Chapter IV

Dick YOLLAND had gone up to town on the Saturday morning completely bewildered. He sat with the morning-papers unopened on his knee from Marlesdon to London, staring at the flying landscape, and doing his utmost to bring the threads to a centre. Chris did not appear to be one person at all, but half-a-dozen, and the perplexity of elements had reached its climax of tangle in the interview on the previous evening.

His friend had stormed and wept at a criticism so delicate that it ought scarcely to have scratched the skin; and had immediately after received, unshrinking, an offer of charity so miserably disguised that Dick had hardly dared to make it. Was there ever, he asked himself, such a distorted vision, that magnified this and minimised that?

The next question was: would Chris do the work assigned to him? and if he did do it at all competently, would he not make his own presence in the house unbearable by indiscreet conversation? The picture of Chris and his own father facing one another three times a day across a table was a ludicrous thought. Yet Chris had tact of a kind; he had come back, as it were, flower- and laurel-crowned, reeking of delicate incense, from the dinner at Hinton Hall.

Once more; Dick was aware that he was fond of Chris, that he liked to have him in the room, even to know that he was in the house; yet he was equally aware of a sense of relief at having said good-bye to him for the present; the atmosphere was too electric for comfort; and finally two more points clashed and fought in his brain just as he thought he was coming to a conclusion. Chris was a profound egoist, he began to tell himself, and on the moment remembered that he was lavish of money and generous to a fault.

He sighed, gathered up his papers, and stepped out of the carriage at King’s Cross, feeling both flat and baffled. He would at any rate say mass for him to-morrow.

It was not until the following Thursday morning that he saw two notes lying on his table, one addressed in his father’s handwriting, and the other in Chris’s fifteenth century script. He tore the first open rather eagerly, and turned quickly in spite of filial piety to the last paragraph.

‘Mr. Dell is doing very well. He worked for nine hours on Monday, four on Tuesday, and seven to-day. He went out for a ride this afternoon to cure his neuralgia. He is very kind indeed to me, and talks down to my level, about farming in Italy and the superior quality of the beans grown there; he has a quantity of information. We have had no more rubbish, and I think you are right about him. I am very willing for him to stop his six weeks. The servants are devoted to him.

‘Your affectionate father, “RICHARD M. YOLLAND.”

Dick wrinkled his snub-nose with amusement, and then opened the other letter.

“ AMPLEFIELD, NORFOLK, R.S.O. “My dearest man,—

“Your father is too kind to me in offering me such work, and I am happier than I have been for months past, and it is all your doing! I hope to earn my money well—for the books are in terrible confusion, though there are some treasures amongst them—I found a Wynkyn de Worde yesterday on a top-shelf; and I am working steadily. I did nearly ten hours on Monday, and should have done as much to-day if it had not been for my neuralgia. Your father kindly offered me a horse, and I rode quietly for an hour or two, when I met Miss Hamilton, and went back with her to the lodge gates, though I was hardly able to speak for pain.

“My dear Dick, what a charming girl she is! So quiet and innocent. What a power women have, if they only knew it! Thank God they do not! I told the poor child some of my troubles, though I knew it was wrong; but I could not help it, and twice I saw her eyes fill with tears. I asked her if she often rode, and she told me that she did. Happy the man who wins her! If the gods had only given me the good fortune to know such an one ten years ago, what might not have happened? She understands, Dick, I know she understands, though she is but a child!

“T had a very pleasant Sunday at Hinton, and a good talk with Mrs. Hamilton. She too! Now what a good woman is that! She gave me some excellent advice, and God knows how much I need it! Oh! what a mess I have made of my life; I sometimes hope that it is not too late, but these things are on the knees of the gods.

“I have also made Father Maples’ acquaintance. He seems to be a man of the world, but he is antipatico. Mr. Rolls I have not seen again.

“Dear man, I must stop. Have you heard anything from the Saturday Express? God bless you for what you have done for me! Write me a long letter, and give me your advice, you best of priests!

“ Yours, “ CHRISTOPHER DELL.”

Dick propped this letter, smiling to himself, against his coffee urn, and read it again two or three times before he had finished breakfast. The flattery was so disguised by its own extravagance that he scarcely recognised it at all.

It was all better news than he had hoped;_ Chris really seemed to have some notion of duty left, and the slight difference between the reports as to the hours spent in the library was exactly what he would have expected.

The paragraph about Annie Hamilton was also characteristic; there was no grey with Chris; women and men were either whiter than snow, or blacker than hell. On the whole the tidings were most encouraging, and he began to consider the next step.

Dick Yolland was, in his way, a very devout priest. He had no more doubts as to the truth of the Catholic Religion than he had regarding the Constitution of the British Empire. They were equally obvious, and he conformed to both with equal contentment. It was entirely natural to him to pray for Christopher Dell, and he did this duty with punctuality and fervour; he had mentioned his name at mass every day, and devoted a decade of the rosary to him on Mondays and Thursdays, ever since their meeting; the Joyful Mysteries appeared to him the proper antidote to his friend’s gloom. He had also sent in his name to the Poor Clares, asking them to present it in the proper Quarter, and to see that it was suitably considered. But all this did not appear to him sufficient; it would have been foolish to pray without making a corresponding effort towards the object of those prayers; so this morning, when he went up to his room, he selected a sheet of paper and a smooth pen, and set himself down to answer his friend’s letter.

He had intended to say some plain words last week, but the disturbance on Friday had made it impossible. However, Chris was not to escape, and for a full hour the priest wrote, weighing every word, rejecting, as he thought, every expression that could be in the least open to misunderstanding. He farced his counsel with remarks appreciative of Chris’s good qualities, and expressive of his own esteem, and by the time he had ended was tolerably content with himself. | He read it over carefully, folded, directed and stamped it; and then stood, weighing it in his hand, smiling and wondering what Chris would say. At least it was impossible for him to take offence. Had he not asked for advice?

The little plaster statue of God’s Mother stood on the mantelpiece beside him, and with a sudden movement he laid it at Her feet.

“Do what You will with it,” he said. ‘‘I leave it to You.”

Then he took it up again, pleased at the thought, for was not Chris devout to Her?—more devout than to any Olympian?—and put it on his table for the post.

He went about his business for a couple of days with restored serenity. Chris still formed the background of his thoughts, but it was lighted by hope. Surely the poor man wanted nothing but peace for his recovery—peace, and a little judicious counsel.

