Chapter I

(I) RICHARD ARTHUR MOLYNEUX YOLLAND, priest of the Catholic Church, sat over his fire on an October evening saying his office.

He was not at all true in his appearance to the type of Roman cleric conceived by his fellow-country-men; he was neither blue-chinned and gross, nor spare and furtive-eyed. On the contrary he had a clean-looking freckled face, blue eyes, stiff sandy hair, a snub-nose, and an appearance of honesty. He was about thirty years old, and resembled, said his friends, an intelligent Irish terrier.

His room, in these lodgings that he occupied in Soho, was, to the discerning eye, a palimpsest;— there were two records to be read there. Plaster statues of Saints Joseph and Mary, one on either end of the painted mantelpiece; a row of theological books—Lehmkuhl’s ‘‘ Moral Theology,” Liguori’s “Glories of Mary,’ Bishop Hedley’s “ Retreat,” Tanqueray’s ‘‘ Dogmatic Theology ” in three volumes, breviaries, a tattered missal with gay crumpled markers, and a number more of their kind,—a Breton china stoup near the door, a tall wood-and-metal crucifix hung about with a rosary on his knee-hold table by the window—all these revealed his calling as of a seminary-bred priest. On the other hand a Louis Quinze table, two pairs of antlers over the fire, a Khelim hearth rug, a grave leather-fringed bookshelf, filled with miscellaneous books—Stevenson, Henry Kingsley, some suspiciously clean editions of the Fathers of the Church, works on travel and sport—a pair of silver candlesticks on a carved coffin-stool at his right hand—all these told another tale.

There was therefore no unity in the room, and an observant psychologist, knowing that the room reveals the occupant, would have pronounced that here was one more example of that numerous class of persons who have combined but have not yet fused dissimilar elements of character. °

I am sorry to be obliged to state that Dick Yolland was not attending to his prayers.

Saint Callistus, Pope and Martyr, who, as the second nocturn related, established the Ember Seasons, built the basilica of Sta. Maria Trastevere, enlarged the old cemetery in the Appian Way, reigned five years, one month and twelve days, made sixteen presbyters, four deacons and eight bishops, and migrated to the Lord through the gate of martyrdom under Alexander, Emperor—this great confessor did not now prevail to win his son in Christ from the venial distraction of his thoughts. Dick was trying his best to attend; but, as a matter of fact, was chiefly thinking, with pleasurable anticipation, of the following Monday, when he was to go home to Ample-field, Norfolk, for four days’ shooting. The pheasants were doing phenomenally, his father had told him in a letter received that morning; and the mustard fields were full of birds. There would be only three guns—himself, his father and Jack Hamilton. Jack was no good; that would mean that he himself, with the boy’s full concurrence, would have the warm corners.... Jack was a poor shot... Then he frowned a little.

2a ubedomnebenedicereevangelicalectiositnobissalusetprotectioamen,” he said all in one breath.

He had hardly began “ Nihal est opertum quod non vevelabitur,’ when a tap came at his door, and he lifted moving lips and distraught eyes to his old housekeeper who stood there in cap and apron.

“Please, Master Dick de

He leaned back with his finger on the page.

“There is a gentleman, Master Dick. Shall I ask him to wait?”’

“A gentleman? What is his name?”

“He won’t give his name; he says you know him.”

Dick hesitated.

“Well, ten minutes; tell him I am just finishing my office.”

He bent himself to his book again as the door closed and the footsteps went down the passage.

Here then was another distraction. The birds, Jack Hamilton, and the warm corners retired to the middle distance; beyond them could be faintly discerned the mitred figure of the Martyr-Pope moving about fields of pain and glory; and across the foreground flitted questionable shadows... A gentleman whom he knew and Betty did not—not a priest; then it could not be this or that or the other man. Who in the world was it?... Why had he not givenhisname?... What could he want at nine-forty-five p.m.?... It was not a sick call.

Once more he frowned, pursed his lips, and began Lauds—Deus in adjutorium...

It was exactly seven minutes later that he stood up slowly, still with moving lips, and ten seconds after that that he said Divinumauxiliummaneatsempernobiscumamen at the top of the steep stairs. Then he no longer attempted not to wonder who his visitor was, and went swiftly downstairs two at a time, his zimmara flapping behind him, and opened the dining-room door on the first floor.

There was something dramatic in the very pose of the figure that awaited him there.

Beyond the single candle on the white and crumby table-cloth, stood a man a year or two older than himself and a couple of inches taller; one hand was hidden in a buttoned-up Chesterfield coat, the other, with a silver ring upon it, rested with finger-tips on the cloth; a bowler hat with a caved-in top lay beside a knotted black-thorn near his hand. The man’s face, as Dick saw it in the candlelight, was smooth-shaven and long; he had a long nose that appeared slightly pressed into his thin cheeks; his black hair was neatly parted in the middle; his full-lipped mouth and projecting chin seemed tilted in a kind of tragic appeal, and his sharp black eyes looked at him under half-lowered lids.

