richmond fully
understand? He made a step towards his patient and hesitated. Then he
brought a chair and sat down at the bedside.

Sir Richmond opened his eyes and regarded him with a slight frown.

"A case of pneumonia," said the doctor, "after great exertion and
fatigue, may take very rapid and unexpected turns."

Sir Richmond, cheek on pillow, seemed to assent.

"I think if you want to be sure that Lady Hardy sees you again--... If
you don't want to take risks about that--... One never knows in these
cases. Probably there is a night train."

Sir Richmond manifested no surprise at the warning. But he stuck to his
point. His voice was faint but firm. "Couldn't make up anything to say
to her. Anything she'd like."

Dr. Martineau rested on that for a little while. Then he said: "If there
is anyone else?"

"Not possible," said Sir Richmond, with his eyes on the ceiling.

"But to see?"

Sir Richmond turned his head to Dr. Martineau. His face puckered like
a peevish child's. "They'd want things said to them...Things to
remember...I CAN'T. I'm tired out."

"Don't trouble," whispered Dr. Martineau, suddenly remorseful.

But Sir Richmond was also remorseful. "Give them my love," he said.
"Best love...Old Martin. Love."

Dr. Martineau was turning away when Sir Richmond spoke again in a
whisper. "Best love...Poor at the best...." He dozed for a time. Then he
made a great effort. "I can't see them, Martineau, until I've something
to say. It's like that. Perhaps I shall think of some kind things to
say--after a sleep. But if they came now...I'd say something wrong.
Be cross perhaps. Hurt someone. I've hurt so many. People
exaggerate...People exaggerate--importance these occasions."

"Yes, yes," whispered Dr. Martineau. "I quite understand."

Section 4

For a time Sir Richmond dozed. Then he stirred and muttered. "Second
rate... Poor at the best... Love... Work. All..."

"It had been splendid work," said Dr. Martineau, and was not sure that
Sir Richmond heard.

"Those last few days... lost my grip... Always lose my damned grip.

"Ragged them.... Put their backs up....Silly....

"Never.... Never done anything--WELL....

"It's done. Done. Well or ill....

"Done."

His voice sank to the faintest whisper. "Done for ever and ever... and
ever... and ever."

Again he seemed to doze.

Dr. Martineau stood up softly. Something beyond reason told him that
this was certainly a dying man. He was reluctant to go and he had an
absurd desire that someone, someone for whom Sir Richmond cared, should
come and say good-bye to him, and for Sir Richmond to say good-bye to
someone. He hated this lonely launching from the shores of life of
one who had sought intimacy so persistently and vainly. It was
extraordinary--he saw it now for the first time--he loved this man. If
it had been in his power, he would at that moment have anointed him with
kindness.

The doctor found himself standing in front of the untidy writing desk,
littered like a recent battlefield. The photograph of the American girl
drew his eyes. What had happened? Was there not perhaps some word for
her? He turned about as if to enquire of the dying man and found Sir
Richmond's eyes open and regarding him. In them he saw an expression he
had seen there once or twice before, a faint but excessively irritating
gleam of amusement.

"Oh!--WELL!" said Dr. Martineau and turned away. He went to the window
and stared out as his habit was.

Sir Richmond continued to smile dimly at the doctor's back until his
eyes closed again.

It was their last exchange. Sir Richmond died that night in the small
hours, so quietly that for some time the night nurse did not observe
what had happened. She was indeed roused to that realization by the
ringing of the telephone bell in the adjacent study.

Section 5

For a long time that night Dr. Martineau had lain awake unable to sleep.
He was haunted by the figure of Sir Richmond lying on his uncomfortable
little bed in his big bedroom and by the curious effect of loneliness
produced by the nocturnal desk and by the evident dread felt by Sir
Richmond of any death-bed partings. He realized how much this man, who
had once sought so feverishly for intimacies, had shrunken back upon
himself, how solitary his motives had become, how rarely he had taken
counsel with anyone in his later years. His mind now dwelt apart. Even
if people came about him he would still be facing death alone.

And so it seemed he meant to slip out of life, as a man might slip
out of a crowded assembly, unobserved. Even now he might be going. The
doctor recalled how he and Sir Richmond had talked of the rage of life
in a young baby, how we drove into life in a sort of fury, how that rage
impelled us to do this and that, how we fought and struggled until the
rage spent itself and was gone. That eddy of rage that was Sir Richmond
was now perhaps very near its end. Presently it would fade and cease,
and the stream that had made it and borne it would know it no more.

