Chapter II

(I) BoLTon STREET, Westminster, looked at its very worst when the priest turned into it about eleven o’clock in the morning.

Behind him lay the unlovely thoroughfare through which he had come, swept by a dry, hot, unwholesome air, full of the smell of cabbages, fried fish, and unclean humanity, clamorous with shrill children and abusive women—(all as has been told a hundred times by as many chroniclers); and here was Bolton Street, as stagnant as the Pit, in the blaze of the July sun, glaring with white pavements, airless and dreary. Tall house-fronts rose against the sky on either side, set with square windows, suggestive of nothing but conventionality and a terrible kind of social pride, as of a retired tradesman striving to conceal his past. It had not even the grace of bare poverty.

This ambition was more than apparent in the front of number three where the priest presently found himself. From the two windows on either side of the front door looked out lace curtains pinned together; in one was a chess-board table, half-covered by a wool-mat; in the other the back of a mahogany chair allowed a dining-room table to be seen, where no doubt the boarders sat three times a day, in the solemn gloom beyond. There was a brass plate on the door, inscribed with the name “ Mrs. Perch” in elegant italics.

Dick pulled the bell, and turned round to wait, listening to the jangle in the area below, and aware that a face crowned by a cap had peeped instantly from the first-floor window. He stood staring out disconsolately at the houses opposite, the hot, empty pavements; half hearing the broken murmur from Great Peter Street, and trying to rehearse what he was going to say.

There had been of course no resisting the imperious man. Yesterday morning the priest had said mass, as he had been asked, and had yielded helplessly half-an-hour before the dog-cart came round. He had yielded, he told himself, because there was nothing else to do; it was impossible to leave Chris in London, yet he could not go to him without a proposal ready.

He had determined to be friendly and natural, to refuse to see any significance in his friend’s silence and avoidance of his company, to ask no questions beyond those generally necessary to sociability, and to meet any dramatic poses by an inability to understand them. He would not play dominoes any more with this man; he would disregard openings and play his own game. He would even refuse to allow his own pity to dominate him; pity would come later and in private. John Rolls must be trusted utterly for the present.

There was a sound of footsteps within and the priest turned round.

“Mr. Dell?” he said interrogatively.

The shabby maid looked at him doubtfully, and Dick was aware that someone was listening from overhead.

“T don’t know——” she began; “he said

“That’s all right,” said the priest mounting the step. ‘‘ I know all about that. Which is his room? Pll go up.”

“Name, sir, please.”

“Oh! I’m an old friend,” said Dick decisively. “Which is his room?”’

He had pushed past her by now, but she still stood looking dubiously at his long coat and clerical collar. Dick put his foot on the lowest step of the interior staircase, half-conscious through dazzled, sun-tired eyes of the dingy, genteel hall, its marbled walls, its linoleum carpet, and the glass of dusty birds on the mahogany side-table.;

“ Third floor front—opposite the stairs,”’ she said hesitatingly.

A capped head protruded over the banisters as he went up.

“Tf you please, sir,’”’ said a sharp voice.

The priest went on until he faced the speaker, and saw, beneath a bracket holding an Infant Samuel, a lean old woman, with magenta ribbons in her cap, eyeing him severely.

“Mr. Dell,” he said, conscious of the advantage that the three steps gave her.

“He can’t see no one.”

Dick attempted geniality.

“Tm an old friend,” he said. “Er—and a clergyman.”

This went home to some extent, and the old lady drew back a little, though not enough to jet him pass. In the pause he was aware of the sound of frizzling far below him, and the pungent smell of burnt fat.

“He can’t see no one,” she said again. “He’sa writing gentleman, and is not to be disturbed before dinner-time.”

“Tl take the risk,” said Dick pleasantly.

‘“D’you come from St. John’s, sir?” she asked sharply.

“No, no, Mrs. Perch. I’m an old friend. Which: is his room, please?”

Her lips pursed themselves.

“ Name, please.”

“Pather Yolland,”’ said Dick desperately, trying to speak low; he was terribly afraid Chris would hear his voice.

The words went home like a bullet, and Dick instantly perceived the advantage in her aghast face. He tried to look sacerdotal, and she shrank back yet further as he came up.

