Title: Love Eternal
Author: Haggard, H. Rider (Henry Rider)
Language: English
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LOVE ETERNAL


by
H. RIDER HAGGARD



TO
THE REV. PHILIP T. BAINBRIGGE
Vicar of St. Thomas’
Regent Street, London


           You, whose privilege it is by instruction and example to 
           strengthen the weak hands and confirm the feeble knees of 
           many, may perhaps care to read of one whose human love led 
           her from darkness into light and on to the gates of the Love 
           Eternal.



CONTENTS


CHAPTER I. HONEST JOHN
CHAPTER II. ISOBEL KISSES GODFREY
CHAPTER III. THE PLANTAGENET LADY
CHAPTER IV. THE GARDEN IN THE SQUARE
CHAPTER V. MADAME RIENNES
CHAPTER VI. EXPERIENCES
CHAPTER VII. MR. KNIGHT AND DUTY
CHAPTER VIII. THE PASTEUR TAKES THE FIELD
CHAPTER IX. THE PASTEUR CONQUERS
CHAPTER X. GODFREY BECOMES A HERO
CHAPTER XI. JULIETTE’S FAREWELL
CHAPTER XII. HOME
CHAPTER XIII. THE INTERVENING YEARS
CHAPTER XIV. TOGETHER
CHAPTER XV. FOR EVER
CHAPTER XVI. LOVE AND LOSS
CHAPTER XVII. INDIA
CHAPTER XVIII. FRANCE—AND AFTER
CHAPTER XIX. MARRIAGE
CHAPTER XX. ORDERS
CHAPTER XXI. LOVE ETERNAL



LOVE ETERNAL



CHAPTER I

HONEST JOHN


More than thirty years ago two atoms of the eternal Energy sped forth
from the heart of it which we call God, and incarnated themselves in
the human shapes that were destined to hold them for a while, as vases
hold perfumes, or goblets wine, or as sparks of everlasting radium
inhabit the bowels of the rock. Perhaps these two atoms, or essences,
or monads indestructible, did but repeat an adventure, or many, many
adventures. Perhaps again and again they had proceeded from that Home
august and imperishable on certain mornings of the days of Time, to
return thither at noon or nightfall, laden with the fruits of gained
experience. So at least one of them seemed to tell the other before all 
was done and that other came to believe. If so, over what fields did
they roam throughout the æons, they who having no end, could have no
beginning? Not those of this world only, we may be sure. It is so small
and there are so many others, millions upon millions of them, and such
an infinite variety of knowledge is needed to shape the soul of man,
even though it remain as yet imperfect and but a shadow of what it
shall be.    

Godfrey Knight was born the first, six months later she followed (her
name was Isobel Blake), as though to search for him, or because whither
he went, thither she must come, that being her doom and his.

Their circumstances, or rather those of their parents, were very
different but, as it chanced, the houses in which they dwelt stood
scarcely three hundred yards apart.

Between the rivers Blackwater and Crouch in Essex, is a great stretch of
land, flat for the most part and rather dreary, which, however, to
judge from what they have left us, our ancestors thought of much
importance because of its situation, its trade and the corn it grew. So
it came about that they built great houses there and reared beautiful
abbeys and churches for the welfare of their souls. Amongst these, not
very far from the coast, is that of Monk’s Acre, still a beautiful
fane though they be but few that worship there to-day. The old Abbey
house adjacent is now the rectory. It has been greatly altered, and the
outbuildings are shut up or used as granaries and so forth by
arrangement with a neighbouring farmer. Still its grey walls contain 
some fine but rather unfurnished chambers, reputed by the vulgar to be
haunted. It was for this reason, so says tradition, that the son of the
original grantee of Monk’s Acre Abbey, who bought it for a small sum
from Henry VIII at the Dissolution of the Monasteries, turned the Abbey
house into a rectory and went himself to dwell in another known as
Hawk’s Hall, situate on the bank of the little stream of that name,
Hawk’s Creek it is called, which finds its way to the Blackwater. 

Parsons, he said, were better fitted to deal with ghosts than laymen,
especially if the said laymen had dispossessed the originals of the
ghosts of their earthly heritage.

The ancient Hawk’s Hall, a timber building of the sort common in Essex
as some of its premises still show, has long since disappeared. About
the beginning of the Victorian era a fish-merchant of the name of
Brown, erected on its site a commodious, comfortable, but particularly
hideous mansion of white brick, where he dwelt in affluence in the
midst of the large estate that had once belonged to the monks. An
attempt to corner herrings, or something of the sort, brought this
worthy, or unworthy tradesman to disaster, and the Hall was leased to a
Harwich smack-owner of the name of Blake, a shrewd person, whose origin
was humble. He had one son named John, of whom he was determined to 
“make a gentleman.” With this view John was sent to a good public 
school, and to college. But of him nothing could make a gentleman,
because true gentility and his nature were far apart. He remained,
notwithstanding all his advantages, a cunning, and in his way an able
man of business, like his father before him. For the rest, he was big,
florid and presentable, with the bluff and hearty manner which
sometimes distinguishes a _faux bonhomme_. “Honest John” they
called him in the neighbourhood, a soubriquet which was of service to
him in many ways.    

Suddenly Honest John’s father died, leaving him well off, though not
so rich as he would have liked to be. At first he thought of leaving
Hawk’s Hall and going to live at Harwich, where most of his business
interests were. But, remembering that the occupation of it gave him a
certain standing in the county, whereas in Harwich he would have been
only a superior tradesman, he gave up the idea. It was replaced by
another—to marry well. 

Now John Blake was not an idealist, nor in any sense romantic;
therefore, from marriage he expected little. He did not even ask that
his wife should be good-looking, knowing that any aspirations which he
had towards beauty could be satisfied otherwise. Nor did he seek money,
being well aware that he could make this for himself. What he desired
were birth and associations. After a little waiting he found exactly
what he wanted. 

A certain Lord Lynfield from the South of England, who lived in London,
and was a director of many Boards, took a pheasant-shooting in the
neighbourhood of Hawk’s Hall, and with it a house. Here he lived more
or less during the winter months, going up to town when necessary, to
attend his Boards. Lord Lynfield was cursed with several extravagant
sons, with whom John Blake, who was a good shot, soon became friendly.
Also he made himself useful by lending one of them a considerable sum
of money. When this came to Lord Lynfield’s ears, as Honest John was
careful that it should, he was disturbed and offered repayment, though
as a matter of fact he did not know where to turn for the cash. In his
bluffest and heartiest way Blake refused to hear of such a thing.

“No, no, my Lord, let it stand. Your son will repay me one day, and if
he doesn’t, what will a trifle like that matter?”

“He certainly shall repay you. But all the same, Mr. Blake, you have
behaved very well and I thank you much,” replied his Lordship
courteously. 

Thus did John Blake become an intimate of that aristocratic family.

Now Lord Lynfield, who was a widower, had one unmarried daughter. She
was an odd and timid little person, with strong religious views, who
adored secretly a high-church curate in London. This, indeed, was the
reason why she had been brought to Essex when her infatuation was
discovered by one of her married sisters, who, like the rest of the
family, was extremely “low.” Lady Jane was small in body and
shrinking and delicate in character, somewhat mouselike indeed. Even
her eyes were large and timid as are those of a mouse. In her John
Blake perceived the exact _parti_ whom he desired for a wife. 

It is not necessary to follow the pitiful story to its inevitable end,
one, happily, more common at that time than it is to-day. Mr. Blake
played the earnest, ardent lover, and on all occasions proclaimed his
own unworthiness at the top of his loud voice. Also he hinted at large
settlements to the married sisters, who put the matter before Jane very
plainly indeed. In the end, after a few words with her father, who
pointed out that the provision which could be made for her was but
small, and that he would die more happily if he knew her to be
comfortably settled in life with a really trustworthy and generous man 
such as Mr. Blake had proved himself to be, she gave way, and in due
course they were married. 

In fact, the tragedy was complete, since Jane loathed her husband, whose
real nature she had read from the beginning, as much as she adored the
high-church curate from whom in some terrible hour she parted with
broken words. Even when he died a few years later, she continued to
adore him, so much that her one hope was that she might meet him again
in the land where there is no marrying or giving in marriage. But all
of this she kept locked in her poor little heart, and meanwhile did her
duty by her husband with an untroubled brow, though those mouse-like
eyes of hers grew ever more piteous. 

He, for his part, did not do his duty by her. Of one side of his conduct
she was careless, being totally indifferent as to whom he admired.
Others she found it hard to bear. The man was by nature a bully, one
who found pleasure in oppressing the helpless, and who loved, in the
privacy of his home, to wreak the ill-temper which he was forced to
conceal abroad. In company, and especially before any of her people, he
treated her with the greatest deference, and would even make loud
laudatory remarks concerning her; when they were alone there was a
different tale to tell, particularly if she had in any way failed in
promoting that social advancement for which he had married her. 

“What do you suppose I give you all those jewels and fine clothes for,
to say nothing of the money you waste in keeping up the house?” he
would ask brutally.

Jane made no answer; silence was her only shield, but her heart burned
within her. It is probable, notwithstanding her somewhat exaggerated
ideas of duty and wifely obedience, that she would have plucked up her
courage and left him, even if she must earn her own living as a
sempstress, had it not been for one circumstance. That circumstance was
the arrival in the world of her daughter, Isobel. In some ways this
event did not add to her happiness, if that can be added to which does
not exist, for the reason that her husband never forgave her because
this child, her only one, was not a boy. Nor did he lose any 
opportunity of telling her this to her face, as though the matter were
one over which she had control. In others, however, for the first time
in her battered little life, she drank deep of the cup of joy. She
loved that infant, and from the first it loved her and her only, while
to the father it was indifferent, and at times antagonistic. 

From the cradle Isobel showed herself to be an individual of character.
Even as a little girl she knew what she wanted and formed her own
opinions quite independently of those of others. Moreover, in a certain
way she was a good-looking child, but of a stamp totally different from
that of either of her parents. Her eyes were not restless and
prominent, like her father’s, or dark and plaintive, like her
mother’s, but large, grey and steady, with long curved lashes. In
fact, they were fine, but it was her only beauty, since the brow above
them was almost too pronounced for that of a woman, the mouth was a
little large, and the nose somewhat irregular. Her hair, too, though
long and thick, was straight and rather light-coloured. For the rest
she was well-grown and vigorous, with a strong, full voice, and as she
approached maturity she developed a fine figure. 

When she was not much more than ten Isobel had her first trouble with
her father. Something had gone wrong with one of his shipping
speculations, and as usual, he vented it upon his wife. So cruelly did
he speak to her on a household matter for which she was not the least
to blame, that the poor woman at last rose and left the room to hide
her tears. Isobel, however, remained behind, and walking up to her
father, who stood with his back to the fire, asked him why he treated
her mother thus. 

“Mind your own business, you impertinent brat,” he answered.

“Mummy is my business, and you are—a brute,” she exclaimed,
clenching her little fists. He lifted his hand as though to strike her,
then changed his mind and went away. She had conquered. Thenceforward
Mr. Blake was careful not to maltreat his wife in Isobel’s presence.
He complained to her, however, of the child’s conduct, which, he
said, was due to her bringing up and encouragement, and Lady Jane in
turn, scolded her in her gentle fashion for her “wicked words.”

Isobel listened, then asked, without attempting to defend herself,

“Were not father’s words to you wicked also, Mummy? It was not your
fault if James forgot to bring round the dog-cart and made him miss the
train to London. Ought you to be sworn at for that?”

“No, dear, but you see, he is my husband, and husbands can say what
they wish to their wives.”

“Then I will never have a husband; at least, not one like father,”
Isobel announced with decision.

There the matter ended. Or rather it did not end, since from that moment
Isobel began to reflect much on matrimony and other civilized
institutions, as to which at last she formed views that were not common
among girls of her generation. In short, she took the first step
towards Radicalism, and entered on the road of rebellion against the
Existing and Acknowledged. 

During the governess era which followed this scene Isobel travelled far
and fast along that road. The lady, or rather the ladies, hired by her
father, for his wife was allowed no voice in their selection, were of
the order known as “determined”; disciplinarians of the first
water. For one reason or another they did not stay. Isobel, though a
quick and able child, very fond of reading moreover, proved unamenable
under discipline as understood by those formidable females, and owing
to her possession of a curious tenacity of purpose, ended by wearing
them down. Also they did not care for the atmosphere of the house,
which was depressing. 

One of them once tried to strike Isobel. This was when she was nearly
thirteen. Isobel replied with the schoolroom inkpot. She was an adept
at stone-throwing, and other athletic arts. It caught her instructress
fair upon her gentle bosom, spoiled her dress, filled her mouth and
eyes with ink, and nearly knocked her down.

“I shall tell your father to flog you,” gasped the lady when she
recovered her breath.

“I should advise you not,” said Isobel. “And what is
more,” she added after reflection, “if you do I shall advise him
not to listen to you.”

Then the governess thought better of it and gave notice instead. To be
just to John Blake he never attempted to resort to violence against his
daughter. This may have been because he knew by instinct that it would
not be safe to do so or tend to his own comfort. Or perhaps, it was for
the reason that in his way he was fond of her, looking on her with
pride not quite untouched by fear. Like all bullies he was a coward at
heart, and respected anyone who dared to stand up to him, even although
she were but a girl, and his own daughter. 

After the victim of the inkpot incident departed, threatening actions at
law and proclaiming that her pupil would come to a bad end, questions
arose as to Isobel’s future education. Evidently the governess
experiment had broken down and was not worth repeating. Although she
trembled at the idea of parting with her only joy and consolation in
life, Lady Jane suggested that she should be sent to school. It was
fortunate for her that she did so, since as the idea came from his
wife, Mr. Blake negatived it at once firmly and finally, a decision
which she accepted with an outward sigh of resignation, having learned 
the necessity of guile, and inward delight. Indeed, for it that evening
she thanked God upon her knees. 

It may be also that her father did not wish that Isobel should go away.
Lady Jane bored him to distraction, since kicking a cushion soon
becomes poor sport. So much did she bore him indeed that for this and
other reasons he passed most of his time in London or at Harwich, in
both of which places he had offices where he transacted his shipping
business, only spending the week-ends at Hawk’s Hall. It was his
custom to bring with him parties of friends, business men as a rule, to
whom, for sundry purposes, he wished to appear in the character of a
family man and local magnate. Isobel, who was quick and vivacious even
while she was still a child, helped to make these parties pass off
well, whereas without her he felt that they would have been a failure.
Also she was useful during the shooting season. So it came about that
she was kept at home. 

It was at this juncture that an idea came to Mr. Blake. A few years
before, at the very depth of the terrible agricultural depression of
the period, he had purchased at a forced sale by the mortgagees, the
entire Monk’s Acre estate, at about £12 the acre, which was less
than the cost of the buildings that stood upon the land. This, as he
explained to all and sundry, he had done at great personal loss in the
interest of the tenants and labourers, but as a matter of fact, even at
the existing rents, the investment paid him a fair rate of interest,
and was one which, as a business man he knew must increase in value
when times changed. With the property went the advowson of Monk’s
Acre, and it chanced that a year later the living fell vacant through
the resignation of the incumbent. Mr. Blake, now as always seeking 
popularity, consulted the bishop, consulted the church-wardens,
consulted the parishioners, and in the end consulted his own interests
by nominating the nephew of a wealthy baronet of his acquaintance whom
he was anxious to secure as a director upon the Board of a certain
company in which he had large holdings. 

“I have never seen this clerical gentleman and know nothing of his
views, or anything about him. But if you recommend him, my dear Sir
Samuel, it is enough for me, since I always judge of a man by his
friends. Perhaps you will furnish me, or rather my lawyers, with the
necessary particulars, and I will see that the matter is put through.
Now, to come to more important business, as to this Board of which I am
chairman,” &c. 

The end of it was that Sir Samuel, flattered by such deference, became a
member of the Board and Sir Samuel’s nephew became rector of Monk’s
Acre. 

Such appointments, like marriages, are made in Heaven—at least that
seems to be the doctrine of the English Church, which is content to act
thereon. In this particular instance the results were quite good. The
Rev. Mr. Knight, the nephew of the opulent Sir Samuel, proved to be an
excellent and hard-working clergyman. He was low-church, and narrow
almost to the point of Calvinism, but intensely earnest and
conscientious; one who looked upon the world as a place of sin and woe
through which we must labour and pass on, a difficult path beset with
rocks and thorns, leading to the unmeasured plains of Heaven. Also he
was an educated man who had taken high degrees at college, and really
learned in his way. While he was a curate, working very hard in a great
seaport town, he had married the daughter of another clergyman of the
city, who died in a sudden fashion as the result of an accident,
leaving the girl an orphan. She was not pure English as her mother had
been a Dane, but on both sides her descent was high, as indeed was that
of Mr. Knight himself.    

This union, contracted on the husband’s part largely from motives that
might be called charitable, since he had promised his deceased colleague
on his death bed to befriend the daughter, was but moderately
successful. The wife had the characteristics of her race; largeness and
liberality of view, high aspirations for humanity, considerable
intelligence, and a certain tendency towards mysticism of the
Swedenborgian type, qualities that her husband neither shared nor could
appreciate. It was perhaps as well, therefore that she died at the
birth of her only son, Godfrey, three years after her marriage. 

Mr. Knight never married again. Matrimony was not a state which appealed
to his somewhat shrunken nature. Although he admitted its necessity to
the human race, of it in his heart he did not approve, nor would he
ever have undertaken it at all had it not been for a sense of
obligation. This attitude, because it made for virtue as he understood
it, he set down to virtue, as we are all apt to do, a sacrifice of the
things of earth and of the flesh to the things of heaven, and of the
spirit. In fact, it was nothing of the sort, but only the outcome of 
individual physical and mental conditions. Towards female society,
however hallowed and approved its form, he had no leanings. Also the
child was a difficulty, so great indeed that at times almost he
regretted that a wise Providence had not thought fit to take it
straight to the joys of heaven with its mother, though afterwards, as
the boy’s intelligence unfolded, he developed interest in him. This,
however, he was careful to keep in check, lest he should fall into the
sin of inordinate affection, denounced by St. Paul in common with other
errors.    

Finally, he found an elderly widow, named Parsons, who acted as his
housekeeper, and took charge of his son. Fortunately for Godfrey her
sense of parenthood was more pronounced than that of his father, and
she, who had lost two children of her own, played the part of mother to
him with a warm and loyal heart. From the first she loved him, and he
loved her; it was an affection that continued throughout their lives.

When Godfrey was about nine his father’s health broke down. He was
still a curate in his seaport town, for good, as goodness is
understood, and hard-working as he was, no promotion had come his way.
Perhaps this was because the bishop and his other superiors,
recognising his lack of sympathy and his narrowness of outlook, did not
think him a suitable man to put in charge of a parish. At any rate, so
it happened. 

Thus arose his appeal to his wealthy and powerful relative, Sir Samuel,
and his final nomination to a country benefice, for in the country the
doctor said that he must live—unless he wished to die. Convinced
though he was of the enormous advantages of Heaven over an earth which
he knew to be extremely sinful, the Rev. Mr. Knight, like the rest of
the world, shrank from the second alternative, which, as he stated in a
letter of thanks to Sir Samuel, however much it might benefit him
personally, would cut short his period of terrestrial usefulness to
others. So he accepted the rectorship of Monk’s Acre with gratitude.

In one way there was not much for which to be grateful, seeing that in
those days of depreciated tithes the living was not worth more than
£250 a year and his own resources, which came from his wife’s small
fortune, were very limited. It should have been valuable, but the great
tithes were alienated with the landed property of the Abbey by Henry
VIII, and now belonged to the lay rector, Mr. Blake, who showed no
signs of using them to increase the incumbent’s stipend.

Still there was a good house with an excellent garden, too good indeed,
with its beautiful and ancient rooms which a former rector of
archæological knowledge and means had in part restored to their
pristine state, while for the rest his tastes were simple and his needs
few, for, of course, he neither drank wine nor smoked. Therefore, as
has been said, he took the living with thankfulness and determined to
make the best of it on a total income of about £350 a year.



CHAPTER II

ISOBEL KISSES GODFREY


On the whole Monk’s Acre suited Mr. Knight fairly well. It is true
that he did not like the Abbey, as it was still called, of which the
associations and architectural beauty made no appeal to him, and
thought often with affection of the lodging-house-like abode in which
he had dwelt in his southern seaport town amid the Victorian
surroundings that were suited to his Victorian nature. The glorious
church, too, irritated him, partly because it was so glorious, and
notwithstanding all that the Reformation had done to mar it, so 
suggestive of papistical practice and errors, and partly because the 
congregation was so scanty in that great expanse of nave and aisle, to
say nothing of the chancel and sundry chapels, that they looked like a
few wandering sheep left by themselves in a vast and almost emptied
fold. Nor was this strange, seeing that the total population of the
parish was but one hundred and forty-seven souls. 

Of his squire and patron he saw but little. Occasionally Mr. Blake
attended church and as lay-rector was accommodated in an ugly oak box
in the chancel, where his big body and florid countenance reminded
Godfrey of Farmer Johnson’s prize polled ox in its stall. These state
visits were not however very frequent and depended largely upon the
guests who were staying for the week-end at the Hall. If Mr. Blake
discovered that these gentlemen were religiously inclined, he went to
church. If otherwise, and this was more common, acting on his principle
of being all things to all men, he stopped away. 

Personally he did not bother his head about the matter which, in secret,
he looked upon as one of the ramifications of the great edifice of
British cant. The vast majority of people in his view went to church,
not because they believed in anything or wished for instruction or
spiritual consolation, but because it looked respectable, which was
exactly why he did so himself. Even then nearly always he sat alone in
the oak box, his visitors generally preferring to occupy the pew in the
nave which was frequented by Lady Jane and Isobel.

Nor did the two often meet socially since their natures were
antipathetic. In the bosom of his family Mr. Blake would refer to Mr.
Knight as the “little parson rat,” while in his bosom Mr. Knight
would think of Mr. Blake as “that bull of Bashan.” Further, after
some troubles had arisen about a question of tithe, also about the
upkeep of the chancel, Blake discovered that beneath his meek exterior
the clergyman had a strong will and very clear ideas of the difference
between right and wrong, in short, that he was not a man to be trifled
with, and less still one of whom he could make a tool. Having
ascertained these things he left him alone as much as possible. 

Mr. Knight very soon became aware first that his income was insufficient
to his needs, and secondly, especially now when his health was much
improved, that after a busy and hard-working life, time at Monk’s
Acre hung heavily upon his hands. The latter trouble to some extent he
palliated by beginning the great work that he had planned ever since he
became a deacon, for which his undoubted scholarship gave him certain
qualifications. Its provisional title was, “Babylon Unveiled” (he
would have liked to substitute “The Scarlet Woman” for Babylon) and
its apparent object an elaborate attack upon the Roman Church, which in
fact was but a cover for the real onslaught. With the Romans, although
perhaps he did not know it himself, he had certain sympathies, for
instance, in the matter of celibacy. Nor did he entirely disapprove of
the monastic orders. Then he found nothing shocking in the tenets and
methods of the Jesuits working for what they conceived to be a good
end. The real targets of his animosity were his high-church brethren of 
the Church of England, wretches who, whilst retaining all the privileges
of the Anglican Establishment, such as marriage, did not hesitate to
adopt almost every error of Rome and to make use of her secret power
over the souls of men by the practice of Confession and otherwise. 

As this monumental treatise began in the times of the Early Fathers and
was planned to fill ten volumes of at least a hundred thousand words
apiece, no one will be surprised to learn that it never reached the
stage of publication, or indeed, to be accurate, that it came to final
stop somewhere about the time of Athanasius.

Realizing that the work was likely to equal that of Gibbon both in
length and the years necessary to its completion; also that from it
could be expected no immediate pecuniary profits, Mr. Knight looked
round to find some other way of occupying his leisure, and adding to
his income. Although a reserved person, on a certain Sunday when he
went to lunch at the Hall, in the absence of Mr. Blake who was spending
the week-end somewhere else, he confided his difficulties to Lady Jane
whom he felt to be sympathetic. 

“The house is so big,” he complained. “Mrs. Parsons”
(Godfrey’s old nurse and his housekeeper) “and one girl cannot even
keep it clean. It was most foolish of my predecessor in the living to
restore that old refectory and all the southern dormitories upon which
I am told he spent no less than £1,500 of his own money, never
reflecting on the expense which his successors must incur merely to
keep them in order, since being once there they are liable for charges
for dilapidations. It would have been better, after permission
obtained, to let them go to ruin.” 

“No doubt, but they are very beautiful, are they not?” remarked
Lady Jane feebly.

“Beauty is a luxury and, I may add, a snare. It is a mistaken love of
beauty and pomp, baits that the Evil One well knows how to use, which
have led so large a section of our Church astray,” he replied sipping
at his tumbler of water.

A silence followed, for Lady Jane, who from early and tender
associations loved high-church practices, did not know what to answer.
It was broken by Isobel who had been listening to the conversation in
her acute way, and now said in her clear, strong voice:

“Why don’t you keep a school, Mr. Knight? There’s lots of
room for it in the Abbey.”

“A school!” he said. “A school! I never thought of that. No,
it is ridiculous. Still, pupils perhaps. Out of the mouth of babes and
sucklings, &c. Well, it is time for me to be going. I will think the
matter over after church.”

Mr. Knight did think the matter over and after consultation with his
housekeeper, Mrs. Parsons, an advertisement appeared in _The Times_ and
_The Spectator_ inviting parents and guardians to entrust two or three
lads to the advertiser’s care to receive preliminary education,
together with his own son. It proved fruitful, and after an exchange of
the “highest references,” two little boys appeared at Monk’s
Acre, both of them rather delicate in health. This was shortly before
the crisis arose as to the future teaching of Isobel, when the last
governess, wishing her “a better spirit,” had bidden her a frigid
farewell and shaken the dust of Hawk’s Hall off her feet.

One day Isobel was sent with a note to the Abbey House. She rang the
bell but no one came, for Mr. Knight was out walking with his pupils
and Mrs. Parsons and the parlour-maid were elsewhere. Tired of waiting,
she wandered round the grey old building in the hope of finding someone
to whom she could deliver the letter, and came to the refectory which
had a separate entrance. The door was open and she peeped in. At first,
after the brilliant sunlight without, she saw nothing except the great
emptiness of the place with its splendid oak roof on the repair of
which the late incumbent had spent so much, since as is common in 
monkish buildings, the windows were high and narrow. Presently, however,
she perceived a little figure seated in the shadow at the end of the
long oaken refectory table, that at which the monks had eaten, which
still remained where it had stood for hundreds of years, one of the
fixtures of the house, and knew it for that of Godfrey, Mr. Knight’s
son. Gliding towards him quietly she saw that he was asleep and stopped
to study him.    

He was a beautiful boy, pale just now for he had recovered but recently
from some childish illness. His hair was dark and curling, dark, too,
were his eyes, though these she could not see, and the lashes over
them, while his hands were long and fine. He looked most lonely and
pathetic, there in the big oak chair that had so often accommodated the
portly forms of departed abbots, and her warm heart went out towards
him. Of course Isobel knew him, but not very well, for he was a shy lad
and her father had never encouraged intimacy between the Abbey House
and the Hall. 

Somehow she had the idea that he was unhappy, for indeed he looked so
even in his sleep, though perhaps this was to be accounted for by a
paper of unfinished sums before him. Sympathy welled up in Isobel, who
remembered the oppressions of the last governess—her of the inkpot.
Sympathy, yes, and more than sympathy, for of a sudden she felt as she
had never felt before. She loved the little lad as though he were her
brother. A strange affinity for him came home to her, although she did
not define it thus; it was as if she knew that her spirit was intimate
with his, yes, and always had been and always would be intimate.

This subtle knowledge went through Isobel like fire and shook her. She
turned pale, her nostrils expanded, her large eyes opened and she
sighed. She did more indeed. Drawn by some over-mastering impulse she
drew near to Godfrey and kissed him gently on the forehead, then glided
back again frightened and ashamed at her own act.

Now he woke up; she felt his dark eyes looking at her. Then he spoke in
a slow, puzzled voice, saying:

“I have had such a funny dream. I dreamed that a spirit came and
kissed me. I did not see it, but I think it must have been my
mother’s.” 

“Why?” asked Isobel.

“Because no one else ever cared enough for me to kiss me, except Mrs.
Parsons, and she has given it up now that the other boys are here.”

“Does not your father kiss you?” she asked.

“Yes, once a week, on Sunday evening when I go to bed. But I don’t
count that.”

“No, I understand,” said Isobel, thinking of her own father, then
added hastily, “it must be sad not to have a mother.”

“It is,” he answered, “especially when one is ill as I have
been, and must lie so long in bed with pains in the head. You know I had
an abscess in the ear and it hurt very much.”

“I didn’t know. We heard you were ill and mother wanted to come to
see you. Father wouldn’t let her. He thought it might be measles and
he is afraid of catching things.”

“Yes,” replied Godfrey without surprise. “It wasn’t
measles, but if it had been you might have caught them, so of course he
was right to be careful.”

“Oh! he wasn’t thinking of me or Mummy, he was thinking of
himself,” blurted out Isobel with the candour of youth.

“Big, strong men don’t catch measles,” said Godfrey in mild
astonishment.

“He says they do, and that they are very dangerous when you are grown
up. Why are you alone here, and what are you working at?”

“My father has kept me in as a punishment because I did my sums wrong.
The other boys have gone out bird-nesting, but I have to stop here until
I get them right. I don’t know when that will be,” he added with a
sigh, “as I hate rule of three and can’t do it.”

“Rule of three,” said Isobel, “I’m quite good at it.
You see I like figures. My father says it is the family business
instinct. Here, let me try. Move to the other side of that big chair,
there’s plenty of room for two, and show it to me.”

He obeyed with alacrity and soon the brown head and the fair one were
bent together over the scrawled sheet. Isobel, who had really a budding
talent for mathematics, worked out the sum, or rather the sums, without
difficulty and then, with guile acquired under the governess régime,
made him copy them and destroyed all traces of her own handiwork.

“Are you as stupid at everything as you are at sums?” she asked
when he had finished, rising from the chair and seating herself on the
edge of the table.

“What a rude thing to ask! Of course not,” he replied indignantly.
“I am very good at Latin and history, which I like. But you see father
doesn’t care much for them. He was a Wrangler, you know.”

“A Wrangler! How dreadful. I suppose that is why he argues so much in
his sermons. I hate history. It’s full of dates and the names of
kings who were all bad. I can’t make out why people put up with
kings,” she added reflectively.

“Because they ought to, ‘God bless our gracious Queen,’ you
know.”

“Well, God may bless her but I don’t see why I should as she never
did anything for me, though Father does hope she will make him something
one day. I’d like to be a Republican with a President as they have in
America.”

“You must be what father calls a wicked Radical,” said Godfrey
staring at her, “one of those people who want to disestablish the
Church.”

“I daresay,” she replied, nodding her head. “That is if you
mean making clergymen work like other people, instead of spying and
gossiping and playing games as they do about here.”

Godfrey did not pursue the argument, but remarked immorally:

“It’s a pity you don’t come to our class, for then I could do
your history papers and you could do my sums.”

She started, but all she said was:

“This would be a good place to learn history. Now I must be going.
Don’t forget to give the note. I shall have to say that I waited a
long while before I found anyone. Goodbye, Godfrey.”

“Goodbye, Isobel,” he answered, but she was gone.

“I hope he did dream that it was his mother who kissed him,” Isobel
reflected to herself, for now the full enormity of her performance came
home to her. Young as she was, a mere child with no knowledge of the
great animating forces of life and of the mysteries behind them, she
wondered why she had done this thing; what it was that forced her to do
it. For she knew well that something had forced her, something outside
of herself, as she understood herself. It was as though another entity
that was in her and yet not herself had taken possession of her and
made her act as uninfluenced, she never would have acted. Thus she
pondered in her calm fashion, then, being able to make nothing of the
business, shrugged her shoulders and let it go by. After all it 
mattered nothing since Godfrey had dreamed that the ghost of his mother
had visited him and would not suspect her of being that ghost, and she
was certain that never would she do such a thing again. The trouble was
that she had done it once and that the deed signified some change in
her which her childish mind could not understand. 

On reaching the Hall, or rather shortly afterwards, she saw her father
who was waiting for the carriage in which to go to the station to meet
some particularly important week-end guest. He asked if she had brought
any answer to his note to Mr. Knight, and she told him that she had
left it in the schoolroom, as she called the refectory, because he was
out. 

“I hope he will get it,” grumbled Mr. Blake. “One of my
friends who is coming down to-night thinks he understands architecture
and I want the parson to show him over the Abbey House. Indeed that’s
why he has come, for you see he is an American who thinks a lot of such
old things.”

“Well, it is beautiful, isn’t it, Father?” she said.
“Even I felt that it would be easy to learn in that big old room with
a roof like that of a church.”

An idea struck him.

“Would you like to go to school there, Isobel?”

“I think so, Father, as I must go to school somewhere and I hate those
horrible governesses.”

“Well,” he replied, “you couldn’t throw inkpots at the
holy Knight, as you did at Miss Hook. Lord! what a rage she was in,”
he added with a chuckle. “I had to pay her £5 for a new dress. But
it was better to do that than to risk a County Court action.”

Then the carriage came and he departed.

The upshot of it all was that Isobel became another of Mr. Knight’s
pupils. When Mr. Blake suggested the arrangement to his wife, she raised
certain objections, among them that associating with these little lads
might make a tomboy of the girl, adding that she had been taught with
children of her own sex. He retorted in his rough marital fashion, that
if it made something different of Isobel to what she, the mother, was,
he would be glad. Indeed, as usual, Lady Jane’s opposition settled
the matter. 

Now for the next few years of Isobel’s life there is little to be
told. Mr. Knight was an able man and a good teacher, and being a clever
girl she learned a great deal from him, especially in the way of
mathematics, for which, as has been said, she had a natural leaning.

Indeed very soon she outstripped Godfrey and the other lads in this and
sundry other branches of study, sitting at a table by herself on what
once had been the dais of the old hall. In the intervals of lessons,
however, it was their custom to take walks together and then it was
that she always found herself at the side of Godfrey. Indeed they
became inseparable, at any rate in mind. A strange and most uncommon
intimacy existed between these young creatures, almost might it have
been called a friendship of the spirit. Yet, and this was the curious
part of it, they were dissimilar in almost everything that goes to make
up a human being. Even in childhood there was scarcely a subject on
which they thought alike, scarcely a point upon which they would not
argue.    

Godfrey was fond of poetry; it bored Isobel. His tendencies were towards
religion though of a very different type from that preached and
practised by his father; hers were anti-religious. In fact she would
have been inclined to endorse the saying of that other schoolgirl who
defined faith as “the art of believing those things which we know to
be untrue,” while to him on the other hand they were profoundly true,
though often enough not in the way that they are generally accepted.
Had he possessed any powers of definition at that age, probably he
would have described our accepted beliefs as shadows of the Truth,
distorted and fantastically shaped, like those thrown by changeful, 
ragged clouds behind which the eternal sun is shining, shadows that vary
in length and character according to the hour and weather of the mortal
day.    

Isobel for her part took little heed of shadows. Her clear, scientific
stamp of mind searched for ascertainable facts, and on these she built
up her philosophy of life and of the death that ends it. Of course all
such contradictions may often be found in a single mind which believes
at one time and rejects at another and sees two, or twenty sides of
everything with a painful and bewildering clearness.

Such a character is apt to end in profound dissatisfaction with the self
from which it cannot be free. Much more then would one have imagined
that these two must have been dissatisfied with each other and sought
the opportunities of escape which were open to them. But it was not so
in the least. They argued and contradicted until they had nothing more
to say, and then lapsed into long periods of weary but good-natured
silence. In a sense each completed each by the addition of its
opposite, as the darkness completes the light, thus making the round of
the perfect day. 

As yet this deep affection and remarkable oneness showed no signs of the
end to which obviously it was drifting. That kiss which the girl had
given to the boy was pure sisterly, or one might almost say, motherly,
and indeed this quality inspired their relationship for much longer
than might have been expected. So much was this so that no one
connected with them on either side ever had the slightest suspicion
that they cared for each other in any way except as friends and fellow
pupils. 

So the years went by till the pair were seventeen, young man and young
woman, though still called boy and girl. They were good-looking in
their respective ways though yet unformed; tall and straight, too, both
of them, but singularly dissimilar in appearance as well as in mind.
Godfrey was dark, pale and thoughtful-faced. Isobel was fair,
vivacious, open-natured, amusing, and given to saying the first thing
that came to her tongue. She had few reservations; her thoughts might
be read in her large grey eyes before they were heard from her lips,
which generally was not long afterwards. Also she was very able. She 
read and understood the papers and followed all the movements of the day
with a lively interest, especially if these had to do with national
affairs or with women and their status. 

Business, too, came naturally to her, so much so that her father would
consult her about his undertakings, that is, about those of them which
were absolutely above board and beyond suspicion of sharp dealing. The
others he was far too wise to bring within her ken, knowing exactly
what he would have heard from her upon the subject. And yet
notwithstanding all his care she suspected him, by instinct, not by
knowledge. For his part he was proud of her and would listen with
pleasure when, still a mere child, she engaged his guests boldly in 
argument, for instance a bishop or a dean on theology, or a statesman on
 current politics. Already he had formed great plans for her future; she
was to marry a peer who took an active part in things, or at any rate a
leading politician, and to become a power in the land. But of this,
too, wisely he said nothing to Isobel, for the time had not yet come. 

During these years things had prospered exceedingly with John Blake who
was now a very rich man with ships owned, or partly owned by him on
every sea. On several occasions he had been asked to stand for
Parliament and declined the honour. He knew himself to be no speaker,
and was sure also that he could not attend both to the affairs of the
country and to those of his ever-spreading business. So he took another
course and began to support the Conservative Party, which he selected
as the safest, by means of large subscriptions. 

He did more, he bought a baronetcy, for only thus can the transaction be
described. When a General Election was drawing near, one evening after
dinner at Hawk’s Hall he had a purely business conversation with a
political Whip who, perhaps not without motive, had been complaining to
him of the depleted state of the Party Chest.

“Well,” said Mr. Blake, “you know that my principles are
yours and that I should like to help your, or rather our cause. Money is
tight with me just now and the outlook is very bad in my trade, but
I’m a man who always backs his fancy; in short, would £15,000 be of
use?” 

The Whip intimated that it would be of the greatest use.

“Of course,” continued Mr. Blake, “I presume that the usual
acknowledgment would follow?”

“What acknowledgment?” asked the Whip sipping his port wearily, for
such negotiations were no new thing to him. “I mean, how do you spell
it?”

“With a P,” said Mr. Blake boldly, acting on his usual principle of
asking for more than he hoped to get.

The Whip contemplated him through his eyeglass with a mild and
interested stare. 

“Out of the question, my dear fellow,” he said. “That box is
full and locked, and there’s a long outside list waiting as well.
Perhaps you mean with a K. You know money isn’t everything, as some
of you gentlemen seem to think, and if it were, you would have said
fifty instead of fifteen.”

“K be damned!” replied Mr. Blake. “I’m not a mayor or
an actor-manager. Let’s say B, that stands for Beginning as well as
Baronet; also it comes before P, doesn’t it?”

“Well, let’s see. You haven’t a son, have you? Then perhaps
it might be managed,” replied the Whip with gentle but pointed
insolence, for Mr. Blake annoyed him. “I’ll make inquiries, and
now, shall we join the ladies? I want to continue my conversation with
your daughter about the corruption which some enemy, taking advantage
of her innocence, has persuaded her exists in the Conservative Party.
She is a clever young lady and makes out a good case against us, though
I am sure I do not know whence she got her information. Not from you, I
suppose, Sir John—I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake.”

So the matter was settled, as both of them knew it would be when they
left the room. The cash found its way into some nebulous account that
nobody could have identified with any party, and in the Dissolution
Honours, John Blake, Esq., J.P., was transformed into Sir John Blake,
Bart.; information that left tens of thousands of the students of the
list mildly marvelling why. As the same wonder struck them regarding
the vast majority of the names which appeared therein, this, however,
did not matter. They presumed, good, easy souls, that John Blake, Esq.,
J.P., and the rest were patriots who for long years had been working
for the good of their country, and that what they had done in secret 
had been discovered in high places and was now proclaimed from the
housetops.    

Lady Jane was inclined to share this view. She knew that a great deal of
her husband’s money went into mysterious channels of which she was
unable to trace the ends, and concluded in her Victorian-wife kind of
fashion, or at any rate hoped, that it was spent in alleviating the
distress of the “Submerged Tenth” which at that time was much in
evidence. Hence no doubt the gracious recognition that had come to him.
John Blake himself, who paid over the cash, naturally had no such
delusions, and unfortunately in that moment of exultation, when he
contemplated his own name adorning the lists in every newspaper, let
out the truth at breakfast at which Isobel was his sole companion. For
by this time Lady Jane had grown too delicate to come down early. 

“Well, you’ve got a baronet for a father now, my
girl”—to be accurate he called it a “bart.”—he
said puffing himself out like a great toad before the fire, as he threw
down the _Daily News_ in which his name was icily ignored in a spiteful
leaderette about the Honours List, upon the top of _The Times_, _The
Standard_, and _The Morning Post_.

“Oh!” said Isobel in an interested voice and paused.

“It’s wonderful what money can do,” went on her father, who
was inclined for a discussion, and saw no other way of opening up the
subject. “Certain qualifications of which it does not become me to
speak, and a good subscription to the Party funds, and there you are
with Bart. instead of Esq. after your name and Sir before it. I wonder
when I shall get the Patent? You know baronets do not receive the
accolade.” 

“Don’t they?” commented Isobel. “Well, that saves the
Queen some trouble of which she must be glad as she does not get the
subscription. I know all about the accolade,” she added; “for
Godfrey has told me. Only the other day he was showing me in the Abbey
Church where the warriors who were to receive it, knelt all night
before the altar. But they didn’t give subscriptions, they prayed and
afterwards took a cold bath.”

“Times are changed,” he answered.

“Yes, of course. I can’t see _you_ kneeling all night with a
white robe on, Father, in prayer before an altar. But tell me, would
they have made you a baronet if you hadn’t given the subscription?”

Sir John chuckled till his great form shook—he had grown very stout of
late years.

“I think you are sharp enough to answer that question for yourself. I
have observed, Isobel, that you know as much of the world as most young
girls of your age.”

“So you bought the thing,” she exclaimed with a flash of her grey
eyes. “I thought that honours were given because they were earned.”

“Did you?” said Sir John, chuckling again. “Well, now you
know better. Look here, Isobel, don’t be a fool. Honours, or most of
them, like other things, are for those who can pay for them in this way
or that. Nobody bothers how they come so long as they _do_ come. Now,
listen. Unfortunately, as a girl, you can’t inherit this title. But
it doesn’t matter much, since it will be easy for you to get one for
yourself.”

Isobel turned red and uttered an exclamation, but enjoining silence on
her with a wave of his fat hand, her father went on:

“I haven’t done so badly, my dear, considering my chances. I
don’t mind telling you that I am a rich man now, indeed a very rich
man as things go, and I shall be much richer, for nothing pays like
ships, especially if you man them with foreign crews. Also I am a
Bart.,” and he pointed to the pile of newspapers on the floor, “and
if my Party gets in again, before long I shall be a Lord, which would
make you an Honourable. Anyway, my girl, although you ain’t exactly a
beauty,” here he considered her with a critical eye, “you’ll make
a fine figure of a woman and with your money, you should be able to get
any husband you like. What’s more,” and he banged his fist upon the
table, “I expect you to do it; that’s your part of the family
business. Do you understand?”

“I understand, Father, that you expect me to get any husband I like.
Well, I’ll promise that.”

“I think you ought to come into the office, you are so smart,”
replied Sir John with sarcasm. “But don’t you try it on me, for
I’m smarter. You know very well that I mean any husband _I_ like,
when I say ‘any husband you like.’ Now do you understand?”

“Yes,” replied Isobel icily. “I understand that you want to
buy me a husband as you have bought a title. Well, titles and husbands
are alike in one thing; once taken you can never be rid of them day or
night. So I’ll say at once, to save trouble afterwards, that I would
rather earn my living as a farm girl, and as for your money, Father,
you can do what you wish with it.”

Then looking him straight in the eyes, she turned and left the room.

“An odd child!” thought Sir John to himself as he stared after her.
“Anyway, she has got spirit and no doubt will come all right in time
when she learns what’s what.”



CHAPTER III

THE PLANTAGENET LADY


In the course of these years of adolescence, Godfrey Knight had
developed into a rather unusual stamp of youth. In some ways he was
clever, for instance at the classics and history which he had always
liked; in others and especially where figures were concerned, he was
stupid, or as his father called him, idle. In company he was apt to be
shy and dull, unless some subject interested him, when to the
astonishment of those present, he would hold forth and show knowledge
and powers of reflection beyond his years. By nature he was intensely 
proud; the one thing he never forgot was a rebuff, or forgave, was an
insult. Sir John Blake soon found this out, and not liking the lad,
whose character was antagonistic to his own in every way, never lost an
opportunity of what he called “putting him in his place,” perhaps
because something warned him that this awkward, handsome boy would
become a stumbling-block to his successful feet. 

Godfrey and Isobel were both great readers. Nor did they lack for books,
for as it chanced there was a good library at Hawk’s Hall, which had
been formed by the previous owner and taken over like the pictures,
when Mr. Blake bought the house. Also it was added to constantly, as an
order was given to a large London bookseller to supply all the
important new works that came out. Although he never opened a book
himself, Sir John liked to appear intellectual by displaying them about
the rooms for the benefit of his visitors. These publications Isobel
read and lent to Godfrey; indeed they perused a great deal which young
people generally are supposed to leave alone, and this in various 
schools of thought, including those that are known as “free.” 

It was seldom that such studies led to unanimity between them, but to
argument, which sharpened their intellects, they did lead, followed
invariably by a charitable agreement to differ.

About the time of the addition of the name of John Blake to the roll of
British Chivalry, a book on Mars came their way—it was one by a
speculative astronomer which suggests that the red planet is the home
of reasoning beings akin to humanity. Isobel read it and was not
impressed. Indeed, in the vigorous language of youth, she opined that
it was all “made-up rot.” 

Godfrey read it also and came to quite a different conclusion. The idea
fired him and opened a wide door in his imagination, a quality with
which he was well provided. He stared at Mars through the large Hall
telescope, and saw, or imagined that he saw the canals, also the
snow-caps and the red herbage. Isobel stared too and saw, or swore that
she saw—nothing at all—after which they argued until their throats
were dry. 

“It’s all nonsense,” said Isobel. “If only you’ll
study the rocks and biology, and Darwin’s ‘Origin of
Species,’ and lots of other things, you will see how man came to
develop on this planet. He is just an accident of Nature, that’s
all.” 

“And why shouldn’t there be an accident of Nature on Mars and
elsewhere?” queried Godfrey.

“Perhaps, but if so, it is quite another accident and has nothing to
do with us.”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Sometimes,” here
his voice became dreamy as it had a way of doing, “I think that we
pass on, all of us, from star to star. At least I know I often feel as
if I had done so.”

“You mean from planet to planet, Godfrey; stars are hot places, you
know. You should not swallow all that theosophical bosh which is based
on nothing.”

“There’s the Bible,” went on Godfrey, “which tells us
the same thing, that we live eternally——”

“Then we must always have lived, since eternity is a circle.”

“Why not, Isobel? That is what I was trying to say. Well, if we live
eternally, we must live somewhere, perhaps in those planets, or others,
which it would be a waste to keep empty.”

“I daresay—though Nature does not mind waste, or what seems to be
waste. But why should you think of living eternally at all? Many people
live a great deal too long as it is, and it is horrible to believe that
they go on for ever.”

“You see they might grow to something splendid in the end, Isobel. You
must not judge them by what they are now.”

“Oh! I know, the caterpillar and the butterfly, and all the rest of
it.”

“The Bible”—continued Godfrey imperturbably—when she
cut him short.

“Well, what of the Bible? How do you know that it is true?”

“Because I do know it, though the truth in it may be different for
everyone. What is more, I know that one day you will agree with me.”

She looked at him curiously in the flashing way that was peculiar to
her, for something in his tone and manner impressed her.

“Perhaps. I hope so, Godfrey, but at present I often feel as though I
believed in nothing, except that I am I and you are you, and my father
is—there he’s calling me. Goodbye,” and she was gone.

This particular conversation, one of many, had, as it happened,
important results on the lives of these two young creatures. Isobel, in
whom the love of Truth, however ugly it might be and however
destructive of hope, faith, charity and all the virtues, was a burning,
inbred passion, took to the secret study of theology in order to find
out why Godfrey was so convinced as to the teachings of the Bible. She
was not old or mellowed enough to understand that the real reason must
be discovered, not in the letter but in the spirit, that is in the 
esoteric meaning of the sayings as to receiving the Kingdom of Heaven
like a child and the necessity of being born again. Therefore with a
fierce intensity, thrusting aside the spirit and its promptings which
perhaps are shadows of the only real truths, she wrestled with the
letter. She read the Divines, also much of the Higher Criticism, the
lives of Saints, the Sacred Books themselves and many other things,
only to arise bewildered, and to a great extent unbelieving.    

“Why should I believe what I cannot prove?” she cried in her heart,
and once with her lips to Godfrey.

He made her a very wise answer, although at the moment it did not strike
either of them in that light.

“When you tell me of anything that you can really prove, I will show
you why,” he said. To this he added a suggestion that was most
unwise, namely, that she should consult his father.

Now Mr. Knight was, it is true, a skilled theologian of a certain,
narrow school and learned in his way. It is probable, however, that in
all the wide world it would have been difficult to find any man less
sympathetic to a mind like Isobel’s or more likely to antagonize her
eager and budding intelligence. Every doubt he met with intolerant
denial; every argument with offensive contradiction; every query with
references to texts. 

Finally, he lost his temper, for be it acknowledged, that this girl was
persistent, far from humble, and in a way as dogmatic as himself. He
told her that she was not a Christian, and in her wrath she agreed with
him. He said that she had no right to be in church. She replied that if
this were so she would not come and, her father being indifferent upon
the point (Lady Jane did not count in such matters), ceased her
attendance. It was the old story of a strait-minded bigot forcing a
large-minded doubter out of the fold that ought to have been wide
enough for both of them. Moreover, this difference of opinion on
matters of public and spiritual interest ended in a private and mundane 
animosity. Mr. Knight could never forgive a pupil of his own, whose
ability he recognized, who dared to question his pontifical
announcements. To him the matter was personal rather than one of
religious truth, for there are certain minds in whose crucibles
everything is resolved individually, and his was one of them. He saw
the largest matters through his own special and highly-magnifying
spectacles. So, to be brief, they quarrelled once and for all, and
thenceforward never attempted to conceal their cordial dislike of each 
other.    

Such was one result of this unlucky discussion as to the exact
conditions of the planet Mars, god of war. Another was that Godfrey
developed a strong interest in the study of the heavenly bodies and
when some domestic debate arose as to his future career, announced with
mild firmness that he intended to be an astronomer. His father, to whom
the heavenly bodies were less than the dust beneath his human feet and
who believed in his heart that they had been created, every one of
them, to give a certain amount of light to the inhabitants of this
world when there was no moon, was furious in his arctic fashion,
especially as he was aware that with a few distinguished exceptions, 
these hosts of heaven did not reward their votaries with either wealth
or honour. 

“I intend you for my own profession, the Church,” he said bluntly.
“If you choose to star-gaze in the intervals of your religious duties,
it is no affair of mine. But please understand, Godfrey, that either
you enter the Church or I wash my hands of you. In that event you may
seek your living in any way you like.”

Godfrey remonstrated meekly to the effect that he had not made up his
mind as to his fitness for Holy Orders or his wish to undertake them.

“You mean,” replied his father, “that you have been infected
by that pernicious girl, Isobel. Well, at any rate, I will remove you
from her evil influence. I am glad to say that owing to the fact that
my little school here has prospered, I am in a position to do this. I
will send you for a year to a worthy Swiss pastor whom I met as a
delegate to the recent Evangelical Congress, to learn French. He told
me he desired an English pupil to be instructed in that tongue and
general knowledge. I will write to him at once. I hope that in new
surroundings you will forget all these wild ideas and, after your
course at college, settle down to be a good and useful man in the walk
of life to which you are so clearly called.” 

Godfrey, who on such occasions knew how to be silent, made no answer,
although the attack upon Isobel provoked him sorely. In his heart
indeed he reflected that a year’s separation from his parent would
not be difficult to bear, especially beneath the shadow of the Swiss
mountains which secretly he longed to climb. Also he really wished to
acquire French, being a lad with some desire for knowledge and
appreciation of its advantages. So he looked humble merely and took the
first opportunity to slip from the presence of the fierce little man
with small eyes, straight, sandy hair and a slit where his lips should
be, through whose agency, although it was hard to believe it, he had
appeared in this disagreeable and yet most interesting world. 

In point of fact he had an assignation, of an innocent sort. Of course
it was with the “pernicious” Isobel and the place appointed was the
beautiful old Abbey Church. Here they knew that they would be
undisturbed, as Mr. Knight was to sleep at a county town twenty miles
away, where on the following morning he had business as the examiner of
a local Grammar School, and must leave at once to catch his train. So,
when watching from an upper window, he had seen the gig well on the
road, Godfrey departed to his tryst. 

Arriving in the dim and beauteous old fane, the first thing he saw was
Isobel standing alone in the chancel, right in the heart of a shaft of
light that fell on her through the rich-coloured glass of the great
west window, for now it was late in the afternoon. She wore a very
unusual white garment that became her well, but had no hat on her head.
Perhaps this was because she had taken the fancy to do her plentiful
fair hair in the old Plantagenet fashion, that is in two horns, which,
with much ingenuity she had copied more or less correctly from the
brass of an ancient, noble lady, whereof the two intended to take an 
impression. Also she had imitated some of the other peculiarities of
that picturesque costume, including the long, hanging sleeves. In
short, she wore a fancy dress which she proposed to use afterwards at a
dance, and one of the objects of the rubbing they were about to make,
was that she might study the details more carefully. At least, that was
her object. Godfrey’s was to obtain an impression of the crabbed
inscription at the foot of the effigy.    

There she stood, tall and imposing, her arms folded on her young breast,
the painted lights striking full on her broad, intellectual forehead
and large grey eyes, shining too in a patch of crimson above her heart.
Lost in thought and perfectly still, she looked strange thus, almost
unearthly, so much so that the impressionable and imaginative Godfrey,
seeing her suddenly from the shadow, halted, startled and almost
frightened. 

What did she resemble? What might she not be? he queried to himself. His
quick mind suggested an answer. The ghost of some lady dead ages since,
killed, for there was the patch of blood upon her bosom, standing above
the tomb wherein her bones crumbled, and dreaming of someone from whom
she had been divorced by doom and violence.

He sickened a little at the thought; some dread fell upon him like a
shadow of Fate’s uplifted and pointed finger, stopping his breath and
causing his knees to loosen. In a moment it was gone, to be replaced by
another that was nearer and more natural. He was to be sent away for a
year, and this meant that he would not see Isobel for a year. It would
be a very long year in which he did not see Isobel. He had forgotten
that when his father told him that he was to go to Switzerland. Now the
fact was painfully present. 

He came on up the long nave and Isobel, awakening, saw him.

“You are late,” she said in a softer voice than was usual to her.
“Well, I don’t mind, for I have been dreaming. I think I went to
sleep upon my feet. I dreamed,” she added, pointing to the brass,
“that I was that lady and—oh! all sorts of things. Well, she had
her day no doubt, and I mean to have mine before I am as dead and
forgotten as she is. Only I would like to be buried here. I’ll be
cremated and have my ashes put under that stone; they won’t hurt
her.” 

“Don’t talk like that,” he said with a little shiver, for her
words jarred upon him.

“Why not? It is as well to face things. Look at all these monuments
about us, and inscriptions, a lot of them to young people, though now
it doesn’t matter if they were old or young. Gone, every one of them
and quite forgotten, though some were great folk in their time. Gone
utterly and for always, nothing left, except perhaps descendants in a
labourer’s cottage here and there who never even heard of them.”

“I don’t believe it,” he said almost passionately, “I
believe that they are living for ever and ever, perhaps as you and I,
perhaps elsewhere.”

“I wish I could,” she answered, smiling, “for then my dream
might have been true, and you might have been that knight whose brass is
lost,” and she pointed to an empty matrix alongside that of the great
Plantagenet lady.

Godfrey glanced at the inscription which was left when the Cromwellians
tore up the brass.

“He was her husband,” he said, translating, “who died on the
field of Crecy in 1346.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Isobel, and was silent.

Meanwhile Godfrey, quite undisturbed, was spelling out the inscription
beneath the figure of the knight’s wife, and remarked presently:

“She seems to have died a year before him. Yes, just after marriage,
the monkish Latin says, and—what is it? Oh! I see, ‘_in
sanguine_,’ that is, in blood, whatever that may mean. Perhaps she was
murdered. I say, Isobel, I wish you would copy someone else’s dress
for your party.”

“Nonsense,” she answered. “I think it’s awfully
interesting. I wonder what happened to her.”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember anything in the old history,
and it would be almost impossible to find out. There are no coats of
arms, and what is more, no surname is given in either inscription. The
one says, ‘Pray for the soul of Edmundus, Knight, husband of
Phillippa,’ and the other, ‘Pray for the soul of Phillippa, Dame,
wife of Edmundus.’ It looks as though the surnames had been left out
on purpose, perhaps because of some queer story about the pair which
their relations wished to be forgotten.”

“Then why do they say that one died in blood and the other on the
field of Crecy?”

Godfrey shook his head because he did not know. Nor indeed was he ever
able to find out. That secret was lost hundreds of years ago. Then the
conversation died away and they got to their work.

At length the rubbing, as it is termed technically, was finished and the
two prepared to depart out of the gloom of the great church which had
gathered about them as the evening closed in. Solitary and small they
looked in it surrounded by all those mementoes of the dead, enveloped
as it were in the very atmosphere of death. Who has not felt that
atmosphere standing alone at nightfall in one of our ancient English
churches that embody in baptism, marriage and burial the hopes, the
desires, and the fears of unnumbered generations?