Dick had an instantaneous recollection of a visit to the Adelphi of ten years before, as he stared at the stranger; then he stopped.

“Why, is it Chris?” he said.

The man laughed shortly in such a manner that Dick suddenly realised the meaning of the word “ sardonic.”

“Tt is,” he said; “all that is left of him.”

Dick came round the table holding out his hand.

“My dear man,” he said, ‘it must be five years—”’

“An eternity,” said Christopher Dell. ‘‘ God— the gods help me!”

He paused again dramatically, drawing back a little as the priest came near.

“Do you know, Father Yolland—my dear Dick,” he exclaimed; ‘“‘do you know all?”

Dick had a sensation as of being obliged to act a part at short notice in private theatricals; he had not an idea what to say, and yet his cue waited.

“T don’t know what you mean, Chris?”’ he said feebly. “Do you know what I am?”’ spouted the other again with fierce-shining eyes. ‘‘An outcast—a tramp—a publican.”

“Oh! my dear man, don’t talk like that. What does it matter?”’

Chris looked at him with working lips.

‘““T believe you, Dick,” he said; ‘‘ you are not like the others. God bless you!”

He brought his hand down in a splendid sweep, and gripped the priest’s. rm

“That is why I came,” he said; ‘it was you or the river for me to-night.”

He loosed his hand, and drove his own into his trouser pocket.

“Not a sixpenny-piece,”’ he said.

A faint jingle sounded from his pocket. His face fell ever so slightly.

“Two half-pence,” he said; “enough for a crust. Shall I go then?”’

Dick took his arm.

“Come upstairs, Chris. I am delighted to see you. Have. you dined?”’

He saw the other ‘‘ curl ’’ his lip (there was no other word).

“T dined, Dick! Yes, I dined on the Embankment—God’s restaurant—a banana and a crust of bread.”

Dick jerked the bell-handle, and waited, strangely uneasy, until the door opened.

‘This gentleman wants some supper, Betty,” he said. ‘Bring something up to my room. Come upstairs, Chris.”’

His friend took up his hat and stick, and remained in a carefully deferential attitude for the priest to pass out first. Dick had a spasm of impatience.

“Oh! Don’t be a Come on.”

He observed him very carefully as he climbed the stairs behind him. His trousers were not at all frayed, as they ought to have been; on the contrary they were neatly turned up, displaying a very tolerable pair of patent-leather boots, a little old but sufficiently smart; his hair was beautifully smooth behind; his coat was well-brushed, although not glaringly new. On the whole he seemed very prosperous for a gentleman who had dined off a banana and a crust. Dick wondered to himself about the caved-in hat.

Chris set down the hat on entering the sitting-room, and Dick instantly took it up.

“It’s got a dent,” he said, and pressed it from within. It sprang out, and immediately looked perfectly respectable. The other laughed bitterly once more.

“One does not attend to such things,’ he said, “when one looks death in the face.’

An Old Sufferer v4

Dick blinked his blue eyes a moment. He could not help wondering whether it was from lack of attention that the hat had suffered.

“Where are you staying to-night?” he asked.

“1 suppose in the Salvation Army shelter, or in the river. My bones fe

“Do you mean you have no rooms?”’ asked Dick, blinking again.

Chris laughed again.

‘‘ Don’t ask too much,” he said; “it will only give you pain.”

‘My dear man—— Where did you sleep last night?”

“Do you really want to know? Well, then, on a bench in the Green Park.”

“Good Lord! And—and for how long?”’

The other’s face fell again ever so slightly.

“TI had rooms till yesterday,” he said, “then I was turned out.”

Dick drew a breath of relief.

“Tam very glad you came,” he said. “ You must stay here to-night at any rate.”

Chris, who at that moment was drawing up his trousers at the knees, preparatorily to sitting down, looked up with such an emotional face that the priest hastened to go on.

‘Was that your parcel downstairs? We'll have it brought up.”

“It contains everything I have in the world.”

“ Pyjamas?”

‘“‘T believe so.”

“ And Boccaccio?’’ asked Dick grinning nervously.

Chris grinned back, and then looked stern.

“Well, yes. I will never be parted from that.”

The door was pushed open, and Betty came in with a tray.

“Just get the spare bedroom ready, will you?” said the priest. “Mr. Dell will be staying here a day or two. And just bring up the parcel down below.”

“Yes, Master Dick,” said the old lady.

It was pleasant to see the hungry man sit down to the cold grouse and stewed fruit. He poured himself out half-a-tumbler of claret first, and drained it.

“Ah!” he said. ‘I suppose it is three months ince I tasted wine.”

His impatience, however, seemed slightly overdone; he ate, Dick thought, as a suburban actor would eat, who impersonated a starving gentleman; his hands trembled a little, his black eyes shot to and fro from plate to dish, and the food vanished with dramatic swiftness.