He had given in his letter the benefit of his meditations a week ago. He had told him, with many pleasant periphrases, that will-power was what was wanted; or, rather a concentration of it. He advised him to form small habits, and to make them laws to himself; he instanced physical exercises as a parallel—dumb-bells, deep breathing and afternoon tides. He had poured out his own optimism, and had even ventured to refer to the Providence of God. In fact he had given him exactly the advice that he would have followed himself under similar circumstances—exactly the sensible normal advice by which sensible normal persons direct their lives,

On the Friday evening he came in tired out from his visiting, and found the answer lying in the hall. It was too dark to read it there, but he took it upstairs, pleased at the thought that his friend had written so soon; he sat down in his easy-chair and opened it. It was one long lament at being misunderstood.

‘“ My dearest man, you have said some cruel things to me, just when I thought you were beginning to understand me at last. I am most bitterly disappointed.

“You tell me I am without will-power! Was it lack of will-power then that kept me going all those years, when I received no help from any man, not even from you? True, I gave in once, and went to Paris, as I told you; but is it fair to reproach me with what I told you in confidence? Was it lack of will-power that held me struggling on, denying myself the very necessaries of life, that kept up my self-respect? Again it is true that I came to you at last, as to my last hope, but is it generous to refer to that?

‘“‘T am afraid I have made a great mistake in coming here. It is true that it is honest work, but I hate to think that I depend even for that upon one who distrusts me, as you do. Is there only one way out of it? Are you sure you wish me to remain? It seems to-me that there is no hope anywhere. I had better make an end of it once and for all. If there is a God I think He will be more just than you. Dear man, I know you do not mean to be hard; but you have wounded me cruelly. You do not understand me. No one,” (there followed a complicated erasure) “does understand me.

“ Yours regretfully, GH De

Dick Yolland went through a series of movements when he reached the end.

He first threw the letter violently upon the floor and jumped up; he then went up and down his hearth-rug several times with his hands clenched and his nose twitching. He hit the wall three times violently with his fist. He gave two vicious kicks in the air with a muddy boot.

Then he sat down again, picked up the letter, and read it once more.

It was hatefully plausible, shockingly unjust and ungenerous, maddeningly sentimental; and it was exactly the kind of letter that he ought to have expected Chris to write. He could see him doing it, bent over his desk in a cloud of smoke, his lower lip thrust out, and his pen held sideways tracing the words carefully on the page. How pleased he must have been with it! In what a charming pose he must have seen himself—the blighted, homeless, friendless wanderer, lifting pathetic eyes and hands to an unfeeling world!

What a blazing fool he had been, he told himself, to have thought that Chris meant what he said when he asked for advice! He did not want advice; he wanted sentimental flattery. He wanted another motive for melancholy purring.

Then Dick jumped up, holding the carefully-written sheet between finger and thumb, and sat down to his table. He wished to tell him on a post card not to be a blighted fool, and leave it at that. It would be too absurd to give the tu quoque at length and tell his friend that he himself too was misunderstood. |

It was terribly difficult to decide; and he remained long, with a pen poised over a sheet of paper, asking himself whether he should write at all, and why in the world it was that he took so much trouble over a worthless ass, vowing that he would never again take him at his word.

At last he wrote. It was short, but not so short as he intended when he began.

“My dear Chris,—

“Tam so sorry for my mistake. I really thought you wanted me to say what I thought. I won’t do it again. But you ought to put a footnote saying ‘This is rhetorical.’

“ But I dare say I am perfectly wrong, and that you are quite right in attributing all your misfortunes to Fate, and all your successes to yourself.

“Please do not suggest giving up your work at Amplefield; if for no other reason, because it would be extremely inconvenient to get another man now; he might not understand your methods

“Oh!—I can’t go on like this. But you know perfectly what I mean. Is it not just conceivable that you may be wrong in your estimate of yourself? You can take or leave my contribution to the discussion as you like. I expect it will be ‘leave.’ But don’t talk nonsense about cruelty. Let us drop this; you won’t ask me again for advice, and I promise not to volunteer it. Let us both be reasonable and charitable.

“‘ Ever yours, “cc R Y ”

He folded it quickly lest he should change his mind and become either harder or softer; put it in an envelope, stamped and directed it, and stood it up once more before the little tawdry image.

“Please do better with it this time,” he said. “But I know it was all my own fault. I am a fool. Make me wise-—and him,” he added.

(II) The answer came on the Monday morning, and it consisted of two words on a post card.

“Dear Man.”

Dick grinned, spun it across the room to the corner where he supposed the waste-paper-basket to stand, and looked up at the image.

“Thank You,” he said. “I thought so.”

That was really all that could be done for the present, so, in the back of his mind, and in the front of it when he was at leisure, he began to mature further schemes.

He had a month before him, and only that, because he held himself completely responsible for his friend. It was simply inconceivable that Chris should pack up his things at the end of the six weeks and drift back to town with fifty pounds in his pocket. It would not even be fifty pounds. Five atleast would go to servants, five more, probably, on small graceful gifts, and, if Chris was in a pious mood, probably a statue or a silver heart or something of the kind, to the church. If he retained thirty-five pounds it would be as much as could be expected, and he would probably retain that for about a fortnight, for he would certainly give a small dinner at the Savoy to celebrate his prosperity, and be offended and wounded and all the rest, if Dick demurred or declined to come. And what at the end of the fortnight?

He could not have said why it was that he held himself responsible, beyond the fact that he did so. There was no reason really. Chris had neglected him wholly during the last five years; he had only sent the priest a line or two from France. And yet any other prospect was impossible. Chris had a marvel-lous knack for taking up acquaintances where they had dropped. After the first half-hour of the first dolorous interview on the Thursday night, Dick had felt exactly as if they had met after a fortnight’s absence; he had found himself remembering his friend’s ways, weaknesses, virtues, crimes, as vividly ‘as he had known them at Oxford.

No. Chris must be set on his feet somehow. The priest wrote another letter to the Editor of the Saturday Express.

It was a week before he had an answer, but when it came it was worth waiting for.