“]] take the risk,” he said again, and went past her, delighted at the conservatism of the lower middle classes; no doubt the old lady expected an explosion, or at least a whiff of sulphur. He could see her through the banisters eyeing his legs.

There was an indescribably dreary view from the landing on the second flight, of pale brick housebacks discoloured by smoke, an invalid tree or two below him, and, above, an array of chimney pots, all sordid and unsuggestive against the hot, glaring sky.

The interior of the house, too, showed a diminuendo of gentility as he went up, yet it was no nearer to graceful poverty; the marbled walls had given place to a material resembling grey blotting-paper divided into Cyclopean blocks, the mahogany banisters to others composed of deal that hardly did more than pretend to the illusion that they, like the walls, were cut from expensive Italian quarries. There were no dusty birds here; there was not room for them. It was really incredible that Christopher Dell should be the minotaur of this labyrinth of hideousness; it was the kind of place, rather, where professors of phrenology should live.

The priest’s head turned the last corner, with the smell of burnt fat rising like incense about him, and the last landing became visible. There was a door on his left, the foot of the attic stairs on his right, with a table, a tin candlestick, and an enamelled slop-pail on the floor, and immediately in front the second door.

Dick was astonished at his own excitement. He had not seen Chris for eighteen months, and until two days before had not known whether he were alive or dead. He had vanished after the last interview at Hinton Hall; Dick had followed him out too late, and had seen him disappear into the woods without turning his head; and the next news he had had of him was at a little station five miles away. There had been no trace of him in London; the letters sent to Paris had been absorbed there into silence; there had been no answer to advertisements. That was absolutely all that he knew for certain.

And now here he was within five yards.

The priest crossed the landing almost on tiptoe, and stood an instant listening before he tapped. There was no sound from within; only a faint whiff of tobacco-smoke stole out to mingle with other smells. It reassured him, and he tapped.

There was no answer; and he tapped again.

“ Avan-ti-t,” sounded in a head-voice; and then, “Come!”

Dick could not restrain one large quivering smile; it was certainly Chris; no one but he could pretend to be so de-nationalised. Then the smile died, as his heart began to rap imperiously at the base of his throat.

He opened the door, and went very softly in, smiling tremulously.

“Well, old man?” he said.

It was a dismal little room by nature, but grace had informed it. Dick was aware of a bed on the left covered with a creaseless red blanket, a chest of drawers at its foot ranged with shining instruments and a looking glass—on the right stood an easy chair without an antimacassar with its back towards him; there was a square of carpet in the middle of the room, and a table in the window. Sitting at this was the figure of a man in shirt-sleeves, who turned round with uplifted pen as the priest spoke.

There was one moment of complete silence. Then Chris pushed back his chair, and stood, one hand poised, with the pen still in it, on his writing-table, the other ready for gesture, with outstretched fingers.

He was certainly older; his hair had retired a little on his temples, and on the left side above his ear where the light fell on it, it was slightly streaked with grey. But his poise was the same—perfectly upright, with projecting chin thrown up and forward, and a severe cynicism in his eyes. His trousers fell from waist to ankle without a wrinkle to break the perpendicular; his waistcoat was unbuttoned, and showed a neat clip holding his tie to the edge of his shirt-front. He wore exactly the air of an actor confronted with a mysterious and sinister stranger who arrives in a snowstorm.

The priest shut the door.

Well, old man,” he said again, “‘ how are you? Y

Chris cleared his throat.

“To what may I attribute ” he began.

(Yes, Dick reflected, that was precisely the expected opening.)

“ Brandiston told me you were here. I thought I’d look you up. May I sit down?”

He advanced towards the easy-chair, and Chris turned stiffly, still facing him.

He was obviously thinking how it was possible to assault a friend who would not cross blades or cry “on guard.”

Dick did not venture to put out a hand; he felt as if he were treading on eggs; so he parted his long coat-tails, sat down, laying his hat on the floor, and took out a pocket-handkerchief to wipe his face.

“My word! Chris, you are hot here.”

The other stood as still as an image. Dick understood that the attitude represented the paralysis of astonishment.