Dick said nothing, but watched him uneasily, wondering how far the genuineness went, and whether he himself was being brutal. Chris had always been an odd creature from Oxford onwards, strangely vivid and impulsive and theatrical all at once— subjectively sincere but not always objectively genuine.

Chris sprang up suddenly, made a large sign of the cross, darted his hand to an open box of Egyptian cigarettes, and then paused.

“May I?” he said. “I am your pensioner, not your guest.” “Oh! for God’s sake——” said Dick, twisting in his seat.

“T may then?”

He seized a cigarette, put it to a candle, filled his lungs with smoke, and sank down into the easy-chair.

“My dear Dick, this is heaven! And to think that I shall have a bed to sleep in!”

Dick turned briskly to the parcel that Betty ee laid silently on the table three or four minutes before.

“ Tell me what you have got,” he said. ‘‘ Razors? Sponge? Toothbrush? ”

“Open it,” said Chris superbly.

Dick cut the string, pulled out the paper, and the contents lay displayed.

There was a neat pile of pyjamas—silk, for he felt them incredulously—a spotless collar, an Indian silk tie, a pair of pumps, a neat little dressing-case with “C. D.” in silver on the back, a pair of clocked socks, a volume of Boccaccio in chiselled vellum, a china snuff-box, an amber cigarette-holder, a revolver, and a missal.

““My dear man,” he said, “I see you have saved something from the wreck.”

Chris was looking with rapturous eyes at the ceiling through a cloud of smoke.

“ Dress-suit went on Monday,” he said, ‘‘ and my jast white shirt yesterday.”

“ But these pyjamas?” asked the priest smiling.

“One can at least preserve one’s self-respect by night. It is cheaper too,” said the other.

Dick leaned back and took a cigarette himself.

“Just tell me the whole thing,” he said.

Chris waved his hand.

“The old story,” he said. ‘ Chatterton, George

Gissing and the rest. You know it all: melting 2—(2096)

money; articles unpaid for; things going one by one; a brutal landlady; and behold me! i

“Was it your own fault?”” began Dick.

“Oh! I suppose so; it is always the fault of the unsuccessful,” cried Chris with emphatic bitterness; “it is always the fault of the damned; each makes his own hell. You can make a good sermon out of me, reverend father.”

“Tell me,” persisted the priest steadily.

Chris flung out his hands, dropping his cigarette. He stooped to pick it up, which spoilt his gesture; so he repeated it.

“do not ask much from the gods,” he said. “A little plain food, a shelter over my head, a little red wine to drink and cigarettes to smoke, decent clothes to wear—I am content with that, but—well, I have not got it.”

“What have you been doing for the last five years?”

“Oh! this and that. I went to Italy for eighteen months and lived in the Abruzzi; then I wrote some articles on it and got them published. Then I was in Paris afterwards for six weeks——”

“ At a hotel?” put in Dick swiftly.

The other eyed him a moment.

“No,” he said, ‘staying with a friend. I went to the devil then, who is a gentleman, for he paid me what he promised. Then I chucked it, and thought I would try Almighty God; and I cannot say that He I beg your pardon, I forgot you were a priest.”

Dick began to tap his foot impatiently.

“My dear man, continue to forget it if you like. I am not a fool.”

“I believe you are not,” said Chris earnestly. “I believe you are a good man. Well, I have kept tolerably straight for a year; trying to do my best— I swear that I have; and then yesterday the end came. I went and stood a long time looking at the river last night till a Bobby moved me on. I looked at it again this morning. Then to-night I saw your name on the church door—and here I am—happy, for one night. To-morrow * he shrugged his shoulders like a Frenchman.

“To-morrow you will be here still,” said the priest, “and the day after and the day after—till Monday, at any rate. Then we will see.”

“God bless you!” cried Chris passionately. “Three days!”

He leaned back once more and drew on his cigarette,

Dick’s mind worked like a mill. He was not very clever, but he was clever enough to know his own limitations; and he frankly told himself that he did not in the least understand Christopher Dell, that he never had understood him, and that he probably never would.

On the one side there had always been this glaring theatricality; he had thought it beautiful at Oxford: then he had got a little tired of it. On the other side there had been a great deal of worth in Chris; he was generous beyond all bounds, running himself into debt in order to give expensive presents, injuring himself again and again by unrestrained talking as often as not in defence of his indefensible friends, for he was extravagantly loyal; he was kind beyond all others. Dick still remembered with gratitude his patient nursing when the two had been in lodgings together. Once more, against all this had to be placed a certain sinister reputation that simply horrified this wholesome-minded young man; but Chris had never spoken of it, and Dick had never attempted to question him. He loathed it all far too much.

All this produced bewilderment now in the priest’s mind. Christopher was a man of black-and-white, which had never merged in grey. Dick had never known such an ardent convert as his friend when he had been received into the Church ten years before; he had bought a discipline, a breviary in four volumes, and a spiked belt which he sedulously left about his rooms; but his new-found faith had not hindered his getting drunk three weeks later; and, less than a year after, a white bust of Hermes with a red lamp before it looked across his room at a blue lamp before the image of the Mother of God. Chris had burst into an eloquent defence then of the truth of all religions; and Dick had fallen into a fit of helpless laughter that offended the other far more than the reproof and horror that he had evidently expected.