For remember, that in a majority of instances, long before the Cross
rose above these sites, they had been the sacred places of faith after
faith. Sun-worshippers, Nature-worshippers, Druids, votaries of Jove
and Venus, servants of Odin, Thor and Friga, early Christians who were
half one thing and half another, all have here bowed their brows to
earth in adoration of God as they understood Him, and in these hallowed
spots lies mingled the dust of every one of them.

So Godfrey felt in that hour and the same influences impinged upon and
affected even the girl’s bold, denying soul. She acknowledged them to
herself, and after a woman’s way, turned and almost fiercely laid the
blame upon her companion.

“You have infected me with your silly superstitions,” she said,
stamping her foot as they shut and locked the door of the church. “I
feel afraid of something, I don’t know what, and I was never afraid
of anything before.”

“What superstitions?” he asked, apologetically. “I
don’t remember mentioning any.”

“There is no need for you to mention them, they ooze out of you. As
though I could not read your mind! There’s no need for you to talk to
tell me what you are thinking of, death—and separations which are as
bad, and unknown things to come, and all sorts of horrors.”

“That’s odd,” he remarked, still without emotion, for he was
used to these attacks from Isobel which, as he knew, when she was upset,
always meant anything but what she said, “for as a matter of fact I
was thinking of a separation. I am going away, Isobel, or rather, my
father is sending me away.”

He turned, and pointing to the stormy western sky where the day died in
splendour, added simply in the poetic imagery that so often springs to
the lips of youth:

“There sets our sun; at least it is the last we shall look upon
together for a whole year. You go to London to-morrow, don’t you?
Before you come back I shall be gone.”

“Gone! Why? Where? Oh! what’s the use of asking? I knew something
of the sort was coming. I felt it in that horrible old church. And after
all, why should I mind? What does it matter if you go away for a year
or ten years—except that you are the only friend I have—especially
as no doubt you are glad to get out of this dreadful hole? Don’t
stand there looking at me like a moon-calf, whatever that may be, but
tell me what you mean, or I’ll, I’ll——” and she stopped.

Then he told her—well, not quite everything, for he omitted his
father’s disparaging remarks about herself.

She listened in her intent fashion, and filled in the gaps without
difficulty. 

“I see,” she said. “Your father thinks that I am corrupting
you about religion, as though anybody could corrupt you when you have
got an idea into your stupid head; at least, on those subjects. Oh! I
hate him, worse even than I do my own, worse than you do yourself.”

Godfrey, thinking aloud, began to quote the Fourth Commandment. She cut
him short:

“Honour my father!” she said. “Why should we honour our
fathers unless they are worthy of honour? What have we to thank them
for?” 

“Life,” suggested Godfrey.

“Why? You believe that life comes from God, and so do I in a way. If
so, what has a father to do with it who is just a father and no more?
With mothers perhaps it is different, but you see I love my mother and
he treats her like—like a dog, or worse,” and her grey eyes filled
with tears. “However, it is your father we are talking of, and there
is no commandment telling me to honour _him_. I say I hate him and he
hates me, and that’s why he is sending you away. Well, I hope you
won’t find anyone to contaminate you in Switzerland.”

“Oh! Isobel, Isobel,” he broke out, “don’t be so
bitter, especially as it is of no use. Besides after all you have got
everything that a girl can have—money and position and
looks——”

“Looks!” she exclaimed, seizing on the last word, “when you
know I am as ugly as a toad.”

He stared at her.

“I don’t know it; I think you beautiful.”

“Wait till you see someone else and you will change your mind,” she
snapped, flushing.

“And you are going to come out,” he went on hastily.

“Yes, at a fancy ball in this Plantagenet lady’s dress, but I
almost wish I was—to go out instead—like her.”

“And I daresay you will soon be married,” he blurted, losing his
head for she bewildered him.

“Married! Oh! you idiot. Do you know what marriage means—to a
woman? Married! I can bear no more of this. Goodbye,” and turning she
walked, or rather ran into the darkness, leaving him amazed and alone.

This was the last time that Godfrey spoke with Isobel for a long while.
Next morning he received a note addressed in her clear and peculiar
writing, which from the angular formation of the letters and their
regularity, at a distance looked not unlike a sheet of figures.

It was short and ran:—

Dear Old Godfrey,—Don’t be vexed with me because I was so cross
this evening. Something in that old church upset me, and you know
I have a dreadful temper. I didn’t mean anything I said. I daresay
it is a good thing you should go away and see the world instead of
sticking in this horrid place. Leave your address with Mother
Parsons, and I will write to you; but mind you answer my letters
or I shan’t write any more. Good-bye, old boy.

Your affectionate

              ISOBEL.

          Who is always thinking of you.

P.S.—I’ll get this to the Abbey with your milk. Can’t leave it
myself, as we are starting for town at half-past seven to-morrow
morning to catch the early train.



CHAPTER IV

THE GARDEN IN THE SQUARE


As it chanced Godfrey did see Isobel once more before he left England.
It was arranged that he was to leave Charing Cross for Switzerland
early on a certain Wednesday morning. Late on the Tuesday afternoon,
Mr. Knight brought the lad to the Charing Cross Hotel. There, having
taken his ticket and made all other necessary arrangements, he left
him, returning himself to Essex by the evening train. Their farewell
was somewhat disconcerting, at any rate to the mind of the youth.

His father retired with him to his room at the top of the hotel, and
there administered a carefully prepared lecture which touched upon
every point of the earnest Christian’s duty, ending up with
admonitions on the dangers of the world, the flesh, and the devil, and
a strong caution against frivolous, unbelieving and evil-disposed
persons, especially such as were young, good-looking and wore
petticoats. 

“Woman,” said Mr. Knight, “is the great danger of man. She is
the Devil’s favourite bait, at least to some natures of which I fear
yours is one, though that is strange, as I may say that on the whole I
have always disliked the sex, and I married for other reasons than
those which are supposed to be common. Woman,” he went on, warming to
his topic, “although allowed upon the world as a necessary evil, is a
painted snare, full of [he meant baited with] guile. You will remember
that the first woman, in her wicked desire to make him as bad as
herself, tempted Adam until he ate the apple, no doubt under threats of
estranging herself from him if he did not, and all the results that
came from her iniquity, one of which is that men have had to work hard
ever since.” 

Here Godfrey reflected that there was someone behind who tempted the
woman, also that it is better to work than to sit in a garden in
eternal idleness, and lastly, that a desire for knowledge is natural
and praiseworthy. Had Isobel been in his place she would have advanced
these arguments, probably in vigorous and pointed language, but, having
learnt something of Adam’s lesson, he was wiser and held his tongue.

“There is this peculiarity about women,” continued his parent,
“which I beg you always to remember. It is that when you think she is
doing what you want and that she loves you, you are doing what she wants
and really she only loves herself. Therefore you must never pay
attention to her soft words, and especially beware of her tears which
are her strongest weapon given to her by the father of deceit to enable
her to make fools of men. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Godfrey, with hesitation,
“but——” this burst from him involuntarily, “but,
Father, if you have always avoided women, as you say, how do you know
all this about them?”

For a moment Mr. Knight was staggered. Then he rose to the occasion.

“I know it, Godfrey, by observing the effect of their arts on others,
as I have done frequently.”

A picture rose in Godfrey’s mind of his father with his eye to
keyholes, or peering through fences with wide-open ears, but wisely he
did not pursue the subject.

“My son,” continued and ended Mr. Knight, “I have watched you
closely and I am sure that your weakness lies this way. Woman is and
always will be the sin that doth so easily beset you. Even as a child
you loved Mrs. Parsons much more than you did me, because, although old
and unsightly, she is still female. When you left your home this
morning for the first time, who was it that you grieved to part from?
Not your companions, the other boys, but Mrs. Parsons again, whom I
found you embracing in that foolish fashion, yes, and mingling your
tears with hers, of which at your age you should be ashamed. Indeed I
believe that you feel being separated from that garrulous person, who 
is but a servant, more than you do from me, your father.” 

Here he waited for Godfrey’s contradiction, but as none came, went on
with added acerbity:

“Of that _anguis in herba_, that viper, Isobel, who turns the pure
milk of the Word to poison and bites the hand that fed her, I will say
nothing, nothing,” (here Godfrey reflected that Isobel would have
been better described as a lion in the path rather than as a snake in
the grass) “except that I rejoice that you are to be separated from
her, and I strictly forbid any communication between you and her, bold,
godless and revolutionary as she is. I had rather see any man for whose
welfare I cared, married to a virtuous and pious-minded housemaid, than
to this young lady, as she is called, with all her wealth and position,
who would eat out his soul with her acid unbelief and turn the world
upside down to satisfy her fancy. Now I must go or I shall miss my
train. Here is a present for you, of which I direct you to read a
chapter every day,” and he produced out of a brown paper parcel a
large French Bible. “It will both do you good and improve your
knowledge of the French tongue. I especially commend your attention to 
certain verses in Proverbs dealing with the dangers on which I have
touched, that I have marked with a blue pencil. Do you hear?” 

“Yes, Father. Solomon wrote Proverbs, didn’t he?”

“It is believed so and his wide—experience—gives a special
value to his counsel. You will write to me once a week, and when you
have had your dinner get to bed at once. On no account are you to go
out into the streets. Goodbye.”

Then he planted a frosty kiss upon Godfrey’s brow and departed,
leaving that youth full of reflections, but to tell the truth, somewhat
relieved. 

Shortly afterwards Godfrey descended to the coffee-room and ate his
dinner. Here it was that the universal temptress against whom he had
been warned so urgently, put in a first appearance in the person of a
pleasant and elderly lady who was seated alongside of him. Noting this
good-looking and lonely lad, she began to talk to him, and being a
woman of the world, soon knew all about him, his name, who he was,
whither he was going, etc. When she found out that it was to Lucerne,
or rather its immediate neighbourhood, she grew quite interested,
since, as it happened, she—her name was Miss Ogilvy—had a house
there where she was accustomed to spend most of the year. Indeed, she 
was returning by the same train that Godfrey was to take on the
following morning. 

“We shall be travelling companions,” she said when she had
explained all this.

“I am afraid not,” he answered, glancing at the many evidences of
wealth upon her person. “You see,” he added colouring, “I am
going second and have to spend as little as possible. Indeed I have
brought some food with me in a basket so that I shall not need to buy
any meals at the stations.”

Miss Ogilvy was touched, but laughed the matter off in her charming way,
saying that he would have to be careful that the Custom-house officers
did not think he was smuggling something in his basket, and as she knew
them all must look to her to help him if he got into difficulties on
the journey. Then she went on chatting and drawing him out, and what is
more, made him take several glasses of some delicious white wine she
was drinking. It was not very strong wine, but except for a little
small beer, practically Godfrey had been brought up as a teetotaller
for economy’s sake, and it went to his head. He became rather 
effusive; he told her of Sir John Blake about whom she seemed to know 
everything already, and something of his friendship with Isobel, who, he
added, was coming out that very night at a fancy dress ball in London. 
 

“I know,” said Miss Ogilvy, “at the de Lisles’ in
Grosvenor Square. I was asked to it, but could not go as I am starting
to-morrow.”

Then she rose and said “Good-night,” bidding him be sure not to be
late for the train, as she would want him to help her with her luggage.

So off she went looking very charming and gracious, although she was
over forty, and leaving Godfrey quite flattered by her attention.

Not knowing what to do he put on his hat and, walking across the station
yard, took his stand by a gateway pillar and watched the tide of London
life roll by. There he remained for nearly an hour, since the strange
sight fascinated him who had never been in town before, the object of
some attention from a policeman, although of this he was unaware. Also
some rather odd ladies spoke to him from time to time which he thought
kind of them, although they smelt so peculiar and seemed to have paint
upon their faces. In answer to the inquiries of two of them as to his
health he told them that he was very well. Also he agreed cordially
with a third as to the extreme fineness of the night, and assured a
fourth that he had no wish to take a walk as he was shortly going to 
bed, a statement which caused her to break into uncalled-for laughter. 

It was at this point that the doubting policeman suggested that he
should move on.

“Where to?” asked Godfrey of that officer of the law.

“To ’ell if you like,” he replied. Then struck with
curiosity, he inquired, “Where do you want to go to? This pillar
ain’t a leaning post.”

Godfrey considered the matter and said with the verve of slight
intoxication: 

“Only two places appeal to me at present, heaven (not hell as you
suggested), and Grosvenor Square. Perhaps, however, they are the same;
at any rate, there is an angel in both of them.”

The policeman stared at him but could find no fault with the perfect
sobriety of his appearance.

“Young luny, I suspect,” he muttered to himself, then said aloud:
“Well, the Strand doesn’t lead to ’eaven so far as I have
noticed, rather t’other way indeed. But if you want Grosvenor Square,
it’s over there,” and he waved his hand vaguely towards the west.

“Thank you,” said Godfrey, taking off his hat with much politeness.
“If that is so, I will leave heaven to itself for the present and
content myself with Grosvenor Square.”

Off he started in the direction indicated, and, as it seemed to him,
walked for many miles through a long and bewildering series of
brilliant streets, continually seeking new information as to his goal.
The end of it was that at about a quarter to eleven he found himself
somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Edgware Road, utterly stranded as
it were, since his mind seemed incapable of appreciating further
indications of locality. 

“Look here, young man,” said a breezy costermonger to whom he had
appealed, “I think you had better take a ’ansom for the ’orse
will know more about London than you seem to do. There’s one
’andy.”

“That is an idea,” said Godfrey, and entered the cab, giving the
address of Grosvenor Square.

“What number?” asked the driver.

“I don’t know,” replied Godfrey, “the Ball, Grosvenor
Square.”

Off they went, and in due course, reaching the square, drove round it
until they came to a great house where there were signs of festivity in
the shape of an awning above the entrance and a carpet on the pavement.

The cab stopped with a jerk and a voice from above—never having been
in a hansom before, at first Godfrey could not locate it—exclaimed:

“Here’s your Ball, young gent. Now you’d better hop out and
dance.”

His fare began to explain the situation through the little trap in the
roof, demonstrating to the Jehu that his object was to observe the ball
from without, not to dance at it within, and that it was necessary for
him to drive on a little further. That worthy grew indignant.

“Blowed if I don’t believe you’re a bilk,” he shouted
through the hole. “Here, you pay me my fare and hook it, young
codger.”

Godfrey descended and commenced a search for money, only to remember
that he had left his purse in his bag at the hotel. This also he
explained with many apologies to the infuriated cabby, two gorgeous
flunkeys who by now had arrived to escort him into the house, and a
group of idlers who had collected round the door.

“I told yer he was a bilk. You look after your spoons, Thomas; I
expect that’s wot he’s come for. Now you find that bob, Sonny, or I
fetches the perlice.”

Then an inspiration flashed on Godfrey’s bewildered mind. Suddenly he
recollected that, by the direction of heaven, Mrs. Parsons had sewn a
ten shilling piece into the lining of his waistcoat, “in case he
should ever want any money sudden-like.” He undid that garment and
heedless of the mockery of the audience, began to feel wildly at its
interior calico. Joy! there it was in the lefthand corner.

“I have money here if only I can get it out,” he gasped.

A woman in the gathering crowd, perhaps from pity, or curiosity, in the
most unexpected way produced a pair of scissors from her pocket with
which he began to hack at the waistcoat, gashing it sadly. At length
the job was done and the half-sovereign appeared wrapped in a piece of
cotton wool. 

“Take it,” said Godfrey, “and go away. Let it teach you to
have more trust in your fellow creatures, Mr. Cabman.”

The man seized the coin, examined it by the light of his lamp, tasted
it, bit it, threw it on the top of the cab to see that it rang true,
then with a “Well, I’m blowed!” whipped up his horse and went
off. 

Godfrey followed his example, as the flunkeys and the audience supposed
to recover his change, though the last thing he was thinking of at that
moment was change—except of locality. He ran a hundred yards or more
to a part of the square where there was no lamp, then paused to
consider. 

“I have made a fool of myself,” he reflected, “as Isobel
always says I do when I get the chance. I have come all this way and
been abused and laughed at for nothing.”

Then his native determination began to assert itself. Why should it be
for nothing? There was the house, and in it was Isobel, and oh! he
wanted to see her. He crossed to the square-garden side and walked down
in the shadow of the trees which grew there.

Under one of these he took his stand, squeezing himself against the
railings, and watched the glowing house that was opposite, from which
came the sounds of music, of dancing feet, of laughter and the tinkling
of glasses. It had balconies, and on these appeared people dressed in
all sorts of costumes. Among them he tried to recognise Isobel, but
could not. Either she did not come or he was too far off to see her.

A dance was ending, the music grew faster and faster, then ceased with a
flourish. More people appeared on the balconies. Others crowded into the
hall, which he could see, for the door was open. Presently a pair came
onto the steps. One of them was dressed as a knight in shining armour.
He was a fine, tall young man, and his face was handsome, as the
watcher could perceive, for he had taken off his plumed helm and
carried it in his hand. The other was Isobel in her Plantagenet
costume, to which were added one rose and a necklet of pink pearls.
They stood on the steps a little while laughing and talking. Then he
heard her say: 

“Let us go into the square. It will be cooler. The key is hanging on
the nail.”

She vanished for a moment, doubtless to fetch the key. Then they walked
down the steps, over the spread carpet, and across the roadway. Within
three paces of where Godfrey stood there was a gate. She gave the key
to the knight, and after one or two attempts the gate swung open.
Whilst he was fumbling at the lock she stood looking about her, and
presently caught sight of Godfrey’s slim figure crouched against the
railings in the deepest of the shadows. 

“There is someone there, Lord Charles,” she said.

“Is there?” he answered, indifferently. “A cab-tout or a
beggar, I expect. They always hang about parties. Come on, it is open at
last.”

They passed into the garden and vanished. A wild jealousy seized
Godfrey, and he slipped after them with the intention of revealing
himself to Isobel. Inside the railings was a broad belt of shrubs
bordered by a gravel path. The pair walked along the path, Godfrey
following at a distance, till they came to a recessed seat on which
they sat down. He halted behind a lilac bush ten paces or so away, not
that he wanted to listen, but because he was ashamed to show himself.
Indeed, he stopped his ears with his fingers that he might not overhear
their talk. But he did not shut his eyes, and as the path curved here 
and the moon shone on them, he could see them well. They seemed very
merry and to be playing some game. 

At any rate, first with her finger she counted the air-holes in the
knight’s helmet which he held up to her. Then with his finger he
counted the pearls upon her neck. When he had finished she clapped her
hands as though she had won a bet. After this they began to whisper to
each other, at least he whispered and she smiled and shook her head.
Finally, she seemed to give way, for she unfastened the flower which
she wore in the breast of her dress, and presented it to him. Godfrey
started at the sight which caused him to take his fingers from his ears
and clutch the bush. A dry twig broke with a loud crack. 

“What’s that?” said Isobel.

“Don’t know,” answered Lord Charles. “What a funny girl
you are, always seeing and hearing things. A stray cat, I expect; London
squares are full of them. Now I have won my lady’s favour and she must
fasten it to my helm after the ancient fashion.”

“Can’t,” said Isobel. “There are no pins in Plantagenet
dresses.”

“Then I must do it for myself. Kiss it first, that was the rule, you
know.”

“Very well,” said Isobel. “We must keep up the game, and
there are worse things to kiss than roses.”

He held the flower to her and she bent forward to touch it with her
lips. Suddenly he did the same, and their lips came very close together
on either side of the rose.

This was too much for Godfrey. He glided forward, as the stray cat might
have done, of which the fine knight had spoken, meaning to interrupt
them. 

Then he remembered suddenly that he had no right to interfere; that it
was no affair of his with whom Isobel chose to kiss roses in a garden,
and that he was doing a mean thing in spying upon her. So he halted
behind another bush, but not without noise. His handsome young face was
thrust forward, and on it were written grief, surprise and shame. The
moonlight caught it, but nothing else of him. Isobel looked up and saw.

He knew that she had seen and turning, slipped away into the darkness
back to the gate. As he went he heard the knight called Lord Charles,
exclaim: 

“What’s the matter with you?” and Isobel answer,
“Nothing. I have seen a ghost, that’s all. It’s this horrible
dress!”

He glanced back and saw her rise, snatch the rose from the knight’s
hand, throw it down and stamp upon it. Then he saw and heard no more
for he was through the gate and running down the square. At its end, as
he turned into some street, he was surprised to hear a gruff voice
calling to him to stop. On looking up he saw that it came from his
enemy, the hansom-cab man, who was apparently keeping a lookout on the
square from his lofty perch. 

“Hi! young sir,” he said, “I’ve been watching for you
and thinking of wot you said to me. You gave me half a quid, you did.
Jump in and I’ll drive you wherever you want to go, for my fare was
only a bob.”

“I have no more money,” replied Godfrey, “for you kept the
change.”

“I wasn’t asking for none,” said the cabby. “Hop in and
name where it is to be.”

Godfrey told him and presently was being rattled back to the Charing
Cross Hotel, which they reached a little later. He got out of the cab
to go into the hotel when once again the man addressed him.

“I owe you something,” he said, and tendered the half-sovereign.

“I have no change,” said Godfrey.

“Nor ’ain’t I,” said the cabman, “and if I had I
wouldn’t give it you. I played a dirty trick on you and a dirtier one
still when I took your half sov, I did, seeing that I ought to have
known that you were just an obfusticated youngster and no bilk as I
called you to them flunkeys. What you said made me ashamed, though I
wouldn’t own it before the flunkeys. So I determined to pay you back
if I could, since otherwise I shouldn’t have slept well to-night. Now
we’re quits, and goodbye, and do you always think kindly of Thomas
Sims, though I don’t suppose I shall drive you no more in this
world.” 

“Goodbye, Mr. Sims,” said Godfrey, who was touched. Moreover Mr.
Sims seemed to be familiar to him, at the moment he could not remember
how, or why.

The man wheeled his cab round, whipping the horse which was a spirited
animal, and started at a fast pace.

Godfrey, looking after him, heard a crash as he emerged from the gates,
and ran to see what was the matter. He found the cab overturned and the
horse with a ’bus pole driven deep into its side, kicking on the
pavement. Thomas Sims lay beneath the cab. When the police and others
dragged him clear, he was quite dead!

Godfrey went to bed that night a very weary and chastened youth, for
never before had he experienced so many emotions in a few short hours.
Moreover, he could not sleep well. Nightmares haunted him in which he
was being hunted and mocked by a jeering crowd, until Sims arrived and
rescued him in the cab. Only it was the dead Sims that drove with
staring eyes and fallen jaw, and the side of the horse was torn open.

Next he saw Isobel and the Knight in Armour, who kept pace on either
side of the ghostly cab and mocked at him, tossing roses to each other
as they sped along, until finally his father appeared, called Isobel a
young serpent, at which she laughed loudly, and bore off Sims to be
buried in the vault with the Plantagenet lady at Monk’s Acre.

Godfrey woke up shaking with fear, wet with perspiration, and reflected
earnestly on his latter end, which seemed to be at hand. If that great,
burly, raucous-voiced Sims had died so suddenly, why should not he,
Godfrey? 

He wondered where Sims had gone to, and what he was doing now.
Explaining the matter of the half-sovereign to St. Peter, perhaps, and
hoping humbly that it and others would be overlooked, “since after
all he had done the right thing by the young gent.”

Poor Sims, he was sorry for him, but it might have been worse. _He_
might have been in the cab himself and now be offering explanations of
his own as to a wild desire to kill that knight in armour, and Isobel
as well. Oh! what a fool he had been. What business was it of his if
Isobel chose to give roses to some friend of hers at a dance? She was
not his property, but only a girl with whom he chanced to have been
brought up, and who found him a pleasant companion when there was no
one else at hand. 

By nature, as has been recorded, Godfrey was intensely proud, and then
and there he made a resolution that he would have nothing more to do
with Isobel. Never again would he hang about the skirts of that fine
and rich young lady, who on the night that he was going away could give
roses to another man, just because he was a lord and
good-looking—yes, and kiss them too. His father was quite right about
women, and he would take his advice to the letter, and begin to study
Proverbs forthwith, especially the marked passages. 

Having come to this conclusion, and thus eased his troubled mind, he
went to sleep in good earnest, for he was very tired. The next thing of
which he became aware was that someone was hammering at the door, and
calling out that a lady downstairs said he must get up at once if he
meant to be in time. He looked at his watch, a seven-and-sixpenny
article that he had been given off a Christmas tree at Hawk’s Hall,
and observed, with horror, that he had just ten minutes in which to
dress, pack, and catch the train. Somehow he did it, for fortunately
his bill had been paid. Always in after days a tumultuous vision 
remained in his mind of himself, a long, lank youth with unbrushed hair
and unbuttoned waistcoat, carrying a bag and a coat, followed by an
hotel porter with his luggage, rushing wildly down an interminable
platform with his ticket in his teeth towards an already moving train.
At an open carriage door stood a lady in whom he recognized Miss
Ogilvy, who was imploring the guard to hold the train. 

“Can’t do it, ma’am, any longer,” said the guard,
between blasts of his whistle and wavings of his green flag. “It’s
all my place is worth to delay the Continental Express for more than a
minute. Thank you kindly, ma’am. Here he comes,” and the flag
paused for a few seconds. “In you go, young gentleman.”

A heave, a struggle, an avalanche of baggage, and Godfrey found himself
in the arms of Miss Ogilvy in a reserved first-class carriage. From
those kind supporting arms he slid gently and slowly to the floor.

“Well,” said that lady, contemplating him with his back resting
against a portmanteau, “you cut things rather fine.”

Still seated on the floor, Godfrey pulled out his watch and looked at
it, then remarked that eleven minutes before he was fast asleep in bed.

“I thought as much,” she said severely, “and that’s why
I told the maid to see if you had been called, which I daresay you
forgot to arrange for yourself.”

“I did,” admitted Godfrey, rising and buttoning his waistcoat.
“I have had a very troubled night; all sorts of things happened to
me.”

“What have you been doing?” asked Miss Ogilvy, whose interest was
excited.

Then Godfrey, whose bosom was bursting, told her all, and the story
lasted most of the way to Dover.

“You poor boy,” she said, when he had finished, “you poor
boy!”

“I left the basket with the food behind, and I am so hungry,”
remarked Godfrey presently.

“There’s a restaurant car on the train, come and have some
breakfast,” said Miss Ogilvy, “for on the boat you may not wish to
eat. I shall at any rate.”

This was untrue for she had breakfasted already, but that did not
matter. 

“My father said I was not to take meals on the trains,” explained
Godfrey, awkwardly, “because of the expense.”

“Oh! I’m your father, or rather your mother, now. Besides, I have a
table,” she added in a nebulous manner.

So Godfrey followed her to the dining car, where he made an excellent
meal. 

“You don’t seem to eat much,” he said at length. “You
have only had a cup of tea and half a bit of toast.”

“I never can when I am going on the sea,” she explained. “I
expect I shall be very ill, and you will have to look after me, and you
know the less you eat, well—the less you can be ill.”

“Why did you not tell me that before?” he remarked, contemplating
his empty plate with a gloomy eye. “Besides I expect we shall be in
different parts of the ship.”

“Oh! I daresay it can be arranged,” she answered.

And as a matter of fact, it was “arranged,” all the way to Lucerne.
At Dover station Miss Ogilvy had a hurried interview at the ticket
office. Godfrey did not in the least understand what she was doing, but
as a result he was her companion throughout the long journey. The
crossing was very rough, and it was Godfrey who was ill, excessively
ill, not Miss Ogilvy who, with the assistance of her maid and the
steward, attended assiduously to him in his agonies.

“And to think,” he moaned faintly as they moored alongside of the
French pier, “that once I wished to be a sailor.”

“Nelson was always sick,” said Miss Ogilvy, wiping his damp brow
with a scented pocket-handkerchief, while the maid held the
smelling-salts to his nose.

“Then he must have been a fool to go to sea,” muttered Godfrey, and
relapsed into a torpor, from which he awoke only to find himself
stretched at length on the cushions of a first-class carriage.

Later on, the journey became very agreeable. Godfrey was interested in
everything, being of a quick and receptive mind, and Miss Ogilvy proved
a fund of information. When they had exhausted the scenery they
conversed on other topics. Soon she knew everything there was to know
about him and Isobel, whom it was evident she could not understand.

“Tell me,” she said, looking at his dark and rather unusual eyes,
“do you ever have dreams, Godfrey?” for now she called him by his
Christian name.

“Not at night, when I sleep very soundly, except after that poor
cabman was killed. I have seen lots of dead people, because my father
always takes me to look at them in the parish, to remind me of my own
latter end, as he says, but they never made me dream before.”

“Then do you have them at all?”

He hesitated a little.

“Sometimes, at least visions of a sort, when I am walking alone,
especially in the evening, or wondering about things. But always when I
am alone.”

“What are they?” she asked eagerly.

“I can’t quite explain,” he replied in a slow voice.
“They come and they go, and I forget them, because they fade out, just
like a dream does, you know.”

“You must remember something; try to tell me about them.”

“Well, I seem to be among a great many people whom I have never met.
Yet I know them and they know me, and talk to me about all sorts of
things. For instance, if I am puzzling over anything they will explain
it quite clearly, but afterwards I always forget the explanation and am
no wiser than I was before. A hand holding a cloth seems to wipe it out
of my mind, just as one cleans a slate.”

“Is that all?”

“Not quite. Occasionally I meet the people afterwards. For instance,
Thomas Sims, the cabman, was one of them, and,” he added colouring,
“forgive me for saying so, but you are another. I knew it at once, the
moment I saw you, and that is what made me feel so friendly.”

“How very odd!” she exclaimed, “and how delightful. Because,
you see—well never mind——”

He looked at her expectantly, but as she said no more, went on.

“Then now and again I see places before I really do see them. For
example, I think that presently we shall pass along a hillside with
great mountain slopes above and below us covered with dark trees.
Opposite to us also, running up to three peaks with a patch of snow on
the centre peak, but not quite at the top.” He closed his eyes, and
added, “Yes, and there is a village at the bottom of the valley by a
swift-running stream, and in it a small white church with a spire and a
gilt weathercock with a bird on it. Then,” he continued rapidly, “I
can see the house where I am going to live, with the Pasteur Boiset, an
old white house with woods above and all about it, and the beautiful
lake beneath, and beyond, a great mountain. There is a tree in the
garden opposite the front door, like a big cherry tree, only the fruit
looks larger than cherries,” he added with confidence. 

“I suppose that no one showed you a photograph of the place?” she
asked doubtfully, “for as it happens I know it. It is only about two
miles from Lucerne by the short way through the woods. What is more,
there is a tree with a delicious fruit, either a big cherry or a small
plum, for I have eaten some of it several years ago.”

“No,” he answered, “no one. My father only told me that the
name of the little village is Kleindorf. He wrote it on the label for my
bag.”

Just then the line went round a bend. “Look,” he said, “there
is the place I told you we were coming to, with the dark trees, the
three peaks, and the stream, and the white church with the cock on top
of the spire.”

She let down the carriage window, and stared at the scene.

“Yes,” she exclaimed, “it is just as you described. Oh! at
last I have found what I have been seeking for years. Godfrey, I believe
that you have the true gift.”

“What gift, Miss Ogilvy?”

“Clairvoyance, of course, and perhaps clairaudience as well.”

The lad burst out laughing, and said that he wished it were something
more useful.

From all of which it will be guessed that Ethel Ogilvy was a mystic of
the first water.



CHAPTER V

MADAME RIENNES


About 11 o’clock on the day following this conversation, Godfrey found
himself standing on the platform in the big station of Lucerne.

“How are you going to get to Kleindorf?” Miss Ogilvy asked of him.
“It’s five miles away by the road. I think you had better come to
my house and have some _déjeuner_. Afterwards I will send you there
in the carriage.”

As she spoke a tall gaunt man in ultra-clerical attire, with a very
large hooked nose and wearing a pair of blue spectacles, came shuffling
towards them. 

“Madame is Engleesh?” he said, peering at her through the blue
glasses. “Oh! it is easy to know it, though I am so blind. Has Madame
by chance seen a leetle, leetle Engleesh boy, who should arrive out of
this train? I look everywhere and I cannot find him, and the
conducteur, he says he not there. No leetle boy in the second class.
His name it is Godfrey, the son of an English pasteur, a man who fear
God in the right way.” 

There was something so absurd in the old gentleman’s appearance and
method of address, that Miss Ogilvy, who had a sense of humour, was
obliged to turn away to hide her mirth. Recovering, she answered:

“I think this is your little boy, Monsieur le Pasteur,” and she
indicated the tall and handsome Godfrey, who stood gazing at his future
instructor open-mouthed. Whoever he had met in his visions, the Pasteur
Boiset was not one of them. Never, asleep or waking, had he seen anyone
in the least like him.

The clergyman peered at Godfrey, studying him from head to foot.

“Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed, “I understood he was quite, quite
leetle, not a big young man who will eat much and want many things.
Well, he will be _bon compagnon_ for Juliette, and Madame too, she like
the big better than the leetle. _Il est beau et il a l’air
intelligent, n’est ce pas, Madame?_” he added confidentially.

“_Bien beau et très intelligent_,” she replied,
observing that Godfrey was engaged in retrieving his overcoat which he
had left in the carriage. Then she explained that she had become
friendly with this young gentleman, and hoped that he would be allowed
to visit her whenever he wished. Also she gave her name and address.

“Oh! yes, Mademoiselle Ogilvee, the rich English lady who live in the
fine house. I have heard of her. _Mais voyons!_ Mademoiselle is not
Catholic, is she, for I promise to protect this lad from that red
wolf?” 

“No, Monsieur, fear nothing. Whatever I am, I am not Catholic,”
(though, perhaps, if you knew all, you would think me something much
more dangerous, she added to herself.)

Then they said goodbye.

“I say, Miss Ogilvy,” exclaimed Godfrey, blushing,
“you’ve been awfully kind to me. If it hadn’t been for you I
should have missed that train and never heard the last of it. Also, I
should have had to go hungry from London here, since I promised my
father not to buy anything on the journey, and you know I forgot the
basket.” (By the way, being addressed, it arrived three days
afterwards, a mass of corruption, with six francs to pay on it, and
many papers to be signed.) 

“Not at all, Godfrey, it was delightful to have you as a
companion—and a friend,” she added meaningly. “You will come
and see me, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course, if I can. But meanwhile, please wait a minute,”
and he pulled out his purse.

“What on earth are you going to do, Godfrey? I don’t want your
card.”

“Card! I haven’t got a card. I am going to make you a
present.”

“Make me a present?” gasped Miss Ogilvy, a vague vision of
half-crowns flashing before her mind.

“Yes, it is rather a curious thing. It was found round the neck-bone
of an old knight, whose remains they threw out of the Abbey Church when
they put in the heating apparatus. I saw it there, and the sexton gave
it to me when he discovered that it was only stone. You will see it has
a hole in it, so he must have worn it as an ornament. The grave he lay
in was that of a Crusader, for the legs are crossed upon his brass,
although his name has gone. Oh! here it is,” and he produced an
oblong piece of black graphite or some such stone, covered with
mystical engravings. 

She seized the object, and examined it eagerly.

“Why, it is a talisman,” she said, “Gnostic, I should think,
for there is the cock upon it, and a lot that I can’t read, probably a
magic formula. No doubt the old Crusader got it in the East, perhaps as
a gift from some Saracen in whose family it had descended. Oh! my dear
boy, I do thank you. You could not have made me a present that I should
value more.” 

“I am so glad,” said Godfrey.

“Yes, but I am ashamed to take it from you. Well, I’ll leave it
back to you one day.”

“Leave it back! Then you must die before me, and why should you do
that? You are quite young.”

“Because I shall,” she answered with a sad little smile. “I
look stronger than I am. Meanwhile you will come and tell me all about
this talisman.”

“I have told you all I know, Miss Ogilvy.”

“Do you think so? I don’t. But look, your old pasteur is calling
that the diligence is coming. Good-bye. I’ll send the carriage for you
next Sunday in time for _déjeuner_.”

A few minutes later Godfrey found himself packed in a rumbling old
diligence amidst a number of peasant women with baskets. Also there was
a Roman Catholic priest who sat opposite to the Pasteur. For a while
these two eyed each other with evident animosity, just like a pair of
rival dogs, Godfrey thought to himself.

At the outskirts of the town they passed a shrine, in which was the
image of some saint. The priest crossed himself and bowed so low that
he struck the knee of the Pasteur, who remonstrated in an elaborate and
sarcastic fashion. Then the fight began, and those two holy men
belaboured each other, with words, not fists, for the rest of the
journey. Godfrey’s French was sadly to seek, still before it was
done, he did wonder whether all their language was strictly Christian,
for such words as _Sapristi_, and _Nom de Dieu_, accompanied by
snapping of the fingers, and angry stares, struck him as showing a
contentious and even a hostile spirit. Moreover, that was not the end of
it, since of the occupants of the diligence, about one half seemed to
belong to the party of the priest, and the other half to the party of
the Pasteur.    

By degrees all of these were drawn into the conflict. They shouted and
screamed at each other, they waved their arms, and incidentally their
baskets, one of which struck Godfrey on the nose, and indeed nearly
came to actual fisticuffs. 

Apparently the driver was accustomed to such scenes, for after a glance
through his little window he took no further notice. So it went on
until at last he pulled up and shouted:

“_Voyageurs pour Kleindorf, descendez. Vite, s’il vous
plait._”

“Here we do get down, young Monsieur,” said the Pasteur, suddenly
relapsing into a kind of unnatural calm. Indeed, at the door he turned
and bowed politely to his adversary, wishing him _bon voyage_, to which
the priest replied with a solemn benediction in the most Catholic form.

“He is not bad of heart, that priest,” said the Pasteur, as he led
the way to the gate of a little shrubbery, “but he do try to steal my
sheep, and I protect them from him, the blood-toothed wolf. Jean,
Jean!” 

A brawny Swiss appeared and seized the baggage. Then they advanced
across the belt of shrubbery to a lawn, through which ran a path. Lo!
in the centre of that lawn grew such a fruit-tree, covered with large
cherries or small plums, as Godfrey had described to Miss Ogilvy, and
beyond it stood the long white house, old, and big, and peaceful
looking. What he had not described, because of them his subliminal
sense had given him no inkling, were the two ladies, who sat expectant
on the verandah, that commanded a beautiful view of the lake and the
mountains beyond. 

By a kind of instinct distilled from his experience of clergymen’s
belongings, Godfrey had expected to see a dowdy female, with a red, fat
face, and watery eyes, perhaps wearing an apron and a black dress
hooked awry, accompanied by a snub-nosed little girl with straight
hair, and a cold in the head. In place of these he saw a
fashionably-dressed, Parisian-looking lady, who still seemed quite
young, very pleasant to behold, with her dark eyes and graceful
movements, and a girl, apparently about his own age, who was equally 
attractive. 

She was brown-eyed, with a quick, mobile face, and a lithe and shapely,
if as yet somewhat unformed figure. The long thick plait in which her
chestnut hair was arranged could not hide its plenitude and beauty,
while the smallness of her hands and feet showed breeding, as did her
manners and presence. The observant Godfrey, at his first sight of
Juliette, for such was her name, marvelled how it was possible that she
should be the daughter of that plain and ungainly old pasteur. On this
point it is enough to say that others had experienced the same wonder,
and remained with their curiosity unsatisfied. But then he might as
well have inquired how he, Godfrey, came to be his father’s son,
since in the whole universe no two creatures could have been more
diverse. 

Monsieur Boiset waddled forward, with a gait like to that of a
superannuated duck, followed at some distance by Godfrey and the
stalwart Jean with the luggage.

“My dears,” he called out in his high voice, “I have found
our new little friend; the train brought him safely. Here he is.”

Madame and Juliette looked about them.

“I see him not,” said Madame.

“Where is he?” asked Juliette, in a pleasant girlish voice.
“Still at the gate? And say then, my father,” this in low tones
meant not to be overheard, “who is this monsieur?”

“He is the little boy,” exclaimed the Pasteur, chuckling at his
joke, “but you see he has grown in the train.”

“_Mon Dieu!_” exclaimed Madame, “I wonder if his bed
will be long enough?”

“It is very amusing,” remarked Juliette.

Then they both descended from the verandah, to greet him with foreign
cordiality which, as they spoke rapidly in French, was somewhat lost on
Godfrey. Recognizing their kind intentions, however, he took off his hat
and bowed to each in turn, remarking as he did so:

“_Bonjour, oui. Oui, bonjour_,” the only words in the Gallic
tongue that occurred to him at the moment.

“I speek Engleesh,” said Juliette, with solemn grandeur.

“I’m jolly glad to hear it,” replied Godfrey, “and I
_parle Français_, or soon shall, I hope.”

Such was Godfrey’s introduction to his new home at Kleindorf, where
very soon he was happy enough. Notwithstanding his strange appearance
and his awkwardness, Monsieur Boiset proved himself to be what is
called “a dear old gentleman”; moreover, really learned, and this
in sundry different directions. Thus, he was an excellent astronomer,
and the possessor of a first-rate telescope, mounted in a little
observatory, on a rocky peak of ground which rose up a hundred feet or
more in the immediate neighbourhood of the house, that itself stood
high. This instrument, which its owner had acquired secondhand at some
sale, of course was not of the largest size. Still, it was powerful
enough for all ordinary observations, and to show many hundreds of the
heavenly bodies that are invisible to the naked eye, even in the clear 
air of Switzerland. 

To Godfrey, who had, it will be remembered, a strong liking for
astronomy, it was a source of constant delight. What is more, it
provided a link of common interest that soon ripened into friendship
between himself and his odd old tutor, who had been obliged hitherto to
pursue his astral researches in solitude, since to Madame and to
Juliette these did not appeal. Night by night, especially after the
winter snows began to fall, they would sit by the stove in the little
observatory, gazing at the stars, making calculations, in which, 
notwithstanding his dislike of mathematics, Godfrey soon became expert,
and setting down the results of what they learned. 

In was in course of these studies that the whole wonder of the universe
came home to him for the first time. He looked upon the marvel of the
heavens, the mighty procession of the planets, the rising and setting
of the vast suns that burn beyond them in the depths of space, weighing
their bulk and measuring their differences, and trembled with mingled
joy and awe. Were these the heritage of man? Would he ever visit them
in some unknown state and age? Or must they remain eternally far and
alien? This is what he longed to learn, and to him astronomy was a
gateway to knowledge, if only he could discover how to pass the gate.

Godfrey had not the true scientific spirit, or a yearning for
information, even about the stars, for its own sake. He wanted to
ascertain how these affected _him_ and the human race of which he was a
member. In short, he sought an answer to the old question: Are we
merely the spawn of our little earth, destined to perish, as the earth
itself must do one day, or, through whatever changes we must pass, are
we as immortal as the universe and the Might that made it, whatever
that may be? That was his problem, the same which perplexes every high
and thinking soul, and at this impressionable period of his life it 
scarcely ever left him. There he would sit with brooding eyes and bent
brow seeking the answer, but as yet finding none. 

Once Juliette discovered him thus, having come to the observatory to
tell him that his dinner had been waiting for half an hour, and for a
while watched him unnoted with the little shaded lamp shining on his
face. Instantly, in her quick fashion, she christened him, _Hibou_, and
_Hibou_ or Owl, became his nickname in that establishment. Indeed, with
his dark eyes and strongly marked features, wrapped in a contemplative
calm such as the study of the stars engenders, in that gloom he did
look something like an owl, however different may have been his
appearance on other occasions. 

“What are you thinking of, Monsieur Godfrey?” she asked.

He came back to earth with a start.

“The stars and Man,” he answered, colouring.

“_Mon Dieu!_” she exclaimed, “I think man is enough to
study without the stars, which we shall never visit.”

“How do you know that, Mademoiselle?”

“I know it because we are here and they are there, far, far away. Also
we die and they go on for ever.”

“What is space, and what are death and time?” queried Godfrey, with
solemnity.

“_Mon Dieu!_” said Juliette again. “Come to dinner, the
chicken it grows cold,” but to herself she added, “He is an odd
bird, this English _hibou_, but attractive—when he is not so
grave.”

Meanwhile Godfrey continued to ponder his mighty problem. When he had
mastered enough French in which Madame and Juliette proved efficient
instructors, he propounded it to the old Pasteur, who clapped his hand
upon a Bible, and said: 

“_There_ is the answer, young friend.”

“I know,” replied Godfrey, “but it does not quite satisfy; I
feel that I must find that answer for myself.”

Monsieur Boiset removed his blue spectacles and looked at him.

“Such searches are dangerous,” he said. “Believe me, Godfrey,
it is better to accept.”

“Then why do you find fault with the Roman Catholics, Monsieur?”

The question was like a match applied to a haystack. At once the Pasteur
took fire:

“Because they accept error, not truth,” he began. “What
foundation have they for much of their belief? It is not here,” and
again he slapped the Bible.

Then followed a long tirade, for the one thing this good and tolerant
old man could not endure was the Roman Catholic branch of the Christian
Faith. 

Godfrey listened with patience, till at last the Pasteur, having burnt
himself out, asked him if he were not convinced.

“I do not know,” he replied. “These quarrels of the Churches
and of the different faiths puzzle and tire me. I, too, Monsieur,
believe in God and a future life, but I do not think it matters much by
what road one travels to them, I mean so long as it is a road.”

The Pasteur looked at him alarmed, and exclaimed:

“Surely you will not be a fish caught in the net which already I have
observed that cunning and plausible curé trying to throw about you! Oh!
what then should I answer to your father?”

“Do not be frightened, Monsieur. I shall never become a Roman
Catholic. But all the same I think the Roman Catholics very good
people, and that their faith is as well as another, at any rate for
those who believe it.” 

Then he made an excuse to slip away, leaving the Pasteur puzzled.

“He is wrong,” he said to himself, “most wrong, but all the
same, let it be admitted that the boy has a big mind, and
intelligent—yes, intelligent.”

It is certain that those who search with sufficient earnestness end in
finding something, though the discovered path may run in the wrong
direction, or prove impassable, or wind through caverns, or along the
edge of precipices, down which sooner or later the traveller falls, or
lead at length to some _cul-de-sac_. The axiom was not varied in
Godfrey’s case, and the path he found was named—Miss Ogilvy.

On the first Sunday after his arrival at Kleindorf a fine carriage and
pair drew up at the shrubbery gate, just as the family were returning
from the morning service in the little church where the Pasteur
ministered. Madame sighed when she saw it, for she would have loved
dearly to possess such an equipage, as indeed, she had done at one
period in her career, before an obscure series of circumstances led to
her strange union with Monsieur Boiset. 

“What beautiful horses,” exclaimed Juliette, her hazel eyes
sparkling. “Oh! that tenth Commandment, who can keep it? And why
should some people have fine horses and others not even a pony? _Ma
mère_, why were you not able to keep that carriage of which you have
spoken to me so often?”

Madame bit her lip, and with a whispered “hold your tongue,”
plunged into conversation about Miss Ogilvy. Then Godfrey entered the
carriage and was whirled away in style, looking like the prince in a
fairy book, as Juliette remarked, while the Pasteur tried to explain to
her how much happier she was without the temptation of such earthly
vanities. 

Miss Ogilvy’s house was a beautiful dwelling of its sort, standing in
gardens of its own that ran down to the lake, and commanding fine views
of all the glorious scenery which surrounds Lucerne. The rooms were
large and lofty, with parquet floors, and in some of them were really
good pictures that their owner had inherited, also collections of
beautiful old French furniture. In short, it was a stately and refined
abode, such as is sometimes to be found abroad in the possession of
Americans or English people of wealth, who for their health’s sake or
other reasons, make their homes upon the Continent. 

On hearing the carriage arrive, Miss Ogilvy, who was dressed in a
simple, but charming grey gown and, as Godfrey noticed at once, wore
round her neck the old Gnostic talisman which he had given her, came
from a saloon to meet him in the large, square hall.

“I _am_ glad to see you, Godfrey,” she said in her soft,
cultivated voice.

“So am I, Miss Ogilvy,” he answered, with heartiness, “I mean
to see you. But,” he added, studying her, “you do not look very
well.”

She smiled rather pathetically, and said in a quick voice:

“No, I took a cold on that journey. You see I am rather an invalid,
which is why I live here—while I do live—what they call
_poitrinaire_.”

Godfrey shook his head, the word was beyond him.

“_Anglicé_ consumptive,” she explained. “There
are lots of us in Switzerland, you know, and on the whole, we are a
merry set. It is characteristic of our complaint. But never mind about
me. There are two or three people here. I daresay you will think them
odd, but they are clever in their way, and you ought to have something
in common. Come in.” 

He followed her into the beautiful cool saloon, with its large, double
French windows designed to keep out the bitter winds of winter, but
opened now upon the brilliant garden. Never before had he been in so
lovely a room, that is of a modern house, and it impressed him with
sensations that at the moment he did not try to analyse. All he knew
was that they were mingled with some spiritual quality, such as once or
twice he had felt in ancient churches, something which suggested both
the Past and the Future, and a brooding influence that he could not
define. Yet the place was all light and charm, gay with flowers and 
landscape pictures, in short, lacking any sombre note. 

Gathered at its far end where the bow window overlooked the sparkling
lake, were three or four people, all elderly. Instantly one of these
riveted his attention. She was stout, having her grey hair drawn back
from a massive forehead, beneath which shone piercing black eyes. Her
rather ungainly figure was clothed in what he thought an ugly green
dress, and she wore a necklet of emeralds in an old-fashioned setting,
which he also thought ugly but striking. From the moment that he
entered the doorway at the far end of that long saloon, he felt those
black eyes fixed upon him, and was painfully aware of their owner’s
presence, so much so, that in a whisper, he asked her name of Miss
Ogilvy. 

“Oh!” she answered, “that is Madame Riennes, the noted
mesmerist and medium.”

“Indeed,” said Godfrey in a vague voice, for he did not quite
understand what was meant by this description.

Also there was a thin, elderly American gentleman to whom Godfrey was
introduced, named Colonel Josiah Smith, and a big, blond Dane, who
talked English with a German accent, called Professor Petersen. All of
these studied Godfrey with the most unusual interest as, overwhelmed
with shyness, he was led by Miss Ogilvy to make their acquaintance. He
felt that their demeanour portended he knew not what, more at any rate
than hope of deriving pleasure from his society; in fact, that they
expected to get something out of him. Suddenly he recollected a picture
that once he had seen in a pious work which he was given to read on
Sundays. It represented a missionary being led by the hand by a smiling
woman into the presence of some savages in a South Sea island, who were
about to cook and eat him. 

In the picture a large pot was already boiling over a fire in the
background. Instinctively Godfrey looked for the pot, but saw none,
except one of the flowers which stood on a little table in a recess,
and round it half a dozen chairs, one of them large, with arms. Had he
but known it, that chair was the pot.

No sooner had he made his somewhat awkward bow than luncheon was
announced, and they all went into another large and beautiful room,
where they were served with a perfect meal. The conversation at table
was general, and in English, but presently it drifted into a debate
which Godfrey did not understand, on the increase of spirituality among
the “initiated” of the earth. 

Colonel Josiah Smith, who appeared to associate with remarkable persons
whom he called “Masters,” who dwelt in the remote places of the
world, alleged that such increase was great, which Professor Petersen,
who dwelt much among German intellectuals, denied. It appeared that
these “intellectuals” were busy in turning their backs on every
form of spirituality.

“Ah!” said Miss Ogilvy, with a sigh, “they seek the company
of their kindred ‘Elementals,’ although they do not know it, and
soon those Elementals will have the mastery of them and break them to
pieces, as the lions did the maligners of Daniel.”

In after years Godfrey always remembered this as a very remarkable
prophecy, but at the time, not knowing what an Elemental might be, he
only marvelled. 

At length Madame Riennes, who, it seemed, was half French and half
Russian, intervened in a slow, heavy voice:

“What does it matter, friends of my soul?” she asked. Then having
paused to drink off a full glass of sparkling Moselle, she went on:
“Soon we shall be where the spirituality, or otherwise, of this
little world matters nothing to us. Who will be the first to learn the
truths, I wonder?” and she stared in turn at the faces of every one
of them, a process which seemed to cause general alarm, bearing, as it
did, a strong resemblance to the smelling-out of savage witch-doctors.

Indeed, they all began to talk of this or that at hazard, but she was
not to be put off by such interruptions. Having investigated Godfrey
till he felt cold down the back, Madame turned her searchlight eyes
upon Miss Ogilvy, who shrank beneath them. Then of a sudden she
exclaimed with a kind of convulsive shudder: 

“The Power possesses and guides me. It tells me that _you_ will be
the first, Sister Helen. I see you among the immortal Lilies with the
Wine of Life flowing through your veins.”

On receipt of this information the Wine of Life seemed to cease to flow
in poor Miss Ogilvy’s face. At any rate, she went deadly pale and
rested her hand upon Godfrey’s shoulder as if she were about to
faint. Recovering a little, she murmured to herself:

“I thought it! Well, what does it matter though the gulf is great and
terrible?”

Then with an effort she rose and suggested that they should return to
the drawing-room.

They did so, and were served with Turkish coffee and cigarettes, which
Madame Riennes smoked one after the other very rapidly. Presently Miss
Ogilvy rang the bell, and when the butler appeared to remove the cups,
whispered something in French, at which he bowed and departed.

Godfrey thought he heard him lock the door behind him, but was not sure.



CHAPTER VI

EXPERIENCES


“Let us sit round the table and talk,” said Madame Riennes.

Thereon the whole party moved into the recess where was the flower-pot
that has been mentioned, which Miss Ogilvy took away.

They seated themselves round the little table upon which it had stood.
Godfrey, lingering behind, found, whether by design or accident, that
the only place left for him was the arm-chair which he hesitated to
occupy. 

“Be seated, young Monsieur,” said the formidable Madame in
bell-like tones, whereon he collapsed into the chair. “Sister
Helen,” she went on, “draw the curtain, it is more private so; yes,
and the blind that there may be no unholy glare.”

Miss Ogilvy, who seemed to be entirely under Madame’s thumb, obeyed.
Now to all intents and purposes they were in a tiny, shadowed room cut
off from the main apartment.

“Take that talisman from your neck and give it to young Monsieur
Knight,” commanded Madame.

“But I gave it to her, and do not want it back,” ventured Godfrey,
who was growing alarmed.

“Do what I say,” she said sternly, and he found himself holding the
relic.

“Now, young Monsieur, look me in the eyes a little and listen. I
request of you that holding that black, engraved stone in your hand,
you will be so good as to throw your soul, do you understand, your
soul, back, back, _back_ and tell us where it come from, who have it,
what part it play in their life, and everything about it.”

“How am I to know?” asked Godfrey, with indignation.

Then suddenly everything before him faded, and he saw himself standing
in a desert by a lump of black rock, at which a brown man clad only in
a waist cloth and a kind of peaked straw hat, was striking with an
instrument that seemed to be half chisel and half hammer, fashioned
apparently from bronze, or perhaps of greenish-coloured flint.
Presently the brown man, who had a squint in one eye and a hurt toe
that was bound round with something, picked up a piece of the black
rock that he had knocked off, and surveyed it with evident satisfaction.
 Then the scene vanished. 

Godfrey told it with interest to the audience who were apparently also
interested.

“The finding of the stone,” said Madame. “Continue, young
Monsieur.”

Another vision rose before Godfrey’s mind. He beheld a low room having
a kind of verandah, roofed with reeds, and beyond it a little courtyard
enclosed by a wall of grey-coloured mud bricks, out of some of which
stuck pieces of straw. This courtyard opened onto a narrow street where
many oddly-clothed people walked up and down, some of whom wore peaked
caps. A little man, old and grey, sat with the fragment of black rock
on a low table before him, which Godfrey knew to be the same stone that
he had already seen. By him lay graving tools, and he was engaged in
polishing the stone, now covered with figures and writing, by help of a
stick, a piece of rough cloth and oil. A young man with a curly beard
walked into the little courtyard, and to him the old fellow delivered
the engraved stone with obeisances, receiving payment in some curious 
currency. 

Then followed picture upon picture in all of which the talisman appeared
in the hands of sundry of its owners. Some of these pictures had to do
with love, some with religious ceremonies, and some with war. One, too,
with its sale, perhaps in a time of siege or scarcity, for a small loaf
of black-looking bread, by an aged woman who wept at parting with it.

After this he saw an Arab-looking man finding the stone amongst the
crumbling remains of a brick wall that showed signs of having been
burnt, which wall he was knocking down with a pick-axe to allow water
to flow down an irrigation channel on his garden. Presently a person
who wore a turban and was girt about with a large scimitar, rode by,
and to him the man showed, and finally presented the stone, which the
Saracen placed in the folds of his turban. 

The next scene was of this man engaged in battle with a knight clad in
mail. The battle was a very fine one, which Godfrey described with much
gusto. It ended in the knight killing the Eastern man and hacking off
his head with a sword. This violent proceeding disarranged the turban
out of which fell the black stone. The knight picked it up and hid it
about him. Next Godfrey saw this same knight, grown into an old man and
being borne on a bier to burial, clad in the same armour that he had
worn in the battle. Upon his breast hung the black stone which had now
a hole bored through the top of it. 

Lastly there came a picture of the old sexton finding the talisman among
the bones of the knight, and giving it to himself, Godfrey, then a
small boy, after which everything passed away.

“I guess that either our young friend here has got the vision, or that
he will make a first-class novelist,” said Colonel Josiah Smith.
“Any way, if you care to part with that talisman, Miss Ogilvy, I will
be glad to give you five hundred dollars for it on the chance of his
integrity.” 

She smiled and shook her head, stretching out her hand to recover the
Gnostic charm.

“Be silent, Brother Josiah Smith,” exclaimed Madame Riennes,
angrily. “If this were imposture, should I not have discovered it? It
is good vision—psychometry is the right term—though of a humbler
order such as might be expected from a beginner. Still, there is hope,
there is hope. Let us see, now. Young gentleman, be so good as to look
me in the eye.” 

