Chapter III

Curis went about the house and grounds that afternoon in a passion of melancholy romance.

He had lunched with his host and the Benedictine chaplain, a little prim brown old man like a clerical monkey, and nothing had been said beyond generalities. At the end Mr. Rolls had told him that he would be obliged if the other would amuse himself that afternoon, and that he himself would be back to tea. Meantime he would find the keys of the whole house in the porter’s lodge.

It was an astonishing house. The three original sides of it were pierced by corridors above and below that corkscrewed, climbed and dropped in an entirely unexpected way. Out of these opened rooms on the outer side of the court.

There were numbers of old bedrooms, approached by descending steps, each containing an ancient bed hung with curtains, a couple of chairs or so, one or two black tables. There were curious portraits in some of these rooms, and Chris passed a very pleasant time looking into the eyes of these, marking their dress, peering at the little coats in the corners, even once or twice adjuring them in pathetic language to tell him the Secrets of Life and Death. His eyes filled with tears three or four times at his own earnest pathos.

222, The Sentimentalists

In one room he found a tall mirror, iridescent and dusky with age, and posed before it for a few moments, advancing first one foot and then the other, folding his arms, letting them drop languidly, staring with an infinite variety of expressions into the eyes of his own ghostly replica.

“Who are you?”’ he cried softly at last. ‘‘ You stranger from the land of dreams! From where do you come? whither are you going? What is the true soul—the very self—behind those—er—those shadowed eyes?”’

He leant forward till the melancholy face touched him with the icy smoothness of old glass; then he grew slightly ashamed, and just a little frightened.

The King’s Room delighted him—a paved floor, an oriel window, linen-patterned walls, a high stone fireplace with dogs, a long hanging of fourteenth century work beneath the oak ceiling, a great low bed, nearly square, with twisted columns at head and foot, voluminous curtains, valance and counterpane embroidered all over with huge roses and medallions. He climbed gingerly on to the bed, and lay there in an ecstasy of melancholy, thinking himself an exiled and ruined king, but’ with a yet undaunted princely heart.

Towards four o’clock he came to the chapel, and stood there with the air of a high-minded infidel who had outgrown the childish illusions of faith and regretted them. Yes, there was the bronze tabernacle above the altar with its strange Contents lying quiet within in the silver cup. It had meant so much to him once; it meant so little now, except that it represented the centre of the world’s faith. He reflected for a while on Pallas Athene, the mysteries of Mithras, the death and resurrection of Osiris, the strange-coloured romance of medieval days... It was very beautiful, he thought; perhaps it might make an article—‘‘ Considerations in a Catholic Chapel.” Then he unfolded his arms, reflecting that ‘ he had gone to confession last night, hesitated, and with a sudden impulse genuflected and went out.

He would go to the garden, he thought, that beyond the moat where he had walked with Dick yesterday evening; there was an hour yet before tea, and he would like to get his ideas ranged in line, dressed and equipped in a suitable uniform, before he encountered his host.

He found a retired seat, placed in a recess of shrubs, whence he could see the old towered house, sat down, and began to roll cigarettes and thoughts together.

First there was Dick—the dear man who meant so well and who understood so little. He was like a child in his simple affection, his warm impulses, his lack of resentment; he was like a child too in his lack of discernment, of real intelligent sympathy. He would never understand—how was it possible that he should?—the heart of one who had eaten so freely of the Tree of Knowledge, who had drained the dregs of sin, who had lived, suffered, aspired and agonised, as he himself had done.

No, this courteous old man, John Rolls, was a fitter companion. That old man had suffered too, he was sure; it was in his face; perhaps he too had sinned!.

A pleasing prospect began to unfold itself before Chris. He was here as a patient, he told himself, a psychical convalescent like the others of whom he had heard before, but more deeply interesting; but he would not be that long. He was sure that the other understood. For a while perhaps he would accept the new réle, acquiesce in a sweet melancholy in whatever was prescribed, and little by little he would win this old man’s heart by his touching contrition and languor. Then he would be appreciated; he would become indispensable; he would find himself in the position of an intimate, and a far more intelligent one than that old Mr. Yolland who, Chris was sure, was a most conventionally limited person without perceptions or insight....