He was certainly a poseur, the priest reflected now; but he was a good deal more as well.

He stood up.

“Tt is half-past ten,” he said. “I must go to bed. I have to say mass at the convent at seven. Will you look after yourself? Your room is the first door on the right.”

Chris sprang up, and looked at him with ardent eyes. Then he stooped, caught up the priest’s hand and kissed it.

“The gods reward you!”’ he said.

“Cigarettes there,’ said Dick passionlessly; “soda in the cupboard. There is no whisky. Good-night, Chris. Breakfast at eight.”

“Good-night, my dear Dick. God bless you! Remember me at mass.”

Mr. Dell was dressing, Betty reported, in answer to the priest’s slightly irritated question at twenty-five minutes past eight on the following morning. She had met him just now coming from the bath-room.

“« Just ask how long he will be,” said Dick, looking hungrily at the buttered eggs before the fire.

A voice presently cried over the banisters.

“Dick, Dick! Iam horrified. I thought you had begun. I will explain when I come down.”

Dick smiled, called up reassuringly, and took him at his word.

““T never eat much breakfast,’’ 1emarked Chris, coming in ten minutes later, speckless as usual, with a white shirt of his host’s shining at throat and wrists, ‘and I have had a miserable night.”

‘“‘T am sorry,” said the priest stolidly. “ Help yourself, will you?”

“ Neuralgia again,” went on the other, putting all that was left of the eggs upon his own plate. “I am a martyr to it.”

“Do you mind smoke?.. ThenI will just sit here and tell you my views.”

‘‘Er—may I ask for some fresh coffee? This is a trifle cold,’ remarked the layman.

Dick pulled the bell.

“Now, listen, Chris. This is what T think. I am going home on Monday. You had better come with me. (Some more coffee, Betty.)’

‘““My dear fellow,” exclaimed the other, Les impossible. No clothes, no shirts.”

‘We'll arrange that. Give me your pawn-tickets after breakfast.”

Pa Dick}!

“ Please don’t be absurd. Or you can go round yourself. Whichever you prefer. We'll see to that presently. Well, will you come?”

“Come! Why, I would come to the world’s end—”

“All right. Well, you will have time to think things over there, and make an arrangement or two before the end of next week. Have you any prospects?”’

“ There is the Saturday Express,’ explained Chris, helping himself to a quantity of black coffee. ‘ They have promised me a job, but I don’t know——”

“Can I be of any use? I know the man.”

‘My dear man, it would be the greatest use. You see, I have not many references.”

“Very well, I will write presently. Now look here, I am more or less free to-day and to-morrow morning. To-morrow afternoon and all Sunday I am useless. Please tell me quite plainly by lunch-time everything you want. We must get everything by to-morrow at midday. We start first thing on Monday.”

“Oh! my dear man ”’ murmured the other brokenly.

“For God’s sake let us be reasonable. You would do as much for me, would you not? Very well then; let’s have no jawing. I tell you plainly that I have plenty of money: you needn’t be shy; and if ever 1 amin trouble I will come to you. Now then, make a decent list after breakfast and let me have it by lunch; afterwards we will go out together. Give me a paper; no, the Daily Mail.”

Then Dick was gone, trembling a little at his own speech, and Chris sat a moment, genuinely moved. He clenched his fists, murmuring a benediction like a man in second-rate literature; for he posed as much when alone as when with others; then he sighed, finished his coffee, wiped his lips delicately, and lit a cigarette.

He was really very grateful indeed as he sat by the fire, gazing at his cuffs, his slender fingers among which his silver ring looked very well, and stooping to pull up his creased silk sock.

Dick was a dear man, he told himself; a little stupid, of course, as he had always been; even just a little uncouth in the fine affairs of life; but his heart was undoubtedly in the right place. He was whole regions above his coarse brethren in the priesthood, who had bade their interesting suppliant pawn his velvet-collared coat and his silver ring before he applied for charity again. Dick had not even hinted at that; he had understood that some things were more necessary even than food and red wine and cigarettes—such things as a respectable appearance, a well-groomed hand, and self-regard. But Dick Yolland was a gentleman, and his brethren were not.

Amplefield would be delightful for a week or two. He had once been down there, nine years before, alone with Dick. That was in the years of fatness; they had risen at ten oclock, played a little piquet till lunch, shot afterwards, talked incessantly, played piquet again till dinner and once more until about two a.m. Probably that would be impossible now; there would be old Mr. Yolland to be entertained and deferred to. Chris, as his manner was, almost unconsciously to himself began to consider the pose that he would present to that Catholic country-gentleman. He had best be an _ earnest young journalist; some hints as to the power of the Press and his own sufferings as a conscientious Catholic would probably be his best policy, with a touch or two of the man-of-the-world thrown in. There was nobody else to be conciliated, except the butler and the man who waited on him. He must raise thirty shillings somehow for these officials.