The editor regretted he had not answered sooner, but press of business had made it impossible, and he had not understood the urgency. He was acquainted with Mr. Dell’s writings, and thought they might be really popular. He would be happy to offer Mr. Dell a small post on the staff, and his duties would be to write a descriptive article once a week, of two thousand words, and his salary would be one hundred and twenty pounds—that is if Mr. Dell cared to accept it. The engagement would begin at Christmas.

Dick beamed with happiness and something of astonishment, enclosed the letter with a line of congratulation, and sat down to consider.

There would be rather under a month during which Chris would have to be financed. That would not be a very difficult matter; he would ask him to come and stay in town, and there would be about thirty-five pounds for minor expenses. By the end of that time he would know better whether it would be possible to ask Chris to stay with him altogether, but he determined there should be no more question of charity. If he decided to ask him he would do so on strictly business-terms. Twenty-five shillings a week, exclusive of red wine and cigarettes, should be the sum mentioned between them. If he decided to make this offer, and Chris decided to accept it—well, it would be very pleasant. But the priest, bent on his friend’s reformation, was clear that the other must depend on himself. There would be no hope without that. Besides he gave Chris the credit of thinking that any other offer would be an insult.

Dick went into church this time to say ‘“ Thank You”; and he said it fora long time, kneeling under the low smoky roof, Staring up and smiling towards the gilt tabernacle that shone tawdrily splendid in the gloom. How pleased Chris would be, he told himself.

Then he marched back to his house swinging his umbrella and walking on air.

No answer whatever came from Amplefield. At the end of three days Dick sent an impatient post card—

“Are you dead?” and twenty-four hours later received one in return. “Yes, and buried. Am writing from heaven.”

The priest was more annoyed than amused, and his annoyance waxed even greater when twenty-four more hours passed without a word.

But Chris was obviously in a good humour, or, as Dick reflected, he would have named the Other Place, as his manner was; so he contented himself with a wire.

“ Then — presume — no — need — for — post —on —Express.”

Still there was silence, and then on the following morning as the priest came in from his mass he saw a fat letter lying in the hall.

He did not quite know why he was excited by the look of it, but he took it up, again without opening it, and in his zimmara and biretta passed straight upstairs to his room. He laid down his Hovae, sat down in his easy chair, pushed back his cap, and with his heart hammering in his throat, tore open the envelope.

The first sentences drove the blood from his face, and he read on unconscious of all else till the very end.

“My dearest man,

“ How can I tell you what has happened to me? I am in bliss, in BLISS. God has had mercy at last; I thank Him with all my heart. I ask His pardon for all my mistrust and rebellion.

‘““Mary has heard my prayers. Set up a great candle to Her, if you please. How little I have understood!

“Well, this is it, in a word. The dearest girl in God’s creation, the sweetest, the purest, the simplest, belongs to me! What have I done to deserve this joy? You know who she is, and I need say no more.

“ This is how it happened.

“T told you that I had met her out riding. Well, I met her again. Her mother did not know, but I did not know that. I sent her messages again and again, but the dear child, it seems, did not dare to give them; she knew our riding together would be forbidden—and—can I say it?—she could not bear that.

Well, the inevitable thing happened, as indeed it had happened, though I did not understand it, at the first moment that I saw her; and at last I told her one day, in the dear woods of Amplefield. And then I found—oh! Dick—how can I tell you without shame?—but she had thought of me ever since we had first met. You remember the Monday that I went away from Hinton? Well, the poor child had a fit of crying that night, and her mother found her, and of course, as was perfectly right, though I did not understand it at the time, did not ask me to the house again.

But my dear Love could not bear this.—Dick, how can I say this to you?—and she rode out alone every day, and we met; the blessed saints must have been with us.

And now all is arranged.

You know of course that she will be very wealthy by and bye; I told her mother that that was the one thought that restrained me, and that I could not bear to live on my wife. I offered to take her to Italy as she was, but her mother would not hear of it. I had a hard struggle; she said some things to me that Iam trying to forget. No—they are forgotten!—and these are the conditions—I am to be in receipt for two years, of an income of £200. She is only seventeen now. Of course the waiting will be hard for both of us, and I am no Jacob. Yet I could wait a thousand, if I did not die of love.

“Oh! Dick. What a blind devil I have been! Eating husks with swine, complaining against God!

All that you said of me was true, TRUE. I have been a weak, drifting creature; there is hardly a sin of which I have not been guilty; and now I see, I SEE. Yet I cannot repent as you would wish; I do not believe in that kind of repentance. All I know is that the whole world is changed for me; that it is full of sweetness and purity and love. All my faith has come back, and yet I can respect my wife’s ‘faith too. Is there any difference of creed between those whose creed is Love? There is nothing but love anywhere for her and me.

“ Dick—I owe all this to you! You saved me from despair and death; you treated me generously, and I behaved to you like a devil. I do not deserve that you should forgive me, and yet I know you will, so I do not even ask for pardon. And now it is through you that this has come about. It was you who took me to her house. Dick! If ever I show you ingratitude or coldness again, I give you leave to strike me on. the face.

“T am mad with joy and love. Domine non swm dignus! Domine non sum dignus! What can I say but that over and over again? Pray for me! pray for me that it may not be a dream, that I may not die too soon! Come down quickly; I cannot come to you. Iam held here by the cords of a man.

“ Your affectionate loving friend, “Curis. DELL.”

“PS.—Mr. Stirling is very angry and will not speak to me. But Father Maples is pleased. Your father is more than kind, though he says very little. Oh! God bless you, Dick! I cannot say one-hundredth part of what is in my heart.”

CHAPTER.

Ir was a heavy November afternoon turning to dusk as Dick stepped out once more on to the Marlesdon platform. The sun had gone down in an angry, clear glory, and a pale gash of primrose still shone in the west, and in the sheets of water that lay by the side of the line. The fine rain that had fallen all day had ceased, but the lamp-posts, roofs and platform of the station were still gilded and outlined with the reflected splendour.

The dog-cart waited for him, and he was informed that Mr. Dell was gone to Hinton, and would be fetched so soon as the priest reached home.

On the road to the house Dick was still pondering the amazing news to which he had not yet become in the least accustomed.

Chris married to a girl scarcely more than half his own age was an inconceivable picture, and for that reason neither ludicrous nor impressive; it was only unimaginable. What in the world was Mrs. Hamilton about? It was not quite so bewildering as it had seemed at first, for it had appeared from a subsequent letter that the engagement was not formally recognised; he was only allowed to look forward to an engagement on the conditions of a regular income with a prospect of its continuance, and of both Annie’s and his own final perseverance at the end of the two years.