He began to wonder what his treatment would be. He was sure it would be a very beautiful and delicate one; had not Dick said that the physician was a mystic? There would be some exquisite old-world conversations; perhaps a course of meditation would be exhibited, daily mass, the rosary each evening, readings from French dévots. Yes, he would submit to all; he would even go to confession once a week if he were desired to do so; and to Communion—yes; his faith was equal to that, as he had said last night; he could take the Mystic Bread, Delight of Gods, Food of Angels, in the true inward spirit of religion. It was all one, after all. And the Church knew what she was about.

It would be a kind of aristocratic Retreat, he thought; he would be quite willing to walk a little in the park at sunset, with his finger between the leaves of a pious book; he could even pluck and press a flower at moments of emotion. He could do it all, admirably. Perhaps it would indeed be balm to his wounded soul.

And meantime he would also enjoy the luxury of tragic remembrance.

There would be no lack of sombre background to this delicately vivid foreground; his last year had touched in the dark washes that would take long to fade. His life at Paris had taken care of that, and the colour of real heavy squalor had been supplied by his recent month in London.

It wasa great change for the better, he told himself. Here was this exquisite house and park with its old-world atmosphere, his own panelled room with the deep window-seat in which he could dream with his cigarette; the chapel, which perhaps might come to mean more to him in a few weeks’ time; his courtly, impressive host; even the monkey-chaplain was not without a suggestive significance.

What articles he would write! polished periods, fragrant like wood-carving, similes like silver-point vignettes, allusions like the note of flutes and ancient strings, with a world-weary note sounding through all like the throb of a distant organ heard through panelled passages!.. Chris positively writhed on the seat with pleasure as he pictured himself writing them.

Yes! he had composed his new attitude at last; it all fitted in beautifully; he was to be an exquisite recluse, speaking in a low voice, looking with deep regretful eyes, understanding men and things, realising the hollowness of life and the joys of the interior spirit; a silent intimate of this distinguished old man; pointed out to visitors as a man with a history, a history preserved as it were in lavender— whispered about in corners, perhaps even at Hinton—.

Then he writhed again with other emotions, and for a single instant a crack opened and he saw himself as he had once hoped to be, a simple-minded man living on his estate with his children about him— bright with cleanly joys, serving God and man, and loving a dear wife with all his heart. Then the crack closed. No, this was better; a melancholy and distinguished recluse was more beautiful—far, far more beautiful.

A clock beat five from the stable-turret across the park, and he rose, throwing away his last cigarette among the bushes. He walked very slowly back to the house, with his eyes downcast, and a careful melancholy in his bearing.

“Tt is a superb place, sir,” said Chris again, setting down his cup for the last time.

Mr. Rolls bowed gravely.

They were sitting in the parlour in which the master of the house usually wrote and worked, for the whole house, with the exception of the few necessary rooms, was altogether unlived in. Chris was in the window-seat, posed as for the photographer, one knee clasped in his hands and his head slightly thrown back; and his host was, as so often, upright on the hearth with his hands behind him. He was a magnificent grand seigneur, thought Chris once more, noticing how his head overtopped the high mantelpiece, and marking his long, thin limbs, his grey hair and his keen profile, and just a little formidable, as a grand seigneur should be.

Chris sighed heart-brokenly.

“Nature!” he said. ‘“O great god Pan! What a healing touch! I almost forgot myself for a while in the gardens this afternoon.”

He turned to see the effect, and saw the other looking at him.

“You find that too, Mr. Dell?”

“Bind it? I live in the country; I exist only in town. You cannot conceive what a pleasure it is to me to be here.”

Mr. Rolls was silent a moment. Then he came across from the window-seat and sat opposite him. “Mr. Dell,” he said, “ may I say something?”’

Chris was a little startled by his movement and his words; he seemed to be looking at him out of those odd thatched eyes with a very real interest. Chris felt flattered.

“ What you will, sir!’ he said, smiling.

“Tt isthis. I wonder how far you mean what you say.”

The sense of flattery vanished like a pricked bladder. He half thought he must have mis-heard. Yet those strange eyes showed no confusion. He unclasped his knee and sat up.

“T do not understand, sir.’

“ About the country.... Will you tell me what it is you want, Mr. Dell >?”

This was very disconcerting; it was so entirely unexpected. It seemed that the situation had shifted from arm’s length to hand-grip. But his pride awoke fully-armed at the suggestion of insincerity, and his face arranged itself defiantly.