Then he sat up, produced an exquisite little morocco pocket-book and began to make his list.

It seemed a little formidable as he ran his pencil down it an hour later, and he regretfully struck off an item here and there. He must be content with only one more suit of pyjamas; and he must obviously do without a dressing-gown; in fact, he could borrow one of Dick’s. He reduced eighteen collars to fourteen, deleted the Beeston strop altogether; but he left the twelve white shirts as they stood, with other things. Then he went through a swift calculation, and added an item of three pounds in cash for general expenses—say five pounds.

Then he sighed, eyed the whole list with dismay, crumpled it up and threw it into the fender. Then he sighed yet more deeply, rolled his eyes passionately to the ceiling, picked up the list, smoothed it out, put it back in his pocket-book, and took up the Daily Chronicle.

He was in an attitude of deep depression, with his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands, as Dick came in half-an-hour before lunch.

“ Tt’s no good, my dear fellow,” he said, ‘‘ no good. I can’t face you. Let me go! let me go Le

Dick’s honest face became clouded.

“Don’t talk rot, my dear man. What’s the matter?”’

“TI can’t,” cried Chris again, looking at him despairingly. “I can’t sponge on you like this. It isn’t as if I could ever repay you.”

The priest sat down.:

“I repeat,” he said, “ wouldn’t you do as much for me?”

“Why, of course exclaimed Chris radiantly.

“Very well then. Let’s have the list.”

Chris dropped his face once more into his hands.

“T can’t, I can’t,” he moaned. “I tell you I have nothing. I cannot come with you as a pauper. I must be decent. Let me have a few shillings instead, and go and get a lodging somewhere.”

“Oh! do be reasonable. Of course I understand; but don’t talk rot. Where is the list?”

Chris eyed him miserably a moment; then, as with a great effort, he drew out his pocket-book, and looked at the list for a few seconds. Then once more he dashed it into the fender.

“I threw it away once before,” he cried. “ Let me burn it! I daren’t show it you.”

Dick picked up the list that had fortunately fallen quite clear of the fire; smoothed it out and looked at it a minute or two.

“This seems all right,” he said deliberately. “What’s this you’ve crossed out?”

Chris leaned towards him, and the priest was aware of the faintest imaginable aroma of violet-scent.

‘A dressing-gown and a Beeston strop,” groaned the pauper.

“Oh! but you had better have a dressing-gown,”’ observed the priest; “it is sure to be useful.”

“No! no!” cried the other, “it is not necessary;

it is not necessary. I ask no more than the simplest necessaries.”

Dick folded the list and put it away in his pocket.

“We must go out after lunch,” he said. ‘‘ Where do you generally go for your things?”

“T used to go to the Haymarket,” murmured his friend.

“Very well, then. You are sure there is nothing else 2?”

“You are too good tome! No, nothing else, upon my word.”

Dick had a very queer afternoon. Mr. English’s assistant in the Haymarket directed all his deference towards the vivid gentleman in the blue coat who demanded shirts with such an air, fingering the linen delicately and surely; and begged pardon more than once when the priest was privileged to step forward and give his address as the place to which the goods were to be sent immediately.

“Just have them marked,” said Chris brusquely.

“Yes, sir—er—what name? is

“©C. Dell,” said the priest.

“ And now pyjamas,” put in Chris over his shoulder, posing a moment before a tall glass, and passing his hand smoothly over his chin. “Silk—not that half-and-half business » Weturned abruptly. “That iS ” be said, and eyed his friend a moment.

“Ves, silk,’ nodded Dick.

He felt a hand touch his arm affectionately a moment.

“You are too good,” murmured Chris, as they passed further into the shop.

Dick had just a minute of silence as they drove homeward. through the lighted streets in the hansom that Chris had hailed; and almost before he was aware of it himself he perceived that the man beside him knew it.

“You are displeased with me? What have I done?”

“ My dear man, what do you mean?”

“T know it; I feel it. Have I been too free? I thought you meant si

“Good Lord! Of course I meant it. All; everything. Didn’t I say so?”

“You are sure?”

sure.”

When he looked at him again half-timidly, Chris was eyeing himself in the corner-glass with that peculiarly solemn and mask-like expression of the male sex before a mirror.

They had a delightful evening together between tea and dinner; and Dick was at once amused and annoyed at the pleasure he found in the other’s company. Chris was so absurd, he assured himself now and again; he had all the faults of an over-drawn portrait; there was not a movement of his that was not an exaggeration. When the priest dropped his cigarette, Chris was on the floor instantly, and handed it back with a scrupulous exactness not to finger the wet end. When they spoke of Oxford there came into his friend’s face such a passion of sentimental retrospect that Dick laughed nervously. All that Chris said of himself too and of his life during the past five years was uttered with a wealth of melancholy penitence that was plainly a great enjoyment to him; he hinted at incidents, at escapades, at misfortunes; he accused himself in general terms of infamous affairs; and yet he told the priest nothing at all. It was like the confession of a fashionable woman unable to condescend to details, but desirous of making an impression; and when Dick once ventured to particularise, he was met with such indignant repudiation that there was nothing to be done but to apologise and explain.