Still, it was bewildering enough. Annie was a Protestant heiress, an entirely innocent girl, and of a very tolerable beauty; Chris was a penniless Catholic vagabond, with a tarnished past; and they had known one another for less than three weeks, and that, more or less in secret. Dick had been aware of ‘his friend’s curious power over women, but he had scarcely realised its full extent.

What, too, was Chris’s own state? He certainly believed himself in love, but, as the priest had reflected once or twice before, there was a difference between sincerity and genuineness. Had the money really nothing to do with it? Again, Chris undoubtedly believed that it had not, but was he right? Dick smiled to himself as he wondered how Chris would pose in his new position; it would be surely difficult even for him to appear romantic and melancholy as the married master of twenty-thousand acres and eight thousand pounds a year; he was cut out for tragedy, not domestic drama. He smiled also as he pondered Mr. Stirling’s consternation at the prospect of a Romish landlord, and ultimately a Romish landlady too, for of course Annie would turn Catholic some day; Jesuits and seminary-priests would be in worse odour than ever at the Vicarage; no doubt the whole affair would be pronounced there to be an unusually flaring instance of Babylonish guile—the Vicar would never believe in Yolland innocence again.

Mr. Yolland was in the smoking-room with a tea-tray as Dick came in, having seen the dog-cart whirl off in the dusk to fetch Chris.

“‘ Well,” said the priest, sitting down. “ I’m——”

“Just so,” interrupted his father. “Pve been saying that too.”

“ Tell me everything.”

“Well, first, he is very much in love.”

“ Really and truly?”

“T think I may say really and truly. In fact more than anyone I have ever seen. Of course he shows it more too, but he is simply a different person. He radiates light and sweetness. Breakfast is a new meal, and he is at mass every day.”

Dick helped himself to sugar.

“Of course,” he said. ‘‘ That is how he would take it. And does he go over there every day?”’

“Well, no. Once a week is permitted. And she and her mother have dined here once.”

“Why was it allowed?”

“My dear Dick, there was no question of anything else. Miss Annie is as mad as he is. And it isn’t allowed; it is only not forbidden.”

“And what does the mother think?”

“Don’t ask me. I have no idea; and I think she has none either. She is simply marking time, to save a defeat.”

“T see,” said the priest musingly. ‘‘ But isn’t it very extraordinary?”’

His father smiled.

“T have given up saying that. It is an inadequate word. But what are you to do with a daughter who raves and has hysterics and fainting-fits? and she had all that.”

d

It was very much as the priest had surmised. The affair had been carried through by violence, and there was undoubtedly treachery too in the besieged citadel. Mrs. Hamilton had plainly been very deeply touched by Chris himself even before the matter had begun.

The father and son sat together half-an-hour more before the wheels of the dog-cart were heard in the drive, and then Mr. Yolland abruptly rose.

“T will be getting to my room,” he said. “ You will want to talk——”

Dick stood up, smiling in spite of his misgivings, as the door burst open and a radiant vision dashed into the room.

It was undoubtedly Chris, but Chris transformed, who held him by the hand and laughed for sheer love. A flood of words poured out, but the priest heard none of them; he was looking amazed at the change that love had wrought.

Even drama had forsaken the lover; he stammered, he trembled, he made awkward gestures, he repeated himself. There were no perorations, metaphors or shrugging of shoulders. He named the Divine Name in the singular, unblenching; he cried the name of his Love aloud without shame and without reason; he described little pointless incidents, her looks, her words, her silences, her movements. He exclaimed at his own unworthiness a dozen times and in the same phrases; he poured out his gratitude, his passion, his penitence and his hopes, in foolish and redundant language. Yes; he was very much in love; his black eyes were candid and lambent with it; the lines were gone from his lips, swallowed up in it, the little furrow above his nose almost erased.

“My dearest man, what is the good of talking? God Almighty Himself has no words for it! a

It appeared that Mrs. Hamilton had made an exception for Dick’s visit, and the two were to be allowed to go over to lunch next day, and to pay their devotions at the shrine. But the visits were to end presently, as Chris had only ten days more at Amplefield, and there was to be no running down from town once a week. He greatly bewailed this.

“You can’t understand, of course, old man; you are a priest and all that, poor devil; but you know it’s a serious thing these two years. Four times a year is all that I could screw out—— Oh! I’m sorry!”’

Dick grinned pleasantly.

“Tam certainly a priest and all that. But I have some faint glimmerings,—in spite of my denseness.”

“Oh! my dear man, I didn’t mean that. Good Lord! I can’t explain. Dick, tell me again you are pleased!”’

“My good chap, I haven’t any words either.”

“ Now just sit down, and let me begin again at the beginning. Tea? No. Damn tea! Sorry, old man!”

They sat there till the dressing-bell rang, and the eloquence was not exhausted. Chris drew the unwilling and splashed priest into his bedroom to hear really and truly what sort of a person Annie Hamilton was.

“You’ve only got a beastiy soutane to put on; you can easily wait ten minutes while I change my studs. Well, look here—first of all——”

And then the tale flowed again.

Dick listened obediently enough, but he really could not attend. He knew perfectly well what

Annie Hamilton was like. He had known her in long clothes. So he watched his friend instead, saw once more the marvellous underclothing, the sock-suspenders, the thin virile arms all brown sinew and yauscle, the scapular of our Lady of Mount Carmel; he observed the play of the silver-initialled brushes, and the hair grow sleek beneath them; the profuse ablutions in stinging hot water; and heard the untiring. song of praise sound thin and muffled from beneath a rough towel—broken and ejaculatory, as the tight shoes rose to their places on the slender feet.

Yet he was really impressed; it seemed to him a very marvellous miracle that love had achieved—no less than the conversion of a cynical, soured, ungenuine soul into a flame of simple devotion that had itself the nature of immortality. But he could not resist one slight attack.

1 say,chere's your Boccaccio. 1 had quite forgotten——”’

“ Give it me,” cried Chris, astraddle before the fire, manipulating a tie.

The priest handed it him, wondering what he wanted.

Chris released a hand, snatched the vellum-covered book and chucked it straight into the heart of the fire.

“There!’”’ he said.

“Good Lord!” said the priest.