Much against his will Godfrey found himself bound to obey, and looked
her “in the eye.” A few moments later he felt dizzy, and after that
he remembered no more.

When Godfrey awoke again the curtain was drawn, the blinds were pulled
up and the butler was bringing in tea. Miss Ogilvy sat by his side,
looking at him rather anxiously, while the others were conversing
together in a somewhat excited fashion.

“It is splendid, splendid!” Madame was saying. “We have
discovered a pearl beyond price, a great treasure. Hush! he awakes.”

Godfrey, who experienced a curious feeling of exhaustion and of
emptiness of brain, yawned and apologized for having fallen asleep,
whereon the professor and the colonel both assured him that it was
quite natural on so warm a day. Only Madame Riennes smiled like a
sphinx, and asked him if his dreams were pleasant. To this he replied
that he remembered none. 

Miss Ogilvy, however, who looked rather anxious and guilty, did not
speak at all, but busied herself with the tea which Godfrey thought
very strong when he drank it. However, it refreshed him wonderfully,
which, as it contained some invigorating essence, was not strange. So
did the walk in the beautiful garden which he took afterwards, just
before the carriage came to drive him back to Kleindorf.

Re-entering the drawing-room to say goodbye, he found the party engaged
listening to the contents of a number of sheets of paper closely written
in pencil, which were being read to them by Colonel Josiah Smith, who
made corrections from time to time.

“_Au revoir_, my young brother,” said Madame Riennes, making
some mysterious sign before she took his hand in her fat, cold fingers,
“you will come again next Sunday, will you not?”

“I don’t know,” he answered awkwardly, for he felt afraid of
this lady, and did not wish to see her next Sunday.

“Oh! but I do, young brother. You will come, because it gives me so
much pleasure to see you,” she replied, staring at him with her
strange eyes. 

Then Godfrey knew that he would come because he must.

“Why does that lady call me ‘young brother’?” he asked
Miss Ogilvy, who accompanied him to the hall.

“Oh! because it is a way she has. You may have noticed that she called
me ‘sister’.”

“I don’t think that I shall call _her_ sister,” he
remarked with decision. “She is too alarming.”

“Not really when you come to know her, for she has the kindest heart
and is wonderfully gifted.”

“Gifts which make people tell others that they are going to die are
not pleasant, Miss Ogilvy.”

She shivered a little.

“If her spirit—I mean the truth—comes to her, she must speak
it, I suppose. By the way, Godfrey, don’t say anything about this
talisman and the story you told of it, at Kleindorf, or in writing
home.” 

“Why not?”

“Oh! because people like your dear old Pasteur, and clergymen
generally, are so apt to misunderstand. They think that there is only
one way of learning things beyond, and that every other must be wrong.
Also I am sure that your friend, Isobel Blake, would laugh at you.”

“I don’t write to Isobel,” he exclaimed setting his lips.

“But you may later,” she said smiling. “At any rate you will
promise, won’t you?”

“Yes, if you wish it, Miss Ogilvy, though I can’t see what it
matters. That kind of nonsense often comes into my head when I touch old
things. Isobel says that it is because I have too much imagination.”

“Imagination! Ah! what is imagination? Well, goodbye, Godfrey, the
carriage will come for you at the same time next Sunday. Perhaps, too, I
shall see you before then, as I am going to call upon Madame Boiset.”

Then he went, feeling rather uncomfortable, and yet interested, though
what it was that interested him he did not quite know. That night he
dreamed that Madame Riennes stood by his bed watching him with her
burning eyes. It was an unpleasant dream.

He kept his word. When the Boiset family, especially Madame,
cross-examined him as to the details of his visit to Miss Ogilvy, he
merely described the splendours of that opulent establishment and the
intellectual character of its guests. Of their mystic attributes he
said nothing at all, only adding that Miss Ogilvy proposed to do
herself the honour of calling at the Maison Blanche, as the Boisets’
house was called. 

About the middle of the week Miss Ogilvy arrived and, as Madame had
taken care to be at home in expectation of her visit, was entertained
to tea. Afterwards she visited the observatory, which interested her
much, and had a long talk with the curious old Pasteur, who also
interested her in his way, for as she afterwards remarked to Godfrey,
one does not often meet an embodiment of human goodness and charity.
When he replied that the latter quality was lacking to the Pasteur
where Roman Catholics were concerned, she only smiled and said that 
every jewel had its flaw; nothing was quite perfect in the world. 

In the end she asked Madame and Juliette to come to lunch with her,
leaving out Godfrey, because, as she said, she knew that he would be
engaged at his studies with the Pasteur. She explained also that she
did not ask them to come with him on Sunday because they would be taken
up with their religious duties, a remark at which Juliette made what
the French call a “mouth,” and Madame smiled faintly.

In due course she and her daughter went to lunch and returned delighted,
having found themselves fellow-guests of some of the most notable
people in Lucerne, though not those whom Miss Ogilvy entertained on
Sundays. Needless to say from that time forward Godfrey’s intimacy
with this charming and wealthy hostess was in every way encouraged by
the Boiset family. 

The course of this intimacy does not need any very long description.
Every Sunday after church the well-appointed carriage and pair appeared
and bore Godfrey away to luncheon at the Villa Ogilvy. Here he always
met Madame Riennes, Colonel Josiah Smith, and Professor Petersen; also
occasionally one or two others with whom these seemed to be
sufficiently intimate to admit of their addressing them as
“Brother” or “Sister.” 

Soon Godfrey came to understand that they were all members of some kind
of semi-secret society, though what this might be he could not quite
ascertain. All he made sure of was that it had to do with matters which
were not of this world. Nothing concerning mundane affairs, however
important or interesting, seemed to appeal to them; all their
conversation was directed towards what might be called spiritual
problems, reincarnations, Karmas (it took him a long time to understand
what a Karma is), astral shapes, mediumship, telepathic influences,
celestial guides, and the rest. 

At first this talk with its jargon of words which he did not comprehend,
bored him considerably, but by degrees he felt that he was being drawn
into a vortex, and began to understand its drift. Even while it was
enigmatic it acquired a kind of unholy attraction for him, and he began
to seek out its secret meaning in which he found that company ready
instructors. 

“Young brother,” said Madame Riennes, “we deal with the
things not of the body, but of the soul. The body, what is it? In a few
years it will be dust and ashes, but the soul—it is eternal—and all
those stars you study are its inheritance, and you and I, if we
cultivate our spiritual parts, shall rule in them.”

Then she would roll her big eyes and become in a way magnificent, so
that Godfrey forgot her ugliness and the repulsion with which she
inspired him. 

In the end his outlook on life and the world became different, and this
not so much because of what he learned from his esoteric teachers, as
through some change in his internal self. He grew to appreciate the
vastness of things and the infinite possibilities of existence. Indeed,
his spiritual education was a fitting pendant to his physical study of
the heavens, peopled with unnumbered worlds, each of them the home,
doubtless, of an infinite variety of life, and each of them keeping its
awful secrets locked in its floating orb. He trembled in presence of
the stupendous Whole, of which thus by degrees he became aware, and
though it frightened him, thought with pity of the busy millions of
mankind to whom such mysteries are nothing at all; who are lost in
their business or idleness, in their eating, drinking, sleeping,
love-making, and general satisfaction of the instincts which they
possess in common with every other animal. The yearning for wisdom, the
desire to know, entered his young heart and possessed it, as once these
did that of Solomon, to such a degree indeed, that standing on the
threshold of his days, he would have paid them all away, and with them
his share in this warm and breathing world, could he have been assured
that in exchange he would receive the key of the treasure-house of the 
Infinite.    

Such an attitude was neither healthy nor natural to a normal, vigorous
lad just entering upon manhood, and, as will be seen, it did not
endure. Like everything else, it had its causes. His astronomical
studies were one of these, but a deeper reason was to be found in those
Sunday séances at the Villa Ogilvy. For a long while Godfrey did not
know what happened to him on these occasions. The party sat round the
little table, talking of wonderful things; Madame Riennes looked at him
and sometimes took his hand, which he did not like, and then he
remembered no more until he woke up, feeling tired, and yet in a way
exhilarated, for with the mysteries of hypnotic sleep he was not yet 
acquainted. Nor did it occur to him that he was being used as a medium
by certain of the most advanced spiritualists in the world. 

By degrees, however, inklings of the truth began to come. Thus, one day
his consciousness awoke while his body seemed still to be wrapt in
trance, and he saw that there was a person present who had not been of
the party when he went to sleep. A young woman, clad in a white robe,
with lovely hair flowing down her back, stood by his side and held his
supine fingers in her hand. 

She was beautiful, and yet unearthly, she wore ornaments also, but as he
watched, to his amazement these seemed to change. What had been a fillet
of white stones, like diamonds, which bound her hair, turned to one of
red stones, like rubies, and as it did so the colour of her eyes, which
were large and very tranquil, altered.

She was speaking in a low, rich voice to Miss Ogilvy, who answered,
addressing her as Sister Eleanor, but what she said Godfrey could not
understand. Something of his inner shock and fear must have reflected
itself upon his trance-bound features, for suddenly he heard Madame
Riennes exclaim: 

“Have done! the medium awakes, and I tell you it is dangerous while
our Guide is here. Back to his breast, Eleanor! Thence to your
place!” 

The tall figure changed; it became misty, shapeless. It seemed to fall
on him like a cloud of icy vapour, chilling him to the heart, and
through that vapour he could see the ormolu clock which stood on a
bracket in the recess, and even note the time, which was thirteen
minutes past four. After this he became unconscious, and in due course
woke up as usual. The first thing his eyes fell on was the clock, of
which the hands now pointed to a quarter to five, and the sight of it
brought everything back to him. Then he observed that all the circle
seemed much agitated, and distinctly heard Madame Riennes say to 
Professor Petersen in English:— 

“The thing was very near. Had it not been for that medicine of
yours——! It was because that speerit do take his hand. She grow
fond of him; it happen sometimes if the medium be of the other sex and
attractive. She want to carry him away with her, that Control, and I
expect she never quite leave him all his life, because, you see, she
materialize out of him, and therefore belong to him. Next time she
come, I give her my mind. Hush! Our wonderful little brother wake
up—quite right this time.” 

Then Godfrey really opened his eyes; hitherto he had been feigning to be
still in trance, but thought it wisest to say nothing. At this moment
Miss Ogilvy turned very pale and went into a kind of light faint.

The Professor produced some kind of smelling-bottle from his pocket,
which he held to her nostrils. She came to at once, and began to laugh
at her own silliness, but begged them all to go away and leave her
quiet, which they did. Godfrey was going too, but she stopped him,
saying that the carriage would not be ready till after tea, and that it
was too wet for him to walk in the garden, for now autumn had come in
earnest. The tea arrived, a substantial tea, with poached eggs, of
which she made him eat two, as she did always after these sittings.
Then suddenly she asked him if he had seen anything. He told her all, 
adding: 

“I am frightened. I do not like this business, Miss Ogilvy. Who and
what was that lady in white, who stood by me and held my hand? My
fingers are still tingling, and a cold wind seems to blow upon me.”

“It was a spirit, Godfrey, but there is no need to be afraid, she will
not do you any harm.”

“I don’t know, and I don’t think that you have any right to
bring spirits to me, or out of me, as I heard that dreadful Madame say
had happened. It is a great liberty.”

“Oh! don’t be angry with me,” she said piteously. “If
only you understood. You are a wonderful medium, the most wonderful that
any of us has ever known, and through you we have learned things; holy,
marvellous things, which till now have not been heard of in the world.
Your fame is already great among leading spiritualists of the earth,
though of course they do not know who you are.”

“That does not better matters,” said Godfrey, “you know it is
not right.”

“Perhaps not, but my dear boy, if only you guessed all it means to me!
Listen; I will tell you; you will not betray me, will you? Once I was
very fond of someone; he was all my life, and he died, and my heart
broke. I only hope and pray that such a thing may never happen to you.
Well, from that hour to this I have been trying to find him and failed,
always failed, though once or twice I thought——. And now through
you I have found him. Yes, he has spoken to me telling me much which
proves to me that he still lives elsewhere and awaits me. And oh! I am
happy, and do not care how soon I go to join him. And it is all through
you. So you will forgive me, will you not?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Godfrey, “but all the same I
don’t want to have anything more to do with that white lady who is
called Eleanor and changes her jewels so often; especially as Madame
said she was growing fond of me and would never leave me. So please
don’t ask me here again on Sundays.”

Miss Ogilvy tried to soothe him.

“You shouldn’t be frightened of her,” she said. “She is
really a delightful spirit, and declares that she knew you very
intimately indeed, when you were an early Egyptian, also much before
that on the lost continent, which is called Atlantis, to say nothing of
deep friendships which have existed between you in other planets.”

“I say!” exclaimed Godfrey, “do you believe all this?”

“Well, if you ask me, I must say that I do. I am sure that we have all
of us lived many lives, here and elsewhere, and if this is so, it is
obvious that in the course of them we must have met an enormous number
of people, with certain of whom we have been closely associated in the
various relationships of life. Some of these, no doubt, come round with
us again, but others do not, though we can get into touch with them
under exceptional circumstances. That is your case and Eleanor’s. At
present you are upon different spheres, but in the future, no doubt,
you will find yourselves side by side again, as you have often been, in
due course to be driven apart once more by the winds of Destiny, and
perhaps, after ages, finally to be united. Meanwhile she plays the part
of one of your guardian angels.” 

“Then I wish she wouldn’t,” said Godfrey, with vigour.
“I don’t care for a guardian angel of whom I have no memory, and
who seems to fall on you like snow upon a hot day. If anybody does that
kind of thing I should prefer a living woman.”

“Which doubtless she has been, and will be again. For you see, where
she is, she has memory and foreknowledge, which are lacking to the
incarnated. Meanwhile, through you, and because of you, she can tell us
much. You are the wire which connects us to her in the Unseen.”

“Then I hope you will find another wire; I really do, for it upsets me
and makes me feel ill. I know that I shall be afraid to go to bed
to-night, and even for you, Miss Ogilvy, I won’t come next Sunday.”

Then, as the carriage was now at the door, he jumped into it and
departed without waiting for an answer.

Moreover, on the next Sunday, when, as usual, it arrived to fetch him at
Kleindorf, Godfrey kept his word, so that it went back empty. By the
coachman he sent an awkwardly worded note to Miss Ogilvy, saying that
he was suffering from toothache which had prevented him from sleeping
for several nights, and was not well enough to come out.

This note she answered by post, telling him that she had been
disappointed not to see him as she was also ill. She added that she
would send the carriage on the following Sunday on the chance of his
toothache being better, but that if it was not, she would understand
and trouble him no more. 

During all that week Godfrey fought with himself. He did not wish to
have anything more to do with the white and ghostly Eleanor, who
changed her gems so constantly, and said that she had known him
millenniums ago. Indeed, he felt already as though she were much too
near him, especially at night, when he seemed to become aware of her
bending over his bed, and generally making her presence known in other
uncomfortable ways that caused his hair to stand up and frightened him.

At the same time he was really fond of Miss Ogilvy, and what she said
about being ill touched him. Also there was something that drew him; it
might be Eleanor, or it might be Madame Riennes. At any rate he felt a
great longing to go. Putting everything else aside, these
investigations had their delights. What other young fellow of his age
could boast an Eleanor, who said she had been fond of him tens of
thousands of years before? 

Moreover, here was one of the gates to that knowledge which he desired
so earnestly, and how could he find the strength to shut it in his own
face? 

Of course the end of the matter was that by the following Sunday, his
toothache had departed, and the carriage did not return empty to the
Villa Ogilvy. 

He found his hostess looking white and ethereal, an appearance that she
had acquired increasingly ever since their first meeting. Her delight
at seeing him was obvious, as was that of the others. For this he soon
discovered the reason. It appeared that the sitting on the previous
Sunday, when he was overcome by toothache, had been an almost total
failure. Professor Petersen had tried to fill his place as medium, with
the result that when he fell under the influence, the only spirit that
broke through his lips was one which discoursed interminably about
lager beer and liqueurs of some celestial brew, which, as Madame
Riennes, a lady not given to mince her words, told him to his face 
afterwards, was because he drank too much. Hence the joy of these
enthusiasts at the re-appearance of Godfrey. 

With considerable reluctance that youth consented to play his usual
rôle, and to be put into a charmed sleep by Madame. This time he saw
no Eleanor, and knew nothing of what happened until he awoke to be
greeted by the horrific spectacle of Miss Ogilvy lying back in her
chair bathed in blood. General confusion reigned in the midst of which
Madame Riennes alone was calm. 

“It is hæmorrhage from the lungs,” she said, “which is
common among _poitrinaires_. Brother Petersen, do what you can, and you,
Brother Smith, fly for Mademoiselle’s doctor, and if he is not at
home, bring another.”

Later Godfrey heard what had chanced. It seemed that the wraith, or
emanation, or the sprite, good or evil, or whatever it may have been,
which called itself Eleanor, materialized in a very ugly temper. It
complained that it had not been allowed to appear upon the previous
Sunday and had been kept away from its brother, i.e. Godfrey. Then it
proceeded to threaten all the circle, except Godfrey, who was the real
culprit, with divers misfortunes, especially directing its wrath
against Miss Ogilvy. 

“You will die soon,” it said, “and in the spirit world I will
pay you back.” Thrice it repeated this: “You will die,” to
which Miss Ogilvy answered with calm dignity:

“I am not afraid to die, nor am I at all afraid of you, Eleanor, who,
as I now see, are not good but evil.”

While she spoke a torrent of blood burst from her lips, Eleanor
disappeared, and almost immediately Godfrey awoke.

In due course the doctor came and announced that the hæmorrhage had
ceased, and that the patient was in no imminent danger. As to the
future, he could say nothing, except that having been Miss Ogilvy’s
medical attendant for some years, he had expected something of this
sort to happen, and known that her life could not be very long.

Then Godfrey went home very terrified and chastened, blaming himself
also for this dreadful event, although in truth no one could have been
more innocent. He had grown very fond of Miss Ogilvy, and shuddered to
think that she must soon leave the world to seek a dim Unknown, where
there were bad spirits as well as good.

He shuddered, too, at the thought of this Eleanor, who made use of him
to appear in human form, and on his knees prayed God to protect him
from her. This indeed happened, if she had any real existence and was
not some mere creation of the brain of Madame Riennes, made visible by
the working of laws whereof we have no knowledge. Never again, during
all his life, did he actually see any more of Eleanor, and the
probability is that he never will, either here or elsewhere.

Three days later Godfrey received a letter from the doctor, saying that
Miss Ogilvy wished to see him, and that he recommended him not to delay
his visit. Having obtained the permission of the Pasteur, he went in at
once by the diligence, and on arrival at the villa, where evidently he
was expected, was shown up to a bedroom which commanded a beautiful
view of the lake and Mount Pilatus. Here a nurse met him and told him
that he must not stay long; a quarter of an hour at the outside. He
asked how Mademoiselle was, whereon she answered with an expressive
shrug: 

“Soon she will be further from the earth than the top of that
mountain.”

Then she took him to another smaller room, and there upon the bed,
looking whiter than the sheets, lay his friend. She smiled very sweetly
when she caught sight of him.

“Dear Godfrey,” she said, “it is kind of you to come. I
wanted to see you very much, for three reasons. First, I wish to beg
your pardon for having drawn you into this spiritualism without your
knowing that I was doing so. I have told you what my motive was, and
therefore I will not repeat it, as my strength is small. Secondly, I
wish you to promise me that you will never go to another séance, since
now I am quite sure that it is dangerous for the young. To me
spiritualism has brought much good and joy, but with others it may be
different, especially as among spirits, as on the earth, there are evil
beings. Do you promise?” 

“Yes, yes,” answered Godfrey, “only I am afraid of Madame
Riennes.”

“You must stand up against her if she troubles you, and seek the help
of religion; if necessary consult your old Pasteur, for he is a good
man. There is no danger in the world that cannot be escaped if only one
is bold enough, or so I think, though, alas! myself I have lacked
courage,” she added with a gentle sigh.

“Now, dear boy,” she went on after pausing to recover strength,
“I have a third thing to say to you. I have left you some money, as I
know that you will have little. It is not very much, but enough,
allowing for accidents and the lessening of capital values, to give you
£260 a year clear. I might have given you more, but did not, for two
reasons. The first is, that I have observed that young men who have
what is called a competence, say £500 or £600 a year, very often are
content to try and live on it, and to do nothing for themselves, so
that in the end it becomes, not a blessing, but a curse. The second is,
that to do so I should be obliged to take away from certain charities
and institutions which I wish to benefit. That is all I have to say
about money. Oh! no, there is one more thing. I have also left you the
talisman you gave me, and with it this house and grounds. Perhaps one
day you might like to live here. I have a sort of feeling that it will
be useful to you at some great crisis of your fate, and at least it
will remind you of me, who have loved and tried to beautify the place.
In any case it will always let, and if it becomes a white elephant, you
can sell it and the furniture, which is worth something.” 

Godfrey began to stammer his thanks, but she cut him short with a wave
of her hand, murmuring:

“Don’t let us waste more time on such things, for soon you must go
away. Already I see that nurse looking at me from the doorway of the
other room, and I have something more to say to you. You will come to
think that all this spiritualism, as it is called, is nothing but a
dangerous folly. Well, it is dangerous, like climbing the Alps, but one
gets a great view from the top. And, oh! from there how small men look
and how near are the heavens. I mean, my dear boy, that although I have
asked you to abjure séances and so forth, I do pray of you to
cultivate the spiritual. The physical, of course, is always with us,
for that is Nature’s law, without which it could not continue. But
around and beyond it broods the spirit, as once it did upon the face of
the waters, encircling all things; the beginning of all things, and the
end. Only, as wine cannot be poured into a covered cup, so the spirit
cannot flow into a world-sealed heart, and what is the cup without the
wine? Open your heart, Godfrey, and receive the spirit, so that when
the mortal perishes the immortal may remain and everlastingly increase.
For you know, if we choose death we shall die, and if we choose life we
shall live; we, and all that is dear to us.” 

Miss Ogilvy paused a little to get her breath, then went on: “Now, my
boy, kiss me and go. But first—one word more. I have taken a strange
affection for you, perhaps because we were associated in other
existences, I do not know. Well, I want to say that from the land
whither I am about to be borne, it shall be my great endeavour, if it
is so allowed, to watch over you, to help you if there be need, and in
the end to be among the first to greet you there, you, or any whom you
may love in this journey of yours through life. Look, the sun is
sinking. Now, goodbye till the dawn.” 

He bent down and kissed her and she kissed him back, throwing her thin
and feeble arm about his neck, after which the nurse came and hurried
him away weeping. At the door he turned back and saw her smile at him,
and, oh! on her wasted face were peace and beauty.

Next day she died.

Forty-eight hours later Godfrey attended her funeral, to which the
Pasteur Boiset was also bidden, and after it was over they were both
summoned to the office of a notary where her will was read. She was a
rich woman, who left behind her property to the value of quite
£100,000, most of it in England. Indeed, this Swiss notary was only
concerned with her possessions in Lucerne, namely the Villa Ogilvy, its
grounds and furniture, and certain moneys that she had in local
securities or at the bank. The house, its appurtenances and contents,
were left absolutely to Godfrey, the Pasteur Boiset being appointed
trustee of the property until the heir came of age, with a legacy of 
£200, and an annual allowance of £100 for his trouble. 

Moreover, with tender care, except for certain bequests to servants, the
testatrix devoted all her Swiss moneys to be applied to the upkeep of
the place, with the proviso that if it were sold these capital sums
should revert to her other heirs in certain proportions. The total of
such moneys as would pass with the property, was estimated by the
notary to amount to about £4,000 sterling, after the payment of all
State charges and legal expenses. The value of the property itself,
with the fine old French furniture and pictures which it contained, was
also considerable, but unascertained. For the rest it would appear that
Godfrey inherited about £12,000 in England, together with a possible
further sum of which the amount was not known, as residuary legatee.
This bequest was vested in the English trustees of the testatrix who
were instructed to apply the interest for his benefit until he reached
the age of twenty-five, after which the capital was to be handed over 
to him absolutely. 

Godfrey, whose knowledge of the French tongue was still limited, and who
was overcome with grief moreover after the sad scene through which he
had just passed, listened to all these details with bewilderment. He
was not even elated when the grave notary shook his hand and
congratulated him with the respect that is accorded to an heir, at the
same time expressing a hope that he would be allowed to remain his
legal representative in Switzerland. Indeed, the lad only muttered
something and slipped away behind the servants whose sorrow was 
distracted by the exercise of mental arithmetic as to the amount of
their legacies. 

After his first stupefaction, however, the Pasteur could not conceal his
innocent joy. A legacy of £200, a trusteeship “of the most
important,” as he called it, and an allowance of £100 for years to
come, were to him wonderful wealth and honour.

“Truly, dear young friend,” he said to Godfrey, as they left the
office, “it was a fortunate hour for me, and for you also, when you
entered my humble house. Now I am not only your instructor, but the
guardian of your magnificent Lucerne property. I assure you that I will
care for it well. To-morrow I will interview those domestics and
dismiss at least half of them, for there are far too many.”



CHAPTER VII

MR. KNIGHT AND DUTY


The pair returned to Kleindorf by the evening diligence, and among the
passengers was that same priest who had been their companion on the day
of Godfrey’s arrival. As usual he was prepared to be bellicose, and
figuratively, trailed the tails of his coat before his ancient enemy.
But the Pasteur would not tread on them. Indeed, so mild and
conciliatory were his answers that at last the priest, who was a good
soul at bottom, grew anxious and inquired if he were ill.

“No, no,” said a voice from the recesses of the dark coach,
“Monsieur le Pasteur has come into money. Oh, I have heard!”

“Is it so? Now I understand,” remarked the priest with a sniff,
“I feared that he had lost his health.”

Then they arrived at Kleindorf, and the conversation ended with mutual
bows. 

Great was the excitement of Madame and Juliette at the news which they
brought with them. To their ears Godfrey’s inheritance sounded a tale
of untold wealth, nearly 300,000 francs! Why, they did not know anyone
in the neighbourhood of Kleindorf who owned so much. And then that fine
house, with its gardens and lovely furniture, which was the talk of
Lucerne. And the Pasteur with his 5,000 francs clear to be paid
immediately, plus an income of 2,500 for the next eight years. Here
were riches indeed. It was wonderful, and all after an acquaintance of
only a few months. They looked at Godfrey with admiration. Truly he
must be a remarkable youth who was thus able to attract the love of the
wealthy. 

An idea occurred to Madame. Why should he not marry Juliette? She was
vivacious and pretty, fit in every way to become a great lady, even
perhaps to adorn the lovely Villa Ogilvy in future years. She would
have a word with Juliette, and show her where fortune lay. If the girl
had any wit it should be as good as assured, for with her
opportunities—— 

And so, doubtless, it might have chanced had it not been for a certain
determined and unconventional young woman far away in England, of whom
the persistent memory, however much he might flirt, quite prevented
Godfrey from falling in love, as otherwise he ought to, and indeed,
probably must have done at his age and in his circumstances.

Perhaps Miss Juliette, who although young was no fool, also had ideas
upon the subject, at any rate at this time, especially as she had found
_l’Hibou_ always attractive, notwithstanding his star-gazing ways,
and the shower of wealth that had descended on him as though direct from
the _Bon Dieu_, did not lessen his charms. If so, who could blame her?
When one has been obliged always to look at both sides of a sou and
really pretty frocks, such as ladies wear, are almost as unobtainable
as Godfrey’s stars, money becomes important, especially to a girl
with an instinct for dress and a love of life.

Thenceforward, at least, as may be imagined, Monsieur Godfrey became a
very prominent person indeed in the Boiset establishment. All his
little tastes were consulted; Madame moved him into the best spare
bedroom, on the ground that the one he occupied would be cold in
winter, which, when he was out, Juliette made a point of adorning with
flowers if these were forthcoming, or failing them with graceful sprays
of winter berries. Also she worked him some slippers covered with
little devils in black silk, which she said he must learn to tread 
under foot, though whether this might be a covert allusion to his 
spiritualistic experiences or merely a flight of fancy on her part,
Godfrey did not know. 

On the evening of the reading of the will, prompted thereto by the
Pasteur, that young gentleman wrote a letter to his father, a task
which he always thought difficult, to tell him what had happened. As he
found explanations impossible, it was brief, though the time occupied
in composing drafts, was long. Finally it took the following form:—

“My dear Father,—I think I told you that I travelled out here with
a lady named Miss Ogilvy, whom I have often seen since. She has
just died and left me, as I understand, about £12,000, which I am
to get when I am twenty-five. Meanwhile I am to have the income,
so I am glad to say I shall not cost you any more. Also she has
left me a large house in Lucerne with a beautiful garden and a lot
of fine furniture, and some money to keep it up. As I can’t live
there, I suppose it will have to be let.

“I hope you are very well. Please give my love to Mrs. Parsons and
tell her about this. It is growing very cold here, and the
mountains are covered with snow, but there has been little frost.
I am getting on well with my French, which I talk with
Mademoiselle Juliette, who knows no English, although she thinks
she does. She is a pretty girl and sings nicely. Madame, too, is
very charming. I work at the other things with the Pasteur, who is
kind to me. He will write to you also and I will enclose his
letter.

“Your affectionate son,

“Godfrey.”

The receipt of this epistle caused astonishment in Mr. Knight, not
unmixed with irritation. Why could not the boy be more explicit? Who
was Miss Ogilvy, whose name, so far as he could recollect, he now heard
for the first time, and how did she come to leave Godfrey so much
money? The story was so strange that he began to wonder whether it were
a joke, or perhaps, an hallucination. If not, there must be a great
deal unrevealed. The letter which Godfrey said the Pasteur would write
was not enclosed, and if it had been, probably would not have helped
him much as he did not understand French, and could scarcely decipher
his cramped calligraphy. Lastly, he had heard nothing from any lawyers 
or trustees. 

In his bewilderment he went straight to Hawk’s Hall, taking the letter
with him, with a view to borrowing books of reference which might enable
him to identify Miss Ogilvy. The butler said that he thought Sir John
was in and showed him to the morning room, where he found Isobel, who
informed him that her father had just gone out. Their meeting was not
affectionate, for as has been told, Isobel detested Mr. Knight, and he
detested Isobel. Moreover, there was a reason, which shall be
explained, which just then made him feel uncomfortable in her presence.
Being there, however, he thought it necessary to explain the object of
his visit. 

“I have had a very strange letter from that odd boy, Godfrey,” he
said, “which makes me want to borrow a book. Here it is, perhaps you
will read it, as it will save time and explanation.”

“I don’t want to read Godfrey’s letters,” said Isobel,
stiffly.

“It will save time,” repeated Mr. Knight, thrusting it towards her.

Then, being overcome by curiosity, she read it. The money part did not
greatly interest her; money was such a common thing of which she heard
so much. What interested her were, first, Miss Ogilvy and the
unexplained reasons of her bequest, and secondly, in a more acute
fashion, Mademoiselle Boiset, who was pretty and sang so nicely. Miss
Ogilvy, whoever she might have been, at any rate, was dead, but
Juliette clearly was much alive, with her prettiness and good voice. No
wonder, then, that she had not heard from Godfrey. He was too occupied
with the late Miss Ogilvy and the very present Mademoiselle Juliette, 
in whose father’s house he was living as one of the family. 

Isobel’s face, however, showed none of her wonderings. She read the
letter quite composedly, but with such care that afterwards she could
have repeated it by heart. Then she handed it back, saying:

“Well, Godfrey seems to have been fortunate.”

“Yes, but why? I find no explanation of this bequest—if there is a
bequest.”

“No doubt there is, Mr. Knight. Godfrey was always most truthful and
above-board,” she answered, looking at him.

Mr. Knight flinched and coloured at her words, and the steady gaze of
those grey eyes. She wondered why though she was not to learn for a
long while. 

“I thought perhaps you could lend me some book, or books, which would
enable me to find out about Miss Ogilvy. I have never heard of her
before, though I think that in one of his brief communications Godfrey
did mention a lady who was kind to him in the train.”

“Certainly, there are lots of them. ‘Who’s
Who’—only she would not be there unless she was very rich, but you
might look. Peerages; they’re no good as she was Miss Ogilvy, though,
of course, she might be the daughter of a baron. ‘County Families,’
Red Books, etc. Let’s try some of them.”

So they did try. Various Ogilvys there were, but none who gave them any
clue. This was not strange, as both Miss Ogilvy’s parents had died in
Australia, when she was young, leaving her to be brought up by an aunt
of another name in England, who was also long dead.

So Mr. Knight retreated baffled. Next morning, however, a letter arrived
addressed “Godfrey Knight, Esq.,” which after his pleasing fashion
he opened promptly. It proved to be a communication from a well-known
firm of lawyers, which enclosed a copy of Miss Ogilvy’s will, called
special attention to the codicil affecting himself, duly executed
before the British Consul and his clerk in Lucerne, gave the names of
the English trustees, solicited information as to where the interest on
the sum bequeathed was to be paid, and so forth.

To this inquiry Mr. Knight at once replied that the moneys might be paid
to him as the father of the legatee, and was furious when all sorts of
objections were raised to that course, unless every kind of guarantee
were given that they would be used solely and strictly for the benefit
of his son. Finally, an account had to be opened on which cheques could
be drawn signed by one of the trustees and Mr. Knight. This proviso
made the latter even more indignant than before, especially as it was
accompanied by an intimation that the trustees would require his
son’s consent, either by letter or in a personal interview, to any
arrangements as to his career, etc., which involved expenditure of the
trust moneys. When a somewhat rude and lengthy letter to them to that
effect was met with a curt acknowledgment of its receipt and a 
reference to their previous decision, Mr. Knight’s annoyance hardened 
into a permanent grievance against his son, whom he seemed to hold
responsible for what he called an “affront” to himself. 

He was a man with large ideas of paternal rights, of which an example
may be given that was not without its effect upon the vital interests
of others. 

When Isobel returned from London, after the fancy-dress ball, at which
she thought she had seen a ghost whilst sitting in the square with her
young admirer who was dressed as a knight, she waited for a long while
expecting to receive a letter from Godfrey. As none came, although she
knew from Mrs. Parsons that he had written home several times, she
began to wonder as to the cause of his silence. Then an idea occurred
to her. 

Supposing that what she had seen was no fancy of her mind, but Godfrey
himself, who in some mysterious fashion had found his way into that
square, perhaps in the hope of seeing her at the ball in order to say
goodbye? This was possible, since she had ascertained from some casual
remark by his father that he did not leave London until the following
morning. 

If this had happened, if he had seen her “playing the fool,” as she
expressed it to herself with that good-looking man in the square, what
would he have thought of her? She never paused to remember that he had
no right to think anything. Somehow from childhood she acknowledged in
her heart that he had every right, though when she said this to
herself, she did not in the least understand all that the admission
conveyed. Although she bullied and maltreated him at times, yet to
herself she always confessed him to be her lord and master. He was the
one male creature for whom she cared in the whole world, indeed,
putting her mother out of the question, she cared for no other man or 
woman, and would never learn to do so. 

For hers was a singular and very rare instance of almost undivided
affection centred on a single object. So far as his sex was concerned
Godfrey was her all, a position of which any man might well be proud in
the case of any woman, and especially of one who had many opportunities
of devoting herself to others. In her example, however, she was not to
be thanked, for the reason that she only followed her nature, or
perhaps the dictates of that fate which inspires and rules very great
love, whether it be between man and woman, between parent and child,
between brother and brother, or between friend and friend. Such 
feelings do not arise, or grow. They simply _are_; the blossoms of a
plant that has its secret roots far away in the soil of Circumstance
beyond our ken, and that, mayhap, has pushed its branches through
existences without number, and in the climates of many worlds. 

So at least it was with Isobel, and so it had always been since she
kissed the sleeping child in the old refectory of the Abbey. She was
his, and in a way, however much she might doubt or mistrust, her inner
sense and instinct told her that he was always hers, that so he had
always been and so always would remain. With the advent of womanhood
these truths came home to her with an increased force because she
knew—again by instinct—that this fact of womanhood multiplied the
chances of attainment to the unity which she desired, however partial
that might still prove to be. 

Yet she knew also that this great mutual attraction did not depend on
sex, though by the influence of sex it might be quickened and
accentuated. It was something much more deep and wide, something which
she did not and perhaps never would understand. The sex element was
accidental, so much so that the passage of a few earthly years would
rob it of its power to attract and make it as though it had never been,
but the perfect friendship between their souls was permanent and
without shadow of change. She knew, oh!, she knew, although no word of
it had ever been spoken between them, that theirs was the Love Eternal. 
The quick perception of her woman’s mind told her these things, of
which Godfrey’s in its slower growth was not yet aware. 

Animated by this new idea that she had really seen Godfrey, and what was
much worse, that Godfrey had really seen her upon an occasion when she
would have much preferred to remain invisible to him, she was filled
with remorse, and determined to write him a letter. Like that of the
young man himself to his father, its composition took her a good deal
of time. 

Here it is as copied from her third and final draft:—

“My dear old Godfrey,—I have an idea that you were in the Square
on the night of the fancy ball when I came out, and wore that
horrid Plantagenet dress which, after all, did not fit. (I sent it
to a jumble-sale where no one would buy it, so I gave it to Mrs.
Smilie, who has nine children, to cut into frocks for her little
girls.) If you _were_ there, instead of resting before your long
journey as you ought to have done, and saw me with a man in armour
and a rose—and the rest, of course you will have understood that
this was all part of the game. You see, we had to pretend that we
were knights and ladies who, when they were not cutting throats or
being carried off with their hair down, seem to have wasted their
time in giving each other favours, and all that sort of bosh. (We
did not know what a favour was, so we used a rose.) The truth is
that the young man and his armour, especially his spurs which tore
my dress, and everything about him bored me, the more so because
all the while I was thinking of—well, other things—how you would
get through your journey, and like those French people and the
rest. So now, if you _were_ there, you won’t be cross, and if you
were _not_, and don’t understand what I am saying, it isn’t worth
bothering about. In any case, you had no right to—I mean, be
cross. It is I who should be cross with you for poking about in a
London square so late and not coming forward to say how do you do
and be introduced to the knight. That is all I have to say about
the business, so don’t write and ask me any questions.

“There is no news here—there never is—except that I haven’t been
into that church since you left, and don’t mean to, which makes
your father look at me as sourly as though he had eaten a whole
hatful of crab-apples. He hates me, you know, and I rather like
him for showing it, as it saves me the trouble of trying to keep
up appearances. Do tell me, when you write, how to explain his
ever having been _your_ father. If he still wants you to go into
the Church I advise you to study the Thirty-nine Articles. I read
them all through yesterday, and how anybody can swear to them in
this year of grace I’m sure I don’t know. They must shut their
eyes and open their mouths, like we used to do when we took
powders. By the way, did you ever read anything about Buddhism?
I’ve got a book on it which I think rather fine. At any rate, it
is a great idea, though I think I should find it difficult to
follow ‘the Way.’

“I am sorry to say that Mother is not well at all. She coughs a
great deal now that Essex is getting so damp, and grows thinner
and thinner. The doctor says she ought to go to Egypt, only
Father won’t hear of it. But I won’t write about that or we should
have another argument on the fourth Commandment. Good-bye, dear
old boy.—Your affectionate          ISOBEL.

“P.S.—When you write don’t tell me all about Switzerland and
snow-covered mountains and blue, bottomless lakes, etc., which I can
read in books. Tell me about yourself and what you are doing and
thinking—especially what you are thinking.

“P.P.S.—That man in armour isn’t really good-looking; he has a
squint. Also he puts scent upon his hair and can’t spell. I know
because he tried to write a bit of poetry on my programme and got
it all wrong.”

When she had finished this somewhat laboured epistle Isobel remembered
that she had forgotten to ask Godfrey to write down his address.
Bethinking her that it would be known to Mrs. Parsons, she took it
round to the Abbey House, proposing to add it there. As it happened
Mrs. Parsons was out, so she left it with the housemaid, who promised
faithfully to give it to her when she returned, with Isobel’s message
as to writing the address on the sealed envelope. In order that she
might not forget, the maid placed it on a table by the back door. By
ill luck, however, presently through that door, came, not Mrs. Parsons,
but the Rev. Mr. Knight. He saw the letter addressed to Godfrey Knight,
Esq., and, though he half pretended to himself that he did not, at once 
recognized Isobel’s large, upright hand. Taking it from the table he 
carried it with him into his study and there contemplated it for a
while.    

“That pernicious girl is communicating with Godfrey,” he said to
himself, “which I particularly wish to prevent.”

A desire came upon him to know what was in the letter, and he began to
argue with himself as to his “duty”—that was the word he used.
Finally he concluded that as Godfrey was still so young and so open to
bad influences from that quarter, this duty clearly indicated that he
should read the letter before it was forwarded. In obedience to this
high impulse he opened and read it, with the result that by the time it
was finished there was perhaps no more angry clergyman in the British
Empire. The description of himself looking as though he had eaten a
hatful of crab-apples; the impious remarks about the Thirty-nine
Articles; the suggestion that Godfrey, instead of going to bed as he
had ordered him to do that evening, was wandering about London at 
midnight; the boldly announced intention of the writer of not going to 
church—indeed, every word of it irritated him beyond bearing. 

“Well,” he said aloud, “I do not think that I am called upon
to spend twopence-halfpenny” (for Isobel had forgotten the stamp)
“in forwarding such poisonous trash to a son whom I should guard from
evil. Hateful girl! At any rate she shall have no answer to this
effusion.”

Then he put the letter into a drawer which he locked.

As a consequence, naturally, Isobel did receive “no answer,” a fact
from which she drew her own conclusions. Indeed, it would not be too
much to say that these seared her soul. She had written to Godfrey, she
had humbled herself before Godfrey, and he sent her—no answer. It
never occurred to her to make inquiries as to the fate of that letter,
except once when she asked the housemaid whom she chanced to meet,
whether she had given it to Mrs. Parsons. The girl, whose brain, or
whatever represented that organ, was entirely fixed upon a young man in
the village of whom she was jealous, answered, yes. Perhaps she had
entirely forgotten the incident, or perhaps she considered the throwing
of the letter upon a table as equivalent to delivery. 

At any rate, Isobel, who thought, like most other young people, that
when they once have written something, it is conveyed by a magical
agency to the addressee, even if left between the leaves of a blotter,
accepted the assurance as conclusive. Without doubt the letter had gone
and duly arrived, only Godfrey did not choose to answer it, that was
all. Perhaps this might be because he was still angry on account of the
knight in armour—oh! how she hoped that this was the reason, but, as
her cold, common sense, of which she had an unusual share, convinced
her, much more probably the explanation was that he was engaged
otherwise, and did not think it worth while to take the trouble to 
write. 

Later on, it is true, she did mean to ask Mrs. Parsons whether she had
forwarded the letter. But as it chanced, before she did so, that good
woman burst into a flood of conversation about Godfrey, saying how
happy he seemed to be in his new home with such nice ladies around, who
it was plain, thought so much of him, and so forth. This garrulity
Isobel took as an intended hint and ceased from her contemplated
queries. When some months later Mr. Knight brought her Godfrey’s
epistle which announced his inheritance, needless to say, everything
became plain as a pikestaff to her experienced intelligence. 

So it came about that two young people, who adored each other, were
estranged for a considerable length of time. For Isobel wrote no more
letters, and the proud and outraged Godfrey would rather have died than
attempt to open a correspondence—after what he had seen in that
London square. It is true that in his brief epistles home, which were
all addressed to his father, since Mrs. Parsons was what is called “a
poor scholar,” he did try in a roundabout way to learn something
about Isobel, but these inquiries, for reasons of his own, his parent
completely ignored. In short, she might have been dead for all that
Godfrey heard of her, as he believed that she was dead—to him.

Meanwhile, Isobel had other things to occupy her. Her mother, as she had
said in the letter which Mr. Knight’s sense of duty compelled him to
steal, became very ill with lung trouble. The doctors announced that
she ought to be taken to Egypt or some other warm climate, such as
Algeria, for the winter months. Sir John would hear nothing of the
sort. For years past he had chosen to consider that his wife was
hypochondriacal, and all the medical opinions in London would not have
induced him to change that view. The fact was, as may be guessed, that
it did not suit him to leave England, and that for sundry reasons which
need not be detailed, he did not wish that Isobel should accompany her 
mother to what he called “foreign parts.” In his secret heart he 
reflected that if Lady Jane died, well, she died, and while heaven
gained a saint, earth, or at any rate, Sir John Blake, would be no
loser. She had played her part in his life, there was nothing more to
be made of her either as a woman or as a social asset. What would it
matter if one more pale, uninteresting lady of title joined the
majority?    

Isobel had one of her stormy interviews with Sir John upon this matter
of her mother’s health.

“She ought to go abroad,” she said.

“Who told you that?” asked her father.

“The doctors. I waited for them and asked them.”

“Then you had no business to do so. You are an impertinent and
interfering chit.”

“Is it impertinent and interfering to be anxious about one’s
mother’s health, even if one is a chit?” inquired Isobel, looking
him straight in the eyes.

Then he broke out in his coarse way, saying things to his daughter of
which he should have been ashamed.

She waited until he ceased, red-faced, and gasping, and replied:

“Were it not for my mother, whom you abuse, although she is such an
angel and has always been so kind to you, I would leave you, Father,
and earn my own living, or go with my uncle Edgar to Mexico, where he
is to be appointed Minister, as he and Aunt Margaret asked me to. As it
is I shall stop here, though if anything happens to Mother, because you
will not send her abroad, I shall go if I have to run away. Why won’t
you let her go?” she added with a change of voice. “You need not
come; I could look after her. If you think that Egypt or the other
place is too far, you know the doctors say that perhaps Switzerland
would do her good, and that is quite near.” 

He caught hold of this suggestion, and exclaimed, with a sneer:

“I know why you want to go to Switzerland, Miss. To run after that
whipper-snapper of a parson’s son, eh? Well, you shan’t. And as for
why I won’t let her go, it’s because I don’t believe those
doctors, who say one minute that she should go to Egypt, which is hot,
and the next to Switzerland, which is cold. Moreover, I mean you to
stop in England, and not go fooling about with a lot of strange men in
these foreign places. You are grown up now and out, and I have my own
plans for your future, which can’t come off if you are away. We stop
here till Christmas, and then go to London. There, that’s all, so
have done.” 

At these insults, especially that which had to do with Godfrey, Isobel
turned perfectly scarlet and bit her lip till the blood ran. Then
without another word she went away, leaving him, if the truth were
known, a little frightened. Still, he would not alter his decision,
partly because to do so must interfere with his plans, and he was a
very obstinate man, and partly because he refused to be beaten by
Isobel. This was, he felt, a trial of strength between them, and if he
gave way now, she would be master. His wife’s welfare did not enter
into his calculations. 

So they stopped in Essex, where matters went as the doctors had
foretold, only more quickly than they expected. Lady Jane’s complaint
grew rapidly worse, so rapidly that soon there was no question of her
going abroad. At the last moment Sir John grew frightened, as bullies
are apt to do, and on receipt of an indignant letter from Lord
Lynfield, now an old man, who had been informed of the facts by his
grand-daughter, offered to send his wife to Egypt, or anywhere else.
Again the doctors were called in to report, and told him with brutal
frankness that if their advice had been taken when it was first given, 
probably she would have lived for some years. As it was, it was
impossible for her to travel, since the exertion might cause her death
upon the journey, especially if she became seasick. 

This verdict came to Isobel’s knowledge as the first had done. Indeed,
in his confusion, emphasized by several glasses of port, her father
blurted it out himself.

“I wonder whether you will ever be sorry,” was her sole comment.

Then she sat down to watch her mother die, and to think. Could there be
any good God, she wondered, if He allowed such things to happen. Poor
girl! it was her first experience of the sort, and as yet she did not
know what things are allowed to happen in this world in obedience to
the workings of unalterable laws by whoever and for whatever purpose
these may be decreed. 

Being ignorant, however, and still very young and untaught of life, she
could not be expected to take these large views, or to guess at the
Hand of Mercy which holds the cup of human woes. She saw her mother
fading away because of her father’s obstinacy and self-seeking, and
it was inconceivable to her that such an unnecessary thing could be
allowed by a gentle and loving Providence. Therefore, she turned her
back on Providence, as many a strong soul has done before her,
rejecting it for the reason that she could not understand. 

Had she but guessed, this attitude of hers, which could not be concealed
entirely in the case of a nature so frank, was the bitterest drop in her
mother’s draught of death. She, poor gentle creature, made no
complaints, but only excuses for her husband’s conduct. Nor, save for
Isobel’s sake did she desire to live. Her simple faith upbore her
through the fears of departure, and assured her of forgiveness for all
errors, and of happiness beyond in a land where there was one at least
whom she wished to meet. 

“I won’t try to argue with you, because I am not wise enough to
understand such things,” she said to Isobel, “but I wish, dearest,
that you would not be so certain as to matters which are too high for
us.” 

“I can’t help it, Mother,” she answered.

Lady Jane looked at her and smiled, and then said:

“No, darling, you can’t help it now, but I am sure that a time must
come when you will think differently. I say this because something tells
me that it is so, and the knowledge makes me very happy. You see we
must all of us go through darkness and storms in life; that is if we
are worth anything, for, of course, there are people who do not feel.
Yet at the end there is light, and love, and peace, for you as well as
for me, Isobel; yes, and for all of us who have tried to trust and to
repent of what we have done wrong.” 

“As you believe it I hope that it is true; indeed, I think that it
must be true, Mother dear,” said Isobel with a little sob.

The subject was never discussed between them again, but although Isobel
showed no outward change of attitude, from that time forward till the
end, her mother seemed much easier in her mind about her and her views.

“It will all come right. We shall meet again. I know it. I know
it,” were her last words.

She died quite suddenly on the 27th of December, the day upon which Sir
John had announced that they were to move to London.

As a matter of fact, one of the survivors of this trio was to move much
further than to London, namely, Isobel herself. It happened thus. The
funeral was over; the relatives and the few friends who attended it had
departed to their rooms if they were stopping in the house, or
elsewhere; Isobel and her father were left alone. She confronted him, a
tall, slim figure, whose thick blonde hair and pale face contrasted
strikingly with her black dress. Enormous in shape, for so Sir John had
grown, carmine-coloured shading to purple about the shaved chin and
lips (which were also of rather a curious hue), bald-headed, bold yet 
shifty-eyed, also clad in black, with a band of crape like to that of a 
Victorian mute, about his shining tall hat, he leaned against the
florid, marble mantelpiece, a huge obese blot upon its whiteness. They
were a queer contrast, as dissimilar perhaps as two human beings well
could be.    

For a while there was silence between them, which he, whose nerves were
not so young or strong as his daughter’s, was the first to break.

“Well, she’s dead, poor dear,” he said.

“Yes,” answered Isobel, her pent-up indignation bursting forth,
“and you killed her.”

Then he too burst forth.

“Damn you, what do you mean, you little minx?” he asked. “Why
do you say I killed her, because I did what I thought the best for all
of us? No woman had a better husband, as I am sure she acknowledges in
heaven to-day.”

“I don’t know what Mother thinks in heaven, if there is one for
her, as there ought to be. But I do know what I think on earth,”
remarked the burning Isobel.

“And I know what I think also,” shouted her enraged parent, dashing
the new, crape-covered hat on to the table in front of him, “and it is
that the further you and I are apart from each other, the better we are
likely to get on.”

“I agree with you, Father.”

“Look here, Isobel, you said that your uncle Edgar, who has been
appointed Minister to Mexico, offered to take you with him to be a
companion to his daughter, your cousin Emily. Well, you can go if you
like. I’ll pay the shot and shut up this house for a while. I’m
sick of the cursed place, and can get to Harwich just as well from
London. Write and make the arrangements, for one year, no more. By that
time your temper may have improved,” he added with an ugly sneer.

“Thank you, Father, I will.”

He stared at her for a little while. She met his gaze unflinchingly, and
in the end it was not her eyes that dropped. Then with a smothered
exclamation he stamped out of the room, kicking Isobel’s little
terrier out of the path with his elephantine foot. The poor beast, of
which she was very fond, limped to her whining, for it was much hurt.
She took it in her arms and kissed it, weeping tears of wrath and pity.

“I wonder what Godfrey would say about the fifth Commandment if he had
been here this afternoon, you poor thing,” she whispered to the
whimpering dog, which was licking its hanging leg. “There is no God.
If there had been He would not have given me such a father, or my
mother such a husband.”

Then still carrying the injured terrier, she went out and glided through
the darkness to her mother’s grave in the neighbouring churchyard.
The sextons had done their work, and the raw, brown earth of the grave,
mixed with bits of decayed coffins and fragments of perished human
bones, was covered with hot-house flowers. Among these lay a gorgeous
wreath of white and purple orchids, to which was tied a card whereon
was written: “To my darling wife, from her bereaved husband, John
Blake.” 

Isobel lifted the wreath from its place of honour and threw it over the
churchyard wall. Then she wept and wept as though her heart would break.



CHAPTER VIII

THE PASTEUR TAKES THE FIELD


In due course Godfrey received an epistle of frigid congratulation from
his father upon his accession to wealth which, he remarked, would be of
assistance to him in his future clerical career. The rest of the letter
was full of complaints against the indignities that had been heaped
upon him by Miss Ogilvy’s executors and trustees, and also against
Godfrey himself for not having furnished him with more information
concerning the circumstances surrounding his inheritance. Lastly, Mr.
Knight enclosed a paper which he requested Godfrey to sign and return,
authorizing him to deal with the income of the legacy.

This Godfrey did obediently, only a week or two later to receive a
formal notification from the lawyers, sent to him direct this time as
his address had been filled in on the Authority, informing him that he
had no power to sign such documents, he being in fact under age, and
suggesting that he should refrain from doing so in the future. Enclosed
were copies of their first letter to him, and of the other documents
which Mr. Knight had not thought it worth while to forward because, as
he said, they were heavy and foreign postage was so expensive.

Further the trustees announced that they proposed to allow him £50 a
year out of the income for his personal needs, which would be paid
half-yearly, and enclosed a draft for £25, which was more money than
ever Godfrey had possessed before. This draft he was desired to
acknowledge, and generally to keep himself in touch with the trustees,
and to consult them before taking any step of importance, also as to
his future career. 

All this, with the sense of independence which it gave him, was
agreeable enough to Godfrey, as it would have been to any youth. He
acknowledged the draft under the guidance of the Pasteur, saying that
he would write again when he had anything to communicate, but that as
yet he had not made up his mind as to his future, and proposed to stay
where he was, continuing his studies, if his father would allow him to
do so. Next he took an opportunity to go to Lucerne with the Pasteur,
who wished to inspect the Villa Ogilvy and consult the notary as to an
inventory of its contents and arrangements for its upkeep. 

Godfrey, who was received by the servants with many bows, and requests
that they might be allowed to continue in their employment, wandered
through the big rooms which looked so desolate now, and stared until he
was tired at examples of beautiful French furniture, of which he
understood nothing. Then, oppressed by memories of his kind friend into
whose death chamber he had blundered, and, as it seemed to him, by a
sense of her presence which he imagined was warning him of something,
he left the house, telling the Pasteur, who was peering about him
through his blue spectacles in an innocent and interested way, that he 
would meet him at the five o’clock diligence. Indeed, he had business
of his own to do, which seemed to him more important than all this
stock-taking and legal discussion. Having plenty of money in his pocket
Godfrey wished to spend some of it in presents. 

First, he bought a large meerschaum pipe with a flexible stem as a gift
to the Pasteur, whom he had heard admire this very pipe in the shop
window and express regrets that it was too expensive for his means.
Having paid down thirty francs like a man for this treasure, he
proceeded to a jeweller’s near by. There he acquired a necklace of
amethysts set with great taste in local silver work, for Madame to
wear, and a charming silver watch of the best Swiss make for Juliette.
When he found that these objects involved an expenditure of fourteen 
sovereigns, he was a little staggered, but again smiled and paid up.
There was also a lovely little ring of gold with two turquoise hearts
that he bought for £2 to send to Isobel _when_ she wrote to him. But,
as Isobel had posted her letter in Mr. Knight’s drawer, that ring
never reached her finger for many a day. 

These gifts safely in his pocket, he began to stroll towards the railway
station, whence the diligence started, slowly, as he had plenty of time.
As he went he saw, in a shop window, a beautiful stick of olive wood,
with an ebony crook. It was marked ten francs, and he coveted it
greatly, but reflected with a sigh that having spent so much on others
he could afford nothing for himself, for Godfrey was an unselfish soul.
Instead he bought a collar of Swiss lace for Mrs. Parsons. Immediately
after he left the lace shop he became aware that he was being shadowed.
He heard no footfall, and he saw no one, but he _knew_ that this was
so; he could feel it down his back, and in a cold wind which blew 
across his hands, as it had done always at the Villa Ogilvy séances. 

The road that he was following led across some public gardens beneath an
avenue of trees, which, of course, at this time of the year, were
leafless. This avenue was lighted here and there, and beneath one of
the gas lamps Godfrey wheeled round to see Madame Riennes advancing on
him out of the gloom. Her stout form padded forward noiselessly, except
for the occasional crackle of a dead and frosted leaf beneath her foot.
She wore a thick cloak of some sort with a black hood that framed her
large, white face, making her look like a monk of the Inquisition as
depicted in various old prints. Beneath the blackness of this hood and
above the rigid line of the set mouth, stared two prominent and glowing
eyes, in which the gaslight was reflected. They reminded Godfrey of
those of a stalking cat in a dark room. Indeed, from the moment that he
caught sight of them he felt like the mouse cowering in a corner, or
like a bird in a tree fascinated by the snake that writhes towards it
along the bough.    

“Ah, _mon petit_,” said Madame, in her thick, creamy voice,
that seemed to emerge from her lower regions, “so I have found you. I
was walking through the town and a notion came to me that you were
here, a—what you call it?—instinct like that which make the dog
find its master. Only I master and you dog, eh?”

Godfrey tried to pull himself together, feeling that it would not be
wise to show fear of this woman, and greeted her as politely as he
could, taking off his hat with a flourish in the foreign fashion.