Chris still smouldered a moment.

-“No, thank God! I have fallen very low, but not that. I may say that I am scrupulous in money matters. I have gambled—yes—far beyond what I should have done, but I have paid.”

“My dear fellow, I am very SOITy. I thought you meant—I thought you said that you had some debts.”

“ Not debts of honour,” protested Chris. ‘‘ Trades-men—yes. Surely there is a difference; and they shall be paid some day, too—the blood-suckers.”’

Dick indulged in a humorous reflection, and again, by that swift intuition that Chris had always possessed, he was detected.

“ You think they have not sucked much from me! But they have! tears and anguish at the thought that I could not pay them! And they will have the money, too. Well they know that!”

As regarded the actual objective side there could be nothing but disapprobation or laughter, but on the subjective side this man was undoubtedly as attractive as he had always been. Dick remembered the extraordinary power that the other had always

22, The Sentimentalists had over women. They began by being amused by him, they laughed while they liked his fine attentions, his gifts of flowers, his alertness at the door; then they generally pitied him for the mysterious misfortunes which he allowed to make a swift appearance in his conversation and his apparent self-repression; they always quarrelled with him presently, and were piqued by the icy and aloof dignity that he assumed in place of the cordial flattery which he usually displayed; and they generally ended by falling in love with him more or less. Dick had often wondered why, and on the whole the best explanation seemed to be that there was a kind of essential virility underlying his soft and ardent theatricality; he was elaborately made up, there was a glimmer as of footlights about his personality, and yet under the paint and the posing there was a very real male creature.

Children also loved him. He was so dainty and vivid, and took them so seriously; it was among men of his own age that his enemies lay. Dick had heard him abused as a strutting fool, an effeminate ass, an affected poseur; and he was aware that there was truth in such remarks, yet, in his defence, delivered with some stiffness, he had always maintained that such accusations were extremely shallow and one-sided, and that there was a great deal more in Christopher Dell than these blockheads had wit to recognise.

It was this inner side that Chris presented to him this evening; he was unfeignedly affectionate, full of self-reproach, alert in his attentions, and extravagantly grateful; and by the time that Dick took up his bed-candle, he had forgotten altogether the slightly unpleasant impression of the afternoon,

An Old Sufferer a)

the freeness with a friend’s money, the all but imperceptible touch of patronage; he only remembered the warm nature, the sincerity beneath the unreality, the loudly expressed gratitude and self-depreciation.

He went up to bed, pleased with the thought that he had been of service to his friend, pleased with the consciousness that they were beneath the same roof, and yet more pleased to think that the situation would continue for another ten days. But he wondered what on earth his father would make of the guest.

AE a a

Christopher Dell was conscious of a very pleasurable atmosphere as he stepped out of the train at Marlesdon Junction three days later, and caught sight of the grave, saluting footman on the platform, and, beyond the paling, the heads of two black horses erect and aristocratic.

It was an atmosphere which he had not known for some years, although, he told himself, it was the one proper to a man of his parts and tastes. He stood, a stiff important figure for a moment, in a long fawncoloured coat and a grey hat which had been among the items on his list, waiting for Dick who appeared to have seen some acquaintances on the platform. He noticed two ladies, one middle-aged and the other young and with them a stoutish man in a mackintosh.

“The luggage, sir?”’ observed a deferential voice at his side.

“Two portmanteaux,’ said Chris brusquely. “Father Yolland’s you know. Mine is a new one, with a red star.”

Dick came up presently.

“ Beastly bore, my dear man—TI couldn’t help it; and they want us to dine on Thursday. I couldn’t get out of it.”

SThey 2”

“The Hamiltons—you won’t mind, will you? I played you, but it was no good. They want you to come too.”

Chris murmured something in the nature of delighted assent, and the two men went off together.

The luggage was in the phaeton already, it seemed, and Chris climbed up beside Dick, who took the reins. It was extremely pleasant to draw the fur-lined rug

An Old Sufferer a5 over his knees, sitting back in the deep, springy seat, and to look out at the tossing, jingling heads and the sleek backs before him; it all symbolised so much that was so foreign to him now, and yet full of reminiscences of the days of plenty. A slight drawl made itself perceptible in his talk as they drove homewards through the mellow October air.

They turned in after a mile or so through a lodge gate where a child in a white pinafore bobbed decorously at the carriage, and Chris felt his heart overflow with satisfaction.

“My dear man!” he said suddenly, “ how good you are to me!”

Dick growled softly, and the carriage sped on.