Dinner was a difficult affair; but it was really amusing to watch Chris striving to show a decent interest in Mr. Chamberlain and the situation in Russia. Mr. Yolland bore himself with a fine stupidity, and introduced the most astonishingly dreary subjects one after another; Dick obediently followed his lead, and Chris floundered, like a stout merchant out deer-stalking, endeavouring to keep up with the talk, and to avoid absorbed silence on the one side, and precipitous irrelevancies on the other.

But Mr. Yolland showed mercy after one cigarette, and mentioned an important letter that cried to be written.

“ Dick, just come into my study for two minutes, and then you mustn’t interrupt me again to-night.”

When the door was discreetly shut, his father turned to him.

“ Dick, would it be kind or unkind to release him from the library? It is, of course, the merest farce. I believe half the books are upside down.”

“ Unkind,” said the priest decidedly. ‘‘ First, it is a mechanical operation, and secondly he would have no excuse for stopping here. Do you mind?”

“Not in the least. Very well then. But he must make a show of having finished in another ten days.”

“It shall be done,” said his son.

“T talked like that at dinner because I thought it wise. A safety-valve you know. And now, as I said, you mustn’t keep me a moment longer from my letter.”

“Oh, yes! the letter!” said Dick, and laughed aloud.

A few more points had to be elucidated by Chris on the subject of the eyes and hair of his female-friend, and these had not been properly dealt with until nearly half-past ten. Then at last he referred to himself,

“But you know, old man, I’m such an unworthy brute. When I think of that darling—and then of myself. Good God!”

“ Oh, well ”” said the priest vaguely.

“ But I haven’t told you half. I’ve been such an unreal devil. I’ve made excuses till I’ve nearly believed them myself. There was that thing in Paris, you know. I told you about it; I went wholly and ' unreservedly to the devil then. And that was only a year ago. Good God!”

He beat himself on the thighs with indignation.

“ Well, it was a year ago, and you gave it up of your own will.”

“Gave it up! I should think so! The things that fiend knew and did! Dick, I don’t believe you’d ever speak to me again, if you knew all.”

““You’ve been to confession?”

“T have. A week ago, to Father Maples. [I tell you he had a time of it. I don’t suppose he’s ever heard such a tale in his life a

“Don’t, my dear man... Well, and you're sorry?”

“Sorry! Why, I’m nearly mad when I think of t. And yet I know perfectly well No, I won’t say that; it’s inconceivable. But I'll say this: I’ve regretted I gave it up—two or three times, when things were bad with me. My dear man, it’s like a kind of madness; I tell you that I’ve always believed all right in the devil since then. No one but he could have thought of the things Why——’”

“ Don’t tell me!’ cried the priest. ‘‘ I don’t want to hear! It’s done with, thank God! And you're a free man.”

“Well, yes; but——”

“ There are no buts. I don’t want to jaw theology; but have>the goodness to remember Saint Mary Magdalene i

Chris nodded.

“T know. She and our Lady together! Dick, what a thing it is to be a Catholic!”

They smoked a minute or two in silence.

“ Look here, Dick, there’s one thing I want to ask.

I suppose I’m all right in not telling her all this?”

Dick had already anticipated this question, and reviewed his casuistical learning. So he answered instantly.

“Why, yes. Why should you? She takes you for better or worse—and it’s you, not your sins, Besides, they aren’t yours any more now.”

“Except for purgatory? ”

“Except for purgatory.”

“Well, you’re sure?” said Chris slowly. “I swear I believe I’d tell her if you think I must——”

“Tm sure you're not obliged.”

“Well, it’d probably kill me, and it’d certainly kill her, or send her mad. But upon my word, if it was necessary I’d do it.... Dick—you’ll swear on your oath that forgiveness is all right.”

“I swear, on my oath.”

Chris threw his cigarette end into the heart of the fire; a flame flickered and was gone.

“There, like that?”’ he asked. ‘“‘Gone? Burnt (i) eas

“Like that,” said the priest. ‘“‘ Of course you’ve got to eat the ash some day, but it’s only the ash.”

“Only the ash,” said Chris slowly. ‘‘I suppose I can stand that, in purgatory.”

“We've all got to,” said the priest briefly; “ that is, if we’re lucky.”

“Oh! Dick! Luck! And think of mine

Then he was off again on a torrent till after midnight.

It was an edifying experience next morning to observe Chris at his devotions.

He insisted on serving his friend’s mass at half-past eight, and went through his ceremonies with ardour. He kissed the priest’s hand fervently at the taking of the biretta, ministered the cruets as if they contained liquid diamonds, put a restrained passion into the very ringing of the tinkly bell, sighed his Amens like love-words, cried ‘‘ Holy Mary, mother of God... ” as if he had already entered heaven, and ended by kissing his friend’s hand almost as if it were his mistress’s.

Father Maples came out to greet them both when they passed the presbytery-windows _hailf-an-hour later.

He was of the portly type, rosy, fair-haired, with shrewd grey eyes and a perpetual fat smile.

“Well, father, so you’ve come to congratulate your friend,” he cried. ‘‘ And I’m sure we all congratulate him with all our hearts. Of course she isn’t a Catholic, but that can be remedied some day, eh, father?”

“We will hope so,” said Dick coolly.

“Mr. Dell will do his best,” cried the priest again. “What a thing it will be—Hinton Hall in Catholic hands! You will want a chaplain, eh, sir?”’

And so on, and so on.

When they had got clear of the gate Dick turned round,

“Why did you call him antipatico?” he asked curiously.

“ That was before,” said his friend solemnly. ‘‘ He is simpaticissimo now, in spite of everything... Dick! Why are priests such bounders?”’

“They aren’t,” said the priest, “ they are nothing of the kind. Now Father Maples sy

“Father Maples calls himself a man of the world. Is more wanting? Besides he tried to tell me a risqué story one day; not really risqué, you know. Oh! you know the sort. He thought it would please a layman, and make me think him a fine chap.”

“You are so confoundedly critical,” snapped Dick, in defence of his order. “If he hadn’t, you would have called him a solemn prig.”

‘J probably should,” assented Chris. “ That kind of man can’t help being one thing or the other. And he is generally both.”

“ That is singularly untrue,” began Dick in rather a head-voice.

“Oh, shut up!” bawled Chris. “ He’s an angel. I give in. Now about Hinton to-day.”