“Put that hat back on your head, _mon petit_, or you will catch cold
and be ill, you who are much too precious to be ill. Listen, now: I have
something to say to you. You have great luck, have you not? Ah! sweet
Sister Helen, she go to join the spirits, quite quick, as I tell her a
little while ago she will do, and she leaves you much money, though to
me, her old friend, her sister in the speerit, she give not one sou,
although she know I want it. Well, I think there some mistake, and I
wish to talk to Sister Helen about this money business. I think she
leave me something, somehow, if I can find out where. And you, dear
_petit_, can help me. Next Sunday you will come to my rooms of which I
give you address,” and she thrust a card into his hand, “and we
will talk with Sister Helen, or at least with Eleanor, your little
friend.” 

Godfrey shook his head vigorously, but she took no notice.

“What have you been buying,” she went on, “with Sister
Helen’s money? Presents, I think. Yes, yes, I see them in your
pocket,” and she fixed her eyes upon the unhappy Godfrey’s pocket,
at least that is where he felt them.

“Oh! very pretty presents. Necklace for the fine Madame, of whom I can
tell you some stories. Watch for pretty Mees, with the red, pouting
lips, so nice to kiss. Pipe for good old Pasteur, to smoke while he
think of heaven, where one time he sit all day and do nothing for ever;
lace for someone else, I know not who, and I think a charming ring for
one who will not wear it just yet; a big girl with a pale face and eyes
that flash, but can grow soft. One who would know how to love, eh! Yes,
not a doll, but one who would know how to love like a woman should. Am
I right?” 

The confused Godfrey babbled something about a shop, and was silent.

“Well, never mind the shop, my leetle friend. You come to my shop next
Sunday, eh?”

“No,” said Godfrey, “I have had enough of spirits.”

“Yes, perhaps, though the speerits have been your good friends, taking
Sister Helen, who has left something behind her. But those dear
speerits, they have not had enough of you; they very faithful souls,
especially that pretty Eleanor. I tell you, Mr. Godfrey, you will come
to see me next Sunday, and if you not come, I’ll fetch you.”

“Fetch me! How?”

“Look at my eyes, that’s how. I put you to sleep many times now,
and I have power to make you come where I want and do what I wish. You
do not believe me, eh? Well, now I show you. Come, _mon petit_, and
give your dear godmamma a kiss,” and she smiled at him like an
ogress. 

Now the last thing in the whole world that Godfrey wished to do was to
embrace Madame Riennes, whom he loathed so that every fibre of his body
shrank from her. Yet, oh horror! a wild impulse to kiss her took
possession of him. In vain he struggled; he tried to step backwards,
and instead went forwards, he tried to turn his head away, but those
glowing eyes held and drew him as a magnet draws a needle. And as the
needle rolls across the table ever more quickly towards the magnet, so
did the unwilling Godfrey gravitate towards Madame Riennes. And now,
oh! now her stout arm was about his neck, and now—he was impressing a
fervent embrace upon her dome-like brow. 

“There! What did I tell you, you nice, kind, little Godfrey,” she
gurgled with a hollow laugh. “Your dear godmamma thanks you, and you
must run to catch that diligence. _Au revoir_ till Sunday afternoon. Do
not trouble about the hour, you will know exactly when to start. Now
go.” 

She made a movement of her big, white hand, with the result that Godfrey
felt like a spring which had been suddenly released. Next instant,
still pursued by that gurgling laughter, he was running hard towards
the diligence. 

Fortunately the Pasteur was so full of talk about the house and his
business with the notary, that there was no need for Godfrey to speak
in the coach, or indeed at dinner. Then after the meal was finished he
produced his presents, and with blushes and stammers offered them to
the various members of the family. What rapture there was! Madame was
delighted with her necklace, which she said and truly, was in the best
of taste. Juliette kissed the watch, and looked as though she would
like to kiss the donor, as indeed was her case. The Pasteur examined
the fine pipe through his blue spectacles, saying that never had he
expected to own one so beautiful, then at once filled it and began to 
smoke. After this they all scolded him for his extravagance. 

“You did not buy anything for yourself,” said Juliette,
reproachfully. “Oh! yes, I see you did,” and she pretended to
perceive for the first time the little red case containing the ring,
which inadvertently he had pulled out of his pocket with the other
articles, although in truth she had observed it from the beginning.
“Let us learn what it is,” she went on, possessing herself of and
opening the case. “Oh! a ring, what a pretty ring, with two hearts.
For whom is the ring, Monsieur Godfrey? Someone in England?”

Then Godfrey, overcome, told a lie.

“No, for myself,” he said.

Juliette looked at him and exclaimed:

“Then you should have told the jeweller to make it big enough. Try and
you will see.”

He turned red as a boiled lobster. Mademoiselle stood opposite to him,
shaking her pretty head, and murmuring: “_Quel mensonge! Quel bête
mensonge!_” while Madame broke into a low and melodious laughter, and
as she laughed, looked first at the ring and then at Juliette’s
shapely hand.

“Make not a mock of our young friend,” said the Pasteur, suddenly
lifting his glance, or rather his spectacles from a long contemplation
of that noble pipe and becoming aware of what was passing. “We all
have our presents, which are magnificent. What then is our affair with
the ring? Pardon them, and put it in your pocket, Godfrey, and come,
let us go to the observatory, for the night is fine, and by now the
stove will be warm.” 

So they went, and soon were engaged in contemplation of the stars, an
occupation which absorbed Godfrey so much that for a while he forgot all
his troubles.

When the door had shut behind them Madame looked at Juliette, who with
her new watch held to her ear, observed her out of the corners of her
eyes. 

“I find him charming,” said Madame presently.

“Yes, Mamma,” replied Juliette, “so bright and even the tick
is musical.”

“Stupid!” exclaimed Madame. “When I was your
age—well.”

“Pardon!” said Juliette, opening her eyes innocently.

“Child, I meant our young English friend. I repeat that I find him
charming.”

“Of course, Mamma—after that necklace.”

“And you—after that watch?”

“Oh! well enough, though too grave perhaps, and fond of what is far
off—I mean stars,” she added hurriedly.

“Stars! Pish! It is but because there is nothing nearer. At his
age—stars!—well of a sort, perhaps.”

She paused while Juliette still looked provokingly innocent. So her
mother took a long step forward, for in truth she grew impatient with
all this obtuseness in which, for reasons of her own, she did not
believe. 

“If I were a girl of your age,” mused Madame as though to herself,
“I do not think that ring would go to England.”

“How, Mamma, would you steal it?”

“No, but I would make sure that it was given to me.”

Now Juliette could no longer feign not to understand. She said nothing,
but turned as red as Godfrey had done a little while before and stood
waiting. 

“I find him charming,” repeated Madame, “though he is so
young, which is a fault that will mend,” and she fixed her eyes upon
her daughter’s face with a look of interrogation.

Then Juliette gave a little sigh and answered:

“Good. If you will make me say it, so do I also, at least, sometimes I
think so, when he is not dull,” and turning she fled from the room.

Madame smiled as the door closed behind her.

“That goes well, and should go better,” she said to herself.
“Only, for whom is the ring? There must be some girl in England,
although of her he says nothing. _Peste!_ There are so many girls.
Still, she is far away, and this one is near. But it could be wished
that she were more experienced, for then, since she likes him well
enough, all would be sure. What does a man count in such a
case—especially when he is so young? Pish! nothing at all,” and
Madame snapped her fingers at the empty air. “It is the woman who
holds the cards, if only she knows how to play them.”

Now all these things happened on a Wednesday. When Godfrey went to bed
that night uncomfortable memories of Madame Riennes, and of the chaste
embrace which she had forced him to impress upon her expansive
forehead, haunted him for a while, also fears for the future. However,
Sunday was still a long way off, so he went to sleep and dreamed that
he was buying presents at every shop in Lucerne and giving them all to
Madame Riennes. 

On Thursday he was quite happy. On Friday he began to suffer from
uneasiness, which on Saturday became very pronounced. It seemed to him
that already waves of influence were creeping towards him like the
fringes of some miasmic mist. Doubtless it was imagination, but he
could feel their first frail tentacles wrapping themselves around his
will, and drawing him towards Lucerne. As the day went on the tentacles
grew stronger, till by evening there might have been a very octopus
behind them. If this were so that night, he wondered what would happen
on the following day, when the octopus began to pull. On one point he 
was determined. He would not go; never would he allow Madame Riennes to
put him to sleep again, and what was much worse to make him kiss her.
At any rate that spirit, Eleanor, was beautiful and attractive—but
Madame Riennes! Rather than forgather with her again in this
affectionate manner, much as he dreaded it—or her—he would have
compounded with the ghost called Eleanor.    

Now, although like most young people, Godfrey was indolent and evasive
of difficulties, fearful of facing troubles also, he had a bedrock of
character. There were points beyond which he would not go, even for the
sake of peace. But here a trouble came in; he was well aware that
although he would not go—to Madame Riennes to wit—there was
something stronger than himself which would make him go. It was the old
story over again set out by St. Paul once and for ever, that of the two
laws which make a shuttlecock of man so that he must do what he wills
not. Having once given way to Madame Riennes, who was to him a kind of
sin incarnate, he had become her servant, and if she wished to put him
to sleep, or to do anything else with him, well, however much he hated
it, he must obey. 

The thought terrified him. What could he do? He had tried prayers, never
before had he prayed so hard in all his life; but they did not seem to
be of the slightest use. No guardian angel, not even Eleanor, appeared
to protect him from Madame Riennes, and meanwhile, the fog was creeping
on, and the octopus tentacles were gripping tighter. In his emergency
there rose the countenance of Miss Ogilvy’s dying counsel, welcome
and unexpected as light of the moon to a lost traveller on a
cloud-clothed night. What had she told him to do? To resist Madame
Riennes. He had tried that with lamentable results. To invoke the help
of religion. He had tried that with strictly negative results; the
Powers above did not seem inclined to intervene in this private affair.
To appeal to the Pasteur. That he had not tried but, unpromising as the
venture seemed to be, by Jove! he would. In his imminent peril there
was nothing to which he would have appealed, even Mumbo-Jumbo itself if
it gave him the slightest hope of protection from Madame Riennes. 

Accordingly, when they went to the observatory that night, instead of
applying his eye to the telescope in the accustomed fashion, Godfrey
rushed at the business like a bull at a gate. At first the Pasteur was
entirely confused, especially as Godfrey spoke in English, which the
preceptor must translate into French in his own mind. By degrees,
however, he became extraordinarily interested, so much so that he let
the new pipe go out, and what was very rare with him, except in the
most moving passages of his own sermons, pushed the blue spectacles
from his high nose upwards, till they caught upon the patch of grizzled
hair which remained upon his bald head. 

“Ah!” he said, answering in French, which by now Godfrey understood
fairly well, “this is truly exciting; at last I come in touch with the
thing. Know, Godfrey, that you furnish me with a great occasion. Long
have I studied this, what you call it—demonology. Of it I know much,
though not from actual touch therewith.”

Then he began to talk of gnosticism, and witchcraft, and _Incubi_, and
_Succubi_, and the developments of modern spiritualism, till Godfrey was
quite bewildered. At length he paused, relit the new pipe, and said:

“These matters we will study afterwards; they are, I assure you, most
entertaining. Meanwhile, we have to deal with your Madame Riennes. All
right, oh! quite all right. I will be her match. She will not make _me_
kiss her, no, not at all, not at all! Be tranquil, young friend, if
to-morrow you feel the impulse to go, go you shall, but I will go with
you. Then we will see. Now to bed and sleep well. For me, I must study;
I have many books on this subject, and there are points whereon I would
refresh myself. Be not afraid. I know much of Madame Riennes and I will
leave her flat as that,” and with surprising alacrity he jumped on a
large black beetle which, unhappily for itself, just then ran across
the observatory floor to enjoy the warmth of the stove. “Wait,” he
added, as Godfrey was leaving. “First kneel down, I have memory of
the ancient prayer, or if I forget bits, I can fill in the holes.”

Godfrey obeyed in a rather abject fashion, whereon the old Pasteur,
waving the pipe above his head, from which emerged lines of blue smoke
such as might have been accessory to an incantation, repeated over him
something in Latin, that, owing to the foreign accent, he could not in
the least understand. It ended, however, with the sign of the cross
made with the bowl of the pipe, which the Pasteur forgot still remained
in his hand. 

Fortified by the accession of this new ally, Godfrey slept fairly well,
till within a little while of dawn, when he was awakened by a sound of
rapping. At first he thought that these raps, which seemed very loud
and distinct, were made by someone knocking on the door, perhaps to
tell him there was a fire, and faintly murmured “_Entrez_.” Then to
his horror he became aware that they proceeded, not from the door, but
from the back of his wooden bedstead, immediately above him, and at the
same time recollected that he had heard similar noises while sitting at
the little table in the Villa Ogilvy, which the mystics gathered there
declared were produced by spirits. 

His hair rose upon his head, a cold perspiration trickled down him; he
shook in every limb. He thought of lighting a candle, but reflected
that it was on the chest of drawers at the other side of the room, also
that he did not know where he had put the matches. He thought of flying
to the Pasteur, but remembered that to do so, first he must get out of
bed, and perhaps expose his bare legs to the assault of ghostly hands,
and next that, to reach the chamber of Monsieur and Madame Boiset, he
must pass through the sanctuary of the room occupied by Juliette. So he
compromised by retiring under the clothes, much as a tortoise draws its
head into its shell. 

This expedient proved quite useless, for there beneath the blankets the
raps sounded louder than ever. Moreover, of a sudden the bed seemed to
be filled with a cold and unnatural air, which blew all about him,
especially upon his hands, though he tried to protect these by placing
them under his back. Now Godfrey knew something of the inadequate and
clumsy methods affected by alleged communicating spirits, and half
automatically began to repeat the alphabet. When he got to the letter
I, there was a loud rap. He began again, and at A came another rap.
Once more he tried, for something seemed to make him do so, and was
stopped at M. 

“I am,” he murmured, and recommenced until the word
“here” was spelt out, after which came three rapid raps to signify
a full stop.

“Who is here?” he asked in his own mind, at the same time
determining that he would leave it at that. It was of no use at all, for
the other party evidently intended to go on.

There was a perfect rain of raps, on the bed, off the bed, on the floor,
even on the jug by the washstand; indeed, he thought that this and
other articles were being moved about the room. To stop this multiform
assault once more he took refuge in the alphabet, with the result that
the raps unmistakably spelt the word “Eleanor.”

“Great Heavens!” he thought to himself, “that dreadful spirit
girl here, in my bedroom! How can she? It is most improper, but I
don’t suppose she cares a sou for that.”

In his despair and alarm he tucked the clothes tightly round him, and
thrusting out his head, said in trembling accents:

“Please go away. You know I never asked you to come, and really it
isn’t right,” remarks which he thought, though, like all the rest,
this may have been fancy, were followed by a sound of ghostly laughter.
What was more, the bedclothes suddenly slipped off him, or—oh horror!
perhaps they were pulled off. At any rate, they went, and when next he
saw them they were lying in a heap by the side of the bed.

Then it would seem that he fainted, overcome by these terrors, real or
imaginary. At any rate, when he opened his eyes again it was to see the
daylight creeping into the room (never before had he appreciated so
thoroughly the beauties of the dawn) and to find himself lying half
frozen on the bed with the pillow, which he was clasping
affectionately, for his sole covering. 

At breakfast that morning he looked so peculiar and dilapidated, that
Madame and Juliette made tender inquiries as to his health, to which he
replied that his bedclothes had come off in the night and the cold had
given him a chill “in the middle.” They were very sympathetic, and
dosed him with hot _café-au-lait_, but the Pasteur, studying him
through the blue spectacles, said, “Ah, is it so?” in a kind of
triumphant tone which Madame designated as “_bête_.” Indeed, to
those unacquainted with what was passing in M. Boiset’s mind, it must
have seemed particularly stupid.

When breakfast was over he possessed himself of Godfrey, and led him to
the observatory, where the stove was already lit, though this was not
usual in the daytime, especially on Sundays.

“Now, my boy, tell me all about it,” he said, and Godfrey told him,
feebly suggesting that it might have been a nightmare.

“Nightmare! Nonsense. The witch Riennes has sent her demon to torment
you, that is all. I thought she would. It is quite according to rule, a
most clear and excellent case. Indeed, I _am_ a lucky student.”

“I don’t believe in witches,” said Godfrey, “I always
heard they were rubbish.”

“Ah! I don’t know. Here in the mountains these Swiss people believe
in them, and tell strange stories, some of which I have heard as their
Pasteur, especially when I held office among the High Alps. Also the
Bible speaks of them often, does it not, and what was, is, and shall
be, as Solomon says. Oh! why hesitate? Without doubt this woman is a
witch who poses as an innocent modern spiritualist. But she shall not
send her pretty female devil after you again, for I will make that room
impossible to her.” 

“Please do,” said Godfrey. “And as for Madame Riennes, it is
certainly strange that she should have known about the things I had in
my pocket the other day, although of course, she may have followed me
into the shops.”

“Yes, yes, she followed you into the shops, she or her demon, though
perhaps you would not see her there. What did you tell me? That in the
villa you thought that the dead Mademoiselle was warning you against
something? Well, perhaps she was, for she was a good woman, though weak
and foolish to trust to spiritualism, and now, without doubt, she sees
all, and would protect you of whom she is fond.”

“Then I wish she had done it a little better,” said Godfrey.
“Oh! listen, there’s a rap!”

A rap there was certainly, on the hot iron of the stove, a resonant,
ringing rap. The Pasteur advanced and made an examination, and while he
was doing so there came another. What is more, in a most inexplicable
fashion his blue spectacles flew from his nose. Very solemnly he found
and replaced them and then, with the utmost dignity, addressing himself
to the stove, he cursed and exorcised that article of domestic
furniture in his best mediæval Latin. Apparently the effort was
successful, for there were no more manifestations. 

“Listen, my boy. You do not part from me this day. Presently we go to
church, and you sit under me where I can keep my eye on you. If you make
one movement towards the door, I descend from the desk or the pulpit,
and take you back there with me.”

“I don’t want to move,” said Godfrey.

“No, but there are others who may want to move you. Then after church
we dine, and after dinner we take a nice walk through the woods arm in
arm. Yes, perhaps we go as far as Lucerne and pay a little visit there,
since this afternoon I have arranged that there is no service.”

So Godfrey went to church and sat under the cold, blue glare of the
Pasteur’s spectacles, listening to a really eloquent sermon, for his
preaching was excellent. He took his text from the story of Saul and the
witch of Endor, and after dwelling on it and its moral, opened up the
whole problem of the hidden influences which may, and probably do,
affect the human soul. He gave a short but learned account of the
history of demonology throughout the ages, which evidently he had at
his fingers’ ends. He distinguished between good and evil spirits,
and while not denying the lawfulness of such research, pointed out the
peril that the seeker ran, since in his quest for the good he might
find the evil. Finally, he demonstrated that there was a sure refuge
from all such demoniacal attacks, which those who suffered from them had
 but to seek. 

Madame dozed during this sermon. Juliette wondered what had sent her
father down that road, and the little congregation, those of them who
understood, thought it a pleasant change from his usual discourse upon
their sins, since they at least had never practised demonology. But to
Godfrey, to whom, indeed, it was addressed, it brought much comfort,
for in the Pasteur and his pure and beautiful doctrine, he saw a rock
on which he might stand secure, defying Madame Riennes and Eleanor, and
all the hosts of hell behind them. 

Then came dinner. It was towards the middle of this meal that Godfrey
began to feel very ill at ease. He fidgeted, he looked towards the
door, he half rose and sat down again.

“Do you perchance wish to go out?” asked the Pasteur, who was
keeping him under constant observation.

“What of it if he does?” interrupted Madame. “Did not
Monsieur Godfrey inform us that he was unwell? Go then, Monsieur
Godfrey.” 

“No, not so,” said the Pasteur. “Remain seated. In one minute
I will be ready to accompany you.”

“_Mon Dieu!_ what for?” exclaimed Madame. “Never did I
hear of such a thing,” while even Juliette looked amazed.

Meanwhile Godfrey had risen and was making for the door, with a fixed
and sickly smile upon his face. The Pasteur swallowed down his _vin
ordinaire_ and rushed after him.

“He is ill,” said Juliette, with sympathy, “all day he has
looked strange.”

“Perhaps,” said Madame. “That sermon of your father’s
was enough to turn anybody’s stomach, with his talk about devils and
witches. But why cannot he leave him alone? A doctor in such a case
perhaps, but a clergyman——! _Mon Dieu!_ there they go, the two of
them walking towards the woods. What a strange idea! And your father
has Monsieur Godfrey by the arm, although assuredly he is not faint for
he pulls ahead as though in a great hurry. They must be mad, both of
them. I have half a mind——”

“No, no, Mother,” said Juliette. “Leave them alone. Doubtless
in time they will return. Perhaps it has something to do with the
stars.” 

“Silly girl! Stars at midday!”

“Well, Mamma, you know they are always there even if one cannot see
them.”

“Nonsense, child. They only come at night. The question is—where
are those two going?”

Juliette shook her head and gave it up, and so perforce did her mother.



CHAPTER IX

THE PASTEUR CONQUERS


Meanwhile, following a short cut through the snowy woods that ran over
the shoulder of the intervening hill, the pair were wending their way
towards Lucerne. Godfrey, a fixed and vacant look upon his face, went
first; the Pasteur clinging to his arm like a limpet to a rock, puffed
along beside him. 

“Heaven!” he gasped, “but this attraction of yours must be
strong that it makes you walk so fast immediately after dinner.”

“It is, it is!” said Godfrey, in a kind of agony. “I feel as
though my inside were being drawn out, and I must follow it. Please hold
my arm tight or I shall run.”

“Ah! the witch. The great witch!” puffed the Pasteur, “and up
this hill too, over snow. Well, it will be better on the down grade.
Give me your hand, my boy, for your coat is slipping, and if once you
got away how should I catch you?”

They accomplished the walk into Lucerne in absolutely record time.
Fortunately, at this after-dinner hour few people were about, but some
of those whom they met stared at them, and one called:

“Do you take him to the police-station? Shall I summon the
_gens-d’arme_?”

“No, no,” replied the Pasteur, “he goes to keep an
assignation, and is in a hurry.”

“Then why does he take you with him? Surely a clergyman will make a
bad third at such an affair?” ejaculated an outspoken lady who was
standing at her house door.

“Where is the street? I do not know it,” asked the Pasteur.

“Nor do I,” answered Godfrey, “but we shall come there all
right. To the left now.”

“Oh! the influence! The strong influence!” muttered Monsieur
Boiset. “Behold! it leads him.”

Truly it did lead him. Round corners and across squares they went into
an old part of the town with which neither of them was acquainted, till
at length Godfrey, diving beneath an archway, pulled up in front of an
antique doorway, saying:

“I think this is the place.”

“Look at the writing and make sure,” said the Pasteur, “for
it seems ridiculous——”

At that moment the door opened mysteriously, and Godfrey disappeared
into the passage beyond. Scarcely had the Pasteur time to follow him
when it shut again, although he could see no _concierge_.

“Doubtless it is one of those that works with a wire,” he thought
to himself, but he had no time to stop to look, for already Godfrey was
climbing the stairs. Up he went, three floors, and up after him
scrambled the Pasteur. Suddenly Godfrey stopped at a door and not
waiting to ring the bell, knocked with his hand. Immediately it opened
and Godfrey, with his companion, passed into a very dark hall round
which were several other doors. Here in the gloom the Pasteur lost him.
Godfrey had gone through one of the doors, but which he could not see.
He stood still, listening, and presently heard a deep peculiar voice
speaking English with a very foreign accent, say: 

“So you have come to see your godmamma, my dear little clever boy.
Well, I thought you would, and last night I sent you a pretty messenger
to give you remembrance.”

Then the Pasteur found the handle of the door and entered the room. It
was a curious place draped, not without taste of a bizarre kind, in
vivid colours, wherein purple dominated, and it gave an idea of mingled
magnificence and squalor. Some of the furniture was very good, as were
one or two of the pictures, though all of it was of an odd and unusual
make. Thus, the sideboard was shaped like a sarcophagus, and supported
on solid sphinxes with gilded faces. In a corner of the room also stood
an unwrapped mummy in a glass case. 

In the midst of all this stood a common deal table, whereon were a black
bottle, and the remains of Madame’s meal, which seemed to have
consisted of large supplies of underdone meat. In front of the fire was
a large, well-worn couch, and by it a small stout table such as
spiritualists use, on which gleamed a ball of glass or crystal. On this
couch was seated Madame clad in a kind of black dressing-gown and a
wide gold scarf tied about her ample waist. Her fat, massive face was
painted and powdered; on her head she wore a kind of mantilla also
gold-coloured, and about her neck a string of old Egyptian amulets.
Anything more unwholesome or uncanny than were her general appearance
and surroundings as the bright flames of the fire showed them in this
stuffy, shadowed room, it would be impossible to imagine. 

“Sit down here by my side, my little son in the speerit, where I have
made a place ready for you, and let me hold your hand while you tell me
all that you have been doing and if you have been thinking much of me
and that beautiful Eleanor whom I sent to see you last night,” went
on Madame Riennes in her ogreish, purring voice, patting the sofa.

Just then she looked up and caught sight of the Pasteur standing in the
shadow. Staring at him with her fierce, prominent eyes, she started
violently as though at last she had seen something of which she was
afraid. 

“Say, my Godfrey,” she exclaimed in a rather doubtful voice,
“what is this that you have brought with you? Is it a scarecrow from
the fields? Or is it a speerit of your own? If so, I should have
thought that a young man would have liked better the lovely Eleanor
than this old devil.” 

“Yes, Madame Jezebel,” said the Pasteur striding forward, speaking
in a loud, high voice and waving a large umbrella, which had come partly
unfolded in his hurried walk. “It is a scarecrow—one that scares
the crows of hell who seek to pick out the souls of the innocent, like
_you_, Madame Jezebel.”

Madame uttered a voluminous oath in some strange tongue, and sprang to
her feet with an agility surprising in one so stout.

“Say, who are you?” she ejaculated in French, confronting him.

“I am the Pasteur Boiset who accompany my ward to pay this little
call, Madame.”

“Oh! indeed. That thief of a clergyman, who got his finger into the
pie of dead Mademoiselle, eh? Well, there are no more pickings here,
Pasteur, but perhaps you come to have your fortune told. Shall I look
in the crystal for you and tell you nice things about—what shall we
say? About the past of that handsome Madame of yours, for instance? Oh!
I will do it for love, yes, for love. Or shall I make that mummy speak
for you? I can, for once I lived in that body of hers—it was a gay
life,” and she stopped, gasping. 

“Hearken, woman,” said the Pasteur, “and do not think to
frighten me. I know all about my wife, and, if once she was foolish,
what of it in a world where none are altogether wise? If you do not
wish to visit the police cell, you will do well to leave her alone. As
for your tricks of chicanery, I want none of them. What I want is that
you take off the spell which you have laid upon this poor boy, as Satan
your master has given you the power to do. Now, obey me—or——”

“Or? Or what, you old paid advocate of God?”

“That is a good term. If I am an advocate, I know my Employer’s
mind, I, who have taken His fee, and am therefore in honour bound to
serve Him faithfully. Now I will tell you His mind about you. It is
that unless you change your ways and repent, soon you will go to hell.
Yes, quite soon, I think, for one so fat cannot be very strong in the
heart. Do what I bid you, Madame, or I, the advocate of God, having His
authority, will curse you in the Name of God, and in the ancient form
of which you may have heard.” 

“Bah! would you frighten me, the great Madame Riennes who have spirits
at my command and who, as you admit, can lay on spells and take them
off. A flea for you and your God!”

“Spirits at your command! Yes, some of them in there, I think,” and
he pointed to the black bottle on the table, “and others too, perhaps;
I will not deny it. Well, let them advance, and we will see who is on
the top of the mountain, I, the old paid advocate of God, or you and
your spirits, Madame,” and hooking the handle of the big umbrella
over his wrist, he folded his arms and stared at her through the blue
spectacles. 

Madame Riennes gibbered some invocation, but nothing happened.

“I await your spirits. They cannot have gone to bed so early,”
remarked the Pasteur like a new Elijah.

Then, also like Elijah, to use a vulgarism, he “sailed in” after a
way which even the terrified Godfrey, who was crouching against one of
the purple curtains, felt to be really magnificent with such artistic
sense as remained to him. In his mediæval Latin which, spoken with a
foreign accent, Godfrey, although a good scholar, could scarcely follow
save for certain holy names, he cursed Madame Riennes in some archaic
but most effective fashion. He consigned, this much Godfrey made out,
her soul to hell and her body to a number of the most uncomfortable
experiences. He trailed her in the dust at the rear of his theological
chariot; he descended from the chariot, so to speak, and jumped upon
her as he had done upon the beetle; he tossed up her mangled remains as
the holy bull, Apis of the Egyptians, might have done with those of a
Greek blasphemer. Then, like a triumphant pugilist, metaphorically he
stood over her and asked her if she wanted any more. 

For a little while Madame Riennes was crushed, also very evidently
frightened, for those who deal in the supernatural are afraid of the
supernatural. Indeed, none of us welcome the curse even of a malignant
and disappointed beggar, or of the venomous gipsy angered by this or
that, and much less that of a righteous man inspired by just and holy
indignation. Madame Riennes, an expert in the trade, a dealer in
maledictions, was not exempt from this common prejudice. As she would
have expressed it, she felt that he had the Power on his side. 

But Madame was no common charlatan; she had strength of a sort, though
where it came from who could say? Moreover, for all kinds of secret
reasons of her own, she desired to keep in her grip this boy Godfrey,
who had shown himself to be so wonderful a medium or clairvoyant. To
her he meant strength and fortune; also for him she had conceived some
kind of unholy liking in the recesses of her dark soul. Therefore, she
was not prepared to give him up without a struggle.

Presently Madame seemed to cast off the influences with which the
Pasteur had overwhelmed her. While his maledictions were in full flow
she sank in a huddled heap upon the couch. Of a sudden she revived; she
sprang up; notwithstanding her bulk she leapt into the air like a
ballet-dancer. She tore the golden mantilla from her head, letting down
a flood of raven hair, streaked with grey, and waved it round her. She
called upon the names of spirits or demons, long, resounding names with
an Eastern ring about them, to come to her aid. Then she pranced into
the centre of the room, crying: 

“Dog of a clergyman, I defy you and will overcome you. That boy’s
soul is mine, not yours. I am the greatest mesmerist in the world and he
is in my net. I will show you!”

She turned towards the shrivelled, almost naked mummy in the case, and
addressed it:

“O Nofri,” she said, “Priestess of Set, great seeress and
magician of the old world in whom once my spirit dwelt, send forth your
Ka, your everlasting Emanation, to help me. Crush this black hound.
Come forth, come forth!”

As she spoke the fearful Godfrey in his corner saw the door of the glass
case fly open, also as he thought, probably erroneously, that he saw
the mummy move, lifting its stiff legs and champing its iron jaws so
that the yellow, ancient teeth caught the light as they moved. Then he
heard and saw something else. Suddenly the Pasteur in tones that rang
like a trumpet, cried out: 

“She seems to hesitate, this mummy of yours, Madame. Let me be polite
and help her.”

With a single bound he was in front of the case. With the hook of his
big umbrella he caught the shrivelled thing round the neck; with his
long thin arm he gripped it about the middle, just like somebody
leading a lady to the dance, thought Godfrey. Then he bent himself and
pulled. Out flew the age-withered corpse. The head came off, the body
broke above the hips and fell upon the floor, leaving the legs standing
in the case, a ghastly spectacle. On to this severed trunk the Pasteur
leapt, again as he had done upon the black beetle. It crunched and
crumbled, filling the air with a pungent, resinous dust. Then he stood
amidst the débris, and placing his right foot upon what had been the
mummy’s nose, said mildly: 

“Now, Madame, what next? This lady is finished?”

Madame Riennes uttered a stifled scream, more she could not do for rage
choked her. Her big eyes rolled, she clenched and unclenched her hands,
and bent forward as though she were about to fly at the Pasteur like a
wild cat. Still poised upon the fragments of the mummy he lifted the
point of the umbrella to receive the charge as it came, and taking
advantage of Madame’s temporary paralysis of speech, went on:

“Hearken! daughter of Beelzebub. You have the curse and it shall work
upon your soul, but, yes, it shall work well. Still your body remains,
and of that too I would say something. Know that I have heard much of
you—oh! the quiet old Pasteur hears many things, especially if he has
members of the secret police among his flock. I think that yonder in an
office there is a _dossier_, yes, an official record concerning you and
your doings both in this country and in other lands. It has been
allowed to sleep, but it can wake again; if it wakes—well, there is
the penitentiary for such as you.” 

Madame gasped and turned green. If Monsieur had drawn a bow at a
venture, evidently that chance arrow had found the bull’s-eye, for
now she truly was frightened.

“What would you have me do?” she asked in a choking voice.

“Free this youth from your influence, as you can if you will.”

“My influence! If I had any with him would not that bald skull of
yours by now have been shattered like an egg, seeing that he is strong
and holds a stick?”

“I have no time to waste, Madame. The Police Office closes early on
Sundays.”

Then she gave in.

“Come here,” she said sullenly to Godfrey, still speaking in French.

He came and stood before her sneezing, for the pungent dust of the
smashed mummy, which the Pasteur still ground beneath his large boots,
had floated up his nose.

“Cease that noise, little fool, and look at me.”

Godfrey obeyed, but did not stop sneezing, because the mixture of spices
and organic matter would not allow him to do so. She stared at him very
evilly, muttered some more words, and made mystic upward passes with
her hands. 

“There now,” she said, “you are free, so far as I am
concerned. But I do not think that you are done with spirits, since they
are guests which once entertained to breakfast, stop to luncheon and to
dinner; yes, and pass the night when they are merriest. I think you
will see many spirits before you die, and afterwards—ah! who knows,
little pig? Put your string about his leg and take your little pig
home, Pasteur. He will not be drawn to come here again.”

“Good, Madame, for remember, if he does I shall be drawn to call at
the Police Office. If Madame will take my advice she will try change of
air. Lucerne is cold in the winter, especially for those whose hearts
are not too strong. Is it finished?”

“Quite, for my part, but for you, interfering humbug, I do not know.
Get out of my room, both of you.”

The Pasteur bowed with an old-fashioned politeness, and herding Godfrey
in front of him, turned to go. As he passed through the door something
hard hit him violently in the back, so that he nearly fell. It was the
head of the mummy, which Madame had hurled at him. It fell to the
floor, and striking against a chair leg, recoiled through the doorway.
Godfrey saw it, and an impulse seized him. Lifting that head, he
turned. Madame was standing in the middle of the room with her back to
the deal table, uttering short little howls of fury.

Godfrey advanced very politely and saying, “I believe this is your
property, Madame,” placed the battered remnant of humanity upon the
table beside the black bottle. As he did so, he glanced at the
mesmerist, then turned and fled, for her face was like to that of a
devil. 

“Monsieur Boiset,” he said, when they reached the street,
“something has happened to me. I am quite changed. Not for all the
world would I go near Madame Riennes again. Indeed, now I feel as
though I wished to run away from her.”

“That is good!” said the Pasteur. “Oh! I thought it would be
so, for I know how to deal with such witches. But not too fast, not too
fast, my Godfrey. I wonder what the old Egyptians put into the heads of
their mummies to make them so heavy.”

“Bitumen,” answered Godfrey, and proceeded in a cheerful voice to
give an account of the Egyptian process of mummification to his tutor,
which Isobel and he had acquired in the course of their miscellaneous
reading at Monk’s Acre. Indeed, as he had said, whatever the reason,
he was changed and prepared to talk cheerfully about anything. A great
burden was lifted from his soul.

From that day forward Godfrey became what a youth of his years and race
should be, a high-spirited, athletic, and active young man. Madame
Riennes and her visions passed from him like a bad dream. Thoughtful he
remained always, for that was his nature; sometimes sad also, when he
thought of Isobel, who seemed to have disappeared quite out of his
life. But as was natural at his age, this mood weakened by degrees. She
was always there in the background, but she ceased to obscure the
landscape as she had done before, and was to do in his after life. Had
she been a girl of the common type, attractive only because she was a
young and vivacious woman, doubtless the eclipse would have been 
complete. Occasionally, indeed, men do love fools in an enduring
fashion, which is perhaps the most evil fate that can be laid upon
them. For what can be worse than to waste what is deep and real upon a
thing of flesh without a soul, an empty, painted bubble, which evades
the hand, or bursts if it is grasped? Those are the real unfortunates,
who have sold themselves for a mess of potage, that for the most part
they are never even allowed to eat, since before the bell rings it has
probably been deposited by heaven knows what hand of Circumstance in
someone else’s plate, or gone stale and been thrown away.    

Godfrey was not one of these, because the hand of Circumstance had
managed his affairs otherwise. Isobel was no mess of potage, but with
all her faults and failings, a fair and great inheritance for him who
could take seisin of her. Still, as he believed, she had first treated
him badly, then utterly neglected him whose pride she had outraged, by
not even taking the trouble to write him a letter, and finally, had
vanished away. And he was young, with manhood advancing in his veins,
like the pulse of spring, and women are many in the world, some of whom
have pretty faces and proper figures. Also, although the fact is
overlooked by convention, it has pleased Nature to make man polygamous 
in his instincts, though where those instincts end and what is called
love begins, is a thing almost impossible to define. Probably in truth
the limit lies beyond the borders of sex. 

So Isobel’s grey eyes faded into the background of Godfrey’s mental
vision, while the violet eyes of Juliette drew ever nearer to his
physical perceptions. And here, to save trouble, it may be said at
once, that he never cared in the least for Juliette, except as a male
creature cares for a pretty female creature, and that Juliette never
cared in the least for him, except as a young woman cares in general
for a handsome and attractive young man—with prospects. Indeed, she
found him too serious for her taste. She did not understand him, as,
for his part, in her he found nothing to understand. 

After all, ruling out the primary impulses which would make a scullery
maid congenial to a genius upon a desert isle, what was there in a
Juliette to appeal to a Godfrey? And, with the same qualification, what
was there in a Godfrey to appeal to a Juliette? As once, with an
accidental touch of poetry, she said to her mother, when at his side
she felt as though she were walking over a snow-covered crevasse in the
surrounding Alps. All seemed firm beneath her feet, but she never knew
when the crust would break, and he would vanish into unfathomed depths,
perchance dragging her with him. Or, feeling her danger she might run
from him on to safer ground, where she knew herself to be on good,
common rock or soil, and no strange, hollow echoes struck her ears, 
leaving him to pursue his perilous journey alone. 

Her mother laughed, and falling into her humour, answered, that beyond
the crevasse and at the foot of the further slope lay the warm and
merry human town, the best house of which—not unlike the Villa
Ogilvy—could be reached in no other way, and that with such a home
waiting to receive her, it was worth while to take a little risk.
Thereon Juliette shrugged her white shoulders, and in the intervals of
one of the French _chansonettes_ which she was very fond of warbling in
her gay voice, remarked that she preferred to make journeys, safe or
perilous, in the company of a singing-bird in the sunlight, rather than
in that of an owl in the dusk, who always reminded her of the advancing
darkness. 

At least, that was the substance of what she said, although she did not
put it quite so neatly. Then, as though by an afterthought, she asked
when her cousin Jules, a young notary of Berne, was coming to stay with
them. 

The winter wore away, the spring came, and after spring, summer, with
its greenery and flowers. Godfrey was happy enough during this time. To
begin with, the place suited him. He was very well now, and grew
enormously in that pure and trenchant air, broadening as well as
lengthening, till, notwithstanding his slimness, he gave promise of
becoming a large, athletic man. 

Madame Riennes too and her unholy terrors had faded into the background.
He no longer thought of spirits, although, it is true that a sense of
the immanence and reality of the Unseen was always with him; indeed, as
time went on, it increased rather than lessened. Partly, this was owing
to the character and natural tendencies of his mind, partly also,
without doubt, to the fact that his recent experiences had, as it were,
opened a door to him between the Seen and the Hidden, or rather burst a
breach in the dividing wall that never was built up again. Also his
astronomical studies certainly gave an impetus to thoughts and
speculations such as were always present with him. Only now these were
of a wholesome and reverent nature, tending towards those ends which are
 advanced by religion in its truest sense. 

He worked hard, too, under the gentle guidance of the learned Pasteur,
at the classics, literature, and other subjects, while in French he
could not fail to become proficient in the company of the talkative
Madame and the sprightly Juliette. Nor did he want for relaxation.
There were great woods on the hills behind the Maison Blanche, and in
these he obtained leave to shoot rabbits, and, horrible to say, foxes.
Juliette and he would set out together towards evening, accompanied by
a clever cur which belonged to Jean, the factotum of the house.

They would post themselves at some convenient spot, while the instructed
hound ranged the woods above. Then would appear perhaps a rabbit,
perhaps a hare, though these in that land of poaching were not common,
or occasionally a great, red, stealthy fox. At first, with his English
traditions, Godfrey shrank from shooting the last, which he had been
taught ought to die in one way only, namely, by being torn to pieces in
the jaws of the hounds. 

Juliette, however, mocked at him, volubly reciting Reynard’s many
misdeeds—how he stole chickens; how he tore out the throats of lambs,
and, according to local report, was not even above killing a baby if he
found that innocent alone. So it came about next time the excited
yapping of the cur-dog was heard on the slopes above them, followed by
stealthy movements among the fallen pine needles, and at length by the
appearance of the beautiful red creature slyly slinking away to
shelter, not twenty yards from where they stood behind a tree-trunk,
that Juliette whispered: 

“_Tirez_! _Tirez_!” and he lifted the gun, an
old-fashioned, single-barrelled piece, aimed and fired.

Then followed a horrid scene. The big shot with which he had loaded,
mortally wounded but did not kill the fox, that with its forepaws
broken, rolled, and bit, and made dreadful noises in its agony, its
beautiful fur all stained with blood. Godfrey did not know what to do;
it was too big and strong to kill with Juliette’s little stick, so he
tried to batter it to death with the stock of the gun, but without
success, and at last withdrew, looking at it horrified. 

“What shall I do?” he asked faintly of Juliette.

“Load the gun and shoot it again,” replied that practical young
woman.

So with some mistakes, for the emergency made him nervous, such as the
dropping of the cap among the pine needles, he obeyed. At last the poor
beast lay dead, a very disagreeable spectacle, with the cur-dog that
had arrived, biting joyously at its quivering form.

Godfrey put down the gun and retired behind a tree, whence presently he
emerged, looking very pale, for to tell the truth, he had been ill.

“I do not think I like shooting foxes,” he said.

“How strange you are,” answered Juliette. “Quite unlike other
men. Now my Cousin Jules, there is nothing that he loves better. Go now
and cut off his tail, to hang upon the wall. It is beautiful.”

“I can’t,” said Godfrey still more faintly.

“Then give me the knife, for I can.”

And she did!

Had Madame but known it, that fox did not die unavenged upon her family,
for with it departed from the world all hopes of the alliance which she
desired so earnestly.



CHAPTER X

GODFREY BECOMES A HERO


The truth is that Godfrey was no true sportsman, really he did not enjoy
exterminating other and kindred life to promote his own amusement. Like
most young men, he was delighted if he made a good shot; moreover, he
had some aptitude for shooting, but unlike most young men, to him
afterwards came reflections. Who gave him the right to kill creatures
as sentient, and much more beautiful in their way than himself, just
because it was “great fun”? Of course, he was familiar with the
common answer, that day by day his body was nourished upon the flesh of
other animals destroyed for that purpose. But then this was a matter of
necessity, so arranged by a law, that personally, he thought dreadful,
but over which he had no manner of control. It was part of the hellish
system of a world built upon the foundation stone of death.

Nature told him that he must live, and that to live, not being a
vegetarian, which for most of us is difficult in a cold climate, he
must kill, or allow others to kill for him. But to his fancy, perhaps
meticulous, between such needful slaughter and that carried out for his
own amusement, and not really for the purposes of obtaining food, there
seemed to be a great gulf fixed. To get food he would have killed
anything, and indeed, often did in later days, as he would, and also
often did in after days, have destroyed noxious animals, such as
tigers. 

But to inflict death merely to show his own skill or to gratify man’s
innate passion for hunting, which descends to him from a more primitive
period, well, that was another matter. It is true, that he was not
logical, since always he remained an ardent fisherman, partly because
he had convinced himself from various observations, that fish feel very
little, and partly for the reason that there is high authority for
fishing, although, be it admitted, with a single exception, always in
connection with the obtaining of needful food. 

In these conclusions Godfrey was strengthened by two circumstances;
first, his reading, especially of Buddhistic literature, that enjoins
them so strongly, and in which he found a great deal to admire, and
secondly, by the entire concurrence of the Pasteur Boiset, whom he
admired even more than he did Buddhistic literature.

“I am delighted, my young friend,” said the Pasteur, beaming at him
through the blue spectacles, “to find someone who agrees with me.
Personally, although you might not believe it, I love the chase with
ardour; when I was young I have shot as many as
twenty-five—no—twenty-seven blackbirds and thrushes in one day, to
say nothing of thirty-one larks, and some other small game. Also, once
I wounded a chamois, which a bold hunter with me killed. It was a
glorious moment. But now, for the reasons that you mention, I have
given up all this sport, which formerly to me was so great an excitement
 and relaxation. Yet I admit that I still fish. Only last year I caught
a large hatful of perch and dace, of which I persuaded Madame to cook
some that Juliette would not eat and gave to the cat. Once, too, there
was a big trout in the Lake Lucerne. He broke my line, but, my boy, we
will go to fish for that trout. No doubt he is still there, for though
I was then young, these fishy creatures live for many years, and to
catch him would be a glory.”    

After Godfrey had given up his fox-shooting, not because in itself it is
a terrible crime, like fishing for salmon with herring roe, but for
reasons which most of his countrymen would consider effeminate and
absurd, he took to making expeditions, still in company with Juliette,
for Madame stretched Continental conventions in his case, in search of
certain rare flowers which grew upon the lower slopes of these Alps. In
connection with one of these flowers an incident occurred, rather
absurd in itself, but which was not without effect upon his fortunes.

The search for a certain floral treasure was long and arduous.

“If only I could find that lovely white bloom,” exclaimed Juliette
in exasperation at the close of a weary hour of climbing, “why, I
would kiss it.”

“So would I,” said Godfrey, mopping himself with a pocket
handkerchief, for the sun was hot, “and with pleasure.”

“Hidden flower,” invoked Juliette with appropriate heroic gestures,
“white, secret, maiden flower, hear us! Discover thyself, O shrinking
flower, and thou shalt be kissed by the one that first finds thee.”

“I don’t know that the flower would care for that,” remarked
Godfrey, as they renewed their quest.

At length behind a jutting mass of rock, in a miniature valley, not more
than a few yards wide that was backed by other rocks, this flower was
found. Godfrey and Juliette, passing round either side of the black,
projecting mass to the opening of the toy vale beyond, discovered it
simultaneously. There it stood, one lovely, lily-like bloom growing
alone, virginal, perfect. With a cry of delight they sprang at it, and
plucked it from its root, both of them grasping the tall stem.

“I saw it first, and I will kiss it!” cried Juliette, “in
token of possession.”

“No,” said Godfrey, “I did, and I will. I want that flower
for my collection.”

“So do I, for mine,” answered Juliette.

Then they both tried to set this seal of possession upon that lily
bloom, with the strange result that their young lips met through its
fragile substance and with so much energy that it was crushed and
ruined. 

“Oh!” said Godfrey with a start, “look what you have done to
the flower.”

“I! I, wicked one! Well, for the matter of that, look what you have
done to my lips. They feel quite bruised.”

Then first she laughed, and next looked as though she were going to cry.

“Don’t be sad,” said Godfrey remorsefully. “No doubt we
shall find another, now that we know where they are.”

“Perhaps,” she answered, “but it is always the first that one
remembers, and it is finished,” and she threw down the stalk and
stamped on it.

Just then they heard a sound of laughter, and looking up, to their
horror perceived that they were not alone. For there, seated upon
stones at the end of the tiny valley, in composed and comfortable
attitudes, which suggested that they had not arrived that moment, were
two gentlemen, who appeared to be highly amused.

Godfrey knew them at once, although he had not seen them since the
previous autumn. They were Brother Josiah Smith, the spiritualist, and
Professor Petersen, the investigating Dane, whom he used to meet at the
séances in the Villa Ogilvy.

“I guess, young Brother Knight,” said the former, his eyes
sparkling with sarcastic merriment, “that there is no paint on you.
When you find a flower, you know how to turn it to the best possible
use.” 

“The substance of flowers is fragile, especially if of the lily tribe,
and impedes nothing,” remarked the learned Dane in considered tones,
though what he meant Godfrey did not understand at the moment. On
consideration he understood well enough.

“Our mutual friend, Madame Riennes, who is absent in Italy, will be
greatly amused when she hears of this episode,” said Brother Smith.
“She is indeed a remarkable woman, for only this morning I received a
letter in which she informed me that very soon I should meet you, young
man, under peculiar circumstances, how peculiar she did not add. Well,
I congratulate you and the young lady. I assure you, you made quite a
pretty picture with nothing but that flower between you, though, I
admit, it was rough on the flower. If I remember right you are fond of
the classics, as I am, and will recall to mind a Greek poet named
Theocritus. I think, had he been wandering here in the Alps to-day, he
would have liked to write one of his idylls about you two and that
flower.” 

“Because of the interruption give pardon, for it is owed an
apology,” said the solemn Professor, adding, “I think it must have
been the emanation of Madame Riennes herself which led us to this place,
where we did not at all mean to come, for she is very anxious to know
how you progress and what you are doing.”

“Yes, young friend,” broke in Brother Smith, not without a touch of
malice, for like the rest he was resentful of Godfrey’s desertion of
their “circle,” “and now we shall be able to tell her.”

“Say then,” said Juliette, “who are these gentlemen, and of
what do they talk?”

“They—are—friends of mine,” Godfrey began to explain
with awkward hesitation, but she cut him short with:

“I like not your friends. They make a mock of me, and I will never
forgive you.”

“But Juliette, I——” he began, and got no further, for
she turned and ran away. Anxious to explain, he ran after her, pursued
by the loud hilarity of the intruding pair. In vain, for Juliette was
singularly swift of foot, and he might as well have pursued Atalanta.

She reached the Maison Blanche, which fortunately was empty, a clear ten
yards ahead of him, and shut herself in her room, whence, declaring
that she had a headache, she did not emerge till the following morning.

Godfrey departed to the observatory where he often worked in summer,
feeling very sore and full of reflections. He had not really meant to
kiss Juliette, at least he thought not, and it was unthinkable that she
meant to kiss him, since, so far as he was aware, no young woman ever
wanted to do such a thing, being, every one of them, doubtless, as
unapproachable and frigid as the topmost, snowy peak of the Alps. (Such
was, and always remained his attitude, where the other sex was
concerned, one not without inconvenience in a practical world of 
disillusions.) No, it was that confounded flower which brought about
this pure accident—as though Nature, which designs such accidents,
had not always a flower, or something equally serviceable, up her
sleeve.    

Moreover, had it not been for that accursed pair, sent, doubtless, to
spy on him by Madame Riennes, the accident would never have mattered;
at least not much. He could have apologized suitably to Juliette, that
is, if she wanted an apology, which she showed no signs of doing until
she saw the two men. Indeed, at the moment, he thought that she seemed
rather amused. 

He thought of searching out Brother Smith and Professor Petersen, and
explaining to them exactly what had happened in full detail, and should
they still continue their ribald jests, of punching their heads, which
as a manly young fellow, he was quite capable of doing. Reflection
showed him, however, that this course might not be wise, since such
adventures are apt to end in the police-court, where the flower, and
its fruit, would obtain undue publicity. No, he must leave the business
alone, and trust that Juliette would be merciful. Supposing that she
were to tell Madame that he had tried to kiss her, though probably she
would _not_ mention that he had actually succeeded! 

The mere idea made him feel cold down the back. He felt sure that Madame
would believe the worst of him; to judge from their conversations,
ladies, good as they all were, invariably did seem to believe the worst
in such affairs. Should he throw himself upon the mercy of the Pasteur?
Again, no. It would be so hard to make him comprehend. Also, if he did,
he might suggest that the altar was the only possible expiation.
And—and, oh! he must confess it, she was very nice and sweet, but he
did _not_ wish to marry Juliette and live with her all his life.

No, there was but one thing to be done: keep the burden of his secret
locked in his own breast, though, unfortunately, it was locked as well
in those of Juliette and of two uninvited observers, and probably would
soon also be locked in the capacious bosom of Madame Riennes. For the
rest, towards Juliette in the future, he would observe an attitude of
strictest propriety; never more should she have occasion to complain of
his conduct, which henceforth would be immaculate. Alas! how easy it is
for the most innocent to be misjudged, and apparently, not without
reason. 

This reflection brought something to Godfrey’s mind which had escaped
it in his first disturbance, also connected with a flower. There came
before him the vision of a London square, and of a tall, pale girl, in
an antique dress, giving a rose to a man in knight’s armour, which
rose both of them kissed simultaneously. Of course, when he saw it he
had ruled out the rose and only thought of the kisses, although, now
that he came to think of it, a rose is of a much thicker texture than a
lily. As he had witnessed that little scene, and drawn his own
conclusions, so others had witnessed another little scene that 
afternoon, and made therefrom deductions which, in his innocent soul, he
knew to be totally false. Suppose, then, that _his_ deductions were
also false. Oh! it was not possible. Besides, a barrier built of rose
leaves was not sufficient, which again, with perfect justice, he
remembered was exactly what Brother Smith and Professor Petersen had
thought of one composed of lily petals.    

There for the time the matter ended. Juliette reappeared on the morrow
quite cured of her headache, and as gay and charming as ever. Possibly
she had confided in her mamma, who had told her that after all things
were not so terrible, even if they _had_ been seen.

At any rate, the equilibrium was restored. Godfrey acted on his solemn
resolutions of haughtiness and detachment for quite an hour, after which
Juliette threw a kitten at him and asked what was the matter, and then
sang him one of her pretty _chansonettes_ to the accompaniment of a
guitar with three strings, which closed the incident. Still there were
no more flower hunts and no new adventures. Tacitly, but completely,
everything of the sort was dropped out of their relationship. They
remained excellent friends, on affectionate terms indeed, but that was
all. 

Meanwhile, owing to his doubts arising out of a singular coincidence
concerned with flowers and kisses, Godfrey gradually made up his mind
to write to Isobel. Indeed, he had half composed the epistle when at
the end of one of his brief letters his father informed him that she
had gone to Mexico with her uncle. So it came about that it was never
posted, since it is a kind of superstition with young people that
letters can only be delivered at the place where the addressee last
resided. It rarely occurs to them that these may be forwarded, and
ultimately arrive. Nor, indeed, did it occur to Godfrey that as 
Isobel’s uncle was the British Minister to a certain country, an
envelope addressed to her in his care in that country probably would
have reached her.    

She was gone and there was an end; it was of no use to think more of the
matter. Still, he was sorry, because in that same letter his father had
alluded casually to the death of Lady Jane, which had caused Hawk’s
Hall to be shut up for a while, and he would have liked to condole with
Isobel on her loss. He knew that she loved her mother dearly, and of
this gentle lady he himself had very affectionate remembrances, since
she had always been most kind to him. Yet for the reasons stated, he
never did so. 

About a fortnight after the flower episode a chance came Godfrey’s way
of making an Alp-climbing expedition in the company of some
mountaineers. They were friends of the Pasteur who joined the party
himself, but stayed in a village at the foot of the mountains they were
to climb, since for such exercise he had lost the taste. The first two
expeditions went off very successfully, Godfrey showing himself most
agile at the sport which suited his adventurous spirit and delighted
him. By nature, notwithstanding his dreamy characteristics, he was
fearless, at any rate where his personal safety was concerned, and
having a good head, it gave him pleasure to creep along the edge of
precipices, or up slippery ice slopes, cutting niches with an axe for
his feet. 

Then came the third attempt, up a really difficult peak which had not
yet been conquered that year. The details of the expedition do not
matter, but the end of it was that at a particularly perilous place one
of the party lost his head or his breath and rolled from the path.

There he lay half senseless, on the brink of a gulf, with a drop of a
thousand feet or more beneath him. As it happened, they were climbing
in lots of three, each of which lots was roped together, but at some
distance between the parties, that with the guide being a good way
ahead. 

Godfrey was leading his party along the track made by the other, but
their progress was not very rapid owing to the weakness of the man who
had fallen who, as it afterwards transpired, suffered from his heart,
and was affected by the altitude. The climber behind Godfrey was strong
and bold; also, as it chanced at the moment of the fall, this man’s
feet were planted upon a lump of projecting rock, so firmly that by
throwing himself forward against the snow slope, grasping another lump
of rock with his left hand and bearing on to the alpenstock with his
right, he was able to sustain the weight of their companion. But the
rope which bound them together, though strong, was thin; moreover, at
the point where most of the strain came it rested on a knife-like edge
of ice, so sharp that there was momentarily danger of its fraying
through as the movements of the weight beneath rubbed it against the
edge.    

When a shout and the stoppage warned Godfrey of what had happened, he
turned round and studied the position. Even to his inexperienced eye it
was obvious that a catastrophe was imminent. Now there were two things
which might be done; one was to stay in his place and help to bear the
strain of the swinging body, for almost immediately the fainting man
slipped from the ledge, and hung above the gulf. The other was to trust
to number two to hold his weight, and go to his assistance in the hope
of being able to support him until the guide could return to the first
party. As by a flash-like working of the mind Godfrey weighed these
alternatives, his quick eye saw what looked like a little bit of fluff
appear from the underside of the rope, which told him that one at least 
of the strands must have severed upon the edge of ice. Then almost 
instinctively he made his choice. 

“Can you hold him?” he said swiftly to number two, who answered,
“Yes, I think so,” in a muffled voice.

“Then I go to help him.”

“If you slip, I cannot bear you both,” said the muffled voice.

“No,” answered Godfrey, and drawing the sheath knife he wore,
deliberately cut the rope which joined him to number two.