“You look surprised,” he said. “‘ What’s the matter? Why didn’t you——”

“Matter!” cried the other. ‘I am amazed at such—such %

“ Such what? Didn’t you know I was in town still 2? Why didn’t you look me up?”

Chris laid his pen down deliberately, and Dick thought he was on the point of folding his arms; but he only clasped his waistcoat convulsively with one hand.

‘““ You come here he cried.

‘““Why not?” asked the priest. “ I’d have come sooner if I’d known——”

“You come here?”

Chris licked lips supposed to be dry, and swallowed noisily in his throat.

“Took here, old man. Have you got anything against me?”

Chris sat down heavily and passed a hand over his brow.

“Against you? Against you?——” he began; but the dramatic energy was waning; it needed the deliberate spur of the will. The other saw that.

“May I smoke?”’ said Dick abruptly, drawing out his case; he thought that for very pity’s sake he must allow his friend an interval for transition. He struck a match thoughtfully on the fender, trying to prevent his hands from trembling, lit his cigarette, and drew a long breath or two of smoke. He adjured himself vigorously in his heart not to give in; he must refuse every cue.

“ Now then, Chris, for the Lord’s sake tell me what’s the matter. Why didn’t you answer my letters? I suppose you were in France, weren’t you?”

“My God!”

“Yes, I thought so,’”’ went on the priest, carefully looking out at the chimney pots through the window, and affecting to watch the movements of a cat amongst them. ‘‘And when did you come back?”’

There was no answer to this. Chris’s cry upon his Maker had been uttered with a sudden gesture of both hands; now he was grasping the knobs of his chair-arms, and staring severely upon the friend who would not meet his eyes.

“Look here, old man. Are you very busy? I’ve got an invitation for you.”

Chris’s lip “‘ curled”’ again.

“Say that again,’ he cried.

“Certainly. An invitation.”

“Well?”

“From Foxhurst. Old Rolls wants to see you.”

There was a silence.

Dick was aware that a pair of glittering eyes were supposed to be reading him through and through;

so he contemplated the imaginary cat with even greater zeal.

“Well? What are your engagements? Are you on the Saturday still?”

Dick knew perfectly well he was not; he had received an indignant expostulation from the editor, eighteen months before, asking where Mr. Dell had hidden himself; but it served its purpose of giving him something to say.

Chris rose with great dignity, and regarded him piercingly.

“ Look here. I don’t know how you got here, nor what the devil you came for. I thought I was explicit enough last time. Shall I say it again?”

The priest stood up abruptly too; he knew that his self-control was ebbing like a spring-tide, and he felt he must meet his friend before he lost it altogether. The other’s voice had a crack that was not all art.

““No, Chris, for God’s sake, don’t.”

There was one instant of silence. Then Chris wheeled about, dropped upon his knees and burst out sobbing, his face hidden in his hands.

For a moment the priest hesitated, looking at the shaking shoulders, the neat waist, and the beautiful trousers. He felt the shock of antipathy at this exhibition break on him like a wave,

Then he drove it back, summoned up all the sentimentality he possessed, and with one step was on his knees by him, his arm across the heaving shoulders.

“Dear man!” he said, hearing his own voice break, partly with shame, partly with real emotion, and his eyes filled with tears.

It was three or four minutes before either spoke. Dick watched the chimney pots against the glaring sky swim into clearness again, heard the chatter of sparrows beneath the eaves, and smelt the vapour of burnt fat ooze through the door; and every one of the details was incalculabiy more distinct and objective than this thin body beneath his arm, gradually sobbing itself into quietness. Then it made a movement, the arms writhed out from beneath the bent head, reached across the table and hung limp appealing hands there, and the forehead rested on the sheet of half-finished manuscript.

Yes, that was a pose too—the attitude of weary and contrite exhaustion; yet the priest knew that if he allowed that fact to influence even the tones of his voice, all would be to do over from the beginning.

“Dear man,” he murmured again, and pressed the limp shoulders.

Then a soft moaning began.