Then he expounded an elaborate programme for the isolation of himself and his darling after lunch for at least two hours.

“You will have such a lot to say to Mrs. Hamilton, you know And she’s a very charming woman. You’ve often told me so.”

“T see,” said Dick, “and the morning-room will be ours tili four. Thank you very much. Where shall you be?”

“In the schoolroom. Jack is away, thank God!”

‘“The schoolroom,” echoed the priest.

“Ves, the dear child!”

Chris’s impatience was piteous to behold as the morning crawled by. He appeared, in the yellow coat, at the smoking-room door shortly before twelve, and explained seriously that it would be a pity to keep the horse waiting on such a—such a windy day. It was impossible to call it cold. At a quarter past he entreated his friend to see that his hat was in the hall, and as the half-hour struck he uttered a loud profane exclamation and rushed from the room. By seven-and-twenty minutes before one, they were going at a canter up the drive.

Dick evaded the lovers’ meeting on the steps, and fled to the morning-room. Mrs. Hamilton looked up from her desk, smiled, said a word or two and finished her note.

Then she came towards him.

“We must have a long talk, Father Yolland,” she said. “I knew you would be down here soon. Am I to be congratulated?”

“T think so,” said Dick solemnly.

“ Well——” She looked at him, still smiling doubtfully. ‘We shall know better in two years, or say three. Here they come.”

Annie too was changed, but not in the same direction as her lover. But she looked alive, positively, not negatively. She did not look a woman, for that was impossible; but a woman’s soul was in her eyes, and an extraordinary kind of awe. She behaved beautifully; she talked about the Indian famine and American beef-trusts, she sailed through the door without looking to see if Chris were following, and her deportment continued with scarcely an interruption through lunch.

But Dick heard her sigh suddenly, as he disappeared afterwards in her mother’s wake in the direction of the morning-room, and left the two alone.

Mrs. Hamilton settled herself in her upright chair by the fire, took a fan to shield her face, indicated the cigarettes and matches, and began as if she were dictating a letter:—

“My dear Dick Yolland, I have hitherto been considered a sensible woman. Please do not contradict me. I cannot bear much more opposition.”

Dick smiled and said nothing. He saw that she was wound up.

“And now I really don’t know what to think. You saw them at lunch. Very well then.

“Now you need not tell me all the arguments against the arrangement. I suppose I have repeated them to myself, and to Annie, altogether between seventy and eighty times. I did everything. I said I would take her abroad for a year, like a mother in a book. I told her she was a schoolgirl and a baby, and that he was an adventurer and a scamp. I pointed out the religious difficulty, the financial, the social, and all the rest. I entreated, stormed, argued, ignored; I was pathetic, sympathetic, and antipathetic. I even cried a little one evening, and attempted to have hysterics myself. I knew that was my last card, and that I could never hold up my head again. And you see the result. My dear Dick, I cannot conceive what I am about. Can you explain it at all? I hold you responsible, you know.”

Dick was intensely relieved that she took this line so vivaciously.

“Tam not in the least responsible,” he said. “ You would have him here. Please tell me, don’t you really like him very much?”

Her face grew suddenly grave.

‘“Ah! we are coming to the point,” she said. “I do like him very much, though I can’t imagine why. (I suppose I am a little unconventional.) But I am afraid that other people may have liked him very much too. Father Dick, I am going to ask a very wrong question. Can you tell me much about his past life?”’

Dick grew grave too. He had not an idea what to answer. Fortunately she relieved the situation.

“ He told me something, but of course I would not hear too much. I know quite well that he went wrong once. He tried to tell me.”

“Well?”” said the priest, with dry lips.

“T think you will believe me,” she went on, “‘ when I say that that weighed with me more than anything else. I didn’t really care very much about the money and all the rest, but I did care about that. I am extremely conventional in those things—up to a point. This is what I want to know. Is he really all right now? Is he honestly and entirely free from— from all that? I know it happened some time ago.”

Dick was conscious of the lifting of an immense pressure. The thought of Chris’s sins, especially of that of which he had told him last night, had been a good deal of a burden. He knew him to be clean-living now, but the question had been as to whether this was sufficient. But apparently he had really tried to tell Mrs. Hamilton. He licked his lips and prepared to answer. But again she was beforehand.

“T understand perfectly that it is extremely unfair to sound his friends, but it would be more unfair to sound his enemies. I know you will say the best for him that can be said. Now then!”

Dick shifted his feet.

“ Well, then,’ he said, “I believe him to be all right. In fact Iam certain of it, and if you had heard him talk last night you would be certain too. He was asking me about—about forgiveness. He said he felt the thought of it all would drive him mad, if he were not quite sure of forgiveness. He said something else too that I think settles the matter: he said he would be willing even to tell Miss Annie herself, everything, if it was the right thing todo. That means a great deal from a man of his pride.”

Mrs. Hamilton murmured something, looking at him with interested eyes.

“« And there was another thing too,”’ went on Dick, encouraged. ‘‘ You know his Boccaccio that he always goes about with? It has been a kind of Bible to him, but it wasn’t anything more than a pose, really. Well, even that has gone. He chucked it into the fire last night.”

“The dear man!” cried the lady.

“Yes, indeed; I am glad you appreciate that. It meant a lot to Chris. Well, and the way he talked about Miss Annie! I wish you could have heard ieee

“My dear Father Dick, I have. Again and again.”

“Yes, I know; but to another man it means more. I have never seen such a change. He seems perfectly natural. It is a miracle.”

“Then you really think fe 9—-(2096)

“T tell you, he has dropped even his posing, and that means everything. I think I know now why I always liked him so much. He is showing his face at last.”

Mrs. Hamilton made an abrupt, uncharacteristic movement with her hands.

“T can’t tell you how pleased I am, Father Dick. I was very uncomfortable—much more than I let anybody see. Lord Brasted——”

“What?”

“Why do you say that?. -Lord Brasted has written me such a letter! Of course he knew dear James very well, and all that, as he says, but I don’t think even that ”» She made a movement as if to get up, and then sat back again. ‘‘ No. I won't show it you; it isn’t fair; but he says the most dreadful things... Why do you look like that?”

“Tt’s very odd,” said Dick. “Chris’s beastly intuitions seem to have been all right. He said that Lord Brasted hated him.”