“This is what I want, Mr. Rolls; it is not much. I ask a simple reom—not even a house—simple food, a little wine—a bed to sleep in—hard work to do: God’s country and God’s silence about me. No more than that.”

He made an eloquent little gesture. But the other neither moved nor spoke.

“Tam weary of artificial life—false friends—smiles and pretences—all the hateful conventions, all the shallow protestations! I thought once—I thought differently, but I understand now. Iask solittle! and the gods deny it me!”

He felt really warm with eloquence, with a passion for simplicity.

“And your writing?”’ asked the other softly.

“Bah!” he cried. ‘What is that! A wretched quill-driver! It is nothing to me. I would not write another line if I were not driven to it.”

He looked up again at the watching face; it was perfectly passive, and there was something in it almost like incredulity.

“You do not believe me, sir? You think I am bragging?”

The grim lips smiled.

“J believe you think so now, Mr. Dell.”

Chris was stung. His whole body stiffened with resentment.

“What is the good of talking, sir? I cannot prove it, but I swear to you a

“ Well 2?”

“TY swear to you that I am like that! Not one man understands me! All the world thinks me shallow and superficial, because I smile and laugh. They little know—— Even you, sir.”

He was fiushed with conviction; his sallow cheeks showed a tinge of pink, his black eyes were bright with passion.

Mr. Rolls lifted a hand deprecatingly, still watching him so intently that Chris was forced to stare back with defiant pride.

“Tell me, Mr. Dell! Tell me exactly what you want. You mean, I suppose, that you want a pleasant little house—with servants ‘

Chris broke in indignantly.

“ Good God, sir! Do you think I mean that’? mean that I envy the farm-labourers in this place— that I envy Dick and Bill trudging to work early and late, with God’s sky over them, and mother Earth beneath their feet, and peace and simplicity in their hearts. {I mean oe

“ Mr. Dell, why have you never tried that, then?”

The tone of that odd vibrant voice cut him like a knife. It was incredulous, contemptuous, sneering.

Chris sprang up, in a beautiful attitude.

“Try it, sir? Why, who would take me? What experience have I had? What do I know of manual work? Could I cart dung, with these hands?” He flung out thin sinewy fingers. ‘And what else canI do? Iama cracked vessel, sir—fit for nothing but the dust-heap.”’

His voice shook with conviction, and that sneering face whipped it into enthusiasm.

“ Before God, sir, it is true,” he cried. ‘ But what is the use? Who will believe me?”

“You would tire of it in a week,” said the contemptuous voice.

Chris’s mouth worked, his hands clenched.

“I believe you believe what you say,” added the other with a horribly courteous emphasis.

Chris froze with white fury, and sat down deliberately. It was abominable he should be insulted like this.

“Very well, sir,” he hissed. ‘ You do not believe me then! Then I think it is time og

The tall old man suddenly leant over to him, propping himself on one hand.

“ Mr. Dell, I offer you all that you ask. You shall have a fair trial.”

The catastrophe was so sudden that for one moment Chris sat bewildered, with open mouth. He ran his eyes over the other’s face, but it seemed perfectly serious.

“You shall have what you want,” went on the other, as serenely as if he were proposing a walk in the park, “and you shall have it for as long as you like. I will provide a room—in the village. You shall live with my Scotch gardener, in all respects as you said. You shall receive the wages usual and necessary. I suppose they will be about fifteen shillings a week.”

Chris swallowed in his throat; his hands felt limp and moist. Then he cleared his throat to answer as the other leaned back.

“Mr. Rolls fs

“ Of course if you were—if you did not mean what you said just now,” observed the other, “ you have only to say so.”

‘“‘T did mean it,” snapped Chris. ‘‘ I mean every word! For how Jong?”

“For how long?’ asked the other in apparent astonishment.

“ For how long will you give me work?”’ Chris explained hastily, with cold dismay at his heart.

“ For as long as you will,” said the other slowly. “JT should think myself——”’

It pricked him cruelly. But he had plenty of spirit.

“ Well, sir? What do you think?”

Mr. Roils looked at him.

“Do you wish me to say?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I should think it might last a month, possibly two—certainly not more than six.”

Chris stood up. His face was white, and apprehensiveness tugged at his heart-strings, but he was brave enough in his words.