“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper virgint... et tibi, pater... tibt pater.... Oh! Dick! I’m a devil, a damned soul... in Tartarus

. in Tartarus... meaculpa... mea maxima culpa.. Oh! but the gods have been hard—hard!... I’ve had no chance... no chance.... I’m a weak fool... no better than a woman.... I went back to her, Dick... I went back to her.... I burnt your letters.... I’ve been with her for a year... more than a year—God damn me!—can’t I speak the truth even now?... Sixteen, seventeen months... and... and in hell all the time.. Oh! you dear man... you angel of God! But it’s too late... I’ve gone too far... the dog returned to his vomit again.. - there’s no hope. Oh! but poor dog.. - poor little dog... poor devil... he knew no better.... Oh! Dick, don’t leave me: for God’s sake, wait a minute...”

The shoulders shook again with passionate self-pity, and the priest’s eyes were blind again. The chimney-pots appeared to totter, to dissolve. There had been an instant just now when loathing had gripped him like a wrestler—a loathing that was almost physical nausea at the thought of this man’s life. But it was gone again in a flash, engulfed in a sudden flood of emotion. Yet he knew it was rank sentimentality, and he recognised again what a fool he had been not to understand that sentimentality was the only way. And he a priest!

“Oh! Dick—confiteor tubi pater.. - pater amantissime... how good you are! how pure and good! But there’s no hope.... Pm broken this time... broken this time for good and all.... (A hand stole back falteringly, and Dick, lost to all self-respect, seized it tight with his own disengaged hand and held it.) ‘ Broken this time... There’s no health in us... erred and strayed.” Dick bit his lip fiercely, but he had to say it. “The Good Shepherd, Chris, old man!”

“ Ah—h! Bone Pastor, nos tueve... mM terra Huentium. «.. But even-te can’t bring a soul out Bhell. =. 1k went back to her, Dick... and

_ and I broke with her last month.... Ob? damn me! what a brute, what abate. -.. “ve lied and pretended too jong see SE didn’t break with her this time.. - she turned me out... - sick of me... she gave me five pounds.. and and I tookit.... Dick! Dick... Itookit.... se 18) a peered

Dick patted the shaking shoulder softly.

“ There, old man! you’ve made a good confession.

• • • Come now....”

“Oh! Dick!.. I took it.”

Dick thanked God fervently under his breath. It was this last thing then that accounted for the collapse. Nothing short of that would have done it.

“ Now, Chris, old chap, you’re worn out. Sit down again. We'll have a long talk.”

He rose to his feet, softly unloosed the limp hand, and stood looking down at the graceful contrition. Again he had to remind himself that sentimentality was the only way—for the present, at least. He put a hand once more on the neat shoulder, but it was an effort. It was all so sickening.

“Sit down, old man! You'll feel better directly.”

He went back to his own chair and waited.

After yet another half-minute’s pause, the figure too rose with an exquisite weariness, passed a hand over its eyes, and sat down too, exhausted.

The priest took out his cigarette-case, leaned forward and held it out.

Chris looked at him an instant with tear-stained cheeks, and then, with a kind of reverent solemnity, as if he were taking some great sacrament, detached a Smyrna cigarette. A match was struck, and handed to and fro, and Dick crossed one leg over the other and began to look at the chimney-pots again.

“ Now then, the first thing is, can you come away this afternoon?”

“Where to?” asked the languid voice.

“ Foxhurst. Old Rolls wants to see you.”

_ Chris smiled pathetically, and Dick felt himself bound to observe it.

“T can come—yes. But ad quid bonum?”

‘‘Country air,” said the priest mendaciously. “You want picking up. What’s that you're writing?”

Chris closed his eyes for a moment with a faint angelic smile.

“ A little sketch,’ he mewed. ‘‘I don’t suppose it will be taken.”

“Have you had much accepted?”

“One thing, a little dream I had, of Olympus.”

“T saw it a a3 Yes? 22

“Oh! I thought it very nice—very good indeed,” he added hastily.

“Well, that’s all. All the others returned. I write what I think now, not what others would have me think.”

Dick nodded sympathetically.

“Ah! dear man!” sighed Chris. “ Of course you understand. But who else would?”

Dick smiled with an effort.

“Well, but—I suppose you are hard WPA

Chris’s wan smile became really saintly.

“Tt was one and ninepence that I had this morning when I looked at my treasury, and sevenpence of that went for cigarettes.”