Dr. Martineau's thoughts relaxed and passed into the picture land of
dreams. He saw the figure of Sir Richmond, going as it were away from
him along a narrow path, a path that followed the crest of a ridge,
between great darknesses, enormous cloudy darknesses, above him and
below. He was going along this path without looking back, without a
thought for those he left behind, without a single word to cheer him
on his way, walking as Dr. Martineau had sometimes watched him walking,
without haste or avidity, walking as a man might along some great
picture gallery with which he was perhaps even over familiar. His hands
would be in his pockets, his indifferent eyes upon the clouds about him.
And as he strolled along that path, the darkness closed in upon him. His
figure became dim and dimmer.

Whither did that figure go? Did that enveloping darkness hide the
beginnings of some strange long journey or would it just dissolve that
figure into itself?

Was that indeed the end?

Dr. Martineau was one of that large class of people who can neither
imagine nor disbelieve in immortality. Dimmer and dimmer grew the figure
but still it remained visible. As one can continue to see a star at dawn
until one turns away. Or one blinks or nods and it is gone.

Vanished now are the beliefs that held our race for countless
generations. Where now was that Path of the Dead, mapped so clearly,
faced with such certainty, in which the heliolithic peoples believed
from Avebury to Polynesia? Not always have we had to go alone and
unprepared into uncharted darknesses. For a time the dream artist used a
palette of the doctor's vague memories of things Egyptian, he painted a
new roll of the Book of the Dead, at a copy of which the doctor had been
looking a day or so before. Sir Richmond became a brown naked figure,
crossing a bridge of danger, passing between terrific monsters, ferrying
a dark and dreadful stream. He came to the scales of judgment before the
very throne of Osiris and stood waiting while dogheaded Anubis weighed
his conscience and that evil monster, the Devourer of the Dead,
crouched ready if the judgment went against him. The doctor's attention
concentrated upon the scales. A memory of Swedengorg's Heaven and Hell
mingled with the Egyptian fantasy. Now at last it was possible to know
something real about this man's soul, now at last one could look into
the Secret Places of his Heart. Anubis and Thoth, the god with the ibis
head, were reading the heart as if it were a book, reading aloud from it
to the supreme judge.

Suddenly the doctor found himself in his own dreams. His anxiety to
plead for his friend had brought him in. He too had become a little
painted figure and he was bearing a book in his hand. He wanted to show
that the laws of the new world could not be the same as those of the
old, and the book he was bringing as evidence was his own Psychology of
a New Age.

The clear thought of that book broke up his dream by releasing a train
of waking troubles.... You have been six months on Chapter Ten; will it
ever be ready for Osiris?... will it ever be ready for print?...

Dream and waking thoughts were mingled like sky and cloud upon a windy
day in April. Suddenly he saw again that lonely figure on the narrow way
with darknesses above and darknesses below and darknesses on every hand.
But this time it was not Sir Richmond.... Who was it? Surely it was
Everyman. Everyman had to travel at last along that selfsame road,
leaving love, leaving every task and every desire. But was it
Everyman?... A great fear and horror came upon the doctor. That little
figure was himself! And the book which was his particular task in life
was still undone. He himself stood in his turn upon that lonely path
with the engulfing darknesses about him....

He seemed to wrench himself awake.

He lay very still for some moments and then he sat up in bed. An
overwhelming conviction had arisen--in his mind that Sir Richmond was
dead. He felt he must know for certain. He switched on his electric
light, mutely interrogated his round face reflected in the looking
glass, got out of bed, shuffled on his slippers and went along the
passage to the telephone. He hesitated for some seconds and then lifted
the receiver. It was his call which aroused the nurse to the fact of Sir
Richmond's death.

Section 6

Lady Hardy arrived home in response to Dr. Martineau's telegram late
on the following evening. He was with her next morning, comforting
and sympathetic. Her big blue eyes, bright with tears, met his very
wistfully; her little body seemed very small and pathetic in its simple
black dress. And yet there was a sort of bravery about her. When he came
into the drawing-room she was in one of the window recesses talking to
a serious-looking woman of the dressmaker type. She left her business at
once to come to him. "Why did I not know in time?" she cried.

"No one, dear lady, had any idea until late last night," he said, taking
both her hands in his for a long friendly sympathetic pressure.

"I might have known that if it had been possible you would have told
me," she said.

"You know," she added, "I don't believe it yet. I don't realize it. I go
about these formalities--"

"I think I can understand that."

"He was always, you know, not quite here.... It is as if he were a
little more not quite here.... I can't believe it is over...."

She asked a number of questions and took the doctor's advice upon
various details of the arrangements. "My daughter Helen comes home
to-morrow afternoon," she explained. "She is in Paris. But our son is
far, far away in the Punjab. I have sent him a telegram.... It is so
kind of you to come in to me."