Then he scrambled down to the ledge without much difficulty, reaching
it, but just in time, for now the razor blade of the ice had cut half
through the rope, and very soon the swinging of the senseless weight
beneath must complete its work. This ledge, being broad, though
sloping, was not a particularly bad place; moreover, on it were little
hummocks of ice, resulting from snow that had melted and frozen again,
against one of which Godfrey was able to rest his left shoulder, and
even to pass his arm round it. But here came the rub. He could not get
sufficient grip of the thin rope with his right hand beyond the point
where it was cut, to enable him to support even half the weight that
hung below. Should it sever, as it must do very shortly, it would be
torn from his grasp. 

What then could be done? Godfrey peered over the edge. The man was
swinging not more than two feet below its brink, that is to say, the
updrawn loop of his stout leather belt, to which the rope was fastened,
was about that distance from the brink, and on either side of it he
hung down like a sack tied round the middle, quite motionless in his
swoon, his head to one side and his feet to the other.

Could he reach and grasp that leather belt without falling himself, and
if so, could he bear the man’s weight and not be dragged over?
Godfrey shrank from the attempt; his blood curdled. Then he pictured,
again in a mind-flash, his poor companion whirling down through space
to be dashed to pulp at the bottom, and the agony of his wife and
children whom he knew, and who had wished to prevent him from climbing
that day. Oh! he would try. But still a paralysing fear overcame him,
making him weak and nervous. Then it was in Godfrey’s extremity that
his imagination produced a very curious illusion. Quite distinctly he
seemed to hear a voice, that of Miss Ogilvy, say to him: 

“Do it, Godfrey, at once, or it will be too late. We will help you.”

This phantasy, or whatever it was, seemed to give him back his nerve and
courage. Coolly he tightened the grip of his left arm about the knob of
ice, and drawing himself forward a little, so that his neck and part of
his chest were over the edge, reached his right hand downwards. His
fingers touched the belt; to grasp it he must have another inch and a
half, or two inches. He let himself down that distance. Oh! how easy it
seemed to do so—and thrust his fingers beneath the belt. As he closed
them round it, the rope parted and all the weight that it had borne
came upon Godfrey’s arm! 

How long did he support it, he often wondered afterwards. For ages it
seemed. He felt as though his right arm was being torn from the socket,
while the ice cut into the muscles of his left like active torture. He
filled himself with air, blowing out his lower part so that its muscles
might enable him to get some extra hold of the rough ground; he dug his
toes deep into the icy snow. His hat fell from his head, rested for a
moment in a ridiculous fashion upon the swinging body beneath, then
floated off composedly into space, the tall feather in it sticking
upwards and fluttering a little. He heard voices approaching, and above
them the shouts of the guide, though what these said conveyed no
meaning to him. He must loose his hold and go too. No, he would not. He
would not, although now he felt as though his shoulder-joint were 
dislocated, also that his left arm was slipping. He would die like a
brave man—like a brave man. Surely this was death! He was
gone—everything passed away. 

Godfrey woke again to find himself lying upon a flat piece of snow.
Recollection came back to him with a pang, and he thought that he must
have fallen.

Then he heard voices, and saw faces looking at him as through a mist,
also he felt something in his mouth and throat, which seemed to burn
them. One of the voices, it was that of the guide, said:

“Good, good! He finds himself, this young English hero. See, his eyes
open; more cognac, it will make him happy, and prevent the shock. Never
mind the other one; he is all right, the stupid.”

Godfrey sat up and tried to lift his arm to thrust away the flask which
he saw approaching him, but he could not.

“Take that burning stuff away, Karl, confound you,” he said.

Then Karl, a good honest fellow, who was on his knees beside him, threw
his arms about him, and embraced him in a way that Godfrey thought
theatrical and unpleasant, while all the others, except the rescued
man, who lay semi-comatose, set up a kind of pæan of praise, like a
Greek chorus. 

“Oh! shut up!” said Godfrey, “if we waste so much time we
shall never get to the top,” a remark at which they all burst out
laughing.

“They talk of Providence on the Alps,” shouted Karl in stentorian
tones, while he performed a kind of war-dance, “but that’s the kind
of providence for me,” and he pointed to Godfrey. “Many things have
I seen in my trade as guide, but never one like this. What? To cut the
rope for the sake of Monsieur there,” and he pointed to number two,
whose share in the great adventure was being overlooked, “before
giving himself to almost certain death for the sake of Monsieur with
the weak heart, who had no business on a mountain; to stretch over the
precipice as the line parted, and hold Monsieur with the weak heart for
all that while, till I could get a noose round him—yes, to go on
holding him after he himself was almost dead—without a mind! Good
God! never has there been such a story in my lifetime on these Alps, or
in that of my father before me.” 

Then came the descent, Godfrey supported on the shoulder of the stalwart
Karl, who, full of delight at this great escape from tragedy, and at
having a tale to tell which would last him for the rest of his life,
“jodelled” spontaneously at intervals in his best “large-tip”
voice, and occasionally skipped about like a young camel, while
“Monsieur with the weak heart” was carried in a chair provided to
bear elderly ladies up the lower slopes of the Alps.

Some swift-footed mountaineer had sped down to the village ahead of them
and told all the story, with the result that when they reached the
outskirts of the place, an excited crowd was waiting to greet them,
including two local reporters for Swiss journals.

One of these, who contributed items of interest to the English press
also, either by mistake, or in order to make his narrative more
interesting, added to a fairly correct description of the incident, a
statement that the person rescued by Godfrey was a young lady. At
least, so the story appeared in the London papers next morning, under
the heading of “Heroic Rescue on the Alps,” or in some instances
of, “A Young English Hero.” 

Among the crowd was the Pasteur, who beamed at Godfrey through his blue
spectacles, but took no part in these excited demonstrations. When they
were back at their hotel, and the doctor who examined Godfrey, had
announced that he was suffering from nothing except exhaustion and
badly sprained muscles, he said simply:

“I do not compliment you, my dear boy, like those others, because you
acted only as I should have expected of you in the conditions. Still, I
am glad that in this case another was not added to my long list of
disappointments.”

“_I_ didn’t act at all, Pasteur,” blurted out Godfrey.
“A voice, I thought it was Miss Ogilvy’s, told me what to do, and I
obeyed.”

The old gentleman smiled and shook his head, as he answered:

“It is ever thus, young Friend. When we wish to do good we hear a
voice prompting us, which we think that of an angel, and when we wish
to do evil, another voice, which we think that of a devil, but believe
me, the lips that utter both of them are in our own hearts. The rest
comes only from the excitement of the instant. There in our hearts the
angel and the devil dwell, side by side, like the two figures in a
village weather-clock, ready to appear, now one and now the other, as
the breath of our nature blows them.” 

“But I heard her,” said Godfrey stubbornly.

“The excitement of the instant!” repeated the Pasteur blandly.
“Had I been so situated I am quite certain that I should have heard
all the deceased whom I have ever known,” and he patted Godfrey’s
dark hair with his long, thin hand, thanking God in his heart for the
brave spirit which He had been pleased to give to this young man, who
had grown so dear to one who lacked a son. Only this he did in silence,
nor did he ever allude to the subject afterwards, except as a
commonplace matter-of-course event. 

Notwithstanding the “jodellings” which continued outside his window
to a late hour, and the bouquet of flowers which was sent to him by the
wife of the mayor, who felt that a distinction had been conferred upon
their village that would bring them many visitors in future seasons,
and ought to be suitably acknowledged, Godfrey soon dropped into a deep
sleep. But in the middle of the night it passed from him, and he awoke
full of terrors. Now, for the first time, he understood what he had
escaped, and how near he had been to lying, not in a comfortable bed,
but a heap of splintered bones and mangled flesh at the foot of a
precipice, whence, perhaps, it would have been impossible ever to 
recover his remains. In short, his nerves re-acted, and he felt anything
but a hero, rather indeed, a coward among cowards. Nor did he wish ever
to climb another Alp; the taste had quite departed from him. To tell
the truth, a full month went by before he was himself again, and during
that month he was as timid as a kitten, and as careful of his personal
safety as a well-to-do old lady unaccustomed to travel. 



CHAPTER XI

JULIETTE’S FAREWELL


When Godfrey returned to the Maison Blanche, wearing a handsome gold
watch, which had been presented to him with an effusive letter of
thanks by the gentleman whom he had rescued and his relatives, he found
himself quite a celebrity. Most of the Pasteur’s congregation met him
when he descended from the diligence, and waved their hats, but as he
thanked heaven, did not “jodel.”

Leaving the Pasteur to make some acknowledgment, he fled to the house,
only to find Madame, Juliette, a number of friends, to say nothing of
Jean, the cook and the servant girl, awaiting him there. Madame beamed,
and looked as though she were about to kiss him; the fresh and charming
Juliette shook his hand, and murmured into his ear that she had no idea
he was so brave, also that every night she thanked the _Bon Dieu_ for
his escape; while the others said something appropriate—or the
reverse. 

Once more he fled, this time to his bedroom. There upon his
dressing-table lay two letters, one from his father and one addressed
in a curious pointed hand-writing, which he did not know. This he
opened at once. It was in French, and ran, as translated:

“Ah! Little Brother,—I know all that has happened to you, nor did
your godmother need to wait to read about it in the journals.
Indeed, I saw it in my crystal before it happened; you with the
man hanging to your arm and the rest. But then a cloud came over
the crystal, and I could not see the end. I hoped that he would
pull you over the edge, so that in one short minute you became
nothing but a red plum-pudding at the bottom of the gulf. For you
know that the sweetest-tempered fairy godmother can be made cross
by wicked ingratitude and evil treatment. Do not think, little
Brother, that I have forgiven you for bringing that old
pasteur-fool to insult and threaten me. Not so. I pray the speerits
night and day to pay you back in your own coin, you who have insulted
them also. Indeed, it was they who arranged this little incident,
but they tell me that some other speerit interfered at the last
moment and saved you. If so, better luck next time, for do not
think you shall escape me and them. Had you been true to us you
should have had great good fortune and everything you desire in
life, including, perhaps, something that you desire most of all.
As it is, you shall have much trouble and lose what you desire
most of all. Have you been kissing that pretty Mademoiselle again
and trying to make her as bad as her mother? Well, I hope you
will, because it will hurt that old fool-pasteur. Wherever you go,
remember that eyes follow you, mine and those of the speerits.
Hate and bad luck to you, my little Brother, from your dear
godmamma, whose good heart you have so outraged. So fare ill till
you hear from me again, yes and always. Now you will guess my
name, so I need not sign it.

“P.S.—Eleanor also sends you her hate from another sphere.”

This precious epistle, filled with malignity, reaching him in the midst
of so many congratulations, struck upon Godfrey like a blast of icy
wind at the zenith of a summer day. To tell the truth also, it
frightened him. 

He had tried to forget all about Madame Riennes and now here she was
stabbing him from afar, for the letter bore a Venice postmark. It may
be foolish, but few of us care to be the object of a concentrated,
personal hate. Perhaps this is due to the inherited superstitions of
our race, not long emerged from the blackness of barbarism, but at
least we still feel as our forefathers did; as though the will to work
evil had the power to bring about the evil desired. It is nonsense,
since were it true, none could escape the direst misfortune, as every
one of us is at some time or another the object of the hate or jealousy 
of other human beings. Moreover, as most of us believe, there is a
being, not human, that hates us individually and collectively, and
certainly would compass our destruction, had he the power, which
happily he has not, unless we ourselves give it to him. 

Godfrey comforted himself with this reflection, also, with another; that
in this instance the issue of his peril had been far different from
what his enemy desired. Yet, with his nerves still shaken both by his
spiritualistic experiences, and by those of the danger which he had
passed, the letter undoubtedly did affect him in the way that it was
meant to do, and the worst of it was that he could not consult his
friend and guide, the Pasteur, because of the allusion to the scene
with Juliette. 

Throwing it down as though it were a venomous snake, which indeed, it
was, he opened that from his father, which was brief. It congratulated
him coldly on his escape, whereof Mr. Knight said he had heard, not in
the way that he would have expected, from himself, but through the
papers. This, it may be explained, was not strange, since the account
was telegraphed long before Godfrey had time to write. As a matter of
fact, however, he had not written, for who cares to indite epistles to
an unsympathetic and critical recipient? Most people only compose
letters for the benefit of those who like to receive them and, by 
intuition, read in them a great deal more than the sender records in
black and white. For letter-writing, at its best, is an allusive art,
something that suggests rather than describes. It was because Godfrey
appreciated this truth in a half unconscious fashion, that he did not
care to undertake an active correspondence with his father. It is the
exception also, for young men to care to correspond with their fathers;
the respective outlooks, and often, the respective interests, are too
diverse. With mothers it is different, at any rate, sometimes, for in
their case the relationship is more intimate. In the instance of the
male parent, throughout the realm of nature, it is apt to have an
accidental aspect or to acquire one as time goes by.    

The letter went on to request that he would climb no more Alps, since he
had been sent to Switzerland, to scale not mountains, but the peaks of
knowledge. It added, with that naive selfishness from which sometimes
even the most pious are not exempt, “had you been killed, in addition
to losing your own life, which would not so much have mattered, since I
trust that you would have passed to a better, you would have done a
wrong to your family. In that event, as you are not yet of age, I
believe the money which your friend left to you recently, would have
returned to her estate instead of going to benefit your natural
heirs.” 

Godfrey pondered over the words “natural heirs,” wondering who
these might be. Coming finally to the conclusion that he had but one,
namely his father, which accounted for the solicitude expressed so
earnestly in the letter, he uttered an expletive, which should not have
passed his youthful lips, and threw it down upon the top of that of
Madame Riennes. 

After this he left the room much depressed, and watching his
opportunity, for the merry party in the _salon_ who had gathered to
greet him were still there drinking heavy white wine, he slipped
through the back door to walk in the woods. These woods were lonely,
but then they suited his mood. In truth, never had he felt more alone
in his life. His father and he were utterly different, and estranged,
and he had no other relatives. In friends he was equally lacking. Miss
Ogilvy, whom he had begun to love, was dead, and a friend in heaven is
some way off, although he did think he had heard her voice when he was
so near to joining her. 

There remained no one save the Pasteur, of whom he was growing truly
fond, so much so, that he wished that the old gentleman had been
appointed to be his father according to the flesh. The rest of the
world was a blank to him, except for Isobel, who had deserted him.

Besides, some new sentiment had entered into his relations with Isobel,
whereby these were half spoiled. Of course, although he did not
altogether understand it, this was the eternal complication of sex
which curses more than it blesses in the world; of sex, the eating fire
that is so beautiful but burns. For when that fire has passed over the
flowers of friendship, they are changed into some new growth, that
however gorgeous it may be, yet always smells of flame. Sex being the
origin of life is necessarily also the origin of trouble, since life 
and trouble are inseparable, and devours the gentle joys of friendship,
as a kite devours little singing birds. These go to its sustenance, it
is true, and both are birds, but the kite is a very different creature
from the nightingale or the lark. One of the great advantages of
matrimony, if it endures long enough, is that when the sex attraction,
which was its cause, has faded, or practically died, once more it makes
friendship possible.    

Perhaps the best thing of the little we have been told about heaven, is
that in it there will be no sex. If there were, it is doubtful whether
it could remain heaven, as we define that state, since then must come
desires, and jealousies, and selfishness, and disappointment; also
births and deaths, since we cannot conceive sex-love without an object,
or a beginning without an end. From all of which troubles we learn that
the angels are relieved. 

Now this wondrous, burning mantle of sex had fallen on Godfrey and
Isobel, as he had learned when he saw her with the knight in armour in
the garden, and everything was changed beneath its fiery, smothering
folds, and for him there was no Isobel. His friend had gone, and he was
left wandering alone. His distress was deep, and since he was too young
to mask his feelings, as people must learn to do in life, it showed
itself upon his face. At supper that night, all of the little party
observed it, for he who should have been gay, was sad and spoke little.
Afterwards, when the Pasteur and Godfrey went to the observatory to
resume their astronomical studies, the former looked at him a while,
and said: 

“What is the matter, Godfrey? Tell me.”

“I cannot,” he replied, colouring.

“Is it so bad as that then? I thought that perhaps you had only
received a letter, or letters.”

“I received two of them. One was from my father, who scolds me because
I was nearly killed.”

“Indeed. He seems fond of scolding, your father. But that is no new
thing, and one to which you should be used. How about the other letter?
Was it, perchance, from Madame Riennes?”

“It is not signed, but I think so.”

“Really. It is odd, but, I too, have had a letter from Madame Riennes,
also unsigned, and I think, after reading it, that you may safely show
me yours, and then tell me the truth of all these accusations she makes
concerning you and Juliette.”

Now Godfrey turned crimson.

“How can I?” he murmured. “For myself I do not care, but it
seems like betraying—someone else.”

“It is difficult, my boy, to betray that which is already well known,
to me, among others. Had this letter, perchance, something to do with
an expedition which you two young people made to search for flowers,
and nothing else? Ah! I see it is so. Then you may safely show it to
me, since I know all about that expedition.”

So Godfrey produced the epistle, for at the moment he forgot that it
contained allusions to Madame also, and holding it gingerly between his
thumb and finger, handed it to him. The Pasteur read it through without
showing the slightest emotion.

“Ah!” he said, when he had finished, “in her way she is quite
magnificent, that old witch. But, surely, one day, unless she repents,
she will be accommodated with some particular hell of her own, since
there are few worthy to share it with her. You see, my boy, what she
says about Madame. Well, as I think I told her, that dear wife of mine
may have had her foolish moments, like most others, if all the truth
were known. But note this—there is a great difference between those
who have foolish moments, of whatever sort, and those who make it their
business to seek such moments; further, between those who repent of
their errors and those who glory in, and try to continue them. If you
have any doubt of that study the Bible, and read amongst others, of
David, who lived to write the Psalms, and of Mary Magdalene, who became
a saint. Also, although this did not occur to that tiger of a woman, I
may have known of those moments, and even done my best to help my wife
out of them, and been well rewarded”—here his kind old face beamed
like the sun—“oh! yes, most gloriously rewarded. So a fig for the
old witch and her tales of Madame! And now tell me the truth about
yourself and Juliette, with a mind at ease, for Juliette has told it to
me already, and I wish to compare the stories.” 

So Godfrey told him everything, and a ridiculous little tale it was.
When he had finished the Pasteur burst out laughing.

“You are indeed sinners, you two,” he said, “so great, that
surely you should stand dressed in white sheets, one on either side of
the altar, with the crushed flower in the middle. Ah! that is what I
regret, this flower, for it is very rare. Only once have I found it in
all my life, and then, as there was no lady present, I left it where it
grew. Hearken, all this is a pack of nonsense.

“Hearken again, Godfrey. Everybody things me an old fool. How can it
be helped with such a face as mine, and these blue spectacles, which I
must wear? But even an old fool sees things sometimes. Thus, I have
seen that Madame, who had once plenty of money to play with, and longs,
poor dear, for the fine things of life, is very anxious that her
Juliette should make a good marriage. I have seen, too, that she has
thought of you, whom she thinks much richer than you are, as a good
match for Juliette, and has done her best to make Juliette think as she
does, all of which is quite natural in her, and indeed, praiseworthy,
especially if she likes and respects the young man. But, my boy, it is
the greatest nonsense. To begin with, you do not, and never will, care 
for Juliette, and she does not, and never will, care for you. Your
natures, ah! they are quite different. You have something big in you,
and Juliette—well, she has not. Marriage with her would be for you a
misery, and for Juliette a misery also, since what have you in common?
Besides, even if it were otherwise, do you think I would allow such a
thing, with you so young and in my charge? Bah! be good friends with
that pretty girl, and go hunt for flowers with her as much as you like,
for nothing will ever come of it. Only, bet no more in kisses, for they
are dangerous, and sparks sometimes set fire to haystacks.” 

“Indeed, I will not,” exclaimed Godfrey with fervour.

“There, then, that trouble is finished.” (Here, although he did not
know it, the Pasteur was mistaken.) “And now, as to the rest of this
letter. It is malignant, malignant, and its writer will always seek to
do you ill, and perhaps, sometimes succeed. It is the price which you
must pay for having mixed with such a person who mixes with the devil,
though that was no fault of yours, my boy. Still, always, always in the
world we are suffering from the faults of others. It is a law, the law
of vicarious sacrifice, which runs through everything, why, we do not
know. Still, be not afraid, for it is you who will win at the last, not
she. For the rest, soon you will go away from here, since the year for
which you came is almost finished, and you must turn your mind to the
bigger life. I pray you when you do, not to forget me, for, my boy, I,
who have no son, have learned to love you like a son, better perhaps, 
than had you been one, since often I have observed that it is not always
 fathers and sons that love each other most, frequently the other way,
indeed.    

“Also I pray another thing of you—that if you think I have any
wisdom, or any little light in the lamp of this ugly, old body of mine,
you will always take me for a counsellor, and write to me concerning
your troubles, (as indeed, you must do, for remember I am your trustee
of this property,) and perhaps pay attention to the advice I may give.
And now let us get to our stars; they are much more amusing than Madame
Riennes. It is strange to think that the same God who made the stars
also made Madame Riennes. Truly He is a charitable and tolerant God!”

“Perhaps the devil made her,” suggested Godfrey.

“It may be so, it may be so, but is it not said in the Book of
Proverbs, I believe, that He makes both good and evil for His own
infinite ends, though what these may be, I, worm that I am, cannot
pretend to understand. And now to our stars that are far away and pure,
though who knows but that if one were near to them, they would prove as
full of foulness as the earth?” 

The Pasteur was right when he said that Madame Riennes would not cease
from attempts to do evil to Godfrey, and therefore wrong when he added
that the trouble she had caused was finished. Of this, that young man
was made painfully aware, when a fortnight or so later another letter
from his father reached him. It informed him that Mr. Knight had
received an anonymous communication which stated that he, Godfrey, was
leading an evil life in Lucerne, also that he was being entrapped into
a marriage with Mademoiselle Boiset, whom he had been seen embracing
behind some rocks. The letter ended: 

“Lacking proof, I do not accept these stories as facts, although,
as there is no smoke without fire, I think it probable that there
is something in them and that you are drifting into undesirable
companionships. At any rate I am sure that the time has come for
you to return home and to commence your studies for the Church. I
have to request, therefore, that you will do this at once as I am
entering your name at my own college for the next term and have so
informed the trustees under Miss Ogilvy’s will, who will no doubt
meet the expense and give you a suitable allowance. I am writing
to the Pasteur Boiset to the same effect. Looking forward to
seeing you, when we can discuss all these matters in more detail,
—I am, your affectionate father,

“Richard Knight.”

In dismay Godfrey took this letter to the Pasteur. For the last thing
Godfrey wished to do was to leave Kleindorf and the house in which he
was so welcome and so well treated, in order to return to the stony
bosom of Monk’s Acre Abbey.

“I have also received a letter,” said Monsieur Boiset; “it
seems that you and I always receive disagreeable letters together. The
last were from the witch-woman Riennes, and these are from your father.
He has an unpleasant way of writing, this father of yours, although he
is a good man, for here he suggests that I am trying to trap you for a
son-in-law, wherein I see the fat finger of that witch Riennes, who has
so great a passion for the anonymous epistle. Well, if he had said that
I wished to trap you for a son, he would have shot nearer to the
bulls’-eye, but for a son-in-law, as you know, it is not so. Still,
you must go; indeed, it is time that you went, now that you talk French
so well, and have, I hope, learnt other things also, you to whom the
big world opens. But see, your father talks of your entering the 
Church. Tell me, is this so? If so, of course, I shall be happy.” 

“No,” said Godfrey, shaking his head.

“Then,” replied the Pasteur, “I may say that I am equally
happy. It is not everyone that has a call for this vocation, and there
are more ways of doing good in the world than from the floor of a
pulpit. Myself, I have wondered sometimes—but let that be; it is the
lot of certain of us, who think in our vanity that we could have done
great things, to be obliged to do the small things, because God has so
decreed. To one He gives the ten talents, to the other only one talent,
or even but a franc. Whatever it be, of it we must make the best, and
so long as we do not bury it, we have done well. I can only say that I
have tried to use my franc, or my fifty centimes, to such advantage as
I could, and hope that in some other place and time I may be entrusted
with a larger sum. Oh! my boy, we are all of us drawn by the horses of
Circumstance, but, as I believe, those horses have a driver who knows 
whither he is guiding us.” 

A few days later Godfrey went. His last midday meal at the Maison
Blanche, before he departed to catch the night train for Paris, was
rather a melancholy function. Madame, who had grown fond of him in her
somewhat frivolous way, openly dropped tears into her soup. Juliette
looked sad and _distraite_, though inwardly supported by the knowledge
that her distant cousin, the notary Jules, was arriving on the morrow
to spend his vacation at the Maison Blanche, so that Godfrey’s room
would not be without an occupant. Indeed, in her pretty little head she
was already planning certain alterations in the arrangement of the
furniture, to make it more comfortable to the very different tastes of
the new comer. 

Still, she was truly sorry to lose her friend the _Hibou_, although she
had not been able to fulfil her mother’s wish, and make him fall in
love with her, or even to fall in love with him herself. As she
explained to Madame Boiset, it was of no use to try, since between
their natures there were fixed not only a great gulf, but several whole
ranges of the Alps, and whereas the _Hibou_ sat gazing at the stars
from their topmost peak, she was picking flowers in the plain and
singing as she picked them. 

The Pasteur did not make matters better by the extremely forced gaiety
of his demeanour. He told stories and cracked bad jokes in the
intervals of congratulating Godfrey at his release from so dull a place
as Kleindorf. Godfrey said little or nothing, but reflected to himself
that the Pasteur did not know Monk’s Acre.

At last the moment came, and he departed with a heavy heart, for he had
learned to love these simple, kindly folk, especially the Pasteur. How
glad he was when it was over and he had lost sight of the handkerchiefs
that were being waved at him from the gate as the hired vehicle rolled
away. Not that it was quite over, for the Pasteur accompanied him to
the station, in order, as he said, to take his last instructions about
the Villa Ogilvy, although, in truth, Godfrey had none to give.

“Please do what you think best,” was all that he could say. Also,
when several miles further on, they came to a turn in the road, there,
panting on a rock, stood Juliette, who had reached the place, running
at full speed, by a short cut through the woods. They had no time to
stop, because the Pasteur thought that they were late for the train,
which, as a matter of fact, did not leave for half-an-hour after they
reached the station. So they could only make mutual signals of
recognition and farewell. Juliette, who looked as though she were
crying, kissed her hand to him, calling out: 

“Adieu, adieu! _cher ami_,” while he sought refuge in the
Englishman’s usual expedient of taking off his hat.

“It is nothing, nothing,” said the Pasteur, who had also noted
Juliette’s tear-swollen eyes, “to-morrow she will have Jules to
console her, a most worthy young man, though me he bores.”

Here, it may be added, that Jules consoled her so well, that within a
year they were married, and most happily.

Yet Godfrey was destined never to see that graceful figure and gay
little face again, since long before he revisited Lucerne Juliette died
on the birth of her third child. And soon, who thought of Juliette
except perhaps Godfrey, for her husband married again very shortly, as
a worthy and domestic person of the sort would do. Her children were
too young to remember her, and her mother, not long afterwards, was
carried off by a sudden illness, pneumonia, to join her in the Shades.
Except the Pasteur himself none was left. 

Well, such is the way of this sad world of change and death. But Godfrey
never forgot the picture of her standing breathless on the rock and
kissing her slim hand to him. It was one of those incidents which, when
they happen to a man in his youth, remain indelibly impressed upon his
mind. 

At the station there were more farewells, for here was the notary, who
had managed Miss Ogilvy’s Swiss affairs and now, under the direction
of Monsieur Boiset, attended to those of Godfrey. Also such of the
servants were present as had been kept on at the Villa, while among
those walking about the platform he saw Brother Josiah Smith and
Professor Petersen, who had come evidently to see the last of him, and
make report to a certain quarter. 

The Pasteur talked continually, in his high, thin voice, to cover up his
agitation, but what it was all about Godfrey could never remember. All
he recollected of the parting was being taken into those long arms,
embraced upon the forehead, and most fervently blessed.

Then the train steamed off, and he felt glad that all was over.



CHAPTER XII

HOME


About forty-eight hours later Godfrey arrived duly at the little Essex
station three miles from Monk’s Acre. There was nobody to meet him,
which was not strange, as the hour of his coming was unknown. Still,
unreasonable as it might be, the contrast between the warmth and
affection that had distinguished his departure, and the cold vacuum
that greeted his arrival, chilled him. He said a few words to the
grumpy old porter who was the sole occupant of the platform, but that
worthy, although he knew him well enough, did not seem to realise that 
he had ever been away. During the year in which so many things had
happened to Godfrey nothing at all had happened to the porter, and
therefore he did not appreciate the lapse of time. 

Leaving his baggage to be brought by the carrier’s cart, Godfrey took
the alpenstock that, in a moment of enthusiasm, the guide had given him
as a souvenir of his great adventure, and started for home. It was a
very famous alpenstock, which this guide and his father before him had
used all their lives, one that had been planted in the topmost snows of
every peak in Switzerland. Indeed the names of the most unclimbable of
these, together with the dates of their conquest by its owners,
sometimes followed by crosses to show that on such or such an
expedition life had been lost, were burnt into the tough wood with a
hot iron. As the first of these dates was as far back as 1831, Godfrey
valued this staff highly, and did not like to leave it to the chances
of the carrier’s cart. 

His road through the fields ran past Hawk’s Hall, of which he observed
with a thrill of dismay, that the blinds were drawn as though in it
someone lay dead. There was no reason why he should have been dismayed,
since he had heard that Isobel had gone away to somewhere in
“Ameriky,” as Mrs. Parsons had expressed it in a brief and illspelt
letter, and that Sir John was living in town. Yet the sight depressed
him still further with its suggestion of death, or of separation, which
is almost as bad, for, be it remembered, he was at an age when such
impressions come home. 

After leaving the Hall with its blinded and shuttered windows, his
quickest road to the Abbey House ran through the churchyard. Here the
first thing that confronted him was a gigantic monument, of which the
new marble glittered in the afternoon sun. It was a confused affair,
and all he made out of it, without close examination, was a life-sized
angel with an early-Victorian countenance, leaning against the broken
stump of an oak tree and scattering from a basket, of the kind that is
used to collect nuts or windfall apples, on to a sarcophagus beneath a
profusion of marble roses, some of which seemed to have been arrested
and frozen in mid-air. He glanced at the inscription in gold letters.
It was “To the beloved memory of Lady Jane Blake, wife of Sir John
Blake, Bart., J.P., and daughter of the Right Hon. The Earl of Lynfield,
 whose bereaved husband erected this monument—’Her husband ... 
praiseth her.’” 

Godfrey looked, and remembering the gentle little woman whose crumbling
flesh lay beneath, shivered at the awful and crushing erection above.
In life, as he knew, she had been unhappy, but what had she done to
deserve such a memorial in death? Still, she was dead, of that there
was no doubt, and oh! the sadness of it all.

He went on to the Abbey, resisting a queer temptation to enter the
church and look at the tomb of the Plantagenet lady and her unknown
knight, who slept there so quietly from year to year, through spring,
summer, autumn and winter, for ever and for ever. The front door was
locked, so he rang the bell. It was answered by a new servant, rather a
forbidding, middle-aged woman with a limp, who informed him that Mr.
Knight was out, and notwithstanding his explanations, declined to admit
him into the house. Doubtless she thought that a young man, wearing a
foreign-looking hat and carrying such a strange long stick, must be a 
thief, or worse. The end of it was that she slammed the door in his face
and shot the old-fashioned bolts. 

Then Godfrey bethought him of the other door, that which led into the
ancient refectory, which was now used as a schoolroom. This was open,
so he went in and, being tired after his long journey, sat himself down
in the chair at the end of the old oak table, that same chair in which
Isobel had kissed him when he was a little boy. He looked about him
vaguely; the place, of course, was much the same as it had been for the
last five hundred years, but, as he could see from the names on the
copybooks that lay about, the pupils who inhabited it had changed. Of
the whole six not one was the same. 

Then, perhaps for the first time, he began to understand how variable is
the world, a mere passing show in which nothing remains the same,
except the houses and the trees. Even these depart, for a cottage with
which he had been familiar from his earliest infancy, as he could see
through the open door, was pulled down to make room for
“improvements,” and the great old elm, where the rooks used to
build, had been torn up in a gale. Only its ugly stump and projecting
roots were left. 

So he sat musing there, very depressed at heart, till at length Mrs.
Parsons came and discovered him in a half-doze. She, too, was somewhat
changed, for of a sudden age had begun to take a hold of her. Her hair
was white now, and her plump, round face had withered like a spring
apple. Still, she greeted him with the old affection, for which he felt
grateful, seeing that it was the first touch of kindness he had known
since he set foot on English ground. 

“Dear me, Master Godfrey!” she said, “hadn’t I heard
that you were coming, I could never have been sure that it was you. Why,
you’ve grown into a regular young gentleman in those foreign parts,
and handsome, too, though I sez it. Who could have guessed that you are
your father’s son? Why, you’d make two of him. But there, they say
that your mother was a good-looking lady and large built, though, as I
never set eyes on her, I can’t say for sure. Well, you must be tired
after all this travelling in steamships and trains, so come into the
dining-room and have some tea, for I have got the key to the
sideboard.” 

He went, and, passing through the hall, left his alpenstock in the
umbrella-stand. In due course the tea was produced, though for it he
seemed to have little appetite. While he made pretence to eat the thick
bread and butter, Mrs. Parsons told him the news, such as it was. Sir
John was living in town and “flinging the money about, so it was
said, not but what he had got lots to fling and plenty to catch it,”
she added meaningly. His poor, dear lady was dead, and “happy for her
on the whole.” Miss Isobel had “gone foreign,” having, it was
told, quarrelled with her father, and nothing had been heard of her
since she went. She, too, had grown into a fine young lady.

That was all he gathered before Mrs. Parsons was obliged to depart to
see to her business—except that she was exceedingly glad to see him.

Godfrey went up to his bedroom, which he found unprepared, for somebody
else seemed to be sleeping there. While he was surveying it and
wondering who this occupant might be, he heard his father in the hall
asking the parlour-maid which of the young gentlemen had left that
“ridiculous stick” in the stand. She replied that she did not know,
whereupon the hard voice of his parent told her to take it away.
Afterwards Godfrey found it thrown into the wood-house to be chopped up
for firewood, though luckily before this happened. 

By this time a kind of anger had seized him. It was true that he had not
said by what train he was coming, for the reason that until he reached
London he could not tell, but he had written that he was to arrive that
afternoon, and surely some note might have been taken of the fact.

He went downstairs and confronted his father, who alone amid so much
change seemed to be exactly the same. Mr. Knight shook him by the hand
without any particular cordiality, and at once attacked him for not
having intimated the hour of his arrival, saying that it was too late
to advise the carrier to call at the station for his baggage and that a
trap would have to be sent, which cost money.

“Very well, Father, I will pay for it myself,” answered Godfrey.

“Oh, yes, I forgot!” exclaimed Mr. Knight, with a sneer, “you
have come into money somehow, have you not, and doubtless consider
yourself independent?”

“Yes, and I am glad of it, Father, as now I hope I shall not be any
more expense to you.”

“As you have begun to talk business, Godfrey,” replied his father
in an acid manner, “we may as well go into things and get it over. You
have, I presume, made up your mind to go into the Church in accordance
with my wish?”

“No, Father; I do not intend to become a clergyman.”

“Indeed. You seem to me to have fallen under very bad influences in
Switzerland. However, it does not much matter, as I intend that you
shall.”

“I am sorry, but I cannot, Father.”

Then, within such limits as his piety permitted, which were sufficiently
wide, Mr. Knight lost his temper very badly indeed. He attacked his
son, suggesting that he had been leading an evil life in Lucerne, as he
had learned “from outside sources,” and declared that either he
should obey him or be cast off. Godfrey, whose temper by this time was
also rising, intimated that he preferred the latter alternative.

“What, then, do you intend to do, young man?” asked Mr. Knight.

“I do not know yet, Father.” Then an inspiration came to him, and
he added, “I shall go to London to-morrow to consult my trustees under
Miss Ogilvy’s will.”

“Really,” said Mr. Knight in a rage. “You are after that
ill-gotten money, are you? Well, as we seem to agree so badly, why not
go to-night instead of to-morrow; there is a late train? Perhaps it
would be pleasanter for both of us, and then I need not send for your
luggage. Also it would save my shifting the new boy from your room.”

“Do you really mean that, Father?”

“I am not in the habit of saying what I do not mean. Only please
understand that if you reject my plans for your career, which have been
formed after much thought, and, I may add, prayer, I wash my hands of
you who are now too old to be argued with in any other way.”

Godfrey looked at his father and considered the iron mouth cut straight
like a slit across the face, the hard, insignificant countenance and
the small, cold, grey eyes. He realised the intensity of the petty
anger based, for the most part, on jealousy because he was now
independent and could not be ordered about and bullied like the rest of
the little boys, and knew that behind it there was not affection, but
dislike. Summing up all this in his quick mind, he became aware that
father or not, he regarded this man with great aversion. Their natures,
their outlook, all about them were antagonistic, and, in fact, had been
so from the beginning. The less that they saw of each other the better
it would be for both. Although still so young, he had ripened early,
and was now almost a man who knew that these things were so without
possibility of doubt.    

“Very well, Father,” he said, “I will go. It is better than
stopping here to quarrel.”

“I thought you would, now that your friend, Isobel, who did you so
much harm with her bad influence, has departed to Mexico, where, I have
no doubt, she has forgotten all about you. You won’t be able to run
after her money as you did after Miss Ogilvy’s,” replied Mr. Knight
with another sneer.

“You insult me,” said Godfrey. “It is a lie that I ran after
Miss Ogilvy’s money, and I will never forgive you for saying such a
thing of me in connection with Isobel,” and turning he left the room.

So did his father, for Godfrey heard him go to his study and lock the
door, doubtless as a sign and a token.

Then Godfrey sought out Mrs. Parsons and told her everything. The old
woman was much disturbed, and wept.

“I have been thinking of late, Master Godfrey,” she said,
“that your father’s heart is made of that kind of stone which Hell
is paved with, only with the good intentions left out—it’s that
hard. Here you are come back as fine a young man as a body can wish to
see, of whom his begetter might well be proud, though, for the matter
of that, there is precious little of him in you—and he shuts the door
in your face just because you won’t be a parson and have come into
fortune—that’s what rankles. I say that your mother, if she was a
fool when she married him, was a wise woman when she died. Parson or
not, he will never go where she is. Well, it’s sad, but you’ll be
well out of this cold house, where there’s so much praying but not a
spark of love.”

“I think so,” said Godfrey with a sigh.

“I think so, too, for myself, I mean. But, look here, my boy, I only
stopped on looking after this dratted pack of young gentlemen because
you were coming home again. But, as you ain’t, I’m out of it; yes,
when the door shuts on you I give my month’s notice, which perhaps
will mean that I leave to-morrow, for he won’t be able to abide the
sight of me after that.”

“But how will you live, Nurse, till I can help you?”

“Lord bless you, dear, that’s all right. I’ve been a careful
woman all my life, and have hard on £500 put away in the Savings Bank,
to say nothing of a bit of Stock. Also, my old brother, who was a
builder, died last year and left me with a nice little house down in
Hampstead, which he built to live in himself, but never did, poor man,
bit by bit when he was short of business, very comfortable and in a
good neighbourhood, with first-rate furniture and real silver plate, to
say nothing of some more Stock, yes, for £1,000 or more. I let it
furnished by the month, but the tenant is going away, so I shall just
move into it myself, and perhaps take in a lodger or two to keep me
from being idle.” 

“That’s capital!” said Godfrey, delighted.

“Yes, and I tell you what would be capitaller. Mayhap you will have to
live in London for a bit, and, if so, you are just the kind of lodger I
should like, and I don’t think we should quarrel about terms. I’ll
write you down the address of that house, the Grove as it is called,
though why, I don’t know, seeing there isn’t a tree within half a
mile, which I don’t mind, as there are too many about here, making so
much damp. And you’ll write and let me know what you are going to do,
won’t you?”

“Of course I will.”

“And now, look here. Likely you will want a little money till you
square up things with your trustee people that the master hates so
much.” 

“Well, I had forgotten it, but, as a matter of fact, I have only ten
shillings left, and that isn’t much when one is going to London,”
confessed Godfrey.

“I thought so; you never were one to think much of such things, and so
it’s probable that you’ll get plenty of them, for it’s what
we care about we are starved in, just to make it hot for us poor humans.
Take your father, for instance; he loves power, he does; he’d like to
be a bishop of the old Roman sort what could torture people who
didn’t agree with them. And what is he? The parson of a potty parish
of a couple of hundred people, counting the babies and the softies, and
half of them Dissenters or Salvation Army. Moreover, they can’t be
bullied, because if they were they’d just walk into the next chapel
door. Of course, there’s the young gentlemen, and he takes it out of
them, but, Lord bless us! that’s like kicking a wool sack, of which
any man of spirit soon gets tired. So, you see, he is sick-hearted, and
will be more so now that you have stood up to him; and, in this way or
that, it’s the same with everyone, none of us gets what we want,
while of what we don’t want there’s always plenty.”

While the old lady held forth thus in her little room which, although
she did not know it, had once been the penitential cell of the Abbey,
wherein for hundreds of years many unhappy ones had reflected in a very
similar vein, she was engaged in trying key after key upon a stout oak
chest. It was part of the ancient furniture of the place, that indeed
in former days had served as the receptacle for hair shirts, scourges
and other physical inducements to repentance and piety.

Now it had a different purpose and held Mrs. Parsons’ best dresses,
also, in a bandbox, an ornament preserved from her wedding-cake, for
once in the far past she was married to a sailor, a very great
black-guard, who came to his end by tumbling from a gangway when he was
drunk. Among these articles was a tin tea-canister which, when opened,
proved to be full of money; gold, silver and even humble copper, to say
nothing of several banknotes. 

“Now, there you are, my dear, take what you like,” she said,
“and pay it back if you wish, but if you don’t, it might have been
worse spent.” And she pushed the receptacle, labelled “Imperial
Pekoe,” towards him across the table, adding, “Drat those moths!
There’s another on my best silk.”

Godfrey burst out laughing and enjoyed that laugh, for it was his first
happy moment since his return to England.

“Give me what you like,” he said.

So she extracted from the tea-tin a five-pound note, four sovereigns and
a pound’s worth of silver and copper.

“There,” she said, “that will do to begin with, for too much
money in the pocket is a temptation in a wicked place like London, where
there’s always someone waiting to share it. If it’s wanted
there’s more where that came from, and you’ve only to write and say
so. And now you have got the address and you’ve got the cash, and if
you want to catch that last train it’s time you were off. If I took
the same to-morrow night, why, it wouldn’t surprise me, especially as
I want to hear all you’ve been a-doing in those foreign parts,
tumbling over precipices and the rest. So good-bye, my dear, and God
bless you. Lord! it seems only the other day that I was giving you your
bottle.” 

Then they kissed each other and, having retrieved his alpenstock from
the stick-house, Godfrey trudged back to the station, where he picked
up his luggage and departed for London. Arriving at Liverpool Street
rather late, he went to the Great Eastern Hotel, and after a good meal,
which he needed, slept like a top. His reception in England had been
bitter, but the young soon shake off their troubles, from which,
indeed, the loving kindness of his dear old nurse already had extracted
the sting. 

On the following morning, while breakfasting at a little table by one of
the pillars of the big dining-room, he began to wonder what he should
do next. In his pocket he had a notebook, in which, at the suggestion
of the Pasteur, he had set down the address of the lawyers who had
written to him about his legacy. It was in a place called the Poultry,
which, on inquiry from the hall-porter, he discovered was quite close
by the Mansion House. 

So a while later, for the porter told him that it was no use to go to
see lawyers too early, he sallied forth, and after much search
discovered the queer spot called the Poultry, also the offices of
Messrs. Ranson, Richards and Son. Here he gave his name to a clerk, who
thrust a very oily head out of a kind of mahogany box, and was told
that Mr. Ranson was engaged, but that, if he cared to wait, perhaps he
would see him later on. He said he would wait, and was shown into a
stuffy little room, furnished with ancient deed-boxes and a very large,
old leather-covered sofa that took up half the place. Here he sat for a 
while, staring at a square of dirty glass which gave what light was
available, and reflecting upon things in general. 

While he was thus engaged he heard a kind of tumult outside, in which he
recognised the treble of the oily-headed clerk coming in a bad second to
a deep, bass voice. Then the door opened and a big, burly man, with a
red face and a jovial, rolling eye, appeared with startling suddenness
and ejaculated: 

“Damn Ranson, damn Richards, or damn them both, with the Son thrown
in! I ask you, young man”—here he addressed Godfrey seated on the
corner of the sofa—“what is the use of a firm of lawyers whom you
can never see? You pay the brutes, but three times out of four they are
not visible, or, as I suspect, pretend not to be, in order to enhance
their own importance. And I sent them a telegram, too, having a train
to catch. What do you think?”

“I don’t know, Sir,” Godfrey answered. “I never came to
a lawyer’s office before, and I hope I shan’t again if this is the
kind of room they put one into.”

“Room!” ejaculated the irate gentleman, “call it a dog
kennel, call it a cesspool, for, by heaven, it smells like one, but in
the interests of truth, young man, don’t call it a room.”

“Now that you mention it, there is a queer odour. Perhaps a dead rat
under the floor,” suggested Godfrey.

“Twenty dead rats, probably, since I imagine that this hole has not
been cleaned since the time of George II. We are martyrs in this world,
Sir. I come here to attend to the affairs of some whippersnapper whom I
never saw and never want to see, just because Helen Ogilvy, who was my
first cousin, chooses to make me a trustee of her confounded will, in
which she leaves money to the confounded whippersnapper, God knows why.
This whippersnapper has a father, a parson, who can write the most
offensive letters imaginable. I received one of them this morning,
accusing the whippersnapper of all sorts of vague things, and me and my
fellow trustee, who is at present enjoying himself travelling, of 
abetting him. I repeat, damn Ranson, Richards and Son; damn the parson,
damn Helen—no, I won’t say that, for she is dead—and especially 
damn the whippersnapper. Don’t you agree with me?” 

“Not quite, Sir,” said Godfrey. “I don’t mind about
Ranson, Richards and Son, or anybody else, but I don’t quite see why
you should damn me, who, I am sure, never wished to give you any
trouble.” 

“You! And who the Hades may you be?”

“I am Godfrey Knight, and I suppose that you are my trustee, or one of
them.”

“Godfrey Knight, the young man whose father gives us so much trouble,
all at our own expense, I may remark. Well, after hearing so much of
you on paper, I’m deuced glad to meet you in the flesh. Come into the
light, if you can call it light, and let me have a look at you.”

Godfrey stepped beneath the dirty pane and was contemplated through an
eyeglass by this breezy old gentleman, who exclaimed presently:

“You’re all right, I think; a fine figure of a young man, not bad
looking, either, but you want drilling. Why the devil don’t you go
into the army?”

“I don’t know,” answered Godfrey, “never thought of it.
Are you in the army, Sir?”

“No, not now, though I was. Commanded my regiment for five years, and
then kicked out with the courtesy title of Major-General. Cubitte is my
name, spelt with two ‘t’s’ and an ‘e,’ please, and
don’t you forget that, since that ‘e’ has been a point of
honour with our family for a hundred years, the Lord knows why. Well,
there we are. Do you smoke?”

“Only a pipe,” said Godfrey.

“That’s right; I hate those accursed cigarettes, still they are
better than nothing. Now sit down and tell me all about yourself.”

Godfrey obeyed, and somehow feeling at ease with this choleric old
General, in the course of the next twenty minutes explained many things
to him, including the cause of his appearance in that office.

“So you don’t want to be a parson,” said the General,
“and with your father’s example before your eyes, I am sure I
don’t wonder. However, you are independent of him more or less, and
had better cut out a line for yourself. We will back you. What do you
say to the army?”

“I think I should rather like that,” answered Godfrey. “Only,
only, I want to get out of England as soon as possible.”

“And quite right, too—accursed hole, full of fog and politicians.
But that’s not difficult with India waiting for you. I’m an Indian
cavalry officer myself, and could put you up to the ropes and give you a
hand afterwards, perhaps, if you show yourself of the right stuff, as I
think you will. But, of course, you will have to go to Sandhurst, pass
an entrance examination, and so forth. Can you manage that?”

“Yes, Sir, I think so, with a little preparation. I know a good deal
of one sort or another, including French.”

“All right, three months’ cramming at Scoones’ or
Wren’s, will do the trick. And now I suppose you want some money?”

Godfrey explained that he did, having only £10 which he had borrowed
from his old nurse.

Just then the oily-headed clerk announced that Mr. Ranson was at
liberty. So they both went in to see him, and the rest may be imagined.
The trustees undertook to pay his expenses, even if they had to stretch
a point to do so, and gave him £20 to go on with, also a letter of
introduction to Scoones, whom he was instructed to see and arrange to
join their classes. Then General Cubitte hustled off, telling him to
come to dine at an address in Kensington two nights later and “report
himself.” 

So within less than an hour Godfrey’s future career was settled. He
came out of the office feeling rather dazed but happier than when he
went in, and inquired his way to Garrick Street, where he was informed
that Mr. Scoones had his establishment. He found the place and, by good
luck, found Mr. Scoones also, a kindly, keen, white-haired man, who
read the letter, made a few inquiries and put him through a brief
examination. 

“Your information is varied and peculiar,” he said, “and not
of the sort that generally appeals to Her Majesty’s examiners. Still,
I see that you have intelligence and, of course, the French is an
asset; also the literature to some extent, and the Latin, though these
would have counted more had you been going up for the Indian Civil. I
think we can get you through in three months if you will work; it all
depends on that. You will find a lot of young men here of whom quite
seventy per cent. do nothing, except see life. Very nice fellows in
their way, but if you want to get into Sandhurst, keep clear of them.
Now, my term opens next Monday. I will write to General Cubitte and
tell him what I think of you, also that the fees are payable in advance.
 Good-bye, glad you happened to catch me, which you would not have done
half an hour later, as I am going out of town. At ten o’clock next
Monday, please.” 

After this, not knowing what to do, Godfrey returned to the Great
Eastern Hotel and wrote a letter to his father, in which, baldly
enough, he explained what had happened.

Having posted it in the box in the hall, he bethought him that he must
find some place to live in, as the hotel was too expensive for a
permanence, and was making inquiries of the porter as to how he should
set about the matter when a telegram was handed to him. It ran: “All
up as I expected. Meet me Liverpool Street 4.30.—Nurse.”

So Godfrey postponed his search for lodgings, and at the appointed hour
kept the assignation on the platform. The train arrived, and out of it,
looking much more like her old self than she had on the previous day,
emerged Mrs. Parsons with the most extraordinary collection of bundles,
he counted nine of them, to say nothing of a jackdaw in a cage. She
embraced him with enthusiasm, dropping the heaviest of the parcels,
which seemed to contain bricks, upon his toe, and in a flood of
language told him of the peculiar awfulness of the row between his
father and herself which had ensued upon his departure. 

“Yes,” she ended, “he flung my money at my head and I flung
it back at his, though afterwards I picked it up again, for it is no use
wasting good gold and silver. And so here I am, beginning life again,
like you, and feeling thirty years younger for it. Now, tell me what
you are going to do?”

Then they went and had tea in the refreshment room, leaving the jackdaw
and the other impediments in charge of a porter, and he told her.

“That’s first-rate,” she said. “I always hated the idea
of seeing you with a black coat on your back. The Queen’s uniform
looks much better, and I want you to be a man. Now you help me into a
cab and by dinner time to-morrow I’ll be ready for you at my house at
Hampstead, if I have to work all night to do it. Terms—drat the
terms. Well, if you must have them, Master Godfrey, ten shillings a
week will be more than you will cost me, and I ought to give you five
back for your company. Now I’ll make a start, for there will be a lot
to do before the place is fit for a young gentleman. I’ve never seen
it but twice, you know.” 

So she departed, packed into a four-wheeled cab, with the jackdaw on her
lap, and Godfrey went to Madame Tussaud’s, where he studied the
guillotine and the Chamber of Horrors.

On the following morning, having further improved his mind at the Tower,
he took a cab also, and in due course arrived at Hampstead with his
belongings. The place took some finding, for it was on the top of a
hill in an old-fashioned, out of the way part of the suburb, but when
found proved to be delightful. It was a little square house, built of
stone, on which the old builder had lavished all his skill and care, so
that in it everything was perfect, with a garden both in front and
behind. The floors were laid in oak, the little hall was oak-panelled,
there were hot and cold water in every room, and so forth. Moreover, an
odd man was waiting to carry in his things, and in one of the front
sitting-rooms, which was excellently furnished, sat Mrs. Parsons
knitting as though she had been there for years. 

“Here you are,” she said, “just as I was beginning to get
tired of having nothing to do. Lord! what a fuss we make about things
before we face ’em. After all they ain’t nothing but bubbles. Blow
them and they burst. Look here, Master Godfrey,” and she waved her
hand about the sitting-room. “Pretty neat, ain’t it? Well, I
thought it would be all of a hugger-mugger. But what did I find? That
those tenants had been jewels and left everything like a new pin, to
say nothing of improvements, such as an Eagle range. Moreover, the
caretaker is a policeman’s wife and a very nice woman always ready to
help for a trifle, and that man that brought in your boxes is a
relative of hers who does gardening jobs and such-like. Now, come and
see your rooms,” and she led him with pride into a capital back 
apartment with a large window, in fact an old Tudor one which the
builder had produced somewhere, together with the panelling on the
walls.    

“That’s your study,” she said, “bookshelves and all
complete. Now, follow me,” and she took him upstairs to a really
charming bedroom.

“But,” said Godfrey, surveying these splendours, “this must
be the best room in the house. Where do you sleep?”

“Oh! at the back there, my dear. You see, I am accustomed to a small
chamber and shouldn’t be happy in this big one. Besides, you are going
to pay me rent and must be accommodated. And now come down to your
dinner.” 

A very good dinner it was, cooked by the policeman’s wife, which Mrs.
Parsons insisted on serving, as she would not sit at the table with him.
In short, Godfrey found himself in clover, a circumstance that filled
him with some sadness. Why, he wondered, should he always be made so
miserable at home and so happy when he was away? Then he remembered
that famous line about the man who throughout life ever found his
warmest welcome at an inn, and perceived that it hid much philosophy.
Frequently enough homes are not what fond fancy paints them, while in
the bosom of strangers there is much kindliness. 



CHAPTER XIII

THE INTERVENING YEARS


Now we may omit a great deal from Godfrey’s youthful career. Within a
few days he received a letter from his father forwarded to him from the
hotel, that was even more unpleasant than the majority of the paternal
epistles to which he was accustomed. Mr. Knight, probably from honest
conviction and a misreading of the facts of life, was one of those
persons who are called Pacifists. Although he never carried out the
doctrine in his own small affairs, he believed that nations were
enjoined by divine decree to turn the other cheek and indeed every 
portion of their corporate frame to the smiter, and that by so doing, in
some mysterious way, they would attain to profound peace and felicity.
Consequently he hated armies, especially as these involved taxation,
and loathed the trade of soldiering, which he considered one of
licensed murder.    

The decision of his son to adopt this career was therefore a bitter blow
to him, concerning which he expressed his feelings in the plainest
language, ending his epistle by intimating his strong conviction that
Godfrey, having taken the sword, was destined to perish by the sword.
Also he pointed out to him that he had turned his back upon God Who
would certainly remember the affront, being, he remarked, “a jealous
God,” and lastly that the less they saw of each other in
future—here he was referring to himself, not to the Divinity as the
context would seem to imply—the better it would be for both of them.

Further there was a postscript about the disgraceful conduct of the
woman, Mrs. Parsons, who, after receiving the shelter of his house for
many years, had made a scene and departed, leaving him in the lurch.
His injunction was that under no circumstances should he, Godfrey, have
anything more to do with this violent and treacherous female who had
made him a pretext of quarrel, and, having learned that he had money,
doubtless wished to get something out of him. 

Godfrey did not answer this letter, nor did his father write to him
again for quite a long while.

For the rest, on the appointed Monday he presented himself at Garrick
Street, and began his course of tuition under the general direction of
the wise Mr. Scoones, “cramming” as it was called. This, indeed,
exactly describes the process, for all knowledge was rejected except
that which was likely to obtain marks in the course of an examination
by hide-bound persons appointed to ascertain who were the individuals
best fitted to be appointed to various branches of the Public Service.
Anything less calculated to secure the selection of suitable men than
such a system cannot well be imagined. However, it was that which
certain nebulous authorities had decreed should prevail, and there was
an end of it, although in effect it involved, and still involves, the 
frequent sacrifice of those qualities and characteristics which are
essential to a public servant, to others that are quite the reverse.
For instance, to a parrot-like memory and the power of acquiring a
superficial acquaintance with much miscellaneous information and
remembering the same for, say, six months.    

Although he hated the business and thought with longing of his studies,
stellar and other, in the Kleindorf observatory, Godfrey was quite
clever enough to collect what was needed. In fact, some three months
later he passed his examination with ease about half-way up the list,
and duly entered Sandhurst. 

He found the establishment at Garrick Street just such a place as its
owner had described. In it were many charming but idle young men, often
with a certain amount of means, who were going up for the Diplomatic
Service, the Foreign Office, the Indian Civil, or various branches of
the army. Of these a large proportion enjoyed life but did little else,
and in due course failed in their competitive encounters with the
examiners. 

Others were too stupid to succeed, or perhaps their natural talents had
another bent, while the remainder, by no means the most brilliant, but
with a faculty for passing examinations and without any disturbing
originality, worked hard and sailed into their desired haven with
considerable facility, being of the stuff of which most successful men
are made. For the rest, there was the opportunity, and if they did not
avail themselves of it Scoones’ was not to blame. It was, and perhaps
still remains, a most admirable institution of its sort, one, indeed,
of which the present chronicler has very grateful recollections.