‘He doesn’t hate him. He only says that I am mad. Of course I had to write and tell him everything. He says he is coming down here after Christmas.”

“But you won't listen?”

‘“‘T certainly shall not listen. Besides he couldn’t tell me anything I don’t know. You see Mr. Dell told me quite enough, and now you tell me all this.

... Of course Annie may change—I have warned him of that; or he may himself 4

“He certainly won’t. He may die, of course.”

“Don’t, Father Dick.”

‘Oh! I don’t think he will,” laughed the priest, he’s got something better to do.”

“And about his income? I am going to be resolute on that point.”

Dick explained the situation. The position on the Saturday Express was a certain hundred and twenty pounds a year, and implied a good deal more. Chris ought to be able to make at the very least another hundred by outside articles.

“And where will he live?”

“I think I shall ask him to come and live with me—as a paying guest.”

“Oh, do! I should be so much happier.”

“ Very well, I shall be delighted.”

It was very pleasant to the priest to sit there in that charming morning-room, by the cheek of a wood-fire, and spin plans for his friend. Things had straightened themselves with such miraculous swiftness, and a level plain road lay ahead, leading direct to the Delectable Mountains.

He understood everything now—Mrs. Hamilton’s position, her pride in her own unconventionality, her double set of reasons for yielding, namely her daughter’s obstinacy and her own affection for Chris. He had a greater opinion of Annie now than ever before.

He looked round the familiar room with a curious sense of novelty. There were the tables with their silver things and flowers, the inlaid spinet, the brown walls hung with water-colours, the pendant plasters on the ceiling. Outside there was the hall, the suite of rooms opening beyond, the court, the stables, the park; and Chris was to be master of all this. They would be neighbours one day; their estates would march together!

He laughed aloud suddenly in the middle of a sentence.

“ Well,”’ said the other.

“Tt is all so extraordinary—Chris living here! I can’t see him in the picture. What in the world will be his pose?”

“T thought you said

“Oh! of course all that posing is gone. But he must be allowed to strut a little sometimes. After all, he is Christopher Dell!”

“There is one thing I cannot face,” said Mrs. Hamilton presently, “and that is Mr. Stirling. Are clergymen allowed to excommunicate?”’

“1 believe not.”

‘Well, that’s a comfort. He came up here as soon as he heard. He said he was sure it was a malicious slander, and he said all the disagreeable things instantly, in order that I mightn’t silence him by telling him it was true. He asked me then all the rhetorical questions that he could think of— whether I realized what I was doing, and so on. I told him I didn’t, in the least, and that took the wind out of his sails. By the way, what about Mr. Dell’s religion?”’

“Oh! he’s a—a Roman Catholic all right— particularly just now. I believe he always has been one at heart.”

“ But about Annie?”’

“Oh! he'll behave perfectly well. He'll be far too honourable, I think; he’ll absolutely forbid her to become a Catholic for fear that he should be thought to have influenced her unduly.”

“Really 2?”

“Well, no; not really. In fact I shall be surprised if Miss Annie doesn’t become a Catholic some day——”’

“Of course if her convictions mother.

“Oh! well,” said Dick, “he won’t bother her, if you mean that. He’s the most individualistic Catholic I have ever known.”

”” began the

They went out presently and walked a while on the terrace in the gusty weather. Rooks fled across the torn sky to the tall trees in the front of the house, seeming to balance themselves on the point of one wing; and the creepers on the south wall shivered and glanced as the wind struck them. It was a shouting day, and Dick’s exhilaration rose with it. It was really true then that Chris would have all this one day, or rather hold it in trust for his children. Chris’s children! How abominably he would spoil them! All that fat pasture-land sprinkled with copses; those weods against the sky—he would go about them solemnly on horseback, and think himself very busy.

The two really important persons came out at the verandah-door presently, and across the grass and between the flower beds. They walked a little apart, but their faces wore a subdued radiance. They looked almost like two children.

Dick stood with a smile all across his face like a fox-terrier. He could not help it; it was so absurd and so delightful.

“Well?”’ said Mrs. Hamilton.

“ Well,” sighed the two.

They could not talk much going home. There was a groom behind, and Chris was naturally melancholy. It would be six days before he could traverse this road again.

Mr. Yolland too was at tea when they arrived, and it was not until nearly six that Dick said all that he felt.

He ended by a word or two about Mrs. Hamilton.

‘““My dear chap, I’m delighted you told her what you did.”

“Why? Has she been questioning you?”

“Of course. What else do you suppose she wanted to talk to me for? She asked me all sorts of things.”

“And you told her by

“T told her what I felt.”

“Dear man!”

“Well, but why didn’t you tell me you had told her?”

sae Gare tCatota ome

“ How?”

‘“T didn’t tell her what I told you. I only told her about my first affair—you know—when I was at Oxford.”

Dick did dimly remember some veiled confidence, but his jaw rather fell.

“Then all this other affair a

“Why, of course not. Why should I tell her? I was willing to tell Annie, as I said.”

Dick meditated a moment or two, rather uncomfortably. It seemed that he had been under a small misconception, and that Mrs. Hamilton knew nothing whatever about the affair of last year. He tried to remember what he had said. He had certainly been very emphatic, but surely he had not said anything that was not true, viewed in this new light. He had only insisted that Chris was all right now.

“ What's the matter, old man? ‘You don’t mean to say I ought to tell her?”’

“No,” said Dick slowly, “I don’t see the necessity. After all ss

“ After all, I’m forgiven, aren't 1? And she knows I was a bad hat once. It doesn’t much matter how long ago it was, as long as I’m not a bad hat now?”

“No—I don’t suppose it does.”

“Look here, Dick, I don’t understand——’”

The priest made an effort.

“No, you needn’t; it’s perfectly right. As you say, she knows quite enough to decide. And she has decided.”

“Really? You're sure? You know I shouldn’t like ig

“No—I’m sure. It’s all right.”

“ Really fintto?”

“ Fintio.”

“Then for God’s sake, let’s change the subject. It stinks.”

Chris was certainly very much changed. Three weeks ago, however severe his penitence, it could have taken no other form than that of an elaborate discussion of details, with many exclamations. Now it appeared that the whole subject was horrible to him; he had faced it in confession, renounced it and thrown it away; he didn’t wish to finger the foul thing again even for purposes of contrition.