On either side of the drive lay the deep autumn grass, slope beyond slope, melting from a heavy green at hand to an indescribably sweet blue in the distance. Tawny-clothed trees trooped down as on promontories among the tawnier bracken about their roots; the clear, hard blue sky lay over all; the very sounds were opulent; a cock-pheasant crowed among the copses; there was a melodious jangle of a cow-bell from beneath the trees; once through the brisk air came the quick double-pulse of a gun fired far away.

Dick turned suddenly.

“Will you shoot after lunch?” he said. ‘“‘ There are plenty of guns.”

Chris reflected for an imperceptible instant.

“TY think not, thanks. Let me walk with you instead.”

In that fraction of time a couple of alternative poses had whisked before his mental vision—in one he appeared as an apologetic sportsman, the contempt of keepers, an object for compassionate excuse from

Dick; in the other as a distinguished gentleman in a fawn-coloured coat with a cane in his hand, holding his tongue at critical moments, dropping shrewd compliments and comments at the proper time.

There was no doubt that the latter was the more impressive; he remembered the terms well enough, and he had been but a poor shot even five years ago. He could certainly do the talking; it was wiser not to risk the shooting.

The Georgian house presently appeared before them, a squared white building, with a pillared porch and a balustraded roof, startlingly ugly, and yet satisfactorily suggestive of comfort. The very exterior told of high, dignified rooms, chintz-covered arm chairs and classical cornices. It stood in a lake of gravel, flanked by shrubberies; the gardens, Chris remembered, were upon the other side.

As they drew up, the inner glass doors opened, and a tall old man, grey-bearded and sanguine, came out, in loose grey clothes and a knotted black tie, and simultaneously the opulent sound of a gong boomed from the hall behind.

“ Well, then,” said the old man, smiling.

Chris had an opportunity to observe his host, as father and son greeted one another, and came to the swift conclusion that he was what he had expected. He would be a good Christian man, aware of his dignity, reasonably generous, staunch, wholesome, and a little stupid; the pose of an earnest young journalist who had suffered for the Faith, pathetically anxious for sympathy, would do very well.

». He found his hand taken presently with an air of slight reserve, and hastened to put as much deference as he could into his bent back.

“Dick will show you your room, Mr. Dell.”

It was a large hall, stone-floored and classically adorned, with a tiger skin or two, some mahogany furniture, and an array of buffalo horns; a broad solid staircase rose out of the inner hall towards the glass dome that lighted it, and disappeared in galleries to right and left.

The bedroom too was entirely in keeping, carpeted and furnished with a dull splendour; a green-curtained bed stood out from the wall in the very middle of the room, as if to assure the visitor that he was in-nothing but a bedroom; a deep chintz sofa stood at its foot; a heavy knee-hold table with a stamped blotting-book, new quill pens, a painted china inkstand and a morocco paper-case, assured the observer that letters could be written there; a tall rosewood wardrobe with a bevelled glass in one of its doors afforded an opportunity for self-contemplation; and a highly-polished fireplace with square black-shining coals within a white paper screen awaited but a match to burst into comfortable flame. It was dignified, chilly, rather expensive, rather funereal, and cried, ‘“‘spare-bedroom”’ from every shining surface; there was nothing familiar or domestic in it; the inhabitant was a guest, not an intimate.

“ Find your way down, will you? The dining-room is at the foot of the stairs.”

Dick glanced round, nodded and was gone.

Chris took off his coat with the precision that was ' so characteristic of him, rolled up his stiff cuffs, slipped off his silver ring on to the white marble, and stood soaking his chilled fingers in stinging hot water. He felt a little unhappy, and, for a wonder, a little shy.

He was not sure how he would get on with Mr. Yolland, nor what was expected of him. Perhaps it would be better to postpone committing himself; to observe, to be deferential and complimentary. It would be a sad pity if nothing came of this visit; it was his first return into the respectable world after a five years’ absence, and he yearned for respectability and an assured position. What a pity there were no women; he could not go wrong there.

He found his way down presently, walking with a slow dignity down the heavily carpeted stairs, shooting his cuffs, looking at his nails, and intensely conscious of wealthy ease about him. He passed his ascending portmanteau with an admirable hauteur.

Dick and his father meanwhile were exchanging a word or two before the dining-room fire.

“ He is a good fellow,” said Dick softly. ‘‘ I found him almost starving. He has no idea of money.”

“A little—er—theatrical, eh?” remarked his father, warming his tails.

Dick grinned.

“ Just so,” he said, “ but it is only superficial. He is all right, really.”

Dick was pleased with his friend’s bearing at lunch. Chris was amusing, unostentatious of poverty, extremely polite, and not at all shy. Only once did he overdo his pleasantness in hastening to ring the bell before the son of the house.

“J think I shall go out with a gun,” said Dick at last, emptying his coffee-cup. “ Will it bore you to come?”

“Won't Mr. Dell shoot too?” put in Mr. Yolland. “Tf he hasn’t a gun here——”’

Chris hastened to decline.