Dr. Martineau went more than half way to meet Lady Hardy's disposition
to treat him as a friend of the family. He had conceived a curious, half
maternal affection for Sir Richmond that had survived even the trying
incident of the Salisbury parting and revived very rapidly during the
last few weeks. This affection extended itself now to Lady Hardy. Hers
was a type that had always appealed to him. He could understand so well
the perplexed loyalty with which she was now setting herself to gather
together some preservative and reassuring evidences of this man who had
always been; as she put it, "never quite here." It was as if she felt
that now it was at last possible to make a definite reality of him. He
could be fixed. And as he was fixed he would stay. Never more would he
be able to come in and with an almost expressionless glance wither the
interpretation she had imposed upon him. She was finding much comfort
in this task of reconstruction. She had gathered together in the
drawingroom every presentable portrait she had been able to find of him.
He had never, she said, sat to a painter, but there was an early pencil
sketch done within a couple of years of their marriage; there was a
number of photographs, several of which--she wanted the doctor's advice
upon this point--she thought might be enlarged; there was a statuette
done by some woman artist who had once beguiled him into a sitting.
There was also a painting she had had worked up from a photograph and
some notes. She flitted among these memorials, going from one to the
other, undecided which to make the standard portrait. "That painting,
I think, is most like," she said: "as he was before the war. But the war
and the Commission changed him,--worried him and aged him.... I grudged
him to that Commission. He let it worry him frightfully."

"It meant very much to him," said Dr. Martineau.

"It meant too much to him. But of course his ideas were splendid. You
know it is one of my hopes to get some sort of book done, explaining his
ideas. He would never write. He despised it--unreasonably. A real thing
done, he said, was better than a thousand books. Nobody read books, he
said, but women, parsons and idle people. But there must be books. And
I want one. Something a little more real than the ordinary official
biography.... I have thought of young Leighton, the secretary of the
Commission. He seems thoroughly intelligent and sympathetic and really
anxious to reconcile Richmond's views with those of the big business men
on the Committee. He might do.... Or perhaps I might be able to persuade
two or three people to write down their impressions of him. A sort
of memorial volume.... But he was shy of friends. There was no man he
talked to very intimately about his ideas unless it was to you... I wish
I had the writer's gift, doctor."

Section 7

It was on the second afternoon that Lady Hardy summoned Dr. Martineau
by telephone. "Something rather disagreeable," she said. "If you could
spare the time. If you could come round.

"It is frightfully distressing," she said when he got round to her, and
for a time she could tell him nothing more. She was having tea and she
gave him some. She fussed about with cream and cakes and biscuits. He
noted a crumpled letter thrust under the edge of the silver tray.

"He talked, I know, very intimately with you," she said, coming to it at
last. "He probably went into things with you that he never talked about
with anyone else. Usually he was very reserved, Even with me there were
things about which he said nothing."

"We did," said Dr. Martineau with discretion, "deal a little with his
private life.

"There was someone--"

Dr. Martineau nodded and then, not to be too portentous, took and bit a
biscuit.

"Did he by any chance ever mention someone called Martin Leeds?"

Dr. Martineau seemed to reflect. Then realizing that this was a mistake,
he said: "He told me the essential facts."

The poor lady breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm glad," she said simply.
She repeated, "Yes, I'm glad. It makes things easier now."

Dr. Martineau looked his enquiry.

"She wants to come and see him."

"Here?"

"Here! And Helen here! And the servants noticing everything! I've never
met her. Never set eyes on her. For all I know she may want to make a
scene." There was infinite dismay in her voice.

Dr. Martineau was grave. "You would rather not receive her?"

"I don't want to refuse her. I don't want even to seem heartless.
I understand, of course, she has a sort of claim." She sobbed her
reluctant admission. "I know it. I know.... There was much between
them."

Dr. Martineau pressed the limp hand upon the little tea table. "I
understand, dear lady," he said. "I understand. Now ... suppose _I_ were
to write to her and arrange--I do not see that you need be put to the
pain of meeting her. Suppose I were to meet her here myself?

"If you COULD!"

The doctor was quite prepared to save the lady any further distresses,
no matter at what trouble to himself. "You are so good to me," she said,
letting the tears have their way with her.

"I am silly to cry," she said, dabbing her eyes.

"We will get it over to-morrow," he reassured her. "You need not think
of it again."

He took over Martin's brief note to Lady Hardy and set to work by
telegram to arrange for her visit. She was in London at her Chelsea flat
and easily accessible. She was to come to the house at mid-day on the
morrow, and to ask not for Lady Hardy but for him. He would stay by her
while she was in the house, and it would be quite easy for Lady Hardy to
keep herself and her daughter out of the way. They could, for example,
go out quietly to the dressmakers in the closed car, for many little
things about the mourning still remained to be seen to.