Dick ventured on a grin, but let it fade into sympathy as he saw the other’s face.

“ Of course—I know. Then old Rolls is just the thing. We'll go down this afternoon.”

“Vm afraid my landlady 3

“Oh, yes! I see. Well, we'll settle that. Now, how about lunch?”

“Will you lunch with me, dear fellow?”

Dick’s snub-nose wrinkled. There was abundant excuse.

“No, no. You must come with me. Pack first; there’s lots of time, and we can catch the two forty-five.”

Chris leaned forward suddenly with elbows on knees, and face in hands; the cigarette smoke rose gracefully from his hair.

“No, no, dear man! You are too kind. But I can’t come. But how heavenly!”

Dick repressed a sigh. He knew perfectly well that the other consented at heart, and it was tiresome to have to repeat the formulas.

‘““My good chap! Don't talk rot. There’s no kindness at all. I simply long for an excuse to leave town for a night. I’ve only slept away one night this year.”

Chris was silent.

“ Look here! You needn't refuse the first thing I ask you. I tell you honestly...”

Chris lifted his face and looked at him emotionally.

“ Dear old Dick. I can’t refuse if you put it like that.... I... I will do anything you tell me.

I tell you I’m broken... broken this time for good and all.”

Down went the face into the hands again.

Dick was relieved, but astonished, at the swift capitulation. He had expected at least five minutes’ resistance. He threw his cigarette away and rose briskly.

Well, that’s first rate. But we mustn’t lose any

Gineiee Look here... 0." He fumbled for his sovereign purse.

Chris threw a swift glance at him, and then dropped his head still lower.

“Pm ashamed, ashamed! The second time!”

“Don’t talk rot. Here! Go and settle up. Vl wait here.”

When Chris was gone at last with many gestures and cries, Dick let his face relax into a large, contented smile. But he felt abominably tired too. It had been a considerable strain.

He stood up to look round the room with eager zeal.

Really, Chris was an artist! There were the shaving things, the initialled brushes, and the nail instruments, in beautiful parallels on the chest of drawers. Silk socks depended from the bed-rail with suspenders attached. There were four books by the head of the bed, and the priest sped across on tip-toe to look at them. Omar Khayyam, a Horace, a novel by Pierre Louys and another by Jean Lorrain. It was a perfect selection.

The table too was as it should be.

A little pile of manuscripts, each clipped, lay on the left-hand corner. Dick lifted them carefully to look at the titles.

“ The Three Dread Sisters.”

“ 4 Soul in Suffering.”

“ Tartarus.”

“ Renier de’ Calbolt.”

His eyes, too, caught patches of purple epithets. Waters were “‘ murmurous with melancholy,” it seemed; “her eyes were full of limpid light, shot with silver grey,” and “her hands seemed formed to twine themselves with amaranth and asphodel.” Cerberus also “uttered a rumorous roar”; the “dread ferryman lifted the penny from the eyes of the sleeping boy,” and so on, and so forth.

There was a revolver, too, lying convenient to the hand on the right side. Dick looked at it gingerly, and perceived the copper caps of the cartridges in place. It was a detestable habit, he told himself.

On the marbled mantelpiece too were objects of interest—a calling-card, rather yellow, face upwards, inscribed “Christopher Dell, Brasenose College, Oxford.’ A rosary, a diamond-type Dante, laid face open at the Inferno, of course, and, what touched him more than all else, five cigarette ends in an old inkstand. He touched them almost reverently, and turned away abruptly as Chris’s hand fell on the handle outside.

Chris gave him one indescribable look, and poured a quantity of loose silver into his palm.

“Dick!” he said.

The priest watched him as he packed. A tidy Gladstone-bag came from under the bed, labelled, and directed in fifteenth-century handwriting. Then clothes appeared from the chest of drawers, were shaken, re-creased and re-folded, each suit separated from its fellow in whitey-brown paper; then three shirts, probably the survivors of the shining regiment, eighteen strong, of a year and three quarters ago, and two sets of pink-striped pyjamas. Then the books and papers, the dressing-case—each thing in its place, a couple of pairs of boots, one of pumps, and a little leather box of handkerchiefs, a small bottle of violet-scent, and when all was done, the revolver

Chris held it up.