Among the pupils studying there was a young man named Arthur Thorburn,
an orphan, with considerable expectations, who lived with an aunt in a
fine old house at Queen Anne’s Gate. He was a brilliant young man,
witty and original, but rash and without perseverance, whom his
guardians wished to enter the Diplomatic Service, a career in which,
without doubt, had he ever attained to it, he would have achieved a
considerable failure. In appearance he was of medium height,
round-faced, light-haired, blue-eyed, with a constant and most charming
smile, in every way a complete contrast to Godfrey. Perhaps this was 
the reason of the curious attachment that the two formed for each other,
 unless, indeed, such strong and strange affinities have their roots in
past individual history, which is veiled from mortal eyes. At any rate,
it happened that on Godfrey’s first day at Scoones’ he sat next to
Arthur Thorburn in two classes which he attended. Godfrey listened
intently and made notes; Arthur caricatured the lecturer, an art for
which he had a native gift, and passed the results round the class.
Godfrey saw the caricature and sniggered, then when the lectures were
over gravely reproved the author, saying that he should not do such
things.    

“Why not?” asked Arthur, opening his blue eyes. “Heaven
intended that stuffy old parrot” (he had drawn this learned man as a
dilapidated fowl of that species) “to be caricatured. Observe that his
nose is already half a beak. Or perhaps it is a beak developing into a
nose; it depends whether he is on the downward or upward path of
evolution.” 

“Because you made me laugh,” replied Godfrey, “whereby I lost
at least eighteenpennyworth of information.”

“A laugh is worth eighteenpence,” suggested Arthur.

“That depends upon how many eighteenpences one possesses. You may have
lots, some people are short of them.”

“Quite true. I never looked at it in that way before. I am obliged to
you for putting it so plainly,” said Arthur with his charming smile.

Such was the beginning of the acquaintance of these two, and in some
cases might have been its end. But with them it was not so. Arthur
conceived a sincere admiration for Godfrey who could speak like this to
a stranger, and at Scoones’ and as much as possible outside, haunted
him like a shadow. Soon it was a regular thing for Godfrey to go to
dine at the old Georgian house in Queen Anne’s Gate upon Sunday
evenings, where he became popular with the rather magnificent
early-Victorian aunt who thought that he exercised a good influence
upon her nephew. Sometimes, too, Arthur would accompany Godfrey to 
Hampstead and sit smoking and making furtive caricatures of him and Mrs.
 Parsons, while he worked and she beamed admiration. The occupation
sounds dull, but somehow Arthur did not find it so; he said that it
rested his overwrought brain. 

“Look here, old fellow,” said Godfrey at length, “have you
any intention of passing that examination of yours?”

“In the interests of the Diplomatic Service and of the country I think
not,” replied Arthur reflectively. “I feel that it is a case where
true altruism becomes a duty.”

“Then what do you mean to do with yourself?”

“Don’t know. Live on my money, I suppose, and on that of my
respected aunt after her lamented decease which, although I see no signs
of it, she tells me she considers imminent.”

“I don’t wonder, Arthur, with you hanging about the house. You
ought to be ashamed of yourself. A man is made to work his way through
the world, not to idle.”

“Like a beetle boring through wood, not like a butterfly flitting over
flowers; that’s what you mean, isn’t it? Well, butterflies are
nicer than beetles, and some of us like flowers better than dead wood.
But, I say, old chap, do you mean it?”

“I do, and so does your aunt.”

“Let us waive my aunt. Like the poor she is always with us, and I,
alas! am well acquainted with her views, which are those of a past
epoch. But I am not obstinate; tell me what to do and I’ll do
it—anything except enter the Diplomatic Service, to lie abroad for
the benefit of my country, in the words of the ancient saying.”

“There is no fear of that, for you would never pass the
examination,” said the practical Godfrey. “You see, you are too
clever,” he added by way of explanation, “and too much occupied
with a dozen things of which examiners take no account, the merits of
the various religious systems, for instance.”

“So are you,” interrupted Arthur.

“I know I am; I love them. I’d like to talk to you about
reincarnation and astronomy, of which I know something, and even
astrology and the survival of the dead and lots of other things. But I
have got to make my way in the world, and I’ve no time. You think me
a heavy bore and an old fogey because I won’t go to parties to which
lots of those nice fellows ask me. Do you suppose I shouldn’t like
the parties and all the larks afterwards and the jolly actresses and
the rest? Of course I should, for I’m a man like others. But I tell
you I haven’t time. I’ve flouted my father, and I’m on my honour,
so to speak, to justify myself and get on. So I mean to pass that
tomfool examination and to cram down a lot of stuff in order to do so,
which is of no more use to me than though I had swallowed so much brown
paper. Fool-stuff, pulped by fools to be the food of fools—that’s
what it is. And now I’m going to shove some spoonfuls of it down my
throat, so light your pipe, and please be quiet.” 

“One moment more of your precious time,” interrupted Arthur.
“What is the exact career that you propose to adorn? Something
foreign, I think—Indian Civil Service?”

“No, as I have told you a dozen times, Indian Army.”

“The army has points—possibly in the future it might give a man an
opportunity of departing from the world in a fashion that is generally,
if in error, considered to be decent. India, too, has still more
points, for there anyone with intelligence might study the beginnings
of civilisation, which, perhaps, are also its end. My friend, I, too,
will enter the Indian Army, that is if I can pass the examination.
Provide me at once with the necessary books and, Mrs. Parsons, be
good-hearted enough to bring some of your excellent coffee, brewed
double strong. Do not imagine, young man, who ought, by the way, to
have been born fifty years earlier and married my aunt, that you are the
 only one who can face and conquer facts, even those advanced by that
most accursed of empty-headed bores, the man or the maniac called
Euclid.”    

So the pair of them studied together, and by dint of private tuition in
the evening, for at Scoones’ where his talent for caricature was too
much for him, Arthur would do little or nothing, Godfrey dragged his
friend through the examination, the last but one in the list. Even then
a miracle intervened to save him. Arthur’s Euclid was hopeless. He
hated the whole business of squares and angles and parallelograms with
such intensity that it made him mentally and morally sick. To his, as
to some other minds, it was utter nonsense devised by a semi-lunatic
for the bewilderment of mankind, and adopted by other lunatics as an
appropriate form of torture of the young. 

At length, in despair, Godfrey, knowing that Arthur had an excellent
memory, only the night before the examination, made him learn a couple
of propositions selected out of the books which were to be studied,
quite at hazard, with injunctions that no matter what other
propositions were set he should write out these two, pretending that he
had mistaken the question. This Arthur did with perfect accuracy, and
by the greatest of good luck one of the two propositions was actually
that which he was asked to set down, while the other was allowed to
pass as an error. 

So he bumped through somehow, and in the end the Indian Army gained a
most excellent officer. It is true that there were difficulties when he
explained to his aunt and his trustees that in some inexplicable manner
he had passed for Sandhurst instead of into the Diplomatic Service. But
when he demonstrated to them that this was his great and final effort
and that nothing on earth would induce him to face another examination,
even to be made a king, they thought it best to accept the accomplished
fact. 

“After all, you have passed something,” said his aunt, “which
is more than anyone ever expected you would do, and the army is
respectable, for, as I have told you, my grandfather was killed at
Waterloo.” 

“Yes,” replied Arthur, “you have told me, my dear Aunt, very
often. He broke his neck by jumping off his horse when riding towards or
from the battlefield, did he not? and now I propose to follow his
honoured example, on the battlefield, if possible, or if not, in
steeplechasing.” 

So the pair of them went to Sandhurst together, and together in due
course were gazetted to a certain regiment of Indian cavalry, the only
difference being that Godfrey passed out top and Arthur passed out
bottom, although, in fact, he was much the cleverer of the two. Of the
interval between these two examinations there is nothing that need be
reported, for their lives and the things that happened to them were as
those of hundreds of other young men. Only through all they remained
the fastest of friends, so much so that by the influence of General
Cubitte, as has been said, they managed to be gazetted to the same
regiment. 

During those two years Godfrey never saw his father, and communicated
with him but rarely. His winter vacations were spent at Mrs. Parsons’
house in Hampstead, working for the most part, since he was absolutely
determined to justify himself and get on in the profession which he had
chosen. In the summer he and Arthur went walking tours, and once, with
some other young men, visited the Continent to study various
battlefields, and improve their minds. At least Godfrey studied the
battlefields, while Arthur gave most of his attention to the younger
part of the female population of France and Italy. At Easter again they
went to Scotland, where Arthur had some property settled on him—for 
he was a young man well supplied with this world’s goods—and fished 
for salmon and trout. Altogether, for Godfrey, it was a profitable and
happy two years. At Sandhurst and elsewhere everyone thought well of
him, while old General Cubitte became his devoted friend and could not
say enough in his praise. 

“Damn it! Sir,” he exclaimed once, “do you mean to tell me
that you never overdraw your allowance? It is not natural; almost wrong
indeed. I wonder what your secret vices are? Well, so long as you keep
them secret, you ought to be a big man one day and end up in a very
different position to George Cubitte—called a General—who never saw
a shot fired in his life. There’ll be lots of them flying about
before you’re old, my boy, and doubtless you’ll get your share of
gunpowder—or nitro-glycerine—if you go on as you have begun. If I
weren’t afraid of making you cocky, I’d tell you what they say
about you down at that Sandhurst shop, where I have an old pal or
two.” 

Shortly after this came the final examination, through which, as has
been said, Godfrey sailed out top, an easy first indeed—a position to
which his thorough knowledge of French and general aptitude for foreign
languages, together with his powers of work and application, really
entitled him. All his friends were delighted, especially Arthur, who
looked on him as a kind of _lusus naturæ_, and from his humble
position at the bottom of the tree, gazed admiringly at Godfrey perched
upon its topmost bough. The old Pasteur, too, with whom Godfrey kept up
an almost weekly correspondence, continuing his astronomical studies by
letter, was enraptured and covered him with compliments, as did his
instructors at the College. 

All of this would have been enough to turn the heads of many young men,
but as it happened Godfrey was by nature modest, with enough
intelligence to appreciate the abysmal depths of his own ignorance by
the light of the little lamp of knowledge with which he had furnished
himself on his journey into their blackness. This intense modesty
always remained a leading characteristic of his, which endeared him to
many, although it was not one that helped him forward in life. It is
the bold, self-confident man, who knows how to make the most of his
small gifts, who travels fastest and farthest in this world of ours. 

When, however, actually he received quite an affectionate and pleased
letter from his father, he did, for a while, feel a little proud. The
letter enclosed a cutting from the local paper recording his success,
and digging up for the benefit of its readers an account of his
adventure on the Alps. Also, it mentioned prominently that he was the
son of the Rev. Mr. Knight, the incumbent of Monk’s Abbey, and had
received his education in that gentleman’s establishment; so
prominently, indeed, that even the unsuspicious Godfrey could not help
wondering if his father had ever seen that paragraph before it appeared
in print. The letter ended with this passage: 

“We have not met for a long while, owing to causes to which I will
not allude, and I suppose that shortly you will be going to India.
If you care to come here I should like to see you before you leave
England. This is natural, as after all you are my only child and I
am growing old. Once you have departed to that far country who
knows whether we shall ever meet again in this world?”

Godfrey, a generous-hearted and forgiving person, was much touched when
he read these words, and wrote at once to say that if it were
convenient, he would come down to Monk’s Abbey at the beginning of
the following week and spend some of his leave there. So, in due
course, he went. 

As it happened, at about the same time Destiny had arranged that another
character in this history was returning to that quiet Essex village,
namely Isobel Blake.

Isobel went to Mexico with her uncle and there had a most interesting
time. She studied Aztec history with her usual thoroughness; so well,
indeed, that she became a recognised authority on the subject. She
climbed Popocatepetl, the mysterious “Sleeping Woman” that
overhangs the ancient town, and looked into its crater. Greatly daring,
she even visited Yucatan and saw some of the pre-Aztec remains. For
this adventure she paid with an attack of fever which never quite left
her system. Indeed, that fever had a peculiar effect upon her, which
may have been physical or something else. Isobel’s fault, or rather
characteristic, as the reader may have gathered, was that she built too
much upon the material side of things. What she saw, what she knew, what
 her body told her, what the recorded experience of the world
taught—these were real; all the rest, to her, was phantasy or
imagination. She kept her feet upon the solid ground of fact, and left
all else to dreamers; or, as she would have expressed it, to the
victims of superstition inherited or acquired.    

Well, something happened to her at the crisis of that fever, which was
sharp, and took her on her return from Yucatan, at a horrible port
called Frontera, where there were palm trees and _zopilotes_—a kind
of vile American vulture—which sat silently on the verandah outside
her door in the dreadful little hotel built upon piles in the mud of
the great river, and mosquitoes by the ten million, and sleepy-eyed,
crushed-looking Indians, and horrible halfbreeds, and everything else
which suggests an earthly hell, except the glorious sunshine.

Of a sudden, when she was at her worst, all the materiality—if there
be such a word—which circumstances and innate tendency had woven
about her as a garment, seemed to melt away, and she became aware of
something vast in which she floated like an insect in the
atmosphere—some surrounding sea which she could neither measure nor
travel. 

She knew that she was not merely Isobel Blake, but a part of the
universe in its largest sense, and that the universe expressed itself
in miniature within her soul. She knew that ever since it had been, she
was, and that while it existed she would endure. This imagination or
inspiration, whichever it may have been, went no further than that, and
afterwards she set it down to delirium, or to the exaltation that often
accompanies fever. Still, it left a mark upon her, opening a new door
in her heart, so to speak. 

For the rest, the life in Mexico City was gay, especially in the
position which she filled as the niece of the British Minister, who was
often called upon to act as hostess, as her aunt was delicate and her
cousin was younger than herself and not apt at the business. There were
Diaz and the foreign Diplomatic Ministers; also the leading Mexicans to
be entertained, for which purpose she learned Spanish. Then there were
English travellers, distinguished, some of them, and German nobles,
generally in the Diplomatic Service of their country, whom by some
peculiar feminine instinct of her own, she suspected of being spies and
generally persons of evil intentions. Also there was the British 
colony, among whom were some very nice people that she made her friends,
the strange, adventurous pioneers of our Empire who are to be found in
every part of the world, and in a sense its cream. 

Lastly, there were the American tourists and business men, many of whom
she thought amusing. One of these, a millionaire who had to do with a
“beef trust,” though what that might be she never quite understood,
proposed to her. He was a nice young fellow enough, of a real old
American family whose ancestors were supposed to have come over in the
_Mayflower_, and possessed of a remarkable vein of original humour;
also he was much in love. But Isobel would have none of it, and said so
in such plain, unmistakable language that the millionaire straightway
left Mexico City in his private railway car, disconsolately to pursue
his beef speculations in other lands. 

On the day that he departed Isobel received a note from him which ran:

“I have lost you, and since I am too sore-hearted to stay in this
antique country and conclude the business that brought me here, I
reckon that I have also lost 250,000 dollars. That sum, however, I
would gladly have given for the honour and joy of your friendship,
and as much more added. So I think it well spent, especially as it
never figured in my accounts. Good-bye. God bless you and whoever
it may be with whom you are in love, for that there is someone I
am quite sure, also that he must be a good fellow.”

From which it will be seen that this millionaire was a very nice young
man. So, at least, thought Isobel, though he did write about her being
in love with someone, which was the rankest nonsense. In love, indeed!
Why, she had never met a man for whom she could possibly entertain any
feelings of that sort, no, not even if he had been able to make a queen
of her, or to endow her with all the cash resources of all the beef
trusts in the world. Men in that aspect were repellent and hateful to
her; the possibility of such a union with any one of them was
poisonous, even unnatural to her, soul and body. 

Once, it is true, there had been a certain boy—but he had passed out
of her life—oh! years ago, and, what is more, had affronted her by
refusing to answer a letter which she had written to him, just, as she
imagined—though of course this was only a guess—because of his
ridiculous and unwarrantable jealousy and the atrocious pride that was
his failing. Also she had read in the papers of a very brave act which
he had done on the Alps, one which filled her with a pride that was not
atrocious, but quite natural where an old playmate was concerned, and
had noticed that it was a young lady whom he had rescued. That, of
course, explained everything, and if her first supposition should be
incorrect, would quite account for her having received no answer to her
letter. 

It was true, however, that she had heard no more of this young lady,
though scraps of gossip concerning Godfrey did occasionally reach her.
For instance, she knew that he had quarrelled with his father because
he would not enter the Church and was going into the army, a career
which she much preferred, especially as she did not believe in the
Church and could not imagine what Godfrey would look like in a black
coat and a white tie. 

By the way, she wondered what he did look like now. She had an old faded
photograph of him as a lanky youth, but after all this time he could not
in the least resemble that. Well, probably he had grown as plain and
uninteresting—as she was herself. It was wonderful that the American
young man could have seen anything in her, but then, no doubt he went on
in the same kind of way with half the girls he met.

Thus reflected Isobel, and a little while later paid a last visit to the
museum, which interested her more than any place in Mexico, perhaps
because its exhibits strengthened her theories as to comparative
religion, and shook off her feet the dust of what her American admirer
had called that “antique land.” It was with a positive pang that
from the deck of the steamship outside Vera Cruz she looked her last on
the snows of the glorious peak of Orizaba, but soon these faded away
into the skyline and with them her life in Mexico.

Returning to England _via_ the West Indies in the company of her uncle
who was coming home on leave before taking up an appointment as
Minister to one of the South American republics, she was greeted on the
platform at Waterloo by her father. Sir John Blake had by this time
forgotten their previous disagreements, or, at any rate, determined to
ignore them, and Isobel, who was now in her way a finished woman of the
world, though she did not forget, had come to a like conclusion. So
their meeting was cordial enough, and for a while, not a very long
while, they continued to live together in outward amity, with a tacit
understanding that they should follow their respective paths, 
unmolested by each other. 



CHAPTER XIV

TOGETHER


On the afternoon of the first day after his arrival at the Abbey, some
spirit in his feet moved Godfrey to go into the church. As though by
instinct, he went to the chancel, and stood there contemplating the
brass of the nameless Plantagenet lady. How long it was since he had
looked upon her graven face and form draped in the stately habiliments
of a bygone age! Then, he remembered with a pang, Isobel was with him,
and they had seemed to be very near together. Now there was no Isobel,
and they were very far apart, both in the spirit and in the flesh. For
he had not heard of her return to England and imagined that she was
still in Mexico, whence no tidings of her came to him. 

There he stood among the dead, reflecting that we do not need to pass
out of the body to know the meaning of death, since, as once Isobel had
said herself, some separations are as bad, or worse. The story of the
dead is, at any rate, completed; there is nothing more to be learned
about them, and of them we imagine, perhaps quite erroneously, that we
have no need to be jealous, since we cannot conceive that they may form
new interests in another sphere. But with the living it is otherwise.
Somewhere their life is continued; somewhere they are getting
themselves friends or lovers and carrying on the daily round of being,
and we have no share in them or in aught that they may do. And probably 
they have forgotten us. And, if we still happen to be attached to them,
oh! it hurts. 

Thus mused Godfrey, trying to picture to himself what Isobel looked like
when she had stood by his side on that long-past autumn eve, and only
succeeded in remembering exactly what she looked like when she was
kissing a rose with a certain knight in armour in a square garden,
since for some perverse reason it was this picture that remained so
painfully clear to his mind. Then he drifted off into speculations upon
the general mystery of things of a sort that were common with him, and
in these became oblivious of all else. 

He did not even hear or see a tall young woman enter the church, clad in
summer white, no, not when she was within five paces and, becoming
suddenly aware of his presence, had stopped to study him with the
acutest interest. In a flash Isobel knew who he was. Of course he was
much changed, for Godfrey, who had matured early, as those of his
generation were apt to do, especially if they had led a varied life,
was now a handsome and well-built young man with a fine, thoughtful
face and a quite respectable moustache. 

“How he has changed, oh! how he has changed,” she thought to
herself. The raw boy had become a man, and as she knew at once by her
woman’s instinct, a man with a great deal in him. Isobel was a
sensible member of her sex; one, too, who had seen something of the
world by now, and she did not expect or wish for a hero or a saint
built upon the mid-Victorian pattern, as portrayed in the books of the
lady novelists of that period. She wanted a man to be a man, by
preference with the faults pertaining to the male nature, since she had
observed that those who lacked these, possessed others, which to her
robust womanhood seemed far worse, such as meanness and avarice and
backbiting, and all the other qualities of the Pharisee. 

Well, in Godfrey, whether she were right or wrong, with that swift
glance of hers, she seemed to recognise a man as she wished a man to
be. If that standard of hers meant that very possibly he had admired
other women, the lady whom he had pulled up a precipice, for instance,
she did not mind particularly, so long as he admired her, Isobel, most
of all. That was her one _sine qua non_, that he should admire her most
of all, or rather be fondest of her in his innermost self.

What was she thinking about? What was there to show that he cared one
brass farthing about her? Nothing at all. And yet, why was he here
where she had parted from him so long ago? Surely not to stare at the
grave of a dead woman with whom he could have had nothing to do, since
she left the world some five centuries before. And another question.
What had brought her here, she who hated churches and all the mummery
that they signified? 

Would he never wake up? Would he never realise her presence? Oh! then he
could care nothing about her. Probably he was thinking of the girl he
had pulled up a cliff in the Alps. But why did he come to this place to
think of _her_? 

Isobel stood quite still there and waited in the shadow of a Georgian
tomb, till presently Godfrey did seem to grow aware that he was no
longer alone. Something or somebody had impinged upon his intelligence.
He began to look about him, though always in the wrong direction. Then,
convinced that he was the victim of fancy, he spoke aloud as he had a
bad habit of doing when by himself.

“It’s very curious,” he said, “but I could have sworn
that Isobel was here, as near me as when we parted. I suppose that is
what comes of thinking so much about her. Or do people leave something
of themselves behind in places where they have experienced emotion? If
so, churches ought to be very full of ghosts. I dare say that they are,
only then no one could know it except those who had shared the emotion,
and therefore they remain intangible. Still, I could have sworn that
Isobel was here. Indeed, I seem to feel her now, and I hope that the
dream will go on.” 

Listening there in the shadow, she heard, and flushed in her flesh and
rejoiced in her innermost being. So he had _not_ forgotten her, which
is the true and real infidelity that never can be forgiven, at any
rate, by a woman. So she was still something in his life, although he
had not answered her letter years ago.

Then she grew angry with herself. What did it matter to her what he was,
or thought, or did? It was absurd that she could be dependent morally
upon anyone, who must rely in life or death upon herself alone and on
the strong soul within her. She was wroth with Godfrey for exciting
such disturbance in—what was it—her spirit or her body? Nonsense,
she had no spirit. That was a phantasy. Therefore it must be in her
body which was her own particular property that should remain
uninfluenced by any other body. 

So it came about that the first words she spoke to him were somewhat
rough in their texture. She stepped forward out of the shadow of the
Georgian tomb and confronted him with a defiant air, her head thrown
back, looking, to tell the truth, rather stately.

“I hoped that by this time you had given up talking to yourself,
Godfrey, which, as I always told you, is a bad habit. I did not hear
much of what you were mumbling, but I understood you to say that you
thought I was here. Well, why shouldn’t I be here?”

He stared at her blankly and answered:

“God knows, I don’t! But since you ask the question, _why_ are
you here, Isobel? It is Isobel, isn’t it, or am I still dreaming? Let
me touch you and I shall know.”

She drew back a little way, quite three inches.

“Of course it is Isobel, don’t your senses tell you that without
wanting to touch me? Why, I knew it was you from the end of the church.
But you ask me why I am here. I wish you would tell me. I was passing,
and something drew me into this place. I suppose it was you, and if so,
I say at once that I resent it; you have no right——”

“No, no, certainly not, but do let me touch you to make sure that you
are Isobel.”

“Very well,” she said, and stretched out a hand towards him.

He caught it with his left which was nearest, and then with his right
hand reached forward and seized her other hand. With a masterful
movement he draw her towards him, and though she was a strong woman she
seemed to have no power to resist. She thought that he was going to
kiss her and did not care greatly if he did.

But he checked himself in time, and instead of pressing his lips upon
hers, only kissed her hands, first one and then the other, for quite a
long while: nor did she attempt to deny him, perhaps because a wild
impulse took possession of her to kiss his in answer. Yes, his hands,
or his lips, or even his coat or anything about him. Oh! it made her
very angry, but there it was, for something rushed up in her which she
had never felt before, something mad and wild and sweet.

She wrenched herself away at last and began to scold him again.

“What have you been doing all these years? Why did you never write to
me?”

“Because I was too proud, as you never wrote to me.”

“Too proud! Pride will be your ruin; it goes before every sort of
fall. Besides, I did write to you. I can show you a copy of the letter,
if I haven’t torn it up.”

“I never got it; did you post it yourself?”

“Yes, that is I took it to the Abbey House and left it to be addressed
there.”

“Oh! then perhaps it is there still,” and he looked at her.

“Nonsense, no one could have been so mean, not even——”

He shrugged his shoulders, a trick he had learned abroad, then said:

“Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it, Isobel?”

“Yes, it matters a lot. Years of misunderstanding and doubt and loss,
when life is so short. I might have married or all sorts of things.”

“What has my not receiving your letter got to do with that?” he
asked, astonished.

“Nothing at all. Why do you ask such silly questions? I only meant
that if I had married I should not have been here, and we should never
have met again.”

“Well, you are here and we have met in this church, where we
parted.”

“Yes, it’s odd, isn’t it? I wish it had been somewhere else.
I don’t like this gloomy old place with its atmosphere of death. Come
outside.”

They went, and when they were through the churchyard gates walked at
hazard towards the stream which ran through the grounds of Hawk’s
Hall. Here they sat down upon a fallen willow, watching the swallows
skim over the surface of the placid waters, and for a while were
silent. They had so much to say to each other that it seemed as though
scarcely they knew where to commence. 

“Tell me,” she said at length, “were you in the square garden
on the night of that dance at which I came out? Oh! I see by your look
that you were. Then why did you not speak to me instead of standing
behind a bush, watching in that mean fashion?”

“I wasn’t properly dressed for parties, and—and—you
seemed to be—very much engaged—with a rose and a knight in
armour.”

“Engaged! It was only part of a game. I wrote and told you all about
it in the letter you did not get. Did you never kiss a flower for a
joke and give it to someone, not knowing that you were being
watched?” 

Godfrey coloured and shifted uneasily on his log.

“Well, as a matter of fact,” he said, “it is odd that you
should have guessed—for something of the sort did once happen quite by
accident. Also I _was_ watched.”

“I!—you mean _we_. One doesn’t kiss flowers by oneself
and give them to the air. It would be more ridiculous even than the
other thing.”

“I will tell you all about it if you like,” he stammered confusedly.

She looked at him with her large, steady grey eyes, and answered in a
cold voice:

“No, thank you, I don’t like. Nothing bores me so much as other
people’s silly love affairs.”

Baffled in defence, Godfrey resorted to attack.

“What has become of the knight in armour?” he asked.

“He is married and has twins. I saw the announcement of their birth in
the paper yesterday. And what has become of the lady with the flower?
For since there was a flower, there must have been a lady; I suppose
the same whom you pulled up the precipice.”

“She is married also, to her cousin, but I don’t know that she has
any children yet, and I never pulled her up any precipice. It was a man
I pulled, a very heavy one. My arm isn’t quite right yet.”

“Oh!” said Isobel. Then with another sudden change of voice she
went on. “Now tell me all about yourself, Godfrey. There must be such
lots to say, and I long to hear.”

So he told her, and she told him of herself, and they talked and talked
till the shadows of advancing night began to close around them.
Suddenly Godfrey looked at his watch, of which he could only just see
the hands. 

“My goodness!” he said, “it is half-past seven.”

“Well, what about it? It doesn’t matter when I dine, for I have
come down alone here for a few days, a week perhaps, to get the house
ready for my father and his friends.”

“Yes, but my father dines at seven, and if there is one thing he hates
it is being kept waiting for dinner.”

She looked as though she thought that it did not much matter whether or
no Mr. Knight waited for his dinner, then said:

“Well, you can come up to the Hall and dine with me.”

“I think I had better not,” he answered. “You see, we are
getting on so well together—I mean my father and I, and I don’t
want to begin a row again. He would hate it.”

“You mean, Godfrey, that he would hate your dining with me. Well, that
is true, for he always loathed me like poison, and I don’t think he
is a man to change his mind. So perhaps you had better go. Do you think
we shall be allowed to see each other again?” she added with sarcasm.

“Of course. Let’s meet here to-morrow at eleven. My father is going
to a Diocesan meeting and won’t be back till the evening. So we might
spend the day together if you have nothing better to do.”

“Let me see. No, I have no engagement. You see, I only came down half
an hour before we met in the church.”

Then they rose from their willow log and stood looking at each other, a
very proper pair. Something welled up in him and burst from his lips.

“How beautiful you have grown,” he said.

She laughed a little, very softly, and said:

“Beautiful! _I_? Those Alpine snows affect the sight, don’t
they? I felt like that on Popocatepetl. Or is it the twilight that I
have to thank? Oh! you silly old Godfrey, you must have been living
among very plain people.”

“You _are_ beautiful,” he replied stubbornly, “the most
beautiful woman I ever saw. You always were, and you always will be.”

Again she laughed, for who of her sex is there that does not like to be
called beautiful, especially when she knows that it is meant, and that
whatever her personal shortcomings, to the speaker she is beautiful?
But this time the only answer she attempted was:

“You said you were late, and you are getting later. Run home,
there’s a good little boy.”

“Why do you laugh at me?” he asked.

“Because I am laughing at myself,” she answered, “and you
should have your share.”

Then very nearly he kissed her, only he was in such a hurry, also the
willow log, a large one, was between them; possibly she had arranged
that this should be so. So he could only press her hand and depart,
muttering something indistinguishable. She watched him vanish, after
which she sat down again on the log and really did laugh. Still, it was
a queer kind of merriment, for by degrees it turned into little sobs
and tears. 

“You little fool, what has happened to you?” she asked herself.
“Are you—are you—and if so, is he—? Oh! nonsense, and
yet, something has happened, for I never felt like this before. I
thought it was all rubbish, mere natural attraction, part of Nature’s
scheme and so on, as they write in the clever books. But it’s more
than that—at least it would be if I were—— Besides, I’m ages
older than he is, although I was born six months later. I’m a woman
full-grown, and he is only a boy. If he hadn’t been a boy he would
have taken his advantage when he must have known that I was weak as
water, just for the joy of seeing him again. Now he has lost his
chance, if he wanted one, for by to-morrow I shall be strong again, and
there shall be no more——” 

Then she looked at the backs of her hands which she could not see
because of the gathering darkness, and as they were invisible, kissed
them instead, just as though they belonged to someone else. After this
she sat a while brooding and listening to the pulsing of her heart,
which was beating with unusual strength this night. As she did so in
that mysterious hour which sometimes comes to us in English summers, a
great change fell upon her. When she sat down upon that fallen tree she
was still a girl and virginal; when she rose from it she was a
developed, loving woman. It was as though a spirit had visited her and
whispered in her ear. She could almost hear the words. They were: 

“Fulfil your fate. Love and be loved with body and with spirit, with
heart and soul and strength.”

At length she rose, and as she did so said aloud:

“I do not know who or what I have to thank for life and all that makes
me, me. But I am glad to have been born, now, who have often wished that
I had never been born. Even if I knew that I must pass away to-night, I
should still be glad, since I have learned that there is something in
me which cannot die. It came when that man kissed my hands, and it will
endure for ever.” 

Godfrey was late for dinner, very late, and what was worse, his father
_had_ waited for him.

“I suppose you forgot that I dined at seven, not at eight,” was his
cold greeting, for Mr. Knight, a large eater like many teetotallers, was
one of those people who make a fetish of punctuality at meals, and
always grow cross when they are hungry.

Godfrey, whose mind had not been steadied by the events of the
afternoon, became confused and replied that he was extremely sorry, but
the fact was he had met Isobel and, in talking to her, had not noticed
the time. 

“Isobel!” exclaimed his father, whose voice was now icy.
“What Isobel?”

“I never knew but one, Father.”

“Oh! I suppose you mean Miss Blake. I had no idea she was here;
indeed, I thought she was still in Mexico. But doubtless you were
better informed.” 

“No, Father, I met her accidentally. She has returned to England.”

“That is obvious, Godfrey——”

“She has come down,” he continued in a hurry, “to get the
house ready for Sir John, who arrives shortly.”

“Oh! has she? What a strange coincidence! All the years of our
separation while you were away she was away, but within two days of
your return she returns.”

“Yes, it does seem odd,” agreed the flustered Godfrey, “but
it’s lucky, isn’t it, for, of course, I am glad to see her
again.”

Mr. Knight finished carving himself a helping of beef, and let the knife
fall with a clatter into the dish. Then he said in carefully chosen
words: 

“You may think it lucky—or well arranged—but I must differ. I
tell you at once that I consider Miss Blake a most pernicious young
woman, and as your father I can only express the hope that you do not
intend to allow her to re-assert her evil influence over you.”

Godfrey was about to answer with wrath, but changed his mind and
remained silent. So the topic dropped, but that it stood very straight
upon its feet in Mr. Knight’s mind was clear from the compression of
his thin lips and the ill-humour of his remarks about the coldness and
overdone character of the beef and sundry other household matters. As
soon as the meal was concluded and he had washed it down with a last
glass of water and with a very wry face thanked Providence for all that
he had received, he retired into his study and was seen no more till
prayer-time. 

Nor was he seen then by Godfrey, who had gone out to smoke his pipe
since his father could not bear the smell of tobacco in the house, and
wandered unconsciously towards the Hall. There he stood, gazing at a
light which he knew came from Isobel’s window, and lost in this
unfruitful contemplation, once more forgot the time. When he arrived
home it was to find the house in darkness and a note in his father’s
handwriting on the hall table requesting him to be careful to lock the
door, as everyone had gone to bed. 

He went, too, but could not sleep, for, strangely enough, that
disturbance of body and spirit which had afflicted Isobel possessed him
also. It seemed wonderful to him that he should have found her again,
whom he thought to be so utterly lost, and grown so sweet and dear. How
could he have lived all this while without her, he wondered, and,
another thought, how could he bear to part with her once more? Oh! she
was his life, and—why should they part? She had not minded when he
kissed her hands, at which, of course, she might have been angry;
indeed, she left them to be kissed for quite a long while, though not
half long enough. Perhaps she did not wish that they should part either,
or perhaps she only desired that they should be just friends as before.
It seemed almost impossible that they could become more than friends,
even if she cared to do so, which he could scarcely hope. 

What was he? A young fellow, twenty, with only a little money and all
his way to make in the world. And what was she? A grand young lady,
rather younger than himself, it was true, but seeming years older, who
was a great heiress, they said, and expected to marry a lord, someone
born with a silver spoon in his mouth, whose fortune had been made for
him by other people. Moreover, his father hated her because their
religious views were different, and her father hated him, or used to,
for other reasons. 

Yes, it was quite impossible—and yet Nature seemed to take no account
of that: Nature seemed to tell him that it was absolutely possible, and
indeed right, and what she, Nature, wished. Also this same persistent
Nature seemed to suggest to him that Isobel was her most willing and
obedient pupil, and that perhaps if he could look into her heart he
would find that she did care, and very much more than for the wealth
and the hypothetical lord. 

Nature seemed to suggest, too, that Isobel’s thoughts were with him at
that moment; that she was uncommonly near to him in soul if not in body;
that she was thinking about him as he was thinking about her, and
saying much the same things to herself as he was saying to himself.
Indeed, he even began a whispered conversation with her, of a sort he
would not have ventured upon had she been there, pausing between the
sentences for her answers, which, as he imagined them, were very
satisfactory indeed. 

By degrees, however, question and answer grew less frequent and further
apart as he dozed off and finally sank into a deep sleep. So deep was
it, indeed, that he was awakened only by the clamour of the breakfast
bell, and when he arrived downstairs, to be confronted by some cold
bacon on an uncovered dish, his father had departed to the Diocesan
Conference. Well, this fact had its consolations, and bacon, however
cold, with contentment is better than bacon hot where contention is.

So he ate it and anything else he could find with appetite, and then
went upstairs to shave and do his hair nicely and to put on a new suit
of clothes, which he considered became him. Also, as he had still
three-quarters of an hour to spare, he began to write a little poem
about Isobel, which was a dismal failure, to tell the truth, since he
could think of no satisfactory rhyme to her name, except “O well!”
which, however he put it, sounded silly. 

At last, rather too early, he threw the sheet of paper into the
fireplace and started, only to find that although it still lacked a
quarter of an hour to eleven, Isobel was already seated on that tree.

“What have you been doing to yourself?” she asked, “putting
on those smart London clothes? I like the old grey things you had on
last night ever so much better, and I wanted you to climb a tree to get
me some young jackdaws. And—good gracious! Godfrey, your head smells
like a whole hairdresser’s shop. Please come to the other side, to
leeward of me.”

He murmured something about liking to look tidy, and then remarked that
she seemed rather finely dressed herself.

“It’s only my Mexican hat,” she answered, touching the big
sombrero, woven from the finest Panama grass, which she was wearing,
“and the necklace is made of little gold Aztec idols that were found
in a grave. They are very rare; a gentleman gave them to me, and
afterwards I was horrified to find that he had paid an awful lot for
them, £200, I believe. Do you understand about the Aztec gods? If not
I will explain them all to you. This big one in the middle is
Huitzilcoatl, the god of——” 

“No, no,” interrupted Godfrey, “I don’t and I
don’t want to. I think them very ugly, and I always understood that
ladies did not accept such expensive presents from gentlemen. Who was
he?” 

“An American millionaire who didn’t wear armour,” she
answered blandly. Then she changed the subject with the original remark
that the swallows were flying higher than they had done on the previous
evening, when they looked as though one could almost catch them with
one’s hand. 

Godfrey reflected to himself that other things which had seemed quite
close on the previous night were now like the swallows, far out of
reach. Only he took comfort in the remembrance that swallows, however
near, are evasive birds, not easy to seize unless you can find them
sleeping. Next she began to tell him all about the Mexican gods,
whether he wanted to listen or not, and he sat there in the glory of
his new clothes and brilliantined hair, and gazed at her till she asked
him to desist as she felt as though she were being mesmerised. 

This led him to his spiritualistic experiences of which he told her all
the story, and by the time it was finished, behold! it was the luncheon
hour. 

“It is very interesting,” she said as they entered the Hall,
“and I can’t laugh at it all as I should have done once, I
don’t quite know why. But I hope, Godfrey, that you will have no more
to do with spirits.”

“No, not while——” and he looked at her.

“While what?”

“While—there are such nice bodies in the world,” he
stammered, colouring.

She coloured also, tossed her head, and went to wash her hands.

The afternoon they spent in hunting for imaginary young jackdaws in a
totally nebulous tree. Isobel grew rather cross over its non-discovery,
swearing that she remembered it well years ago, and that there were
always young jackdaws there.

“Perhaps it has been cut down,” suggested Godfrey. “I am told
that your father has been improving the place a great deal in that kind
of way, so as to make it up to date and scientific and profitable, and
all the rest of it. Also if it hasn’t, there would have been no young
jackdaws, since they must have flown quite six weeks ago.”

“Then why couldn’t you say that at once, instead of making us waste
all this time?” asked Isobel with indignation.

“I don’t know,” replied Godfrey in a somewhat vacuous
fashion. “It was all the same to me if we were hunting for young
jackdaws or the man in the moon, as long as we were together.”

“Godfrey, it is evident that you have been overworking and are growing
foolish. I make excuses for you, since anybody who passed first out of
Sandhurst must have overworked, but it does not alter the fact. Now I
must go home and see about that house, for as yet I have arranged
nothing at all, and the place is in an awful state. Remember that my
father is coming down presently with either six or eight terrible
people, I forget which. All I know about them is that they are
extremely rich and expect to be what is called ‘done well.’”

“Must you?” remarked Godfrey, looking disappointed.

“Yes, I must. And so must you. _Your_ father is coming back by the
five o’clock train, and I advise you to be there to meet him. Perhaps
I shall see you to-morrow some time.”

“I can’t,” exclaimed Godfrey in a kind of wail. “I am
to be taken off to a school in some town or other, I forget which, that
my father has been examining. I suppose it is the speech day, and he
proposes to introduce me as a kind of object lesson because I have
passed first in an examination.”

“Yes, as a shining example and—an advertisement. Well, perhaps we
shall meet later,” and without giving him an opportunity of saying
more she vanished away.



CHAPTER XV

FOR EVER


Godfrey managed to be late again, and only reached home five minutes
after his father, who had bicycled instead of walking from the station
as he supposed that he would do.

“I forgot to give orders about your lunch,” said Mr. Knight
tentatively. “I hope that you managed to get some.”

“Oh, yes, Father; that is, I lunched out, at the Hall.”

“Indeed! I did not know that Sir John had arrived.”

“No, he hasn’t; at least I have not seen him. I lunched with
Isobel.”

“Indeed!” remarked Mr. Knight again, and the subject dropped.

Next day, Godfrey, once more arrayed in his best clothes, attended the
prize-giving and duly was made to look foolish, only getting home just
in time for dinner, after which his father requested him to check
certain examination papers. Then came Sunday and church at which Isobel
did not appear; two churches in fact, and after these a tea party to
the churchwardens and their wives, to whom Godfrey was expected to
explain the wonders of the Alps. Before it was over, if he could have
managed it, these stolid farmers with their families would have lain at
the bottom of the deepest moraine that exists amid those famous
mountains. But there they were, swallowing tea and munching cake while
they gazed on him with ox-like eyes, and he plunged into wild 
explanations as to the movements of glaciers. 

“Something like one of them new-fangled machines what carry hay up on
to the top of stacks,” said Churchwarden No. 1 at length.

“Did you ever sit on a glacier while it slided from the top to the
bottom of a mountain, Master Godfrey, and if so, however did you get up
again?” asked Churchwarden No. 2.

“Is a glacier so called after the tradesman what cuts glass, because
glass and ice are both clear-like?” inquired Churchwarden No. 1,
filled with sudden inspiration.

Then Godfrey, in despair, said that he thought it was and fled away,
only to be reproached afterwards by his father for having tried to
puzzle those excellent and pious men.

On Monday his luck was better, since Mr. Knight was called away
immediately after lunch to take a funeral in a distant parish of which
the incumbent was absent at the seaside. Godfrey, by a kind of
instinct, sped at once to the willow log by the stream, where, through
an outreaching of the long arm of coincidence, he found Isobel seated.
After casually remarking that the swallows were flying neither high nor
low that day, but as it were in mid-air, she added that she had not
seen him for a long while. 

“No, you haven’t—say for three years,” he answered, and
detailed his tribulations.

“Ah!” said Isobel, “that’s always the way; one is never
left at leisure to follow one’s own fancies in this world. To-morrow,
for instance, my father and all his horrible friends—I don’t know
any of them, except one, but from past experience I presume them to be
horrible—are coming down to lunch, and are going to stop for three
days’ partridge shooting. Their female belongings are going to stop
also, or some of them are, which means that I shall have to look after
them.” 

“It’s all bad news to-day,” remarked Godfrey, shaking his
head. “I’ve just had a telegram saying that I must report myself on
Wednesday, goodness knows why, for I expected to get a month’s
leave.”

“Oh!” said Isobel, looking a little dismayed. “Then let us
make the best of to-day, for who knows what to-morrow may bring
forth?” 

Who indeed? Certainly not either of these young people.

They talked awhile seated by the river; then began to walk through
certain ancient grazing grounds where the monks used to run their
cattle. Their conversation, fluent enough at first, grew somewhat
constrained and artificial, since both of them were thinking of matters
different from those that they were trying to dress out in words;
intimate, pressing, burning matters that seemed to devour their
intelligences of everyday with a kind of eating fire. They grew almost
silent, talking only at random and listening to the beating of their own
 hearts rather than to the words that fell from each other’s lips. 

The sky clouded over, and some heavy drops of rain began to fall.

“I suppose that we must go in,” said Isobel, “we shall be
soaked presently,” and she glanced at her light summer attire.

“Where?” exclaimed Godfrey. “The Abbey? No, my father will be
back by now; it must be the Hall.”

“Very well, but I dare say _my_ father is there by now, for I
understand that he is coming down this afternoon to arrange about the
shooting.”

“Great heavens!” groaned Godfrey, “and I wanted to—tell
you a story which I thought perhaps might interest you, and I don’t
know when I shall get another chance—now.”

“Then why did you not tell your story before?” she inquired with
some irritation.

“Oh! because I have only just thought of it,” he replied rather
wildly.

At this moment they were passing the church, and the rain began to fall
in earnest. By some mutual impulse they entered through the chancel
door which was always unlocked, and by some mutual folly, left it open.

Advancing instinctively to the tombs of the unknown Plantagenet lady and
her knight which were so intimately connected with the little events of
their little lives, they listened for a while to the rush of the rain
upon the leaden roof, saying nothing, till the silence grew irksome
indeed. Each waited for the other to break it, but with a woman’s
infinite patience Isobel waited the longer. There she stood, staring at
the brass of the Plantagenet lady, still as the bones of that lady
which lay beneath. 

“My story,” said Godfrey at last with a gasp, and stopped.

“Yes,” said Isobel. “What is it?”

“Oh!” he exclaimed in an agony, “a very short one. I love
you, that’s all.”

A little quiver ran through her, causing her dress to shake and the gold
Mexican gods on her necklace to tinkle against each other. Then she grew
still as a stone, and raising those large and steady eyes of hers,
looked him up and down, finally fixing them upon his own.

“Is that true?” she asked.

“True! It is as true as life and death, or as Heaven and Hell.”

“I don’t know anything about Heaven and Hell; they are
hypothetical, are they not? Life and death are enough for me,” and she
stopped.

“Then by life and death, for life and death, and for ever, I love you,
Isobel.”

“Thank you,” she said, and stopped once more.

“You don’t help one much. Have you nothing to say?”

“What is there to say? You made a statement for which I thanked you.
You asked no question.”

“It is a question,” he exclaimed indignantly. “If I love you,
of course I want to know if you love me.”

“Then why did you not say so? But,” she added very deliberately,
“since you want to know, I do and always have and always shall, in
life or death—and for ever—if that means anything.”

He stared at her, tried to utter something and failed. Then he fell back
upon another very primitive and ancient expedient. Flinging his arms
about her, he pressed her to his heart and kissed her again and again
and again; nor, in her moment of complete surrender, did she scruple to
kiss him back. 

It was while they were thus engaged, offering a wonderful spectacle of
love triumphant and rejoicing in its triumph, that another person who
was passing the church bethought him of its shelter as a refuge from
the pouring rain. Seeing the open door, Mr. Knight, for it was he,
slipped into the great building in his quiet, rather cat-like fashion,
but on its threshold saw, and stopped. Notwithstanding the shadows, he
recognised them in a moment. More, the sight of this pair, the son whom
he disliked and the woman whom he hated, thus embraced, thus lost in a
sea of passion, moved him to white fury, so that he lifted his clenched
hands above his head and shook them, muttering: 

“And in my church, _my_ church!”

Then unable to bear more of this spectacle, he slipped away again,
heedless of the pouring skies.

By nature, although in obedience to a rash promise once he had married,
Mr. Knight was a true woman-hater. That sex and everything to do with
it were repellent to him. Even the most harmless manifestations of
natural affection between male and female he considered disgusting,
indeed indecent, and if these were carried any further he held it to be
among the greatest of crimes. He was one of those who, if he had the
power, would have hounded any poor girl who, in the country phrase,
“had got into trouble,” to the river brink and over it, as a
creature not fit to live; or if she escaped destruction, would have,
and indeed often had, pursued her with unceasing malignity, thinking
that thereby he did God service. His attitude towards such a person was
that of an Inquisitor towards a fallen nun. 

Moreover, he could do this with a clear conscience, since he could truly
say that he was qualified to throw the first stone, being of those who
mistake personal aversion for personal virtue. Because his cold-hearted
nature rejected it, he loathed this kind of human failing and felt good
in the loathing. Nor did it ever occur to him to reflect that others,
such as secret malice, jealousy and all uncharitableness on which his
heart fed, might be much worse than the outrush of human passion in
obedience to the almighty decree of Nature that is determined not to
die. 

These being his views, the feelings that the sight awoke in him of this
pair declaring their holy love in the accustomed, human fashion, can
scarcely be measured and are certainly beyond description. Had he been
another sort of man who had found some devil flogging a child to death,
the rage and indignation aroused in his breast could not have been
greater, even if it were his own child.

The one thing that Mr. Knight had feared for years was that Godfrey,
who, as he knew, was fonder of Isobel than of any other living
creature, should come to love her in a fuller fashion: Isobel, a girl
who had laughed at and flouted him and once told him to his face that a
study of his character and treatment of others had done more to turn
her from the Christian religion than anything else. 

In a sense he was unselfish in this matter, or rather his hate mastered
his selfishness. He knew very well that Isobel would be a great match
for Godfrey, and he was by no means a man who underrated money and
position and their power. He guessed, too, that she really loved him
and would have made him the best of wives; that with her at his side he
might do almost anything in the world. But these considerations did not
in the least soften his loathing of the very thought of such a
marriage. Incredible as it may seem, he would rather have seen Godfrey
dead than the happy husband of Isobel. 

Mr. Knight, drunk with rage, reeled rather than walked away from the
church door, wondering what he might do to baulk and shame that living,
loving pair who could kiss and cling even among the tombs. A thought
came to him, a very evil thought which he welcomed as an inspiration
sent straight from an offended Heaven. Sir John Blake had come home; he
knew it, for he had passed him on the road seated alone in a fine
motor-car, and they had waved their hands to each other not ten minutes
before. He would go and tell him all; in the character of an upright
man who does not like to see his rich neighbour harmed by the 
entanglement of that neighbour’s daughter in an undesirable
relationship. That Sir John would consider himself to be harmed, he was
sure enough, being by no means ignorant of his plans and aspirations
for the future of that daughter, who was expected to make a great
alliance in return for the fortune which she would bring to her
husband.    

No sooner said than done. In three minutes he was at the Hall and, as it
chanced, met Sir John by the front door.

“Hullo, Reverend! How are you? You look very wet and miserable; taking
refuge from the rain, I suppose, though it is clearing off now. Have a
brandy and soda, or a glass of port?”

“Thank you, Sir John, I am an abstainer, but a cup of hot tea would be
welcome.”

“Tea—ah! yes, but that takes time to make, so I should have to
leave you to drink it by yourself. Fact is I want to find my daughter.
Some of those blessed guests of mine, including Mounteroy, the young
Earl, you know, whom I wish her to meet particularly, are coming down
to-night by the last train and not to-morrow, so I must get everything
arranged in a hurry. Can’t make out where the girl has gone.”

“I think I can tell you, Sir John,” said Mr. Knight with a sickly
smile; “at least I saw her a little while ago rather peculiarly
engaged.”

“Where, and how was she engaged?”

Without asking permission Mr. Knight entered the house and stepped into
a cloak-room that opened out of the hall. Being curious, Sir John
followed him. Mr. Knight shut the door and, supporting himself against
the frame of a marble wash-basin with gilded taps, said:

“I saw her in the chancel of the Abbey Church and she was kissing my
son, Godfrey; at least he was kissing her, and she seemed to be
responding to his infamous advances, for her arms were round his neck
and I heard sounds which suggested that this was so.”

“Holy Moses!” ejaculated Sir John, “what in the name of hell
are they after?”

“Your question, stripped of its unnecessary and profane expletives,
seems easy to answer. I imagine that my immoral son has just proposed
to your daughter, and been accepted with—well, unusual emphasis.”

“Perhaps you are right. But if he had I don’t see anything
particularly immoral about it. If I had never done anything worse than
that I shouldn’t feel myself called to go upon my knees and cry
_peccavi_. However, that ain’t the point. The point is that a game of
this sort don’t at all suit my book, but,” here he looked at the
clergyman shrewdly, “why do _you_ come to tell about it? I should
have thought that under all the circumstances _you_ should have been
glad. Isobel isn’t likely to be exactly a beggar, you know, so it
seems devilish queer that you should object, as I gather you do; unless
it is to the kissing, which has been heard of before.”

“I do object most strongly, Sir John,” replied Mr. Knight in his
iciest tones. “I disapprove entirely of your daughter, whose lack of
any Christian feeling is notorious, and whose corrupting influence
will, I fear, make my son as bad as herself.”

“Damn her lack of Christian feeling, and damn yours and your impudence
too, you half-drowned church rat! Why don’t you call her Jezebel at
once, and have done with it? One of the things I like about her is that
she has the pluck to snap her fingers at such as you and all your
ignorant superstitions. What are you getting at? That is what I want to
know.” 

“I put aside your insults to which as a clergyman it is my duty to
turn the other cheek,” replied Mr. Knight, with a furious gasp. “As
to the rest I am trying to get at the pure and sacred truth.”

“You look as though you would do better to get at the pure and sacred
brandy,” remarked Sir John, surveying him critically, “but
that’s your affair. Now, what is the truth?”

“Alas! that I must say it. I believe my son to be that basest of
creatures, a fortune-hunter. How did he get that money left to him by
another woman?”

“Don’t know, I’m sure. Perhaps the old girl found the young
chap attractive, and wished to acknowledge favours received. Such things
have been known. You don’t suppose he forged her will, do you?”

“You are ribald, Sir, ribald.”

“Am I? Well, and you are jolly offensive. Thank God you weren’t my
father. Now, from what I remember of that boy of yours, I shouldn’t
have thought that he was a fortune-hunter. I should have thought that
he was a young beggar who wished to get hold of the girl he fancies,
and that’s all. Still, you know him best, and I dare say you are
right. Anyway, for your own peculiar and crack-brained reasons, you
don’t want this business, and I say at once you can’t want it less
than I do. Do you suppose that I wish to see my only child, who will
have half a million of money and might be a countess, or half a dozen
countesses, to-morrow, married to the son of a beggarly sniveller like
you, for as you are so fond of the pure and sacred truth, I’ll give
it you—a fellow who can come and peach upon your own boy and his
girl.” 

“My conscience and my duty——” began Mr. Knight.

“Oh! drat your conscience and blow your duty. You’re a spy and a
backbiting tell-tale, that’s what you are. Did you never kiss a girl
yourself?”

“Never until after I was married, when we are specially enjoined by
the great Apostle——”

“Then I’m sorry for your wife, for she must have had a lot to teach
you. But let’s stop slanging, we have our own opinions of each other
and there’s an end. Now we have both the same object, you because you
are a pious crank and no more human than a dried eel, and I because I
am a man of the world who want to see my daughter where she ought to
be, wearing a coronet in the House of Lords. The question is: How is
the job to be done? You don’t understand Isobel, but I do. If her
back is put up, wild horses won’t move her. She’d snap her fingers
in my face, and tell me to go to a place that you are better acquainted
with than I am, or will be, and take my money with me. Of course, I
could hold her for a few months, till she is of age perhaps, but after
that, No. So it seems that the only chance is your son. Now, what’s
his weak point? Can he be bought off?” 

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Knight.

“Oh! that’s odd in one who, you say, is a fortune-hunter. Well,
what is it? Everyone has a weak point, and another girl won’t do just
now.”

“His weakest point is his fondness for that treacherous and abominable
sex of which I have just had so painful an example; and in the church
too, yes, in my church.”

“And a jolly good place to get to in such a rain, for of course they
didn’t know that you were hiding under the pews. But I’ve told you
that cock won’t fight at present. What’s the next?”

At these accumulated insults Mr. Knight turned perfectly livid with
suppressed rage. But he did suppress it, for he had an object to gain
which, to his perverted mind, was the most important in the whole
world—namely, the final separation of his son and Isobel.

“His next bad point,” he went on, “is his pride, which is
abnormal, although from childhood I have done my best to inculcate
humility of spirit into his heart. He cannot bear any affront, or even
neglect. For instance, he left me for some years just because he did
not consider that he was received properly on his return from
Switzerland; also because he went into a rage, for he has a very evil
temper if roused, when I suggested that he wanted to run after your
daughter’s money.” 

“Well, it wasn’t a very nice thing to say, was it? But I think I
see light. He’s proud, is he, and don’t like allusions to
fortune-hunting. All right; I’ll rub his nose in the dirt and make him
good. I’m just the boy for a job of that sort, as perhaps you will
agree, my reverend friend; and if he shows his airs to me, I’ll kick
him off the premises. Come on! I dare say we shall find them still in
the church, where they think themselves so snug, although the rain has
stopped.” 

So this precious pair started, each of them bent, though for different
reasons, upon as evil a mission as the mind of man can conceive. For
what is there more wicked than to wish to bring about the separation
and subsequent misery of two young people who, as they guessed well
enough, loved each other body and soul, and thereby to spoil their
lives? Yet, so strange is human nature, that neither of them thought
that they were committing any sin. Mr. Knight, now and afterwards,
justified himself with the reflection that he was parting his son from
a “pernicious” young woman of strong character, who would probably
lead him away from religion as it was understood by him. One also whom 
he looked upon as the worst of outcasts, who deserved and doubtless was 
destined to inhabit hell, because hastily she had rejected his form of
faith, as the young are apt to do, for reasons, however hollow, that
seemed to her sufficient. 

He took no account of his bitter, secret jealousy of this girl, who, as
he thought, had estranged his son from him, and prevented him from
carrying out his cherished plans of making of him a clergyman like
himself, or of his innate physical hatred of women which caused him to
desire that Godfrey should remain celibate. These motives, although he
was well aware of them, he set down as naught, being quite sure, in
view of the goodness of his aims, that they would be overlooked or even
commended by the Power above Whom he pictured in his mind’s eye as a
furious old man, animated chiefly by jealousy and a desire to wreak
vengeance on and torture the helpless. For it is the lessons of the Old
Testament that sink most deeply into the souls of Mr. Knight and his 
kind. 

Sir John’s ends were quite different. He was the very vulgarest of
self-made men, coarse and brutal by nature, a sensualist of the type
that is untouched by imagination; a man who would crush anyone who
stood in his path without compunction, just because that person did
stand in his path. But he was extremely shrewd—witness the way he saw
through Mr. Knight—and in his own fashion very able—witness his
success in life. 