‘“‘ You shall see, sir,” he said, looking without a sign of fear into the other’s steady eyes. ‘‘ You shall see whether I am a mere fldneury as you think me. What I said, I said in haste, but I repeat it at leisure.

It is the dearest desire of my heart. I have nothing to live for.”

“You understand that you will be a servant—not an eccentric guest!”’

Chris whitened yet more.

“T understand perfectly—a farm labourer:

“No, not that, an under-gardener.”

Chris bowed.

“You will be under Mr. Whalley’s orders; you may appeal to me if necessary exactly like the rest. You will wait in the hall then, like the rest. You will sit with the rest at mass on Sundays.’

Chris licked his lips with the tip of his tongue. He wished he could check the trembling that shook him.

“T must tell you, Mr. Rolls, that I do not believe—”

The other checked him with a movement of his hand.

“ That is nothing todo withit. You area professed Catholic; you must do as the rest.”

“Very good, sir.... And I may worship my own gods i

“You may worship what you like. But you will be at mass on Sundays.”

It was too much. The tone and the words flicked him like a whip. His lips snapped together and opened.

“Mr. Rolls, I must beg—’’

“Well, Mr. Dell.”

“T must beg you will not speak to me in that manner.”

The grim, lean face smiled.

“So soon? But I beg your pardon. You are my guest still.”

Chris flushed, but he caught at the straw. It did not matter; he would keep his head up an hour longer.

“Tam sorry I was forced to remind you of it, sir.”

Mr. Rolls bowed from the waist, and Chris found himself wondering whether the elaborate comedy were worth while. He sat down again.

‘“Of course it will finish me as a writer,’ he said.

“Surely not, Mr. Dell,” said the motionless figure that had become now really terrible. ‘“ You will have new experiences such as few writers is

“‘T shall lose my little connection, I mean.”

“But I understood you did not intend to write any more.”

““ Of course—until I—I am an old man. And what tener.

“T pension my servants, Mr. Dell, when they are past work.”

Chris swallowed again.

“ Er—that is a great relief, Mr. Rolls.”

There was silence then for a while. It seemed to Chris that the whole of life was utterly changed; it was as if he had seen the world turn blue without any premonitory symptoms. Ten minutes ago he had been talking and drinking tea, lounging in the window-seat, drawling effective sentences to a courteous old man who had smiled and assented and been apparently impressed. Then the clock had chimed the quarter before six; he remembered that distinctly—and he had said another graceful word of appreciation of the beauty of the place. Then it was as if the ground had begun to move; he had been forced to step this way and that to prevent himself from falling; Mr. Rolls had come across from the hearth and sat down, and after that there had been no escape; each sentence that he was forced to speak, in order to justify his own words—in fact in order not to appear a bragging fool—had taken him stride by stride into mire. Now here he was, planted to the neck, apparently by his own consent, and with no kind of prospect of escape.

To change the metaphor, he had been trapped. Yet he had walked into the trap with his eyes wide open; there had been no concealment of the noose. He had said that kind of thing so often before with impunity!

There was only one thing to be done. He had already tried one or two plunges, and had been met by a steel point. He must learn to remain where he was with dignity, unless indeed he could arrange a satisfactory quarrel; and even as he sat there, with his trapper opposite, there began to reform faintly before his mental vision the lineaments of a new pose. He caught glimpses of himself, in fact and not in theory, as a mysterious, highly-bred under-gardener who would move about clouded with sorrow, illumined with romance. He would be pointed out to visitors as a man with a past; he would occasionally, with a wan smile, communicate an ennobling thought to Mr. Whalley—some delicate mystical fancy about Pan in the thickets; he would pause with uplifted spade as if he heard the hoot of a distant flute; he would

His train of thought suddenly stopped. Mr. Rolls was standing up looking out of the window.

There was his trapper! Chris watched him for a few seconds with growing dismay. There was no doubt about it that this was a real man. But how bitterly he had been deceived. He had thought him half-an-hour ago an amiable, courteous, bland and picturesque grand seigneur, full of delicate instincts and manners; and he had turned out to be something else. What that was Chris could not yet perceive; but it was as if he had looked into a child’s face, and found it a monster.

He spurred his pride, and stood up too. He was not going to be mastered, and led like a bear; he would conduct his own degradation and thereby deprive it of its sting. He was not going to be managed!

“T should like to see my new room, Mr. Rolls.” His voice rang high and insincere.