‘“‘ Dear man,” he said, ‘‘ an hour ago I thought this was my only friend in the world.”

Dick tried to respond with a suitable expression of countenance.

“Dick! Twice this has been at my head in the last month! and every time something—something.restrained me. Was it your prayers, dear man?”

Then the revolver slid into a side-pocket of the bag, the straps were fastened, and Chris stood up.

“Oh! Dick!” he cried again. ‘ My good angel! And to think of the country!”

He caught the priest’s hand, and kissed it passionately.

Dick woke up early at Foxhurst next morning, and lay long, staring out at the morning sky through the open window. He was sorely puzzled, and not a little apprehensive.

Last night had been uneventful. They had seen little of their host till dinner, and he and Chris had walked long in the golden sunshine under the trees. Chris had been what he had promised to be—subdued when he remembered it was his selected pose, as if emotions were for him exhausted; he had said as much with an appealing pathos, half-a-dozen times, but there had been feverish fits when he cried out against the hardness of the world, the inexorableness of fate, and his own wretched weakness. He was born under Gemini and Mercury, he said; that accounted for all. Then he had gone to confession.

At dinner, briskness was uppermost. Dick perceived that his friend thought it proper then to affect a cheery manner, with occasional glimpses of a world-weary heart, and that presentation had continued interspersed with eulogies on country life till eleven o'clock, when Mr. Rolls retired. Then Chris, with a loud sigh of relaxation, had allowed himself to talk a good deal, to sit with his head in his hands, and to smoke four more cigarettes with an air of a saint’s detachment. He had also taken a little whisky after the manner of one who needed support, as he related his adventures in the boarding-house, and described Mrs. Perch’s attempts to make him drink liquoricewater on Saturday nights.

Mr. Rolls had made no sign. He had been perfectly courteous, as he always was, and apparently unconscious of any situation but that of two guests enjoying his hospitality. Once only had he mentioned Mrs. Hamiiton’s name, and his eyes never wandered off his plate as Chris snarled noiselessly like a foiled stage villain. It seemed to Dick incredible that it could be the same man who, only two nights before had sat in the twilight and dissected living souls so unflinchingly. He felt a great deal reassured. Chris would surely be safe in such hands.

He was contemplating getting up to go for a stroll before mass, when a tap came on his door, and Chris came in on tiptoe in pyjamas and slippers.

“Dear man! Did I awake you?”

Dick protested he had not. He had been awake an hour.

“What a brute lam! May I sit down a minute or two?”

He sat down delicately on the edge of the bed, and began his tale.

“Dick! What a place! Why did I never see it? It is Paradise—Paradise for a sick soul! I have been awake since dawn... listening, listening and thinking!.. breathing God’s morning air!” He sighed musically.

“ And Rolls! What a man! What a grand seigneur! I love him, and he terrifies me too! He is a man!”

He began to swing a foot.

“Why didn’t I know him before? His very presence is soothing. I think—I think that if anyone on God’s earth could heal me it would be he! How does he get his peace? Butitistoolate; toolate!”

He looked out of the window with eyes intended to be full of a dreamy pathos.

But this was a great deal better, thought Dick.

“Don’t say that, old chap,” he said vaguely from his pillows.

Chris looked at him emotionally.

“You good man!” he exclaimed. “I wish to God But it’s no good. I’m broken for good, this time.”

“Chris,” said the priest with a sudden resolution.

“ Well, dear man?”

‘T’ve got to go back to town, you know. But——

“Go back! Why, I thought——”

‘“No. I must go; but Rolls wants you to stay on a bit.”

“My dear chap—I can’t!”

“Look here, Chris! I want you to do something for me. I really mean it.” (The priest was speaking quickly and warmly now; it struck him that it would be a good opportunity to take the first step.) ae really mean it. I want you to stay on here a bit. Let Rolls look after you: he wants to; he is wonderful; he is a real mystic, you know.... Do you know what an Irish priest said of him once?”

Chris looked up enquiringly.

‘* As good as God and as clever as the Devil,’ ”’ quoted Dick.

The other smiled doubtfully.

“Look here, old man,” went on the priest, “do stop.”

“Dear man—it’s no good.”