Section 8

Miss Martin Leeds arrived punctually, but the doctor was well ahead of
his time and ready to receive her. She was ushered into the drawing room
where he awaited her. As she came forward the doctor first perceived
that she had a very sad and handsome face, the face of a sensitive youth
rather than the face of a woman. She had fine grey eyes under very
fine brows; they were eyes that at other times might have laughed very
agreeably, but which were now full of an unrestrained sadness. Her brown
hair was very untidy and parted at the side like a man's. Then he noted
that she seemed to be very untidily dressed as if she was that rare and,
to him, very offensive thing, a woman careless of her beauty. She was
short in proportion to her broad figure and her broad forehead.

"You are Dr. Martineau?" she said. "He talked of you." As she spoke
her glance went from him to the pictures that stood about the room. She
walked up to the painting and stood in front of it with her distressed
gaze wandering about her. "Horrible!" she said. "Absolutely horrible!...
Did SHE do this?"

Her question disconcerted the doctor very much. "You mean Lady Hardy?"
he asked. "She doesn't paint."

"No, no. I mean, did she get all these things together?"

"Naturally," said Dr. Martineau.

"None of them are a bit like him. They are like blows aimed at his
memory. Not one has his life in it. How could she do it? Look at that
idiot statuette!... He was extraordinarily difficult to get. I have
burnt every photograph I had of him. For fear that this would happen;
that he would go stiff and formal--just as you have got him here. I have
been trying to sketch him almost all the time since he died. But I can't
get him back. He's gone."

She turned to the doctor again. She spoke to him, not as if she expected
him to understand her, but because she had to say these things which
burthened her mind to someone. "I have done hundreds of sketches. My
room is littered with them. When you turn them over he seems to be
lurking among them. But not one of them is like him."

She was trying to express something beyond her power. "It is as if
someone had suddenly turned out the light."

She followed the doctor upstairs. "This was his study," the doctor
explained.

"I know it. I came here once," she said.

They entered the big bedroom in which the coffined body lay. Dr.
Martineau, struck by a sudden memory, glanced nervously at the desk, but
someone had made it quite tidy and the portrait of Aliss Grammont had
disappeared. Miss Leeds walked straight across to the coffin and
stood looking down on the waxen inexpressive dignity of the dead. Sir
Richmond's brows and nose had become sharper and more clear-cut than
they had ever been in life and his lips had set into a faint inane
smile. She stood quite still for a long time. At length she sighed
deeply.

She spoke, a little as though she thought aloud, a little as though she
talked at that silent presence in the coffin. "I think he loved," she
said. "Sometimes I think he loved me. But it is hard to tell. He was
kind. He could be intensely kind and yet he didn't seem to care for
you. He could be intensely selfish and yet he certainly did not care for
himself.... Anyhow, I loved HIM.... There is nothing left in me now to
love anyone else--for ever...."

She put her hands behind her back and looked at the dead man with her
head a little on one side. "Too kind," she said very softly.

"There was a sort of dishonesty in his kindness. He would not let you
have the bitter truth. He would not say he did not love you....

"He was too kind to life ever to call it the foolish thing it is. He
took it seriously because it takes itself seriously. He worked for it
and killed himself with work for it...."

She turned to Dr. Martineau and her face was streaming with tears.
"And life, you know, isn't to be taken seriously. It is a joke--a
bad joke--made by some cruel little god who has caught a neglected
planet.... Like torturing a stray cat.... But he took it seriously and
he gave up his life for it.

"There was much happiness he might have had. He was very capable of
happiness. But he never seemed happy. This work of his came before
it. He overworked and fretted our happiness away. He sacrificed his
happiness and mine."

She held out her hands towards the doctor. "What am I to do now with the
rest of my life? Who is there to laugh with me now and jest?

"I don't complain of him. I don't blame him. He did his best--to be
kind.

"But all my days now I shall mourn for him and long for him...."

She turned back to the coffin. Suddenly she lost every vestige of
self-control. She sank down on her knees beside the trestle. "Why have
you left me!" she cried.

"Oh! Speak to me, my darling! Speak to me, I TELL YOU! Speak to me!"

It was a storm of passion, monstrously childish and dreadful. She beat
her hands upon the coffin. She wept loudly and fiercely as a child
does....

Dr. Martineau drifted feebly to the window.

He wished he had locked the door. The servants might hear and wonder
what it was all about. Always he had feared love for the cruel thing it
was, but now it seemed to him for the first time that he realized its
monstrous cruelty.

THE END





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