This was all very cheering to the priest, and the slight discomfort of his recent discovery presently passed away. He could say, with his hand on his heart, that his friend was straight now.

They talked of numberless things that evening, and Dick opened the question of Chris’s lodging with him.

““My dear chap!” cried his friend. ‘‘ You know you couldn’t stand me for a week.”

“Shall I be frank?”

“Well, yes!”

“Well, I don’t think I could have, a month ago, or you couldn’t have stood me. But things are different now.”

“How do you mean?”

“Good Lord! Must I tell you to your face? Well then, you aren’t the same person. Boccaccio gone, and all the rest! You'll burn the silk pyjamas TER iz Oh! ”

“ Well, isn’t it so?”

“Dick, it is so—I swear it. I wish to wear a Norfolk jacket with the belt unbuttoned, and a twill night-shirt for the rest of my life.”

“Well, then, will you come and wear them in Soho Lane? Twenty-five shillings a week. Accounts rendered and discharged every Saturday morning.”

“ Dick, do you mean it? Oh! you are a good chap. I'll come—I’ll come and live in Rrixton if you ask me. Or Little Tooting.”

“Allright then. T’ll expect you on Tuesday week.”

“ Dick, must you really go back to-morrow?”’

“Of course I must. I’ve got confessions all the afternoon and evening.”

“I wish I was one of your people. May I black your boots when I come?”

‘I shall be delighted. Sixpence a week off for that!”

So they went on till Dick had to say his office. It was all rather frothy talk, and of no kind of value. Its only interest to the priest was that it was the symptom of an extraordinary convalescence. Chris had become a kind of boy again; he could give and take with good-humour. Dick had not to guard his language.

He glanced up at him once or twice over his book, and found him once more more interesting than the fortunes of the holy person, related in the second nocturn. Chris sat poising a poker between his thin sinewy hands, staring, staring at the fire with the light on his chin and forehead. His lips moved now and again, he smiled irresponsibly once or twice, he sighed in half-content and half-melancholy two or three times. He hardly smoked a cigarette in forty minutes.

Dick shut his book as the dressing-bell rang.

“ There,” he said, and took his friend by the arm.

Mr. Yolland introduced the subject of his friend, Mr. Rolls, at dinner.

“You met him, I think, Mr. Dell, didn’t you? ie

‘At Junch in the cottage,” said Chris serenely, “when I behaved so extremely badly.”

Mr. Yolland glanced up from turbot, smiling.

“TJ went to see him to-day. You must go over to Foxhurst before you leave us. It is really an astonishing house; it has everything necessary for a story. You should write an article on it.”

“Do tell me, sir.”

“Oh! you must see it. It has galleries, a court, a moat, a King’s room, a Queen’s room; it had a hall, but that’s gone; and it has a ghost.”

“T don’t know how long the Rolls have had it. One of them was a kind of atde-de-camp to Mary Stuart. They have always been Catholics.”

“And he is the last?”

“He is the last. His wife died, and there are no children.”

“And he himself? ”

“Well, Dick calls him a mystic. And he is a superb gardener; and... and other things.”

“Mrs. Hamilton told me some odd things——”

Mr. Yolland’s manner changed a little, and his voice sounded cold.

“ People will say anything,” he said. ‘‘ Yet I don’t know that I am surprised——”

“T beg your pardon, sir; I did not mean that——”

“I know. You mean his guests.”

“Who were there to-day?”’ asked Dick.

Mr. Yolland smiled a little.

“Well, so far as I remember there was a—a Presbyterian minister; a—a broken-down actress, and, yes—he was there, I saw him in the garden— an ex-priest.”

“ By Gad!” said Chris.

“ Just so.”

“ But what are they doing Pet

“They are his friends,’ said the other shortly “The actress poured out tea.”

But Chris’s eyes were already beginning to be vacant, and Dick switched the conversation on to another line. It was impossible to expect the lover to attend to any one irrelevant matter for more than three minutes.

The departure next day was a sufficiently cheerful affair. Sentiment was impossible in an open phaeton at a quarter past eight on a rainy November morning, although Chris did his best. He insisted on breakfasting with his friend at seven forty-five, and sitting by his side all the way to the station.

“ Ten days more,” said Dick, turning towards him as he drove.

Chris sighed violently, and then abruptly smiled.

“Only ten days,” he said vivaciously.

“You beastly hypocrite!” said Dick.

“Well, lam. But aman must keep his manners.”

“ And what time shall I expect you?”

“Oh! about dinner-time,” said Chris vaguely, “or perhaps after. Don’t sit up. You see there’ll be a lot to do on the last day.”

On course.

“Dick, give me a poky room. No more spare bedrooms.”

“YT shall give you your money's worth, neither more nor less.”

“ What shall I do all day, till this Saturday Express business begins?”

“Poems,” observed the priest, “or articles. I should imagine poems.”

“By Gad, yes! And it begins at the New Year?”

“The Editor says so.”

“Dick! What extraordinary luck the whole thing is! It’s like a conjuring trick. The omelet is positively in the hat, when expected.”

“ And without one broken egg.”

Exactly’

They were five minutes before their time, and Dick preferred to sit under the fur rug till the signal dropped, while the groom disposed of the bag and took the ticket.

“You travel third?” asked Chris.

“Where else?”

“ By Gad! I will too, next time. I never thought Of gt

“You will be back in time for another breakfast at nine,” observed the priest.

“T think not,’ said Chris. “To tell the truth, if you don’t mind——”

‘“ What on earth do you mean?”

“ Dick, for God’s sake don’t laugh. But would the groom mind taking me round by Hinton?”

But you" can’¢2=—*

“I know I can’t. But I want to go past the gate. You can see the roof, you know. Oh, Lord! what a fool you must think me!”

But Dick did not in the least want to laugh. It seemed to him once more to be the most wonderful thing he had ever seen. And this was Chris!

“ Well, I must go,” he said, “‘ there’s the signal; and I’ve got to get to the other side. Good-bye, old man. Tuesday week.”

“God bless you, Dick!”

Chris took the reins and watched him across the line; he saw him speak to the groom, but he could not hear what was said.

When the train was gone, and he had waved frantically to the silk-hatted head protruded from a third-class window, the groom came back.

“Mrs. Warwick’s is the best, sir,” he said, taking the reins. “Eh! What?” “Bor tobacco, sir. Master Dick said you wanted some tobacco in Hinton.”