Moreover, since a man of his type has generally some object beyond the
mere acquiring of money, particularly after it has been acquired, he
had his, to rise high, for he was very ambitious. His natural
discernment set all his own failings before him in the clearest light;
also their consequences. He knew that he was vulgar and brutal, and
that as a result all persons of real gentility looked down upon him,
however much they might seem to cringe before his money and power, yes,
though they chanced to be but labouring men. 

For instance, his wife had done so, which was one of the reasons why he
hated her, as indeed had all her distinguished relatives, after they
came to know him, although he lent them money. He knew that even if he
became a peer, as he fully expected to do, it would be the same story;
outward deference and lip service, but inward dislike and contempt. In
short, there were limits which he could never hope to pass, and
therefore so far as he was concerned, his ambitious thirst must remain
unslaked. 

But he had a daughter whom Nature, perhaps because of her mother’s
blood, had set in quite a different class. She had his ability, but she
was gentle-born, which he was not, one who could mix with and be
welcomed by the highest in the world, and this without the slightest
question. If not beautiful, she was very distinguished; she had
presence and what the French call “the air.” Further, she would be
one of the richest women in England. Considered from his point of view,
therefore, it was but natural that he should desire her to make a
brilliant marriage and found a great family, which he would thus have
originated—at any rate, to some extent. Night and day he longed that
this should come about, and it was the reason why the young Lord
Mounteroy was visiting Hawk’s Hall. 

Mounteroy had met Isobel at a dinner-party in London the other day and
admired her. He had told an old lady—a kind of society tout—who had
repeated it to Sir John, that he wished to get married, and that Isobel
Blake was the sort of girl he would like to marry. He was a clever man,
also ambitious, one who had hopes of some day ruling the country, but
to do this he needed behind him great and assured fortune in addition
to his ancient but somewhat impoverished rank. In short, she suited his
book, and he suited that of Sir John. Now, the thing to do was to bring
it about that he should also suit Isobel’s book. And just at the
critical moment this accursed accident had happened. Oh! it was too
much. 

No wonder that Sir John was filled with righteous wrath and a stern
determination to “make things hot” for the cause of the
“accident” as, led to the attack by the active but dripping Mr.
Knight whom he designated in his heart as that “little cur of a
parson,” much as an overfed and bloated bloodhound might be by some
black and vicious mongrel, he tramped heavily towards the church.
Indeed they made a queer contrast, this small, active but fierce-faced
man in his sombre, shiny garments and dingy white tie, and the huge,
ample-paunched baronet with his red, flat face, heavy lips and
projecting but intelligent eyes, clothed in a new suit, wearing an
enormous black pearl in his necktie and a diamond ring on his finger;
the very ideal of Mammon in every detail of his person and of his 
carefully advertised opulence. 

Isobel, whose humour had its sardonic side, and who was the first to
catch sight of them when they reached the church, Mr. Knight tripping
ahead, and Sir John hot with the exercise in the close, moist air,
lumbering after him with his mouth open, compared them in her mind to a
fierce little pilot fish conducting an overfed shark to some helpless
prey which it had discovered battling with the waters of circumstance;
that after all, was only another version of the mongrel and the
bloodhound. Also she compared them to other things, even less
complimentary. 

Yet none of these, perhaps, was really adequate, either to the evil
intentions or the repellent appearance of this pair as they advanced
upon their wicked mission of jealousy and hate.



CHAPTER XVI

LOVE AND LOSS


All unaware that they had been seen and by no friendly eyes, Godfrey and
Isobel remained embracing each other for quite a long while. At length
she wrenched herself away and, sinking on to a chancel bench, motioned
to him to seat himself beside her.

“Let us talk,” she said in a new voice, a strange voice that was
low and rich, such as he had never heard her use, “let us talk, my
dear.”

“What of?” he asked almost in a whisper as he took his place, and
her hand, which he held against his beating heart. “My soul has been
talking to yours for the last five minutes, or is it five seconds or
five years? It does not seem to have anything more to say.”

“Yet I think there is plenty to be said, Godfrey. Do you know that
while we were kissing each other there some very queer ideas got hold
of me, not only of the sort which might be expected in our case? You
remember that Plantagenet lady who lies buried beneath where we were
standing, she whose dress I once copied to wear at the ball when I came
out.” 

“Don’t speak of that,” he interrupted, “for then you
were kissing someone else.”

“It is not true. I never kissed anyone else in that way, and I do not
think I ever shall. I kissed a rose, that’s all, and I gather that you
have done as much and very likely a great deal more. But it is of the
lady I am speaking, not of the ball. She seemed to come up from her
grave and enter into me, and say something.”

“Well, what did she say, Isobel?” he asked dreamily.

“That’s it, I don’t know, although she talked to me as one
might to oneself. All I know is that it was of trouble and patience and
great joy, and war and tragedy in which I must be intimately concerned,
and—after the tragedy—of a most infinite rest and bliss.”

“I expect she was telling you her own story, which seems to have ended
well,” he replied in the same dreamy fashion.

“Yes, I think so, but also that she meant that her story would be my
story, copied you know, as I copied her dress. Of course it is all
nonsense, just the influence of the place taking hold of me when
overcome by other things, but at the time it seemed very real.”

“So does a bad dream,” said Godfrey, “but for all that it
isn’t real. Still it is odd that everything important seems to happen
to us within a few feet of that lady’s dust, and I can’t quite
disbelieve in spirits and their power of impressing themselves upon us;
I wish I could. The strange thing is that _you_ should put any faith in
them.”

“I don’t, though I admit that my views about such matters are
changing. You know I used to be sure that when we die everything is over
with us. Now I think differently, why I cannot say.”

Then the subject dropped, because really they were both wrapped in the
great joy of a glorious hour and disinclined to dwell upon fancies
about a woman who had died five hundred years ago, or on metaphysical
speculations. Also the fear of what might follow upon that hour haunted
them more vividly than any hovering ghost, if such there were.

“My dear,” said Isobel, “I am sorry, but I must say it; I am
sure that there will be trouble about this business.”

“No doubt, Isobel; there always is trouble, at least where I am
concerned; also one can’t be happy without paying. But what does it
matter so long as we stick to each other? Soon we shall both be of age
and can do what we like.”

“One always thinks that, Godfrey, and yet, somehow, one never can.
Free will is a fraud in that sense as in every other.”

“I have something, as you know, enough with my pay to enable us to get
on, even if you were disinherited, dear, though, of course, you could
not live as you have been accustomed to do.”

“Oh! don’t talk to me of money,” she said impatiently,
“though for the matter of that, I have something, too, a little that
comes to me from my mother. Money won’t divide us, Godfrey.”

“Then what will, Isobel?”

“Nothing in the long run,” she answered with conviction, “not
even death itself, since in a way we are one and part of each other and
therefore cannot be separated for always, whatever happens for a while,
as I am sure that something will happen which will make you leave
me.” 

“I swear that I will never leave you, I will die with you first,”
he exclaimed, springing up.

“Such oaths have been made often and broken—before the dawn,”
she answered, smiling and shaking her head.

“I swear that I will always love you,” he went on.

“Ah! now I believe you, dear!” she broke in again. “However
badly you may behave, you will always love me because you must.”

“Well, and will you always love me however badly I behave?”

“Of course,” she answered simply, “because I must. Oh!
whatever we may hear about each other, we may be quite certain that we
still love each other—because we must—and all your heaven and hell
cannot make any difference, no, not if they were both to join forces
and try their best. But that does not mean that necessarily we shall
marry each other, for I think that people who love like that rarely do
marry, because, you see, they would be too happy, which something is
always trying to prevent. It may mean, however,” she added
reflectively, “that we shall not marry anybody else, though even that
might happen in your case—not in mine. Always remember, Godfrey, that
I shall never marry anybody else, not even if you took three wives one
after the other.” 

“Three wives!” gasped Godfrey.

“Yes, why not? It would be quite natural, wouldn’t it, if you
wouldn’t marry me, and even proper. Only I should never take
one—husband, I mean—not from any particular virtue, but just
because I couldn’t. You see, it would make me ill. And if I tried I
should only run away.”

“Oh! stop talking nonsense,” said Godfrey, “when so soon you
will have to go to see about those people,” and he held out his arms.

She sank into them, and for a little while they forgot their doubts and
fears. 

The rain had ceased, and the triumphant sun shining gloriously through
the west window of stained glass, poured its rays upon them, dyeing
them all the colours of an angel’s wings. Also incidentally it made
them extremely conspicuous in that dusky church, of which they had all
this while forgotten to shut the door.

“My word!” said Sir John to Mr. Knight in tones of savage sarcasm
as they surveyed the two through this door. “We’ve got here just at
the right time. Don’t they look pretty, and don’t you wish that you
were his age and that was someone else’s daughter? I tell you, I
do.”

Mr. Knight gurgled something in his inarticulate wrath, for at that
moment he hated Isobel’s father as much as he did Isobel, which was
saying a great deal.

“Well, my pretty pair of cooing turtle-doves,” went on Sir John in
a sort of shout, addressing himself to them, “be so good as to stop
that, or I think I shall wring both your necks, damn you.”

“Not in this Holy House, which these infamous and shameless persons
have desecrated with their profane embraces,” interrupted Mr. Knight.

“Yes, according to your ideas it will be almost a case of
re-consecration. You’ll have to write to the bishop about it, Mr.
Parson. Oh! confound you. Don’t stand there like a couple of stuck
pigs, but come out of that and let us have a little chat in the
churchyard.” 

Now, at the first words that reached their ears Godfrey and Isobel had
drawn back from each other and stood side by side quite still before
the altar, as a pair about to be married might do.

They were dumbfounded, and no wonder. As might be expected Isobel was
the first to recover herself.

“Come, my dear,” she said in a clear voice to Godfrey, “my
father and yours wish to speak to us. I am glad we have a chance of
explaining matters so soon.”

“Yes,” said Godfrey, but in a wrathful voice, for he felt anger
stirring in him. Perhaps it was excited by that ancient instinct which
causes the male animal to resent the spying upon him when he is
courting his female as the deadliest of all possible insults, or
perhaps by some prescience of affronts which were about to be offered
to him and Isobel by these two whom he knew to be bitterly hostile. At
least his temper was rising, and like most rather gentle-natured men
when really provoked and cornered, he could be dangerous.

“Yes,” he repeated, “let us go out and see this matter
through.”

So they went, Sir John and Mr. Knight drawing back a little before them,
till they were brought to a halt by the horrible memorial which the
former had erected over his wife’s grave. Here they stood, prepared
for the encounter. Sir John was the first to take the lists, saying:

“Perhaps you will explain, Isobel, why I found you, as I thought,
kissing this young fellow—like any village slut beneath a hedge.”

Isobel’s big eyes grew steely as she answered:

“For the same reason, Father. Like your village slut, I kissed this
man because he is my lover whom I mean to marry. If, as I gather, you
are not certain as to what you saw, I will kiss him again, here in
front of you.” 

“I have no doubt you will; just like your cheek!” ejaculated Sir
John, taken a little aback.

Then Mr. Knight took up the ball, addressing himself to his son:

“Could you find no other place for your immoral performances except
the church, Godfrey, and my chancel too?”

“No,” answered Godfrey, “because it was raining and we
sheltered there. And what do you mean by your talk about immorality? Is
it not lawful for a man to love a woman? I should have thought that the
Bible, which you are always quoting, would have taught you otherwise.
Also, once you were married yourself else I should not be here, for
which I am not sure that I thank you; at least, I shouldn’t were it
not for Isobel.” 

For a moment Mr. Knight could think of no answer to these arguments, but
Sir John having recovered his breath, attacked again:

“Look here, young fellow, I have no time to listen to jaw about the
Bible and moral and immoral and all that bosh, which you can have out
with your reverend parent afterwards. I am a plain man, I am, and want
a plain answer to a plain question. Do you think that you are going to
marry my daughter, Isobel?”

“Such is my desire and intention,” replied Godfrey, with vague
recollections of the baptismal service, though of these at the moment he
was not aware.

“Oh, is it? Then you are jolly well mistaken in your desire and
intention. Let’s make things clear. You are a beggarly youngster who
propose to enter the army at some future date, which you may or may not
do. And you have the impudence to wish to marry one of the biggest
heiresses in England against my will.”

“And against mine,” burst in Mr. Knight, “who consider her a
most pernicious young woman, one who rejects the Christian faith and
will lead you to perdition. That is why, when I chanced to espy you in
such a compromising position, I hastened to inform the lady’s
father.” 

“Oh! you did that, did you?” interposed Isobel, contemplating him
steadily. “Well, I am glad to know who could have been so
cowardly,” she added with withering contempt. “Now I begin to
wonder whether a letter which some years ago, I brought to the Abbey
House to be forwarded to Godfrey, was ever posted to him who did not
receive it, or whether, perhaps, it fell into the hands of—someone
like you.” 

“It did,” said Mr. Knight. “I read it and have it to this
day. In my discretion as a father I did not consider it desirable that
my young son should receive that letter. What I have witnessed this
afternoon shows me how right was my judgment.”

“Thank you so much,” said Isobel. “That takes a great weight
off my mind. Godfrey, my dear, I apologise to you for my doubts. The
truth did occur to me, but I thought it impossible that a clergyman,”
here she looked again at Mr. Knight, “could be a thief also who did
not dare to own to his theft.”

“Never mind all that,” went on Sir John in his heavy, masterful
voice. “It stands like this. You,” and he pointed a fat finger at
Godfrey, “are—well, I’ll tell you what you
are—you’re just a cunning young fortune-hunter. You found out that
this property and a good bit besides are coming to Isobel, and you want
to collar the sag, like you did that of the old woman out in Lucerne.
Well, you don’t do it, my boy. I’ve other views for Isobel. Do you
think I want to see her married to—to—the son of a fellow like
that—a canting snuffler who prigs letters and splits on his own
son?” and swinging the fat finger round he thrust it almost into the
face of Mr. Knight. 

“What did you say?” gasped Godfrey. “That I am a
fortune-hunter?”

“Yes, that’s what I said, and I’ll repeat it if you
like.”

“Then,” went on Godfrey, speaking in a thick, low voice, for now
his temper had mastered him thoroughly, “I say that you are a liar. I
say that you are a base and vulgar man who has made money somehow and
thinks that this justifies him in insulting those who are not base or
vulgar, because they have less money.”

“You infernal young scamp,” shouted Sir John in a roar like to that
of an angry bull. “Do you dare to call me a liar? Apologise at once,
or——” and he stopped.

“I do not apologise. I repeat that you are a liar, the greatest liar I
ever met. Now—or what?”

Thus spoke Godfrey, drawing up his tall, slim young form to its full
height, his dark eyes flashing, his fine face alight with righteous
rage. Isobel, who was standing quite still and smiling a little, rather
contemptuously, looked at him out of the corners of her eyes and
thought that anger became him well. Never before had he seemed so
handsome to her approving judgment. 

“Or this,” bellowed Sir John, and, lifting the tightly rolled
umbrella he carried, he struck Godfrey with all his strength upon the
side of the head.

Godfrey staggered, but fortunately the soft hat he was wearing, upon the
brim of which the stroke fell, broke its weight to some extent, so that
he was not really hurt. Only now he went quite mad in a kind of icy
way, and, springing at Sir John with the lightness of a leopard, dealt
him two blows, one with his left hand and the next with his right.

They were good, straight blows, for boxing had been his favourite
amusement at Sandhurst where he was a middleweight champion. The first
caught Sir John upon his thick lips which were badly cut against the
teeth, causing him to stagger; while the second, that with the right,
landed on the bridge of his nose and blacked both his eyes. This, so
strong and heavy was it, notwithstanding Sir John’s great weight,
knocked him clean off his feet. Back he went, and in his efforts to
save himself gripped Mr. Knight with one hand and with the other the
legs of the early Victorian angel that surmounted Lady Jane’s grave 
against which they were standing. Neither of these could withstand the
strain. The angel, which was only pinned by lead-coated rivets to its
base and the column behind, flew from its supports, as did Mr. Knight
from his, so that in another second, the men having tripped against the
surround of the grave, all three rolled upon the path, the marble
luckily falling clear of both of them.    

“Now I’ve done it,” said Godfrey in a reflective voice as he
contemplated the tangled ruin.

“Yes,” exclaimed Isobel, “I think you have.”

Then they remained grim and silent while the pair, who were not really
much injured, picked themselves up with groans.

“I am sorry that I knocked you down, since I am young and you are
not,” said Godfrey, “but I repeat that you are a liar,” he
added by an afterthought.

Sir John spat out a tooth, and began to mop the blood from his nose with
a silk pocket-handkerchief.

“Oh! you do, do you?” he said in a somewhat subdued voice.
“Well, you’ll find out that I’m other things too before
I’m done with you. And I repeat that you are a fortune-hunting young
rascal and that I would rather see my daughter dead than married to
you.” 

“And I say, Godfrey, I would rather see you dead than married to
her!” broke in Mr. Knight, spitting out his words like an angry cat.

“I don’t think that you need be afraid, Father,” answered
Godfrey quietly, although his rage burned as fiercely as ever. “You
have worked this business well, and it seems a little impossible now,
doesn’t it? Listen, Sir John Blake. Not even for the sake of Isobel
will I submit to such insults. I will not give her up, but I swear by
God that while you are alive I will not marry Isobel, nor will I write
to her or speak to her again. After you are dead, which I dare say will
be before so very long,” and he surveyed the huge, puffy-fleshed
baronet with a critical eye, “then—if she cares to wait for me—I
will marry her, hoping that in the meanwhile you may lose your money or
dispose of it as you like.”

Sir John stared, still mopping his face, but finding no words. He feared
death very much and this prophecy of it, spoken with such a ring of
truth, as though the speaker knew, frightened him. At that moment in
his heart he cursed the Reverend Mr. Knight and his tale-bearing, and
wished most earnestly that he had never been led into interference with
this matter. After all Godfrey was a fine young man whom his daughter
cared for, and might do well in life, and he had struck him first after
offering him intentional and pre-arranged insult. Such were the
thoughts that flashed through his somewhat muddled brain. Also another,
that they were too late. The evil was done and never could be undone. 

Then Isobel spoke in cold, clear tones, saying:

“Godfrey is quite right and has been right all through. Had you,
Father, and that man,” and she pointed contemptuously at Mr. Knight,
“left us alone we should have come and told you what had happened
between us, and if you disapproved we would have waited until we were
of full age and have married as we should have been free to do. But now
that is impossible, for blows have passed between you. After slandering
him vilely, you struck Godfrey first, Father, and he would not have
been a man if he had not struck you back; indeed I should have thought
little of him afterwards. Well, he has made an oath, and I know that he
will keep it. Now I, too, make an oath which certainly I shall keep. I
swear in the presence of both of you, by myself and by Godfrey, that 
neither in this world or in any other, should I live again and have 
remembrance, will I marry any man or exchange tendernesses with any man,
except himself. So all your plans come to nothing; yes, you have
brought all this misery upon us for nothing, and if you want to found a
great family, as I know you do, you had better marry again yourself and
let me go my way. In any case, if I should survive you and should
Godfrey live, I will marry him after your death, even if we have to
wait until we are old to do so. As to your fortune, I care nothing for
it, being quite ready to work in the world with the help of the little
I have.”    

She paused as though for an answer, but none came, for if Sir John had
been frightened before, now he was terrified of this outraged young
woman who, tall, commanding and stern-eyed, looked to him like an
avenging angel. 

“There doesn’t seem much more to say, does there?” she went
on, “except that I think, Father, you had better telegraph to your
guests that you are not well and cannot receive them, for I won’t. So
good-bye, dearest Godfrey. I shall remember all that you have said, and
you will remember all that I have said, and as I believe, we shall live
to meet again one day. Meanwhile, don’t think too bitterly of my
father, or of your own, because they have acted according to their
natures and lights, though where these will lead them I am sure I do
not know. Good-bye, dearest, dearest Godfrey. Do your best in the world
and keep out of troubles if you can. Oh! what a lot we shall have to
tell each other when we meet again.” 

Then before them both she kissed him, and he kissed her back, saying:

“I will remember. I am glad you think there was nothing else to be
done. God bless you, Isobel. Make the best of your life, as I will try
to do with mine. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, dear,” she answered, “think of me always when you
wake and before you go to sleep, as I will think of you.”

Then she turned and went, never looking behind her.

Godfrey watched her tall form vanish through the churchyard gate and
over the slope of a little hill that lay between it and Hawk’s Hall,
and that was the last sight he had of her for many a year. When she was
quite lost to view, he spoke to the two men who still stood irresolute
before him. 

“Isobel I shall meet again,” he said, “but not either of you,
for I have done with you both. It is not for me to judge you. Judge
yourself and be judged.”

Then he turned, too, and went.

“It’s all right,” said Sir John to Mr. Knight, “that
is, he won’t marry her, at any rate at present, so I suppose that we
should both be pleased, if anyone can be pleased with cut lips and two
black eyes. And yet somehow we seem to have made a mess of it,” and
he glanced at the shattered marble statue of the Victorian angel of
which both the wings were broken off.

“We have done our duty,” replied Mr. Knight, pursing up his thin
lips, “and at least Godfrey is freed from your daughter.”

“I’m not so sure of that, my reverend friend. But of one thing I am
sure, that I am freed from her also, or rather that she is freed from
me. Also you are freed from him. Don’t you understand, you vicious
little viper, that you will never see that young man again, and that
thanks to your cursed advice I shall never see my daughter again, at
least not really? What devil was it that sent you to play upon my
weaknesses and ambition? If you had left things alone and they had come
to me in a natural way there would have been a row, of course, but I
dare say it would have ended all right. But you told me how to work on
him and I overdid the part. Now nothing can ever be all right for
either of us, or for them either, until we are both dead. Do you
understand also that we have made two young people who should have been
the supports of our old age desire above everything our deaths because
we have given them cause to hate us, and since they are of the sort
that keep their word, only by our deaths can they become free, or, at
any rate, by mine? Well, it doesn’t matter what you understand, you
little bigot, but I know what I do.”    

“I have done my duty,” repeated Mr. Knight sullenly, “and I
don’t care what happens afterwards. ‘_Fiat justitia ruat
coelum_,’” he added in the Latin tag.

“Oh, yes. Justice may say fie and the sky may be rude, and anything
else may happen, but we’ve dished our lives and theirs, my friend,
and—damn you! get out of my sight. Rows I am accustomed to with Isobel
and others, but this isn’t a row, it’s an earthquake; it’s a
catastrophe, for which I have to thank you. Lord! how my mouth hurts,
and I can’t see out of my right eye. Talk of a mailed fist, that
young beggar has one like a pole-axe. Now I must go to telegraph to all
those people. Temporary indisposition, yes—temporary indisposition,
that’s it. Good-bye, my holy friend. You won’t do as much mischief
in one day again in a hurry, spy as hard as you like.”

Then Sir John departed, nursing his cut lips with one hand and his
broken umbrella with the other.

Mr. Knight watched him go, and said to himself:

“I thought that I disliked the daughter, but the father is worse.
Offensive, purse-proud, vulgar beast! How dare he speak to me like that!
I’m glad, yes, I’m glad Godfrey knocked him down, though I suppose
there will be a scandal. Well, my hands are clean; I have done my duty,
and I must not complain if it is unpleasant, since I have dragged
Godfrey back from the mouth of the pit. I think I’ll take a walk to
steady my nerves; it may be as well not to meet Godfrey again just
now.” 



CHAPTER XVII

INDIA


On his road to the house to pack his portmanteau Godfrey went a little
way round to arrange with a blacksmith, generally known as Tom, who
jobbed out a pony-trap, to drive him to the station to catch the 7.15
train. The blacksmith remarked that they would have to hurry, and set
to work to put the pony in, while Godfrey ran on to the Abbey House and
hurriedly collected his clothes. He got them packed and down into the
hall just as the trap arrived. 

As he was entering it the servant put a letter into his hand which she
said had come for him by the afternoon post. He thrust it into his
pocket unlooked at, and off they went at the pony’s best pace.

“You are going away oncommon quick, Master Godfrey. Coming back to
these parts soon?” queried the blacksmith.

“No, not for a long while, Tom.”

“I think there must have been lightning with that rain,” went on
Tom, after a pause, “although I heard no thunder. Else how ever did
that marble angel over poor Lady Jane’s grave come down with such a
smash?”

Godfrey glanced at him, but Tom remained imperturbable and went on:

“They du say it wor a wunnerful smash, what broke off both the wings
and nearly flattened out some as stood by. Rum thing, Master Godfrey,
that the lightning should have picked out the grave of so good a lady
to hit; ondiscriminating thing, lightning is.”

“Stop talking humbug, Tom. Were you there?” asked Godfrey.

“Well, not exactly there, Master Godfrey, but I and one or two others
was nigh, having heard voices louder than the common, just looking over
the churchyard wall, to tell truth.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Godfrey, and Tom continued in a reflective voice.

“My! they were two beuties, what you gave that old fat devil of a
squire. If he’d been a bull instead of only roaring like one,
they’d have brought him down, to say nothing of parson and the
angel.” 

“I couldn’t help it, Tom. I was mad.”

“And no wonder, after being crumped on the nut with a tight umbrella.
Why, I’d have done the same myself, baronite or no baronite. Oh!
there’s no need to explain; I knows everything about it, and so does
every babe in the village by now, not to mention the old women. Master
Godfrey, you take my advice, the next time you go a-courtin’ shut the
door behind you, which I always made a point o’ doing when I was
young. Being passing that way, I seed parson peeping in, and knowing
you was there, guessed why. Truth is I came to warn you after he’d
gone up to the Hall, but seein’ how you was engaged, thought it a
pity to interrupt, though now I wish I had.”

Godfrey groaned; there was nothing to say.

“Well, all the soot’s in the cooking-pot now, so to speak,”
proceeded Tom blandly, “and we’re downright sad about it, we are,
for as my missus was saying, you’d make a pretty pair. But, Lord,
Master Godfrey, don’t you take it too much to heart, for she’s an
upright young lady, she is, and steadfast. Or if she ain’t, there’s
plenty of others; also one day follows another, as the saying goes, and
the worst of old varmints don’t live for ever. But parson, he beats
me, and you his son, so they tell, though I never could think it
myself. If he ain’t the meanest ferret I ever clapped eyes on, may
the old mare fall down and break my neck. Well, he’ll hear about it,
I can promise him, especially if he meets my missus what’s got a
tongue in her head, and is a chapel woman into the bargain. Lord! there
comes the train. Don’t you fear, we’ll catch her. Hold tight,
Master Godfrey, and be ready to jump out. No, no, there ain’t nothing
to pay. I’ll stick it on to parson’s fare next time I’ve druve
him. Good-bye, Master Godfrey, and God bless you, if only for that
there right and left which warmed my heart to see, and mind ye,” he
shouted after him, “there’s more young women in the world than ye
meets in an afternoon’s walk, and one nail drives another out, as
being a smith by trade I knows well.” 

Godfrey bundled into an empty carriage with his portmanteau and his
coat, and covered his face with his hands that he might see no more of
that accursed station whence he seemed always to be departing in
trouble. So everything had been overheard and seen, and doubtless the
story would travel far and wide. Poor Isobel!

As a matter of fact it did, but it was not Isobel who suffered, since
public sympathy was strong on the side of her and of her lover. The
indignation of the neighbourhood concentrated itself upon the squire
and the parson, especially the latter. Indeed the village showed its
sympathy with the victims and its wrath with the oppressors, by going
on strike. Few beaters turned up at Sir John’s next shooting party,
and on the following Sunday Mr. Knight preached to empty benches, a
vacuum that continued from week to week. The end of it was he became so
unpopular and his strained relations with Sir John grew so notorious
that the bishop, who like everyone else knew the whole story, gently
suggested to him that a change of livings would be to his advantage; 
also to that of the church in Monk’s Acre and its neighbourhood. 

So Mr. Knight departed to another parish in a remote part of the diocese
which, having been inundated by the sea, was almost devoid of
inhabitants, and saw the Abbey and Hawk’s Hall no more.

In searching his pockets for matches, Godfrey found the letter which had
been given to him as he left the Abbey. He knew the writing on the
envelope at once, and was minded not to open it, for this and the
foreign stamp told him that it came from Madame Riennes. Still
curiosity, or a desire to take his mind off the miseries by which it
was beset, prevailed, and he did open the envelope and read. It ran
thus: 

“Ah! my little friend, my godson in the speerit, Godfrey,

“I daresay you thought that poor old Madame was dead, gone to join
the Celestials, because you have not heard from her for so long a
while. Not a bit, my little Godfrey, though perhaps I should not
call you little, since my crystal shows me that you have grown
taller even than you were in the old days at Lucerne, and much
broader, quite a good-made man and nice to look at. Well, my
Godfrey, I hear things about you sometimes, for the most part from
the speerit called Eleanor who, I warn you, has a great bone to
pick with you. Because, you see, people do not change so much as
you think when they get to the other side. So a woman remains a
woman, and being a woman she stays jealous, and does not like it
when her affinity turns the back on her, as you have done on
Eleanor. Therefore she will give you a bad trick if she can, just
as a woman would upon the earth. Also I hear of you sometimes from
Miss Ogilvy or, rather, her speerit, for she is as fond of you as
ever, so fond that I think you must have mixed up together in a
previous life, because otherwise there is nothing to account for
it. She tries to protect you from Eleanor the indignant, with whom
she has, I gather, much row.

“Now for my message, which come to me from all these speerits. I
hear you have done very well in what they call examinations, and
have before you a shining future. But do not think that you will
be happy, my Godfrey, for you will not get that girl you want for
a long, long while, and then only for the shortest of time, just
enough to kiss and say, ‘Oh! my pretty, how nice you are!’ And
then _au revoir_ to the world of speerits. Meanwhile, being a
little fool, you will go empty and hungry, since you are not one
of those who hate the woman, which, after all, is the best thing
in life for the man while he is young, like, so the spirits tell
me, does your dear papa. And oh! how plenty this woman fruit hang
on every tree, so why not pluck and eat before the time come, when
you cannot, because if you still have appetite those nice plums
turn your stomach? So you have a bad time before you, my Godfrey,
waiting for the big fat plum far away which you cannot see or
touch and much less taste, while the other nice plums fall into
different hands, or wither—wither, waiting to be eaten.

“At end, when you get your big, fat plum, just as you set your
teeth in it, oh! something blow it out of your mouth, I know not
what, the speerits will not say, perhaps because they do not know,
for they have not prescience of all things. But of this be sure,
my Godfrey, when that happen, that it is your own fault, for had
you trusted to your godmamma Riennes it never would have chanced,
since she would have shown you how to get your plum and eat it to
the stone and then throw away the stone and get other plums and be
happy—happy and full instead of empty. Well, so it is, and as I
must I tell you. There is but one hope for you, unless you would
go sorrowful. To come back to your godmamma, who will teach you
how to walk and be happy—happy and get all you want. Also, since
she is now poor, you would do well to send her a little money to
this address in Italy, since that old humbug of a Pasteur, whom
she cannot harm because of the influences round him, still
prevents her from returning to Switzerland, where she has friends.
Now that big plum, it is very nice and you desire it much. Come to
your godmamma and she will show you how to get it off the tree
quickly. Yes, within one year. Or do not come and it will hang
there for many winters and shrivel as plums do, and at last one
bite and it will be gone. And then, my godson, then, my dear
Godfrey—well, perhaps I will tell you the rest another time. You
poor silly boy, who will not understand that the more you get the
more you will always have.

            “Your Godmamma,

 “Who love you still although you treat her so badly,

              “THE COUNTESS OF RIENNES.

“(Ah! you did not know I had that title, did you, but in the
speerit world I have others which are much higher.)”

Godfrey thrust this precious epistle back into his pocket with a feeling
of physical and mental sickness. How did this horrible woman know so
much about him and his affairs, and why did she prophesy such dreadful
things? Further, if her knowledge was so accurate, although veiled in
her foreign metaphor, why should not her prophecies be accurate also?
And if they were, why should he be called upon to suffer so many
things? 

He could find no answer to these questions, but afterwards he sent her
letter to the Pasteur, who in due course returned it with some upright
and manly comments both upon the epistle itself and the story of his
troubles, which Godfrey had detailed to him. Amongst much else he wrote
in French: 

“You suffer and cannot understand why, my dear boy. Nor do I, but
it is truth that all who are worth anything are called upon to
suffer, to what end we do not know. Nothing of value is gained
except by suffering. Why, again we do not know. This wretched
woman is right in a way when she refers all solutions to another
world, only her other world is one that is bad, and her
solutions are very base. Be sure that there are other and better
ones that we shall learn in due time, when this little sun has set
for us. For it will rise elsewhere, Godfrey, in a brighter sky.
Meanwhile, do not be frightened by her threats, for even if they
should all be true, to those evils which she prophesies there is,
be sure, another interpretation. As I think one of your poets has
said, we add our figures until they come even. So go your way and
keep as upright as you can, and have no fear since God is over
all, not the devil.”

Thus preached the Pasteur, and what he said gave Godfrey the greatest
comfort. Still, being young, he made one mistake. He did send Madame
Riennes some money, partly out of pity—ten pounds in a postal order
without any covering letter, a folly that did not tend to a cessation
of her epistolatory efforts. 

On reaching town Godfrey went straight to Hampstead. There to his
surprise he found all prepared for his reception.

“I was expecting you, my dear,” said Mrs. Parsons, “and even
have a little bit extra in the house in case you should come.”

“Why, when I told you I had gone home for a month?” asked Godfrey.

“Why? For the same reason as I knows that oil and vinegar won’t
abide mixed in the same bottle. I was sure enough that being a man
grown, you and your father could never get on together in one house.
But perhaps there is something else in it too,” she added doubtfully.

Then Godfrey told her that there was something else, and indeed all
about the business.

“Well, there you are, and there’s nothing to be said, or at least
so much that it comes to the same thing,” remarked Mrs. Parsons, in a
reflective tone, when he had finished his story. “But what I want to
know,” she went on, “is why these kind of things happen. You
two—I mean you and Miss Isobel—are just fitted to each other,
appointed together by Nature, so to speak, and fond as a couple of doves
upon a perch. So why shouldn’t you take each other and have done?
What is there to come between a young man and a young woman such as you
are?” 

“I don’t know,” groaned Godfrey.

“No, nor don’t I; and yet something does come between. What’s
the meaning of it all? Why do things always go cussed in this ’ere
world? Is there a devil about what manages it, or is it just chance?
Why shouldn’t people have what they want and when it’s wanted,
instead of being forced to wait until perhaps it isn’t, or can’t be
enjoyed, or often enough to lose it altogether? You can’t answer, and
nor can’t I; only at times I do think, notwithstanding all my
Christian teachings and hundreds and hundreds of your father’s
sermons, that the devil, he’s top-dog here. And as for that there
foreign woman whose letter you’ve read to me, she’s his housemaid.
Not but what I’m sure it will all come right at last,” she added,
with an attempt at cheerfulness.

“I hope so,” replied Godfrey, without conviction, and went to bed.

Presently he descended from his room again, bearing a pill-box in which
was enclosed a certain ring that years before he had bought at Lucerne,
a ring set with two hearts of turquoise.

“I promised not to write,” he said, “but you might address
this to her. She’ll know what it is, for I told her about it.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Parsons, “the young lady shall have that box
of pills. Being upset, it may do her good.”

In due course Isobel did have it; also the box came back addressed to
Mrs. Parsons. In it was another ring, a simple band of ancient
gold—as a matter of fact, it was Roman, a betrothal ring of two
thousand years ago. Round it was a scrap of paper on which was written:

“This was dug up in a grave. My great-grandmother gave it to my
great-grandfather when they became engaged about a hundred years
ago, and he wore it all his life, as in a bygone age someone else
had done. Now the great-granddaughter gives it to another. Let him
wear it all his life, whatever happens to her, or to him. Then let
it go to the grave again, perhaps to be worn by others far
centuries hence.”

Godfrey understood and set it on the third finger of his left hand,
where it remained night and day, and year by year.

So that matter ended, and afterwards came silence and darkness which
endured for ten years or more. From his father he heard nothing, nor on
his part did he ever write to him again. Indeed the first news
concerning him which reached Godfrey was that of his death which
happened some seven years later, apparently after a brief illness. Even
of this he would not have learned, since no one took the trouble to put
it in any paper that he saw, had it not chanced that the Rev. Mr.
Knight died intestate, and that therefore his small belongings 
descended to Godfrey as his natural heir. With them were a number of
papers, among which in the after days Godfrey found the very letter
that Isobel wrote to him which his father “posted” in his desk. 

For his son there was no word, a circumstance that showed the
implacability of this man’s character. Notwithstanding his continual
profession of the highest Christian principles he could never forget or
forgive, and this although it was he who was in fault. For what wrong
had Godfrey done to him in loving a woman whom he did not chance to
like? So he died silent, bearing his resentment to the grave. And yet
some odd sense of justice prevented him from robbing Godfrey of his
little inheritance, something under two thousand pounds, that came on a
policy of insurance and certain savings, a sum which in after years
when money was plentiful with him Godfrey appointed to the repair and 
beautifying of the Abbey Church at Monk’s Acre. 

Strangely enough, although from his childhood they had been always
estranged, Godfrey felt this conduct of his father very much indeed. It
seemed dreadful to him that he should vanish thus into the darkness,
taking his wrath with him; and often he wondered if it still animated
him there. Also he wondered what could be the possible purpose of it
all, and indeed why his father was so fashioned that he could grow
venomous over such a matter. To all of which questions no answer came,
although one suggested itself to him—namely, that he was the victim
of some hereditary taint, and therefore not in fact to blame.

In the case of Isobel the darkness was equally dense, for both of them
kept their word, and with the single exception of the episode of the
exchange of rings, neither attempted to communicate with the other
directly or indirectly. From Mrs. Parsons he heard that Hawk’s Hall
was shut up, and that Sir John and his daughter lived mostly in London
or at a place that the former had bought in Scotland. Once indeed Mrs.
Parsons did write, or got someone else to write, to him that she had
seen Isobel drive past her in the street, and that she looked well,
though rather “stern and quiet-like.” 

That was all the news Godfrey had of Isobel during those ten years,
since she was not a person who advertised her movements in the papers,
although for her sake he became a great student of society gossip. Also
he read with care all announcements of engagements and marriages in
_The Times_, and the deaths, too, for the matter of that, but happily
quite without result. Indeed in view of her declaration he ought to
have been, and, in fact, was, ashamed of his research; but then, who
could be quite sure of anything in this world? 

Sir John, he knew, was living, because from time to time he saw his name
in lists of subscriptions of a sort that appear under royal patronage
and are largely advertised.

So between these two swung a veil of darkness, although, had he but
known it, this was not nearly so impenetrable to Isobel as to himself.
Somehow—possibly Arthur Thorburn had friends with whom he corresponded
in England who knew Isobel—she acquired information as to every
detail of his career. Indeed when he came to learn everything he was
absolutely amazed at the particulars with which she was acquainted,
whereof there were certain that he would have preferred to have kept to
himself. But she had them all, with dates and surrounding circumstances
and the rest; thousands of miles of ocean had been no bar to her
searching gaze. 

For his part he was not without consolations, since, strangely enough,
he never felt as if she were lost to him, or indeed far away; it was
always as though she were in the next room, or at any rate in the next
street. There are individuals of sensitive mind, and he was one of
them, who know well enough when such a total loss has occurred. It has
been well said that the dead are never really dead to us until they are
forgotten, and the same applies to the living. While they remember us,
they are never so very far away, and what is more we, or some of us,
are quite aware if they have ceased to remember, for then the door is
shut and the doorway built up and our hearts tell us that this has been
done. 

In Godfrey’s case with Isobel, not only did the doorway remained
unfilled—the door itself was always ajar. Although seas divided them
and over these no whisper came, yet he felt her thought leaping to him
across the world. Especially did this happen at night when he laid
himself down to sleep, perhaps because then his mind was most
receptive, and since their hours of going to rest must have been
different, he being in India and she in England, she could scarcely
have been reflecting on him as he fondly believed, at the moment when
she, too, entered into the world called sleep. 

Therefore, either it was all imagination or he caught her waking
thoughts, or perhaps those that haunted her upon this border land were
delayed until his subtler being could interpret them. Who knows? At
least, unless something had happened to disturb him, those nights were
rare when as he was shutting his eyes, Godfrey did not seem to be
sensible of Isobel’s presence. At any rate, he knew that she had not
forgotten; he knew that somewhere in the vast world she was ever
thinking of him with more intensity than she thought of any other man
or thing. And during all those lonely years this knowledge or belief 
was his greatest comfort. 

Not that Godfrey’s life in India was in any way unhappy. On the
contrary it was a full and active life. He worked hard at his
profession and succeeded in it to a limited extent, and he had his
friends, especially his great friend Arthur Thorburn, who always clung
to him. He had his flirtations also; being a man of susceptibility who
was popular with women, how could they be avoided? For above all things
Godfrey was a man, not a hermit or a saint or an æsthete, but just a
man with more gifts of a sort than have some others. He lived the life
of the rest, he hunted, he shot tigers, doing those things that the
Anglo-Indian officer does, but all the same he studied. Whether it were
of his trade of soldiering, or of the natives, or of Eastern thought and
 law, he was always learning something, till at last he knew a great
deal, often he wondered to what end. 

And yet, with all his friends and acquaintances, in a way he remained a
very lonely man, as those who are a little out of the ordinary often
do. In the common groove we rub against the other marbles running down
it, but once we leap over its edge, then where are we? We cannot wander
off into space because of the attraction of the earth that is so near
to us, and yet we are alone in the air until with a bump we meet our
native ground. Therefore for the most of us the groove is much better.
And yet some who leave it have been carried elsewhere, if only for a
little while, like St. Paul into the third heaven. 



CHAPTER XVIII

FRANCE—AND AFTER


Nothing so very remarkable happened to Godfrey during those ten years of
his life in India, or at least only one or two things. Thus once he got
into a scrape for which he was not really responsible, and got out of
it again, as he imagined, without remark, until Isobel showed her
common and rather painful intimacy with its details, of which she
appeared to take a somewhat uncharitable view, at any rate so far as
the lady was concerned. 

The other matter was more serious, since it involved the loss of his
greatest friend, Arthur Thorburn. Briefly, what happened was this.
There was a frontier disturbance. Godfrey, who by now was a staff
officer, had been sent to a far outpost held by Thorburn with a certain
number of men, and there took command. A reconnaissance was necessary,
and Thorburn went out for that purpose with over half of the available
garrison of the post, having received written orders that he was not to
engage the enemy unless he found himself absolutely surrounded. In the
end Thorburn did engage the enemy with the result that practically he
and his force were exterminated, but not before they had inflicted such
a lesson on the said enemy that it sued for peace and has been great
friends with the British power ever since. 

First however a feeble attack was made on Godfrey’s camp that he beat
off without the loss of a single man, exaggerated accounts of which
were telegraphed home representing it as a “Rorke’s Drift
defence.” 

Godfrey was heartbroken; he had loved this man as a brother, more indeed
than brothers often love. And now Thorburn, his only friend, was dead.
The Darkness had taken him, that impenetrable, devouring darkness out
of which we come and into which we go. Religion told him he should not
grieve, that Thorburn doubtless was much better off whither he had gone
than he could ever have been on earth, although it was true the same
religion said that he might be much worse off, since thither his
failings would have followed him. Dismissing the latter possibility,
how could he be happy in a new world, Godfrey wondered, having left all
he cared for behind him and without possibility of communication with
them? 

In short, all the old problems of which he had not thought much since
Miss Ogilvy died, came back to Godfrey with added force and left him
wretched. Nor was he consoled by the sequel of the affair of which he
was bound to report the facts. The gallant man who was dead was blamed
unjustly for what had happened, as perhaps he deserved who had not
succeeded, since those who set their blind eye to the telescope as
Nelson did must justify their action by success. 

Godfrey, on the other hand, who had done little but defeat an attack
made by exhausted and dispirited men, was praised to the skies and
found himself figuring as a kind of hero in the English Press, which
after a long period of peace having lost all sense of proportion in
such matters, was glad of anything that could be made to serve the
purposes of sensation. Ultimately he was thanked by the Government of
India, made a brevet-Major and decorated with the D.S.O., of all of
which it may be said with truth that never were such honours received
with less pleasure. 

So much did he grieve over this unhappy business that his health was
affected and being run down, in the end he took some sort of fever and
was very ill indeed. When at length he recovered more or less he went
before a Medical Board who ordered him promptly to England on six
months’ leave. 

Most men would have rejoiced, but Godfrey did not. He had little wish to
return to England, where, except Mrs. Parsons, there were none he
desired to see, save one whom he was sworn not to see. This he could
bear while they were thousands of miles apart, but to be in the same
country with Isobel, in the same town perhaps, and forbidden to hear
her voice or to touch her hand, how could he bear that? Still he had no
choice in this matter, arranged by the hand of Fate, and went,
reflecting that he would go to Lucerne and spent the time with the 
Pasteur. Perhaps even he would live in the beautiful house that Miss
Ogilvy had left to him, or a corner of it, seeing that it was empty,
for the tenants to whom it had been let had gone away. 

So he started at the end of the first week in July, 1914.

When his ship reached Marseilles it was to find that the world was
buzzing with strange rumours. There was talk of war in Europe. Russia
was said to be mobilising; Germany was said to be mobilising; France
was said to be mobilising; it was even rumoured that England might be
drawn into some Titanic struggle of the nations. And yet no accurate
information was obtainable. The English papers they saw were somewhat
old and their reports vague in the extreme.

Much excited, like everyone else, Godfrey telegraphed to the India
Office, asking leave to come home direct overland, which he could not
do without permission since he was in command of a number of soldiers
who were returning to England on furlough.

No answer came to his wire before his ship sailed, and therefore he was
obliged to proceed by long sea. Still it had important consequences
which at the moment he could not foresee. In the Bay the tidings that
reached them by Marconigram were evidently so carefully censored that
out of them they could make nothing, except that the Empire was filled
with great doubt and anxiety, and that the world stood on the verge of
such a war as had never been known in history. 

At length they came to Southampton where the pilot-boat brought him a
telegram ordering him to report himself without delay. Three hours
later he was in London. At the India Office, where he was kept waiting
a while, he was shown into the room of a prominent and harassed
official who had some papers in front of him.

“You are Major Knight?” said the official. “Well, here is
your record before me and it is good, very good indeed. But I see that
you are on sick leave. Are you too ill for service?”

“No,” answered Godfrey, “the voyage has set me up. I feel as
well as ever I did.”

“That’s fortunate,” answered the official, “but there
is a doctor on the premises, and to make sure he shall have a look at
you. Go down and see him, if you will, and then come back here with his
report,” and he rang a bell and gave some orders.

Within half an hour Godfrey was back in the room with a clean bill of
health. The official read the certificate and remarked that he was
going to send him over to the War Office, where he would make an
appointment for him by telephone. 

“What for, Sir?” asked Godfrey. “You see I am only just off
my ship and very ignorant of the news.”

“The news is, Major Knight, that we shall be at war with Germany
before we are twelve hours older,” was the solemn answer. “Officers
are wanted, and we are giving every good man from India on whom we can
lay our hands. They won’t put you on the Staff, because you have
everything to learn about European work, but I expect they will find
you a billet in one of the expeditionary regiments. And now good-bye
and good luck to you, for I have lots of men to see. By the way, I take
it for granted that you volunteered for the job?”

“Of course,” replied Godfrey simply, and went away to wander about
the endless passages of the War Office till at length he discovered the
man whom he must see.

A few tumultuous days went by, and he found himself upon a steamer
crossing to France, attached to a famous English regiment.

The next month always remained in Godfrey’s mind as a kind of
nightmare in which he moved on plains stained the colour of blood,
beneath a sky black with bellowing thunder and illumined occasionally
by a blaze of splendour. It would be useless to attempt to set out the
experience and adventures of the particular cavalry regiment to which
he was attached as a major, since, notwithstanding their infinite
variety, they were such as all shared whose glory it was to take part
with what the Kaiser called the “contemptible little army” of
England in the ineffable retreat from Mons, that retreat which saved
France and Civilisation. 

Godfrey played his part well, once or twice with heroism indeed, but
what of that amid eighty thousand heroes? Back he staggered with the
rest, exhausted, sleepless, fighting, fighting, fighting, his mind
filled alternately with horror and with wonder, horror at the deeds to
which men can sink and the general scheme of things that makes them
possible, wonder at the heights to which they can rise when lifted by
the inspiration of a great ideal and a holy cause. Death, he reflected,
could not after all mean so very much to man, seeing how bravely it was
met every minute of the day and night, and that the aspect of it, often
so terrible, did but encourage others in like fashion to smile and die.
But oh! what did it all mean, and who ruled this universe with such a
flaming, blood-stained sword? 

Then at last came the turn of the tide when the hungry German wolf was
obliged to abandon that Paris which already he thought between his jaws
and, a few days after it, the charge, the one splendid, perfect charge
that consoled Godfrey and those with him for all which they had
suffered, lost and feared. He was in command of the regiment now, for
those superior to him had been killed, and he directed and accompanied
that charge. They thundered on to the mass of the Germans who were
retreating with no time to entrench or set entanglements, a gentle
slope in front, and hard, clear ground beneath their horses’ feet. 
They cut through them, they trod them down, they drove them by scores
and hundreds into the stream beyond, till those two battalions, or what
remained of them, were but a tangled, drowning mob. It was finished;
the English squadron turned to retreat as had been ordered. 

Then of a sudden Godfrey felt a dull blow. For a few moments
consciousness remained to him. He called out some command about the
retirement; it came to his mind that thus it was well to die in the
moment of his little victory. After that—blackness!

When his sense returned to him he found himself lying in the curtained
corner of a big room. At least he thought it was big because of the
vast expanse of ceiling which he could see above the curtain rods and
the sounds without, some of which seemed to come from a distance. There
was a window, too, through which he caught sight of lawns and statues
and formal trees. Just then the curtain was drawn, and there appeared a
middle-aged woman dressed in white, looking very calm, very kind and
very spotless, who started a little when she saw that his eyes were
open and that his face was intelligent. 

“Where am I?” he asked, and was puzzled to observe that the sound
of his voice seemed feeble and far away.

“In the hospital at Versailles,” she answered in a pleasant voice.

“Indeed!” he murmured. “It occurred to me that it might be
Heaven or some place of the sort.”

“If you looked through the curtain you wouldn’t call it
Heaven,” she said with a sigh, adding, “No, Major, you were near to
’going west,’ very near, but you never got to the gates of
Heaven.”

“I can’t remember,” he murmured again.

“Of course you can’t, so don’t try, for you see you got it in
the head, a bit of shell; and a nice operation, or rather operations,
they had over you. If it wasn’t for that clever surgeon—but there,
never mind.”

“Shall I recover?”

“Of course you will. We have had no doubt about that for the last
week; you have been here nearly three, you know; only, you see, we
thought you might be blind, something to do with the nerves of the
eyes. But it appears that isn’t so. Now be quiet, for I can’t stop
talking to you with two dying just outside, and another whom I hope to
save.” 

“One thing, Nurse—about the war. Have the Germans got Paris?”

“That’s a silly question, Major, which makes me think you
ain’t so right as I believed. If those brutes had Paris do you think
you would be at Versailles? Or, at any rate, that I should? Don’t you
bother about the war. It’s all right, or as right as it is likely to
be for many a long day.”

Then she went.

A week later Godfrey was allowed to get out of bed and was even carried
to sit in the autumn sunshine among other shattered men. Now he learned
all there was to know; that the German rush had been stayed, that they
had been headed off from Calais, and that the armies were entrenching
opposite to each other and preparing for the winter, the Allied cause
having been saved, as it were, by a miracle, at any rate for the while.
He was still very weak, with great pain in his head, and could not read
at all, which grieved him. 

So the time went by, till at last he was told that he was to be sent to
England, as his bed was wanted and he could recover there as well as in
France. Two days later he started in a hospital train and suffered much
upon the journey, although it was broken for a night at Boulogne. Still
he came safely to London, and was taken to a central hospital where
next day several doctors held a consultation over him. When it was over
they asked him if he had friends in London and wished to stay there. He
replied that he had no friends except an old nurse at Hampstead, if she
were still there, and that he did not like London. Then there was talk
among them, and the word Torquay was mentioned. The head doctor seemed
to agree, but as he was leaving, changed his mind. 

“Too long a journey,” he said, “it would knock him up. Give
me that list. Here, this place will do; quite close and got up
regardless, I am told, for she’s very rich. That’s what he
wants—comfort and first-class food,” and with a nod to Godfrey, who
was listening in an idle fashion, quite indifferent as to his
destination, he was gone. 

Next day they carried him off in an ambulance through the crowded
Strand, and presently he found himself at Liverpool Street, where he
was put into an invalid carriage. He asked the orderly where he was
going, but the man did not seem to know, or had forgotten the name. So
troubling no more about it he took a dose of medicine as he had been
ordered, and presently went to sleep, as no doubt it was intended that
he should do. When he woke up again it was to find himself being lifted
from another ambulance into a house which was very dark, perhaps
because of the lighting orders, for now night had fallen. He was 
carried in a chair up some stairs into a very nice bedroom, and there
put to bed by two men. They went away, leaving him alone. 

Something puzzled him about the place; at first he could not think what
it was. Then he knew. The smell of it was familiar to him. He did not
recognise the room, but the smell he did seem to recognise, though
being weak and shaken he could not connect it with any particular house
or locality. Now there were voices in the passage, and he knew that he
must be dreaming, for the only one that he could really hear sounded
exactly like to that of old Mrs. Parsons. He smiled at the thought and
shut his eyes. The voice that was like to that of Mrs. Parsons died
away, saying as it went: 

“No, I haven’t got the names, but I dare say they are downstairs.
I’ll go and look.”

The door opened and he heard someone enter, a woman this time by her
tread. He did not see, both because his eyes were still almost closed
and for the reason that the electric light was heavily shaded. So he
just lay there, wondering quite vaguely where he was and who the woman
might be. She came near to the bed and looked down at him, for he heard
her dress rustle as she bent. Then he became aware of a very strange
sensation. He felt as though something were flowing from that woman to
him, some strange and concentrated power of thought which was changing
into a kind of agony of joy. The woman above him began to breathe
quickly, in sighs as it were, and he knew that she was stirred; he knew 
that she was wondering. 

“I cannot see his face, I cannot see his face!” she whispered in a
strained, unnatural tone. Then with some swift movement she lifted the
shade that was over the lamp. He, too, turned his head and opened his
eyes. 

Oh, God! there over him leant Isobel, clad in a nurse’s robes—yes,
Isobel—unless he were mad.

Next moment he knew that he was not mad, for she said one word, only
one, but it was enough.

“Godfrey!”

“Isobel!” he gasped. “Is it you?”

She made no answer, at least in words. Only she bent down and kissed him
on the lips.

“You mustn’t do that,” he whispered.
“Remember—our promise?”

“I remember,” she answered. “Am I likely to forget? It was
that you would never see me nor come into this house while my father
lived. Well, he died a month ago.” Then a doubt struck her, and she
added swiftly: “Didn’t you want to come here?”

“Want, Isobel! What else have I wanted for ten years? But I didn’t
know; my coming here was just an accident.”

“Are there such things as accidents?” she queried. “Was it an
accident when twenty years ago I found you sleeping in the schoolroom at
the Abbey and kissed you on the forehead, or when I found you sleeping
a few minutes ago twenty whole years later—?” and she paused.

“And kissed me—_not_ upon the forehead,” said Godfrey
reflective, adding, “I never knew about that first kiss. Thank you for
it.”

“Not upon the forehead,” she repeated after him, colouring a
little. “You see I have faith and take a great deal for granted. If I
should be mistaken——”

“Oh! don’t trouble about that,” he broke in, “because
you know it couldn’t be. Ten years, or ten thousand, and it would make
no difference.”

“I wonder,” she mused, “oh! how I wonder. Do you think it
possible that we shall be living ten thousand years hence?”

“Quite,” he answered with cheerful assurance, “much more
possible than that I should be living to-day. What’s ten thousand
years? It’s quite a hundred thousand since I saw you.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” she exclaimed.

“Why not, dear, when there’s nothing in the whole world at which I
wouldn’t laugh at just now? although I would rather look at you. Also
I wasn’t laughing, I was loving, and when one is loving very much,
the truth comes out.”

“Then you really think it true—about the ten thousand years, I
mean?”

“Of course, dear,” he answered, and this time his voice was serious
enough. “Did we not tell each other yonder in the Abbey that ours was
the love eternal?”

“Yes, but words cannot make eternity.”

“No, but thoughts and the will behind them can, for we reap what we
sow.”

“Why do you say that?” she asked quickly.

“I can’t tell you, except because I know that it is so. We come to
strange conclusions out yonder, where only death seems to be true and
all the rest a dream. What we call the real and the unreal get
mixed.” 

A kind of wave of happiness passed through her, so obvious that it was
visible to the watching Godfrey.

“If you believe it I dare say that it is so, for you always had what
they call vision, had you not?” Then without waiting for an answer,
she went on, “What nonsense we are talking. Don’t you understand,
Godfrey, that I am quite old?”

“Yes,” he answered, “getting on; six months younger than I
am, I think.”

“Oh! it’s different with a man. Another dozen years and I’m
finished.”

“Possibly, except for that eternity before you.”

“Also,” she continued, “I am even——”

“Even more beautiful than you were ten years ago, at any rate to
me,” he broke in.

“You foolish Godfrey,” she murmured, and moved a little away from
him.

Just then the door opened, and Mrs. Parsons, looking very odd in a
nurse’s dress with the cap awry upon her grey hair, entered, carrying
a bit of paper.

“The hunt I had!” she began; “that silly, new-fangled kind of
a girl-clerk having stuck the paper away under the letter O—for
officers, you know, Miss—in some fancy box of hers, and then gone off
to tea. Here are the names, but I can’t see without my specs.”

At this point something in the attitude of the two struck her, something
that her instincts told her was uncommon, and she stood irresolute.
Isobel stepped to her as though to take the list, and, bending down,
whispered into her ear. 

“What?” said Mrs. Parsons. “Surely I didn’t understand;
you know I’m getting deaf as well as blind. Say the name again.”