“ The fact is I haven’t shot for a long while; perhaps before I leave—. I should like to walk with Dick if I may. Will you not come, sir?”

An expression fleeted over the old man’s face.

“T think not, Mr. Dell. I have my bailiff coming up.” Dick compressed his lips as he noticed a look of extreme disappointment in his friend’s features; he wished he would not be so eager to please.

_ They had a long, placid afternoon in some outlying parts of the park, walking over the dry leaves beneath the dying trees; the whole radiant air was full of fragrant death; the tawny pheasants that clucked and whirred like defective clockwork seemed a part of the English landscape; even their deaths harmonised with the dying year.

They took it easily, more for the air than the sport, content when a hardly-escaped bird, crying with nervous exultation, buzzed across the rising mists to the home-coverts; and once Dick missed a cat on purpose by two yards.

“Thank the gods!” said Chris earnestly

Dick’s face twitched with amusement. He refrained from even one look at the keeper.

There was not much opportunity for talk, and Chris was too tactful to insist upon it; he tramped alongside with a severe and reminiscent face; once or twice he dropped a word or two in the keeper’s hearing that suggested rather than stated his own desperate prowess in past years; and, still in his fawn-coloured coat and grey hat, he presented exactly the figure he supposed and desired.

He had another burst of good-feeling as he walked homewards under the luminous sky, and saw the pleasant lights of the house beginning to glimmer beyond the trees.

“How happy you must be, Dick! And you deserve it all!”

Dick murmured incoherently. He wished the other would not talk like this; and yet he recognised that it was inevitable.

“Tell me about the Hamiltons,” said Chris suddenly. Dick had given up his gun, and the two were walking over the dew-soaked grass towards the glimmering grey line of the garden terrace.

“Oh! I don’t know. They’re not Catholics. They’re mother and daughter and Jack. That was Brasted with them.”

cc Who? ”

“Lord Brasted, the motoring-man. I think he knew Mrs. Hamilton’s husband. He often comes down here.”

““Oh! Where do they live?”

“ Hinton Hall. It’s a fine house, quite new. The old man built it.”

“ And Jack?”

“ Jack’s a cousin who lives there.”

“No sons then?”

nat RG

Chris had an overwhelming desire to make enquiries then about the daughter; but he restrained it, and approached the matter from ambush.

“Tell me more about them, Dick.’

“ Well, they’re very pious, I believe. I heard the parson say that they were sound Churchpeople, whatever that means.”

“T know exactly. You see you hadn’t the advantage of being a convert. Well, what do they do?”

“Oh, nothing much; they live pretty quietly. The girl is not out till next year”

“Go on, I like to hear—if you don’t mind, old man.”

“There’s nothing to tell; they’re all right. They’re very nice to me.”

Chris deplored in his heart his friend’s lack of discernment. It was just like Dick. Well, he must observe for himself on Thursday night.

They passed in together through the garden door, and stood blinking at the lights in the warm, redolent smoking-room where they had played piquet years ago. A tea-tray winked pleasantly near the fire.

Chris went to bed early that night; he said he had a headache, and the father and son sat up a few minutes more.

“1m rather unhappy about Chris,” observed Dick suddenly.

a3 Why? ”»

“What is he to do? He’s got nowhere to go when he leaves this. You don’t know of anything, I suppose, father?”’

Mr. Yolland knocked out his pipe before answering. He was aware of having been slightly touched during the evening by the young man, who had been so eager to please, so alert in his manners, so carefully deferential; an enemy might have called him servile, but it would not have been true. Even the almost imperceptible tinge of over-emphasis had faded with his absence, and his pathos remained. Besides he was scrupulously well-dressed, and knew how to wear his clothes, and that pleased Mr. Yolland, who himself wore a V-shaped front to his shirt and a straggling tie under his beard. He was also his son’s friend.

“What about that journalism he was talking about?” he said at last.

“Oh! it won’t come to much. And, anyhow, what is he to do in the meantime?”

“What sort of a thing does he want?”

Dick smiled, and glanced at his father.

““He would make an excellent—er—well, I don’t know. He is wonderful with women; _ servants always like him; he tips them magnificently with his last penny. He has got lots of tact, of a kind.”

“I know of no openings,” said Mr. Yolland gravely.

“Well, a sort of secretaryship—so long as someone else did the accounts. He writes very well.”

Mr. Yolland blew long and meditatively through his mellow briar.

“He seems to me rather like a man in a book,” he said at last. “ Where did he get his clothes, if he is as poor as all that?”’

Dick evaded.

“Oh! that sort of man always keeps his clothes to the last. If he killed himself he would do it in evening dress, you know.”

Mr. Yolland was silent.

“Does he know anything about books?”’ he asked at last.

“T believe so,” said Dick eagerly—“ at least about some sorts. Do you know of anything?”

“T don’t know,” said his father slowly, rising. “I will think. Soda-water, Dick?”