“J don’t mean about religion particularly,’ pursued Dick incoherently; ‘I mean about everything. Don’t think I’m a—a jawbags. I’m not jawing. But you know, you're all broken to bits; you said so; you want mending. Now don’t you?

Very well. Stop here and look about you; you can write, you know, just as well here as anywhere... ”’

“But my good chap, I can’t possibly ——”

“Oh! that’s all right,” cried Dick vehemently. “Old Rolls knows all about that. He’s not a bit like other people, you know. I’ve—we’ve arranged.”

Chris’s foot was still now. He was staring at his. friend.

“You must forgive me! I had to tell him about your writing, when he asked me to let him know when you got back to England *

“How much does he know?”

“Why, he knows all about the row last year. Of course he does! Oh! Chris, don’t be a fool.”

Dick knew he was talking a little hysterically; but he couldn’t help it.

“And you mean to say he knows all?”

‘Why, I suppose so. Of course everyone does about here.”

‘“‘ And he asks me to his house? And to stay?”

eNes,”

Chris got off the bed, and began to walk up and down the carpet, to the window and back again. Then he stopped at the window, and stood staring out.

Dick had not an idea what he was feeling. It might be anger or gratitude or shame, or all three. All he knew for certain was that Chris was meditating the most graceful attitude to adopt—it might be that of injured pride, furious righteousness, or a becoming contrition. It was surely impossible to pretend that the invitation was anything but convenient! But Chris managed it.

He turned round at last, holding out a hand.

“Dick, old man. I don’t know what to say! God bless you! God bless you! I did not know there were such people in the world!”

“Vou llsstay.e

“T’ll stay. For as long as you tell me. I trust you utterly.”

After mass and breakfast, the two went out into the moat-garden. But they had hardly set foot there, before their host appeared in the doorway.

“Father Yolland, may I interrupt? Might I have a word with you?”

Dick followed him in, and the two went up the corridor into the sitting-room.

“Sit down, father.”

Dick went to a chair feeling like a schoolboy. He had a half-hope that this shrewd man might have changed his mind; even as he looked at his face in the light from the window, he was not sure. It seemed wholly emotionless.

“Father Yolland, Mr. Dell has told me he will stay. That is very satisfactory.”

“Told you, sir?”

“While you were at your thanksgiving. He professed himself very grateful. I wish to tell you my proposal.”

Dick licked his lips, staring at the rigid face. What was he going to hear?

“Mr. Dell will not be able to write while he is with me. I shall provide him therefore with all that he requires. I propose that he stays six months at the least. After that, I shall put at his disposal two hundred pounds a year for five years.”

Dick gasped.

“That meets your views then? It is only fair. I do not think he will wish to write for some while after he has left me.”

“Why not, sir?”

“T think not, father. I may be wrong. But there is my intention in any case. But I shall prefer that it comes to him from another hand, and he must not ’ be told of it, until he leaves me. My proposal will not hold good if he remains with me less than six months.”

“ And—and what will he do here?”’

The other looked him straight in the eyes.

‘““T shall not tell you, father. And I beg that you will not enquire. I shall inform Mr. Dell this _afternoon.”

“Tt—it will not

“Tt will be what I believe him to require. You must not write to him. We will make that plain presently. Have you anything further?”

Dick drew a long, trembling breath.

“Mr. Rolls, do you still think what you thought on Tuesday?”

“Yes, father.”

“ You—you are sure?”

“T am quite sure.”

There fell a silence between the two men. Dick felt torn with doubt; but he dared not put it into words. The presence of the other dominated him entirely. This hatchet-faced man was so cruelly certain—and he so hesitating. It was no good—he must trust utterly.

“owWell, sir?”

“ Well, father, that is all. Heis your friend. Will you commit him to me?”

Dick ‘drew another long breath.

‘7 will, sir,’ he whispered.

Mr. Rolls stood up. He paid no attention to the emotion of the other; he remained, with his fingertips on the table, looking steadily down at the papers that lay before him.

“You must pray,” he said, “ with all your might. Remember that all is under God, absolutely.... I know you love him.... Will you ask him to come this way? We will arrange the first step now.”

Dick drove away an hour later, alone.