Isobel obeyed, still in a whisper.

“_Him_!” exclaimed the old woman, “him! Our Godfrey, and
you’ve been and let on who you were—you who call yourself a nursing
Commandant? Why, I dare say you’ll be the death of him. Out you go,
Miss, anyway; I’ll take charge of this case for the present,” and
as it seemed to Godfrey, watching from the far corner, literally she
bundled Isobel from the room.

Then she shut and locked the door. Coming to the bedside she knelt down
rather stiffly, looked at him for a while to make sure, and kissed him,
not once, but many times.

“So you have come back, my dear,” she said, “and only half
dead. Well, we won’t have no young woman pushing between you and me
just at present, Commandant or not. Time enough for love-making when
you are stronger. Oh! and I never thought to see you again. There must
be a good God somewhere after all, although He did make them
Germans.” 

Then again she fell to kissing and blessing him, her hot tears dropping
on his face and upsetting him ten times as much as Isobel had done.

Since in this topsy-turvy world often things work by contraries, oddly
enough no harm came to Godfrey from these fierce excitements. Indeed he
slept better than he had done since he found his mind again, and awoke,
still weak of course, but without any temperature or pains in his head.
Now it was that there began the most blissful period of all his life.
Isobel, when she had recovered her balance, made him understand that he
was a patient, and that exciting talk or acts must be avoided. He on
his part fell in with her wishes, and indeed was well content to do so.
For a while he wanted nothing more than just to lie there and watch her
moving in and out of his room, with his food or flowers, or whatever it
might be, for a burst of bad weather prevented him from going out of
doors. Then, as he strengthened she began to talk to him (which Mrs.
Parsons did long before that event), telling him all that for years he
had longed to know; no, not all, but some things. Among other matters
she described to him the details of her father’s end, which occurred
in a very characteristic fashion. 

“You see, dear,” she said, “as he grew older his passion for
money-making increased more and more; why, I am sure I cannot say,
seeing that Heaven knows he had enough.”

“Yes,” said Godfrey, “I suppose you are a very rich
woman.”

She nodded, saying: “So rich that I don’t know how rich, for really
I haven’t troubled even to read all the figures, and as yet they are
not complete. Moreover, I believe that soon I shall be much richer.
I’ll tell you why presently. The odd thing is, too, that my father
died intestate, so I get every farthing. I believe he meant to make a
will with some rather peculiar provisions that perhaps you can guess.
But this will was never made.” 

“Why not?” asked Godfrey.

“Because he died first, that’s all. It was this way. He, or rather
his firm, which is only another name for him, for he owned three-fourths
of the capital, got some tremendous shipping contract with the
Government arising out of the war, that secures an enormous profit to
them; how much I can’t tell you, but hundreds and hundreds of
thousands of pounds. He had been very anxious about this contract, for
his terms were so stiff that the officials who manage such affairs
hesitated about signing them. At last one day after a long and I
gather, stormy interview with I don’t know whom, in the course of 
which some rather strong language seems to have been used, the contract
was signed and delivered to the firm. My father came home to this house
with a copy of it in his pocket. He was very triumphant, for he looked
at the matter solely from a business point of view, not at all from
that of the country. Also he was very tired, for he had aged much
during the last few years, and suffered occasionally from heart
attacks. To keep himself up he drank a great deal of wine at dinner,
first champagne and then the best part of a bottle of port. This made
him talkative, and he kept me sitting there to listen to him while he 
boasted, poor man, of how he had ‘walked round’ the officials who 
thought themselves so clever, but never saw some trap which he had set
for  them.”    

“And what did you do?” asked Godfrey.

“You know very well what I did. I grew angry, I could not help it, and
told him I thought it was shameful to make money wrongfully out of the
country at such a time, especially when he did not want it at all. Then
he was furious and answered that he did want it, to support the peerage
which he was going to get. He said also,” she added slowly, “that I
was ‘an ignorant, interfering vixen,’ yes, that is what he called
me, a vixen, who had always been a disappointment to him and thwarted
his plans. ‘However,’ he went on, ‘as you think so little of my
hard-earned money, I’ll take care that you don’t have more of it
than I can help. I am not going to leave it to be wasted on silly
charities by a sour old maid, for that’s what you are, since you
can’t get hold of your precious parson’s son, who I hope will be
sent to the war and killed. I’ll see the lawyers to-morrow, and make
a will, which I hope you’ll find pleasant reading one day.’

“I answered that he might make what will he liked, and left the room,
though he tried to stop me.

“About half an hour later I saw the butler running about the garden
where I was, looking for me in the gloom, and heard him calling:
‘Come to Sir John, miss. Come to Sir John!’

“I went in and there was my father fallen forward on the dining-room
table, with blood coming from his lips, though I believe this was caused
by a crushed wineglass. His pocket-book was open beneath him, in which
he had been writing figures of his estate, and, I think, headings for
the will he meant to make, but these I could not read since the faint
pencilling was blotted out with blood. He was quite dead from some kind
of a stroke followed by heart failure, as the doctors said.”

“Is that all the pleasant story?” asked Godfrey.

“Yes, except that there being no will I inherited everything, or shall
do so. I tried to get that contract cancelled, but could not; first,
because having once made it the Government would not consent, since to
do so would have been a reflection on those concerned, and secondly,
for the reason that the other partners in the shipping business
objected. So we shall have to give it back in some other way.”

Godfrey looked at her, and said:

“You meant to say that _you_ will have to give it back.”

“I don’t know what I meant,” she answered, colouring;
“but having said _we_, I think I will be like the Government and
stick to it. That is, unless you object very much, my dear.”

“Object! _I_ object!” and taking the hand that was nearest to
him, he covered it with kisses. As he did so he noted that for the first
time she wore the little ring with turquoise hearts upon her third
finger, the ring that so many years before he had bought at Lucerne,
the ring that through Mrs. Parsons he had sent her in the pill-box on
the evening of their separation. 

This was the only form of engagement that ever passed between them, the
truth being that from the moment he entered the place it was all taken
for granted, not only by themselves, but by everyone in the house,
including the wounded. With this development of an intelligent
instinct, it is possible that Mrs. Parsons had something to do.



CHAPTER XIX

MARRIAGE


In that atmosphere of perfect bliss Godfrey’s cure was quick. For
bliss it was, save only that there was another bliss beyond to be
attained. Remember that this man, now approaching middle life, had
never drunk of the cup of what is known as love upon the earth.

Some might answer that such is the universal experience; that true,
complete love has no existence, except it be that love of God to which
a few at last attain, since in what we know as God completeness and
absolute unity can be found alone. Other loves all have their flaws,
with one exception perhaps, that of the love of the dead which fondly
we imagine to be unchangeable. For the rest passion, however exalted,
passes or at least becomes dull with years; the most cherished children
grow up, and in so doing, by the law of Nature, grow away; friends are
estranged and lost in their own lives. 

Upon the earth there is no perfect love; it must be sought elsewhere,
since having the changeful shadows, we know there is a sky wherein
shines the sun that casts them.

Godfrey, as it chanced, omitting Isobel, had walked little even in these
sweet shadows. There were but three others for whom he had felt
devotion in all his days, Mrs. Parsons, his tutor, Monsieur Boiset, and
his friend, Arthur Thorburn, who was gone. Therefore to him Isobel was
everything. As a child he had adored her; as a woman she was his
desire, his faith and his worship. 

If this were so with him, still more was it the case with Isobel, who in
truth cared for no other human being. Something in her nature prevented
her from contracting violent female friendships, and to all men, except
a few of ability, each of them old enough to be her father, she was
totally indifferent; indeed most of them repelled her. On Godfrey, and
Godfrey alone, from the first moment she saw him as a child she had
poured all the deep treasure of her heart. He was at once her divinity
and her other self, the segment that completed her life’s circle,
without which it was nothing but a useless, broken ring.

So much did this seem to her to be so, that notwithstanding her lack of
faith in matters beyond proof and knowledge, she never conceived of
this passion of hers as having had a beginning, or of being capable of
an end. This contradictory woman would argue against the possibility of
any future existence, yet she was quite certain that her love for
Godfrey _had_ a future existence, and indeed one that was endless. When
at length he put it to her that her attitude was most illogical, since
that which was dead and dissolved could not exist in any place or
shape, she thought for a while and replied quietly:

“Then I must be wrong.”

“Wrong in what?” asked Godfrey.

“In supposing that we do not live after death. The continuance of our
love I _know_ to be beyond any doubt, and if it involves our continuance
as individual entities—well, then we continue, that is all.”

“We might continue as a single entity,” he suggested.

“Perhaps,” she answered, “and if so this would be better
still, for it must be impossible to lose one another while that remained
alive, comprising both.”

Thus, and in these few words, although she never became altogether
orthodox, or took quite the same view of such mysteries as did Godfrey,
Isobel made her great recantation, for which probably there would never
have been any need had she been born in different surroundings and
found some other spiritual guide in youth than Mr. Knight. As the
cruelties and the narrow bitterness of the world had bred unfaith in
her, so did supreme love breed faith, if of an unusual sort, since she
learned that without the faith her love must die, and the love she knew
to be immortal. Therefore the existence of that living love presupposed
all the rest, and convinced her, which in one of her obstinate nature
nothing else could possibly have done, no, not if she had seen a 
miracle. Also this love of hers was so profound and beautiful that she
felt its true origin and ultimate home must be elsewhere than on the
earth.    

That was why she consented to be married in church, somewhat to
Godfrey’s surprise.

In due course, having practically recovered his health, Godfrey appeared
before a Board in London which passed him as fit for service, but gave
him a month’s leave. With this document he returned to Hawk’s Hall,
and there showed it to Isobel.

“And when the month is up?” she asked, looking at him.

“Then I suppose I shall have to join my regiment, unless they send me
somewhere else.”

“A month is a very short time,” she went on, still looking at him
and turning a little pale.

“Yes, dear, but lots can happen in it, as we found out in France. For
instance,” he added, with a little hesitation, “we can get married,
that is, if you wish.”

“You know very well, Godfrey, that I have wished it for quite ten
years.”

“And you know very well, Isobel, that I have wished it—well, ever
since I understood what marriage was. How about to-morrow?” he
exclaimed, after a pause.

She laughed, and shook her head.

“I believe, Godfrey, that some sort of license is necessary, and it is
past post time. Also it would look scarcely decent; all these people
would laugh at us. Also, as there is a good deal of property concerned,
I must make some arrangements.”

“What arrangements?” he asked.

She laughed again. “That is my affair; you know I am a great supporter
of Woman’s Rights.”

“Oh! I see,” he replied vaguely, “to keep it all free from
the husband’s control, &c.”

“Yes, Godfrey, that’s it. What a business head you have. You should
join the shipping firm after the war.”

Then they settled to be married on that day week, after which Isobel
suggested that he should take up his abode at the Abbey House, where
the clergyman, a bachelor, would be very glad to have him as a guest.
When Godfrey inquired why, she replied blandly because his room was
wanted for another patient, he being now cured, and that therefore he
had no right to stop there. 

“Oh! I see. How selfish of me,” said Godfrey, and went off to
arrange matters with the clergyman, a friendly and accommodating young
man, with the result that on this night once more he slept in the room
he had occupied as a boy. For her part Isobel telephoned, first to her
dressmaker, and secondly to the lawyer who was winding up her
father’s estate, requesting these important persons to come to see
her on the morrow. 

They came quickly, since Isobel was too valuable a client to be
neglected, arriving by the same train, with the result that the lawyer
was kept waiting an hour and a half by the dressmaker, a fact which he
remembered in his bill. When at last his turn came, Isobel did not
detain him long. 

“I am going to be married,” she said, “on the twenty-fourth
to Major Godfrey Knight of the Indian Cavalry. Will you kindly prepare
two documents, the first to be signed before my marriage, and the
second, a will, immediately after it, since otherwise it would be
invalidated by that change in my condition.”

The lawyer stared at her, since so much legal knowledge was not common
among his lady clients, and asked for instructions as to what the
documents were to set out.

“They will be very simple,” said Isobel. “The first, a
marriage settlement, will settle half my income free of my control upon
my future husband during our joint lives. The second, that is the will,
will leave to him all my property, real and personal.”

“I must point out to you, Miss Blake,” said the astonished lawyer,
“that these provisions are very unusual. Does Major Knight bring large
sums into settlement?”

“I don’t think so,” she answered. “His means are quite
moderate, and if they were not, it would never occur to him to do
anything of the sort, as he understands nothing about money. Also
circumstanced as I am, it does not matter in the least.”

“Your late father would have taken a different view,” sniffed the
lawyer.

“Possibly,” replied Isobel, “for our views varied upon most
points. While he was alive I gave way to his, to my great loss and
sorrow. Now that he is dead I follow my own.”

“Well, that is definite, Miss Blake, and of course your wishes must be
obeyed. But as regards this will, do not think me indelicate for
mentioning it, but there might be children.”

“I don’t think you at all indelicate. Why should I at over thirty
years of age? I have considered the point. If we are blessed with any
children, and I should predecease him, my future husband will make such
arrangements for their welfare as he considers wise and just. I have
every confidence in his judgment, and if he should happen to die
intestate, which I think very probable, they would inherit equally.
There is enough for any number of them.”

“Unless he loses or spends it,” groaned the lawyer.

“He is much more likely to save it from some mistaken sense of duty,
and to live entirely on what he has of his own,” remarked Isobel.
“If so, it cannot be helped, and no doubt the poor will benefit. Now
if you thoroughly understand what I wish done, I think that is all. I
have to see the dressmaker again, so good-bye.”

“Executors?” gasped the lawyer.

“Public Trustee,” said Isobel, over her shoulder.

“They say that she is one of these Suffragette women, although she
keeps it dark. Well, I can believe it. Anyway, this officer is tumbling
into honey, and there’s no fool like a woman in love,” said the
lawyer to himself as he packed his bag of papers.

Isobel was quite right. The question of settlements never even occurred
to Godfrey. He was aware, however, that it is usual for a bridegroom to
make the bride a present, and going to London, walked miserably up and
down Bond Street looking into windows until he was tired. At one moment
he fixed his affections upon an old Queen Anne porringer, which his
natural taste told him to be quite beautiful; but having learned from
the dealer that it was meant for the mixing of infant’s pap, he
retired abashed. Almost next door he saw in a jeweller’s window a
necklace of small pearls priced at three hundred pounds, and probably
worth about half that amount. Having quite a handsome balance at his
back, he came to the conclusion that he could afford this and, going
in, bought it at once, oblivious of the fact that Isobel already had 
ropes of pearls the size of marrowfat peas. However, she was delighted
with it, especially when she saw what it had cost him, for he had never
thought to cut the sale ticket from the necklace. It was those pearls,
and not the marrowfat peas, that Isobel wore upon her wedding day. Save
for the little ring with the two turquoise hearts, these were her only
ornament.    

A question arose as to where the honeymoon, or so much as would remain
of one, was to be spent. Godfrey would have liked to go to Lucerne and
visit the Pasteur, but as this could not be managed in war time,
suggested London. 

“Why London?” exclaimed Isobel.

“Only because most ladies like theatres, though I confess I hate them
myself.”

“You silly man,” she answered. “Do you suppose, when we can
have only a few days together, that I want to waste time in theatres?”

In the end it was settled that they would go to London for a night, and
then on to Cornwall, which they hoped fondly might be warm at that time
of year. 

So at last, on the twenty-fourth day of December of that fateful year
1914, they were married in the Abbey Church. Isobel’s uncle, the one
with whom she had stayed in Mexico, and who had retired now from the
Diplomatic Service, gave her away, and a young cousin of hers was the
sole bridesmaid, for the ceremony was of the sort called a “war
wedding.” Her dress, however, was splendid of its kind, some rich
thing of flowing broidered silk with a veil of wondrous lace.

Either from accident or by design, in general effect it much resembled
that of the Plantagenet lady which once she had copied from the brass.
Perhaps, being dissatisfied with her former effort, she determined to
repeat it on a more splendid scale, or perhaps it was a chance. At any
rate, the veil raised in two points from her head, fell down like that
of the nameless lady, while from her elbows long narrow sleeves hung
almost to the ground. Beautiful Isobel never was, but in this garb,
with happiness shining in her eyes, her tall, well-made form looked
imposing and even stately, an effect that was heightened by her 
deliberate and dignified movements. The great church was crowded, for
the news of this wedding had spread far and wide, and its romantic
character attracted people both from the neighbouring villages and the
little town.    

Set in the splendid surroundings of the old Abbey, through the painted
windows of which gleamed the winter sun, Godfrey in his glittering
Indian uniform and orders, and his bride in her quaint, rich dress,
made a striking pair at the altar rail. Indeed it is doubtful whether
since hundreds of years ago the old Crusader and his fair lady, whose
ashes were beneath their feet, stood where they stood for this same
purpose of marriage, clad in coat of mail and gleaming silk, a
nobler-looking couple had been wed in that ancient fane. 

Oddly enough, with the strange inconsequence of the human mind,
especially in moments of suppressed excitement, it was of this nameless
lady and her lord that Godfrey kept thinking throughout the service,
once more wondering who they were and what was their story. He
remembered too how the graves of that unknown pair had been connected
with his fortunes and those of Isobel. Here it was that they plighted
the troth which now they were about to fulfil. Here it was that he had
bidden her farewell before he went to Switzerland. He could see her now 
as she was then, tall and slender in her white robe, and the red ray of 
sunshine gleaming like a splash of blood upon her breast. He glanced at
her by his side as she turned towards him, and behold! there it shone
again, splendid yet ominous. 

He shivered a little at the sight of it—he knew not why—and was
glad when a dense black snow-cloud hid the face of the sun and killed
it. 

It was over at last, and they were man and wife.

“Do these words and vows and ceremonies make any difference to
you?” she whispered as they walked side by side down the church, the
observed of all observers. “They do not to me. I feel as though all
the rites in the world would be quite powerless and without meaning in
face of the fact of our eternal unity.”

It was a queer little speech for her to make, with its thought and
balance; Godfrey often reflected afterwards, expressing as it did a
great truth so far as they were concerned, since no ceremonial, however
hallowed, could increase their existing oneness or take away therefrom.
At the moment, however, he scarcely understood it, and only smiled in
reply. 

Then they went into the vestry and signed their names, and everything
was over. Here Godfrey’s former trustee, General Cubitte, grown very
old now, but as bustling and emphatic as of yore, who signed the book
as one of the witnesses, buttonholed him. At some length he explained
how he had been to see an eminent swell at the War Office, a
“dug-out” who was an old friend of his, and impressed upon him his,
Godfrey’s, extraordinary abilities as a soldier, pointing out that he
ought at once to be given command of a regiment, and how the eminent
swell had promised that he would see to it forthwith. Oh! if he had
only known, he would not have thanked him. 

At last they started for the motor-car, which was to drive them in pomp
three hundred yards to the Hall. Some delay occurred. Another motor-car
at the church gate would not start, and had to be drawn out of the way.
Three or four of the nurses from the hospital and certain local ladies
surrounded Isobel, and burst into talk and congratulations, thus
separating her from Godfrey. 

Overhearing complimentary remarks about himself, he drew back a little
from the porch into the church which had now emptied. As he stood there
someone tapped him on the shoulder. The touch disturbed him; it was
unpleasant to him and he turned impatiently to see from whom it came.
There in front of him, bundled up in a rusty black cloak of which the
hood covered the head, was a short fat woman. Her face was hidden, but
from the cavernous recesses of the hood two piercing black eyes shone
like to those of a tiger in its den. After all those years Godfrey
recognised them at once; indeed subconsciously he had known who had
touched him even before he turned. It was Madame Riennes. 

“Ah!” she said, in her hateful, remembered voice, “so my
little Godfrey who has grown such a big Godfrey now—yes, big in every
way, had recognition of his dear Godmamma, did he? Oh! do not deny it; I
saw you jump with joy. Well, I knew what was happening—never mind how
I knew—and though I am so poor now, I travelled here to assist and
give my felicitations. Eleanor, too, she sends hers, though you guess
of what kind they are, for remember, as I told you long ago, speerits
are just as jealous as we women, because, you see, they were women
before they were speerits.” 

“Thank you,” broke in Godfrey; “I am afraid I must be
going.”

“Oh! yes. You are in a great hurry, for now you have got the plum, my
Godfrey, have you not, and want to eat it? Well, I have a message for
you, suck it hard, for very, very soon you come to the stone, which you
know is sharp and cold with no taste, and must be thrown away. Oh!
something make me say this too; I know not what. Perhaps that stone
must be planted, not thrown away; yes, I think it must be planted, and
that it will grow into the most beautiful of plum trees in another
land.” 

She threw back her hood, showing her enormous forehead and flabby,
sunken face, which looked as though she had lived for years in a
cellar, and yet had about it an air of inspiration. “Yes,” she went
on, “I see that tree white with blossom. I see it bending with the
golden fruit—thousands upon thousands of fruits. Oh! Godfrey, it is
the Tree of Life, and underneath it sit you and that lady who looks
like a queen, and whom you love so dear, and look into each other’s
eyes for ever and for ever, because you see that tree immortal do not
grow upon the earth, my Godfrey.” 

The horrible old woman made him afraid, especially did her last words
make him afraid, because he who was experienced in such matters knew
that she had come with no intention of uttering them, that they had
burst from her lips in a sudden semi-trance such as overtakes her
sisterhood from time to time. He knew what that meant, that Death had
marked them, and that they were called elsewhere, he or Isobel, or
both. 

“I must be going,” he repeated.

“Yes, yes, you must be going—you who are going so far. The hungry
fish must go after the bait, must it not, and oh! the hook it does not
see. But, my leetle big Godfrey, one moment. Your loving old Godmamma,
she tumble on the evil day ever since that cursed old Pasteur”—here
her pale face twisted and her eyes grew wicked—“let loose the
law-dogs on me. I want money, my godson. Here is an address,” and she
thrust a piece of paper upon him.

He threw it down and stamped on it. In his pocket was a leather case
full of bank-notes. He drew out a handful of them and held them to her.
She snatched them as a hungry hawk snatches meat, with a fierce and
curious swiftness. 

Then at last he escaped, and in another minute, amidst the cheers of the
crowd, was driving away at the side of the stately Isobel.

At the Hall, where one of the wards had been cleared for the purpose,
there was a little informal reception, at which for a while Godfrey
found himself officiating alone, since Isobel had disappeared with
General Cubitte and the brother officer who had acted as his best man.
When at length they returned he asked her where she had been, rather
sharply perhaps, for his nerves were on edge.

“To see to some business with the lawyer,” she answered.

“What business, dear?” he inquired. “I thought you settled
all that this morning?”

“It could not be settled this morning, Godfrey, because a will can
only be signed after marriage.”

“Good gracious!” he exclaimed. “Give me a glass of
champagne.”

An hour later they were motoring to London alone, at last alone, and to
this pair Heaven opened its seventh door.

They dined in the private sitting-room of the suite which under the
inspiration of Isobel he had taken at a London hotel, and then after
the curious-eyed waiters had cleared the table, sat together in front
of the fire, hand in hand, but not talking very much. At length Isobel
rose and they embraced each other. 

“I am going to bed now,” she said; “but before you come, and
perhaps we forget about such matters, I want you to kneel down with me
and say a prayer.”

He obeyed as a child might, though wondering, for somehow he had never
connected Isobel and Prayer in his mind. There they knelt in front of
the fire, as reverently as though it burned upon an altar, and Isobel
said her prayer aloud. It ran thus:

“O Unknown God Whom always I have sought and Whom now I think that I
have found, or am near to finding; O Power that sent me forth to taste
of Life and gather Knowledge, and Who at Thine own hour wilt call me
back again, hear the prayer of Isobel and of Godfrey her lover. This is
what they ask of Thee: that be their time together on the earth long or
short, it may endure for ever in the lives and lands beyond the earth.
They ask also that all their sins, known and unknown, great or small,
may be forgiven them, and that with Thy gifts they may do good, and
that if children come to them, they may be blessed in such fashion as
Thou seest well, and afterwards endure with them through all the 
existences to be. O Giver of Life and Love Eternal, hear this, the
solemn marriage prayer of Godfrey and of Isobel.” 

Then she rose and with one long look, left him, seeming to his eyes no
more a woman, as ten thousand women are, but a very Fire of spiritual
love incarnate in a veil of flesh.



CHAPTER XX

ORDERS


Godfrey and his wife never went to Cornwall after all, for on Christmas
Day the weather turned so bad and travelling was so difficult that they
determined to stop where they were for a few days.

As for them the roof of this London hotel had become synonymous with
that of the crystal dome of heaven, this did not matter in the least.
There they sat in their hideous, over-gilded, private sitting-room, or,
when the weather was clear enough, went for walks in the Park, and once
to the South Kensington Museum, where they enjoyed themselves very
thoroughly. 

It was on the fourth morning after their marriage that the blow fell.
Godfrey had waked early, and lay watching his wife at his side. The
grey light from the uncurtained window, which they had opened to air
the over-heated room, revealed her in outline but not in detail and
made her fine face mysterious, framed as it was in her yellow hair. He
watched it with a kind of rapture, till at length she sighed and
stirred, then began to murmur in her sleep. 

“My darling,” she whispered, “oh! my darling, how have I
lived without you? Well, that is over, since alive or dead we can never
be parted more, not really—not really!”

Then she opened her grey eyes and stretched out her arms to receive him,
and he was glad, for he seemed to be listening to that which he was not
meant to hear. 

A little later there came a knocking at the door, and a page boy’s
squeaky voice without said:

“Telegram for you, Sir.”

Godfrey called to him to put it down, but Isobel turned pale and
shivered. 

“What can it be?” she said, clasping him. “No one knows our
address.”

“Oh, yes, they do,” he answered. “You forget you telephoned
to the Hall yesterday afternoon about the hospital business you had
forgotten and gave our number, which would be quite enough.”

“So I did, like a fool,” she exclaimed, looking as though she were
going to cry.

“Don’t be frightened, dear,” he said. “I dare say it is
nothing. You see we have no one to lose.”

“No, no, I feel sure it is a great deal and—we have each other.
Read it quickly and get the thing over.”

So he rose and fetched the yellow envelope which reposed upon Isobel’s
boots outside the door. A glance showed him that it was marked
“official,” and then his heart, too, began to sink. Returning to
the bed, he switched on the electric light and opened the envelope.

“There’s enough of it,” he said, drawing out three closely
written sheets.

“Read, read it!” answered Isobel.

So he read. It was indeed a very long telegram, one of such as are
commonly sent at the expense of the country, and it came from the War
Office. The gist of it was that attempts had been made to communicate
with him at an address he had given in Cornwall, but the messages had
been returned, and finally inquiry at Hawk’s Hall had given a clue.
He was directed to report himself “early to-morrow” (the telegram
had been sent off on the previous night) to take up an appointment
which would be explained to him. There was, it added, no time to lose,
as the ship was due to sail within twenty-four hours. 

“There!” said Isobel, “I knew it was something of the sort.
This,” she added with a flash of inspiration, “is the result of the
meddling of that old General Cubitte. You see it must be a distant
appointment, or they would not talk about the ship being due to
sail.” 

“I dare say,” he answered as cheerfully as he could. “Such
things are to be expected in these times, are they not?”

“Too bad!” she went on, “at any rate they might have let you
have your leave.”

Then they rose because they must and made pretence to eat some
breakfast, after which they departed in one of Isobel’s motors, which
had been summoned by telephone from her London house, to the Department
indicated in the telegram. 

They need not have hurried, since the important person whom Godfrey must
see did not arrive for a full hour, during all which time Isobel sat
waiting in the motor. However, when he appeared he was very gracious.

“Oh! yes,” he said, “you are Major Knight, and we have a
mutual friend in old General Cubitte. In fact it was he who put an idea
into our heads, for which, as I understand you are just married—a
pretty hunt you gave us, by the way—perhaps you won’t altogether
bless him, since otherwise, as you are only just recovered from your
wounds, I have no doubt we could have given you a month or two extra
leave. However, I know you are very keen, for I’ve looked up your
record, and private affairs must give way, mustn’t they? Also, as it
happens, Mrs. Knight need not be anxious, as we are not going to send
you into any particular danger; I dare say you won’t see a shot
fired. 

“Look here, Major, you have been a Staff officer, haven’t you, and
it is reported of you that you always got on extremely well with
natives, and especially in some semi-political billets which you have
held when you had to negotiate with their chiefs. Well, to cut it
short, a man of the kind is wanted in East Africa, coming out direct
from home with military authority. He will have to keep in touch with
the big chiefs in our own territory and arrange for them to supply men
for working or fighting, etc., and if possible, open negotiations with
those in German territory and win them over to us. Further, as you
know, there are an enormous number of Indians settled in East Africa, 
with whom you would be particularly qualified to deal. We should look to
you to make the most of these in any way required. You see, the
appointment is a special one, and if the work be well done, as I have
no doubt it will be, I am almost sure,” he added significantly,
“that the results to the officer concerned will be special also. 

“Now, I don’t ask you if you decline the appointment, because we
are certain in time of war you will not do so, and I think that’s all,
except that you will be accredited ostensibly to the staff of the
General in command in East Africa, and also receive private
instructions, of which the General and the local Governments will have
copies. Now, do you understand everything, especially that your powers
will be very wide and that you will have to act largely on your own
discretion?” 

“I think so, Sir,” said Godfrey, concealing the complete confusion
of his mind as well as he was able. “At any rate, I shall pick things
up as I go along.”

“Yes, that’s the right spirit—pick things up as you go on, as
we are all doing in this war. I have to pick ’em up, I can tell you.
And now I won’t keep you any longer, for, you see, you’ll have to
hustle. I believe a special boat for East Africa with stores, etc.,
sails to-morrow morning, so you’ll have to take the last train to
Southampton. An officer will meet you at Waterloo with your
instructions, and if he misses you, will go on down to the boat. Also,
you will have details of your pay and allowances, which will be
liberal, though I am told you are not likely to want money in future.
So good-bye and good luck to you. You must report officially through
the General or the local Governors, but you will also be able to write 
privately to us. Indeed, please remember that we shall expect you to do 
so.” 

So Godfrey went, but as he neared the door the big man called after him:

“By the way, I forgot to congratulate you. No, no, I don’t mean on
your marriage, but on your promotion. You’ve been informed, haven’t
you? Well, it will be gazetted to-morrow or in a day or two, and letters
will be sent to you with the other papers.”

“What promotion?” asked Godfrey.

“Oh! to be a colonel, of course. You did very well out there in
France, you know, and it is thought advisable that the officer
undertaking this special work should have a colonel’s rank, just to
begin with. Good-bye.” 

So Godfrey went, and said vaguely to the waiting Isobel:

“I’m afraid, dear, that I shall have to ask you to help me to do
some shopping. I think there are some stores near here. We had better
drive to them.”

“Tell me everything,” said Isobel.

So he told her, and when he had finished she said slowly:

“It is bad enough, but I suppose it might be worse. Will they let me
go with you to Southampton?”

“I expect so,” he answered. “At any rate, we will try it on.
I think it is an ordinary train, and you have a right to take a
ticket.” 

Then they shopped, all day they shopped, with the result, since money
can do much, that when they reached Waterloo his baggage containing
everything needful, or at least nearly everything, was already waiting
for him. So was the messenger with the promised papers, including a
formal communication notifying to him that he was now a
lieutenant-colonel. 

“And to think that they have painted ‘Major’ on those tin
cases!” said Isobel regretfully, for no objection had been raised to
her accompanying Godfrey, with whom she was seated in a reserved
carriage. 

They reached Southampton about midnight, and on Godfrey presenting
himself and asking when the boat sailed he was informed that this was
uncertain, but probably within the next week. Then remembering all he
had gone through that day, he swore as a man will, but Isobel rejoiced
inwardly, oh! how she rejoiced, though all she said was that it would
give him time to complete his shopping.

Save for the advancing shadow of separation and a constant stream of
telegrams and telephone messages to and from his chiefs in London,
which occupied many of the hours, these were very happy days,
especially as in the end they spread themselves out to the original
limit of his leave. 

“At least we have not been cheated,” said Isobel when at last they
stood together on the deck of the ship, waiting for the second bell to
ring, “and others are worse off. I believe those two poor people,”
and she pointed to a young officer and his child-like bride, “were
only married yesterday.”

The scene on the ship was dreary, for many were going in her to the
various theatres of war, Egypt, Africa, and other places, and sad, oh!
sad were the good-byes upon that bitter winter afternoon. Some of the
women cried, especially those of the humbler class. But Isobel would
not cry. She remained quite calm to the last, arranging a few flowers
and unpacking a travelling bag in Godfrey’s cabin, for as a colonel
he had one to himself. 

Then the second bell rang, and to the ears upon which its strident
clamour fell the trump of doom could not have been more awful.

“Good-bye, my darling,” she said, “good-bye, and remember
what I have told you, that near or far, living or dead, we can never
really be apart again, for ours is the Love Eternal given to us in the
Beginning.” 

“Yes,” he answered briefly, “I know that it is so
and—enduring for ever! God bless us both as He sees best.”

The ship cast off, and Isobel stood in the evening light watching from
the quay till Godfrey vanished and the vessel which bore him was
swallowed up in the shadows. Then she went back to the hotel and,
throwing herself upon that widowed bed, kissed the place where his head
had lain, and wept, ah! how she wept, for her joy-days were done and
her heart was breaking in her. 

After this Isobel took a night train back to town and, returning to
Hawk’s Hall, threw herself with the energy that was remarkable in her,
into the management of her hospital and many another work and charity
connected with the war. For it was only in work that she could forget
herself and her aching loneliness.

Godfrey had a comfortable and a prosperous voyage, since it was almost
before the days of submarines, at any rate so far as passenger steamers
were concerned, and they saw no enemy ships. Therefore, within little
more than a month he landed on the hot shores of Mombasa, and could
cable to Isobel that he was safe and well and receive her loving
answer. 

His next business was to report himself in the proper quarter, which he
did. Those over him seemed quite bewildered as to what he had come for
or what he was to do, and could only suggest that he should travel to
Nairobi and Uganda and put himself in touch with the civil authorities.
This he did also and, as a result, formulated a certain scheme of
action, to which his military superiors assented, intimating that he
might do as he liked, so long as he did not interfere with them.

What happened to him may be very briefly described. In the end he
started to visit a great chief on the borders of German East Africa,
but in British territory, a man whose loyalty was rumoured to be
doubtful. This chief, Jaga by name, was a professed Christian, and at
his town there lived a missionary of the name of Tafelett, who had
built a church there and was said to have much influence over him. So
with the Reverend Mr. Tafelett Godfrey communicated by runners, saying
that he was coming to visit him. Accordingly he started with a guard of
native troops, a coloured interpreter and some servants, but without 
any white companion, since the attack on German territory was beginning
and no one could be spared to go with him upon a diplomatic mission. 

The journey was long and arduous, involving many days of marching across
the East African veld and through its forests, where game of all sorts
was extraordinarily plentiful, and at night they were surrounded by
lions. At length, however, with the exception of one man who remained
with the lions, they arrived safely at the town of Jaga and were met by
Mr. Tafelett, who took Godfrey into his house, a neat thatched building
with a wide verandah that stood by the church, which was a kind of
whitewashed shed, also thatched. 

Mr. Tafelett proved to be a clergyman of good birth and standing, one of
those earnest, saint-like souls who follow literally the scriptural
injunction and abandon all to advance the cause of their Master in the
dark places of the earth. A tall, thin, nervous-looking man of not much
over thirty years of age; one, too, possessed of considerable private
means, he had some five years before given up a good living in England
in order to obey what he considered to be his “call.” Being sent to
this outlying post, he found it in a condition of the most complete
savagery, and worked as few have done. He built the church with native
labour, furnishing it beautifully inside, mostly at his own expense. He
learned the local languages, he started a school, he combated the
witch-doctors and medicine-men. 

Finally he met with his reward in the conversion of the young chief
Jaga, which was followed by that of a considerable portion of his
people. 

But here came the trouble. The bulk of the tribe, which was large and
powerful, did not share their chief’s views. For instance, his uncle,
Alulu, the head rain-maker and witch-doctor, differed from them very
emphatically. He was shrewd enough to see that the triumph of
Christianity meant his destruction, also the abandonment of all their
ancient customs. He harangued the tribe in secret, asking them if they
wished to bring upon themselves the vengeance of their ancestral and
other spirits and to go through their days as the possessors of only
one miserable wife, questions to which they answered that emphatically
they did not. So the tribe was rent in two, and by far the smaller half
clung to Jaga, to whom the dim, turbulent heathen thousands beneath his 
rule rendered but a lip service. 

Then came the war, and Alulu and his great following saw their
opportunity. Why should they not be rid of Jaga and the Christian
teacher with his new-fangled notions? If it could be done in no other
way, why should they not move across the border which was close by,
into German territory? The Germans, at any rate, would not bother them
about such matters; under their rule they might live as their
forefathers had done from the beginning, and have as many wives as they 
chose without being called all sorts of ugly names. 

This was the position when Godfrey arrived. His coming made a great
sensation. He was reported to be a very big lord indeed, as big, or
bigger than the King’s governor himself. Alulu put it about that he
had come to make a soldier of every fit man and to enslave the women
and the elders to work on the roads or in dragging guns. The place
seethed with secret ferment. 

Mr. Tafelett knew something of all this through Jaga, who was genuinely
frightened, and communicated it to Godfrey. In the result a meeting of
all the headmen was held, which was attended by thousands of the
people. Godfrey spoke through his interpreter, saying that in this
great war the King of England required their help, and generally set
out the objects of his mission, remarks that were received in
respectful silence. Then Alulu spoke, devoting himself chiefly to an
attack upon the Christian faith and on the interference of the white
teacher with their customs, that, he observed, had resulted in their 
ancestral spirits cursing them with the worst drought they had
experienced for years, which in the circumstances he, Alulu, could and
would do nothing to alleviate. How could they fight and work for the
Great King when their stomachs were pinched with hunger owing to the
witchcraft and magical rites which the white teacher celebrated in the
church?    

“How, indeed?” shouted the heathen section, although in fact their
season had been very good; while the Christians, feeling themselves in a
minority, were silent.

Then the Chief, Jaga, spoke. He traversed all the arguments of Alulu,
whom he denounced in no measured terms, saying that he was plotting
against him. Finally he came down heavily on the side of the British,
remarking that he knew who were the would-be traitors and that they
should suffer in due course. 

“It has been whispered in my ears,” he concluded, “that there
is a plot afoot against my friend, the white Teacher, who has done us
all so much good. It has even been whispered that there are those,”
here he looked hard at Alulu, “who have declared that it would be
well to kill this great white Lord who is our guest,” and he pointed
to Godfrey with his little chief’s staff, “so that he may not
return to tell who are the true traitors among the people of Jaga. I
say to you who have thought such things, that this Lord is the greatest
of all lords, and as well might you lay hands on our father, the mighty
King of England himself, as upon this his friend and counsellor. If a
drop of his blood is shed, then surely the King’s armies will come,
and we shall die, every one of us, the innocent and the guilty
together. For terrible will be the vengeance of the King.” 

This outburst made a great impression, for all the multitude cried:

“It is so! We know that it is so,” and Alulu interposed that he
would as soon think of murdering his own mother (who, Mr. Tafelett
whispered to Godfrey, had been dead these many years) as of touching a
hair of the great white chief’s head. On the contrary, it was their
desire to do everything that he ordered them. But concerning the matter
of the new custom of having one wife only, etc.

This brought Mr. Tafelett to his feet, for on monogamy he was especially
strong, and the meeting ended in a theological discussion which nearly
resulted in blows between the factions. Finally it was adjourned for a
week, when it was arranged that an answer should be given to
Godfrey’s demands. 

Three nights later an answer was given and one of a terrible sort.

Shortly after sundown Godfrey was sitting in the missionary’s house
writing a report. Mr. Tafelett, it being Sunday, was holding an evening
service in the church, at which Jaga and most of the Christians were
present. Suddenly a tumult arose, and the air was rent with savage
shouts and shrieks. Godfrey sprang up and snatched his revolver just as
some of his servants arrived and announced that the people in the
church were being killed. Acting on his first impulse, he ran to the
place, calling to his guard to follow him, which they did so tardily
that he entered it alone. Here a sight of horror met his eyes. 

The building was full of dead and dying people. By the altar, dressed in
his savage witch-doctor’s gear, stood Alulu, a lamp in his hand, with
which evidently he had been firing the church, for tongues of flame ran
up the walls. On the altar itself was something that had a white cloth
thrown over it, as do the sacred vessels. Catching sight of Godfrey,
with a yell the brute tore away the napkin, revealing the severed head
of Mr. Tafelett, whose surplice-draped body Godfrey now distinguished
lying in the shadows on one side of the altar! 

“Here is the white medicine-man’s magic wine,” he screamed,
pointing to the blood that ran down the broidered frontal. “Come,
drink! come, drink!”

Godfrey ran forward up the church, his pistol in his hand. When he
reached the chancel he stopped and fired at the mouthing, bedizened
devil who was dancing hideously in front of the altar. The heavy
service-revolver bullet struck him in some mortal place, for he leapt
into the air, grabbed at the altar cloth and fell to the ground. There
he lay still, covered by the cloth, with the massive brass crucifix
resting face downwards on his breast and the murdered man’s head
lying at his side—as though it were looking at him. 

This was the last sight that Godfrey saw for many a day, for just then a
spear pierced his breast, also something struck him on the temple. A
curious recollection rose in his mind of the head of a mummy after the
Pasteur had broken it off, rolling along the floor in the flat at
Lucerne. Then he thought he heard Madame Riennes laughing, after which
he remembered no more; it might have been a thousand years, or it might
have been a minute, for he had passed into a state that takes no reck
of time. 

Godfrey began to dream. He dreamed that he was travelling; that he was
in a house, and then, a long while afterwards, that he was making a
journey by sea. 

Another vacuum of nothingness and he dreamed again, this time very
vividly. Now his dream was that he had come to Egypt and was stretched
on a bed in a room, through the windows of which he could see the
Pyramids quite close at hand. More, he seemed to become acquainted with
all their history. He saw them in the building; multitudes of brown men
dragging huge blocks of stone up a slope of sand. He saw them finished
one by one, and all the ceremonies of the worship with which they were
connected. Dead Pharaohs were laid to rest there beneath his eyes,
living Pharaohs prayed within their chapels and made oblation to the 
spirits of those who had gone before them, while ever the white-robed,
shaven priests chanted in his ears. 

Then all passed, and he saw them mighty as ever, but deserted, standing
there in the desert, the monuments of a forgotten greatness, till at
length a new people came and stripped off their marble coverings.

These things he remembered afterwards, but there were many more that he
forgot. 

Again Godfrey dreamed, a strange and beautiful dream which went on from
day to day. It was that he was very ill and that Isobel had come to
nurse him. She came quite suddenly and at first seemed a little
frightened and disturbed, but afterwards very happy indeed. This went
on for a while, till suddenly there struck him a sense of something
terrible that had happened, of an upheaval of conditions, of a
wrenching asunder of ties, of change utter and profound. 

Then while he mourned because she was not there, Isobel came again, but
different. The difference was indefinable, but it was undoubted. Her
appearance seemed to have changed somewhat, and in the intervals
between her comings he could never remember how she had been clothed,
except for two things which she always seemed to wear, the little ring
with the turquoise hearts, though oddly enough, not her wedding ring,
and the string of small pearls which he had given her when they were
married, and knew again by the clasp, that was fashioned in a lover’s
knot of gold. Her voice, too, seemed changed, or rather he did not hear
her voice, since it appeared to speak within him, in his consciousness,
not without to his ears. She told him all sorts of strange things,
about a wonderful land in which they would live together, and the home 
that she was making ready for him, and the trees and flowers growing
around it, that were unlike any of which Godfrey had ever heard. Also
she said that there were many other matters whereof she would wish to
speak to him, only she might not. 

Finally there came a vivid dream in which she told him that soon he
would wake up to the world again for a little while (she seemed to lay
emphasis on this “little while”) and, if he could not find her in
it, that he must not grieve at all, since although their case seemed
sad, it was much better than he could conceive. In his dream she made
him promise that he would not grieve, and he did so, wondering. At this
she smiled, looking more beautiful than ever he could have conceived
her to be. Then she spoke these words, always, as it appeared, within
him, printing them, as it were, upon his mind: 

“Now you are about to wake up and I must leave you for a while. But
this I promise you, my most dear, my beloved, my own, that before you
fall asleep again for the last time, you shall see me once more, for
that is allowed to me. Indeed it shall be I who will soothe you to
sleep and I who will receive you when you awake again. Also in the
space between, although you do not see me, you will always feel me
near, and I shall be with you. So swear to me once more that you will
not grieve.” 

Then in his vision Godfrey swore, and she appeared to lean over him and
whisper words into his ear that, although they impressed themselves
upon his brain as the others had done, had no meaning for him, since
they were in some language which he did not understand.

Only he knew that they conveyed a blessing to him, and not that of
Isobel alone! 



CHAPTER XXI

LOVE ETERNAL


Godfrey awoke and looked about him. He was lying in a small room
opposite to an open window that had thin gauze shutters which, as an
old Indian, he knew at once were to keep out mosquitoes. Through this
window he could see the mighty, towering shapes of the Pyramids, and
reflected that after all there must have been some truth in those
wonderful dreams. He lifted his hand; it was so thin that the strong
sunlight shone through it. He touched his head and felt that it was
wrapped in bandages, also that it seemed benumbed upon one side. 

A little dark woman wearing a nurse’s uniform, entered the room and he
asked her where he was, as once before he had done in France and under
very similar conditions. She stared and answered with an Irish accent:

“Where else but at Mena House Hospital. Don’t the Pyramids tell you
that?”

“I thought so,” he replied. “How long have I been here?”

“Oh! two months, or more. I can’t tell you, Colonel, unless I look
at the books, with so many sick men coming and going. Shure! it’s a
pleasure to see you yourself again. We thought that perhaps you’d
never wake up reasonably.”

“Did you? I always knew that I should.”

“And how did you know that?”

“Because someone whom I am very fond of, came and told me so.”

She glanced at him sharply.

“Then it’s myself that should be flattered,” she answered,
“or the night nurse, seeing that it is we who have cared for you with
no visitors admitted except the doctors, and they didn’t talk that
way. Now, Colonel, just you drink this and have a nap, for you
mustn’t speak too much all at once. If you keep wagging your jaw
you’ll upset the bandages.”

When he woke again it was night and now the full moon, such a moon as
one sees in Egypt, shone upon the side of the Great Pyramid and made it
silver. He could hear voices talking outside his door, one that of the
Irish nurse which he recognised, and the other of a man, for although
they spoke low, this sense of hearing seemed to be peculiarly acute to
him. 

“It is so, Major,” said the nurse. “I tell you that except
for a little matter about someone whom he thought had been visiting him,
he is as reasonable as I am, and much more than you are, saving your
presence.” 

“Well,” answered the doctor, “as you speak the truth
sometimes, Sister, I’m inclined to believe you, but all I have to say
is that I could have staked my professional reputation that the poor
chap would never get his wits again. He has had an awful blow and on
the top of an old wound, too. After all these months, it’s strange,
very strange, and I hope it will continue.”

“Well, of course, Major, there is the delusion about the lady.”

“Lady! How do you know it was a lady? Just like a woman making up a
romance out of nothing. Yes, there’s the delusion, which is bad. Keep
his mind off it as much as possible, and tell him some of your own in
your best brogue. I’ll come and examine him to-morrow morning.”

Then the voices died away and Godfrey almost laughed because they had
talked of his “delusion,” when he knew so well that it was none.
Isobel had been with him. Yes, although he could neither hear nor see
her, Isobel was with him now for he felt her presence. And yet how
could this be if he was in Egypt and she was in England? So wondering,
he fell asleep again. 

By degrees as he gathered strength, Godfrey learned all the story of
what had happened to him, or rather so much of it as those in charge of
the hospital knew. It appeared, according to Sister Elizabeth, as his
nurse was named, that when he was struck down in the church,
“somewhere in Africa” as she said vaguely, the guards whom he had
with him, rushed in, firing on the native murderers who fled away
except those who were killed. 

Believing that, with the missionary, they had murdered the King’s
Officer, a great man, they fled fast and far into German East Africa and
were no more seen. The Chief, Jaga, who had escaped, caused him to be
carried out of the burning church to the missionary’s house, and sent
runners to the nearest magistracy many miles away, where there was a
doctor. So there he lay in the house. A native servant who once acted
as a hospital orderly, had washed his wounds and bound them up. One of
these, that on the head, was caused by a kerry or some blunt
instrument, and the other was a spear-stab in the lung. Also from time
to time this servant poured milk down his throat. 

At length the doctor came with an armed escort and, greatly daring,
performed some operation which relieved the pressure on the brain and
saved his life. In that house he lay for a month or more and then, in a
semi-comatose condition, was carried by slow stages in a litter back to
Mombasa. Here he lay another month or so and as his mind showed no
signs of returning, was at length put on board a ship and brought to
Egypt. 

Meanwhile, as Godfrey learned afterwards, he was believed to have been
murdered with the missionary, and a report to that effect was sent to
England, which, in the general muddle that prevailed at the beginning
of the war, had never been corrected. For be it remembered it was not
until he was carried to Mombasa, nearly two months after he was hurt,
that he reached any place where there was a telegraph. By this time
also, those at Mombasa had plenty of fresh casualties to report, and
indeed were not aware, or had forgotten what exact story had been sent
home concerning Godfrey who could not speak for himself. So it came 
about through a series of mischances, that at home he was believed to be
dead as happened to many other men in the course of the great war. 

After he came to himself at the Mena House Hospital, Godfrey inquired
whether there were not some letters for him, but none could be found.
He had arranged with the only person likely to write to him, namely
Isobel, to do so through the War Office, and evidently that plan had
not succeeded, for her letters had gone astray. The truth was, of
course, that some had been lost and after definite news of his death
was received, the rest had not been forwarded. Now he bethought him
that he would cable home to Isobel to tell her that he was recovering,
though somehow he imagined that she would know this already through the
authorities. With great difficulty, for the hurt to his side made it
hard for him to use his arm, he wrote the telegram and gave it to
Sister Elizabeth to send, remarking that he would pay the cost as soon
as he could draw some money. 

“That won’t matter,” she replied as she took the cable. Then
with an odd look at him she went away as though to arrange for its
despatch. 

After she had gone, two orderlies helped Godfrey downstairs to sit on
the broad verandah of the hospital. Here still stood many of the little
tables which used to serve for pleasant tea-parties when the building
was an hotel in the days before the war. On these lay some old English
newspapers. Godfrey picked up one of them with his left hand, and began
to read idly enough. Almost the first paragraph that his eye fell on
was headed: 

“Heroic Death of a V.A.D. Commandant.”

Something made him read on quickly, and this was what he saw:

“At the inquest on the late Mrs. Knight, the wife of Colonel Knight
who was reported murdered by natives in East Africa some little
time ago, some interesting evidence was given. It appeared from
the testimony of Mrs. Parsons, a nurse in the Hawk’s Hall
Hospital, that when warning was given of the approach of Zeppelins
during last week’s raid on the Eastern Counties and London, the
patients in the upper rooms of the hospital were removed to its
lower floors. Finding that one young man, a private in the
Suffolk Regiment who has lost both his feet, had been overlooked,
Mrs. Knight, followed by Mrs. Parsons, went upstairs to help him
down. When Mrs. Parsons, whom she outran, reached the door of the
ward there was a great explosion, apparently on the roof. She
waited till the dust had cleared off and groped her way down the
ward with the help of an electric torch. Reaching Private
Thompson’s bed, she saw lying on it Mrs. Knight who had been
killed by the fallen masonry. Private Thompson, who was unhurt
beneath the body, said that when the bricks began to come down
Mrs. Knight called to him to lie still and threw herself on him to
protect him. Then something heavy, he believed the stone coping of
a chimney, fell on her back and she uttered one word, he thought
it was a name, and was silent. Mrs. Knight, who was the only child
of the late Sir John Blake, Bart., the well-known shipowner, is
said to have been one of the richest women in England. She married
the late Colonel Knight some months ago, immediately before he was
sent to East Africa. Under the provisions of her will the cremated
remains of Mrs. Knight will be interred in the chancel of the
Abbey Church at Monk’s Acre.”

Godfrey read this awful paragraph twice and looked at the date of the
paper. It was nearly two months old.

“So she was dead when she came to me. Oh! now I understand,” he
muttered to himself, and then, had not a passing native servant caught
him, he would have fallen to the ground. It was one of the ten thousand
minor tragedies of the world war, that is all.

Three months later, still very crippled and coughing badly, because of
the injury to his lung, he reported himself in London, and once more
saw the Under-Secretary who had sent him out to East Africa. There he
sat in the same room, at the same desk, looking precisely the same.

“I am sorry, Sir, that my mission has failed through circumstances
beyond my control. I can only add that I did my best,” he said
briefly. 

“I know,” answered the official; “it was no fault of yours if
those black brutes tried to murder you. Everything goes wrong in that
cursed East Africa. Now go home and get yourself fit again, my dear
fellow,” he went on very kindly, adding, “Your services will not be
overlooked.” 

“I have no home, and I shall never be fit again,” replied Godfrey,
and left the room.

“I forgot,” thought the Under-Secretary. “His wife was killed
in a Zeppelin raid. Odd that she should have been taken and he left.”

Then, with a sigh and a shrug of the shoulders he turned to his
business. 

Godfrey went to the little house at Hampstead where he used to live
while he was studying as a lad, for here Mrs. Parsons was waiting for
him. Then for the first time he gave way and they wept in each
other’s arms. 

“We were too happy, Nurse,” he said.

“Yes,” she answered, “love like hers wasn’t for this
world, and more than once she said to me that she never expected to see
you again in the flesh, though I thought she meant it was you who would
go, as might have been expected. Stop, I have something for you.”

Going to a desk she produced from it a ring, that with the turquoise
hearts; also a canvas-covered book.

“That’s her diary,” she said, “she used to write in it
every day.”

That night Godfrey read many beautiful and sacred things in this diary.
From it he learned that the shock of his supposed death had caused
Isobel to miscarry and made her ill for some time, though underneath
the entries about her illness and the false news of his death she had
written: 

“He is not dead. I _know_ that he is not dead.”

Afterwards there were some curious sentences in which she spoke joyfully
of having seen him in her sleep, ill, but living and going to recover,
“at any rate for a while,” she had added.

On the very day of her death she had made this curious note:

“I feel as though Godfrey and I were about to be separated for a
while, and yet that this separation will really bring us closer
together. I am strangely happy. Great vistas seem to open to my
soul and down them I walk with Godfrey for ever and a day, and
over them broods the Love of God in which are embodied and
expressed all other loves. Oh! how wrong and foolish was I, who
for so many years rejected that Love, which yet will not be turned
away and in mercy gave me sight and wisdom and with these Godfrey,
from whose soul my soul can never more be parted. For as I told
you, my darling, ours is the Love Eternal. Remember it always,
Godfrey, if ever your eyes should see these words upon the earth.
Afterwards there will be no need for memory.”

So the diary ended.

They invalided Godfrey out of the service and because of his lung
trouble, he went to the house that Miss Ogilvy had left him in Lucerne,
taking Mrs. Parsons with him. There too he found the Pasteur, grown an
old man but otherwise much the same as ever, and him also he brought to
live in the Villa Ogilvy. 

The winter went on and Godfrey grew, not better, but worse, till at last
he knew that he was dying, and rejoiced to die. One evening a letter
was brought to him. It was from Madame Riennes, written in a shaky
hand, and ran thus: 

“I am going to pass to the World of Speerits, and so are you, my
Godfrey, for I know all about you and everything that has
happened. The plum is eaten, but the stone—ah! it is growing
already, and soon you will be sitting with another under that
beautiful Tree of Life of which I told you in the English church.
And I, where shall I be sitting? Ah! I do not know, but there is
this difference between us that whereas I am afraid, you have no
cause for fear. You, you rejoice, yes, and shall rejoice—for
though sometimes I hate you I must tell it. Yet I am sorry if I
have harmed you, and should you be able, I pray you, say a good
word in the World of Speerits for your sinful old godmamma
Riennes. So fare you well, who thinking that you have lost, have
gained all. It is I, I who have lost. Again farewell, and bid that
old Pasteur to pray for me, which he, who is good, will do,
although I was his enemy and cursed him.”

“See that she lacks for nothing till the end, and comfort her if you
can,” said Godfrey to the Pasteur.

That night a shape of glory seemed to stand by Godfrey’s bed and to
whisper wonderful things into his ears. He saw it, ah, clearly, and knew
that informing its changeful loveliness was all which had been Isobel
upon the earth. 

“Fear nothing,” he thought it said, “for I am with you and
others greater than I. Know, Godfrey, that everything has a meaning and
that all joy must be won through pain. Our lives seem to have been
short and sad, but these are not the real life, they are but its black
and ugly door, whereof the threshold must be watered with our tears and
the locks turned by the winds of Faith and Prayer. Do not be afraid
then of the blackness of the passage, for beyond it shines the immortal
light in that land where there is understanding and all forgiveness.
Therefore be glad, Godfrey, for the night of sorrows is at an end and
the dawn breaks of peace that passes understanding.” 

Godfrey woke and spoke to the old Pasteur who was watching by his bed
while Mrs. Parsons wept at its foot.

“Did you see anything?” he asked.

“No, my son,” he answered, “but I felt something. It was as
though an angel stood at my side.”

Then Godfrey told him all his vision, and much else besides, of which
before he had never spoken to living man.

“It well may be, my son,” answered the Pasteur, “since to
those who have suffered greatly, the good God gives the great reward. He
Who endured pain can understand our pains, and He Who redeemed sin can
understand and be gentle to our sins, for His is the true Love Eternal.
So go forward with faith and gladness, and in the joy of that new world
and of the lost which is found again, think sometimes of the old
Pasteur who hopes soon to join you there.”

Then he shrove and blessed him.

After this Godfrey slept awhile to wake elsewhere in the Land of that
Love Eternal which the soul of Isobel foreknew.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Love Eternal" ***

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