The other turned round and eyed him mildly.

“Certainly. I had thought that perhaps to-morro os

“T should prefer to-night, sir,’ said Chris stiffly.

The other made a little inclination.

“Then if you will come with me——” he said.

Chris went to bed that night in his new rooms.

It was a little yellow brick house, outside the park, standing back from the road in its own kitchen garden, and was tenanted by three persons besides himself. Father Baynton, the chaplain, occupied a bedroom on the first-floor, and the two front rooms on the ground-floor. The Scotch gardener and his wife used the rest of the house, a kitchen and scullery at the back, and the two other rooms above; but one of these had been given up to the visitor.

It was a small square room with a door on to the landing, and a window looking out on the open country at the back. It held an iron bedstead, one cane chair beside it, and one Windsor chair with arms. There was a small chest of drawers, and a row of pegs upon the door. A pair of green serge curtains hung at the window, the upper panes of which had been removed, and there was a small square of carpet before the fireplace, convenient to the feet. A cheap crucifix of black wood and plaster hung below the ceiling against the chimney. There was nothing else at all in the room; no table, no easy chair. But there were four books on the mantelpiece: a Bible, a Penny Catechism with morning and evening prayers, Abbot Blosius’ work on Mental Prayer, and “ Kidnapped,” by Robert Louis Stevenson.

Further instructions had been given him. It appeared that his work was to begin at half-past six. At eight he would return for breakfast, and at half-past eight he was to be back in the gardens until twelve, when dinner would be ready. At one o’clock work was to begin again, and continue till six, when he would go home to tea. At half-past eight there would be cold meat and beer provided, and he was to go to his room at half-past nine. The Whalley family retired at that hour.

He was to do this every day in the week except Sunday.

Chris got into bed in a twill night-shirt, threw off the red blanket and lay staring round the room— and particularly at the corduroy trousers and grey flannel shirt hanging behind the door, and a pair of immense boots by the chest of drawers. It was these he had to put on in the morning.

Every one of his possessions, even to his books, had been pronounced unsuitable for an under-gardener, and in a passion of pride he had consented. He had even thrust his own clothes, down to his silk vest and gold links, just now outside the door, for removal in the morning. He did not wish to see them again; he could not bear it. No! he was to show that cynical man that he too had a will of iron; that he was not one whe promised without performing. He was to be an under-gardener? He would be an under-gardener. And he would be a remarkable one.

For a little while the flush of pride possessed him. There was the knowledge, almost unknown to him hitherto, that things were genuine at last. He understood perfectly that he was not playing a game; but he had too the quality of romance that gilded even the sordid facts that faced him. He would work— yes, till the honest sweat poured from him, and his hands were properly horny; but he would not lose for an instant his own splendid individuality. It was this capacity alone that had enabled him to meet the proposal so steadily. Like certain sea-creatures, no food was amiss to him; he coated all alike with his own effusion before swallowing.

It had been pushed so defiantly before him too, at the very moment when his characteristics were flushed with energy, and it had been done with a certain effectiveness that he did not yet fully understand.

From the contemplation of himself he passed to the contemplation of those with whom he would have to do, and began to re-arrange the grouping.

First, John Rolls.

Towards him his attitude was clear. He would touch his hat to his master, secure in his own superb dignity of labour; he would call him “ Sir,’”’ with the most gorgeous irony as his protection. He would never appeal to him; he would bear, if need be, the most cruel injustices.... How long would that have to continue? He had no idea; but it could not be long before his own worth and determination were recognised. The first advances would surely have to come from the other, and they would not be long.

Secondly, Dick Yolland.

He would hardly ever see that priest, but yet his attitude towards him must be arranged. It would be one, of course, of immeasurable superiority, with a pathos of isolation in it. His eyes pricked with tears as he contemplated a little scene of Dick’s wistfully looking from a richly-hung window at the poor, proud under-gardener wielding his spade. He would refuse all entreaties to return to luxury and comfort. No! he would tell him that he had found the joy of labour at last, that Mother Nature had medicines that art and plenty could not bestow

Then he would shoulder his spade and tramp back to his lonely cottage with a halo of virtue and dignity beaming round his head.

Thirdly, other acquaintances—such as old Mr. Yolland—the same would do for him; the Hamiltons Chris bit his lips fiercely; he could not at once articulate a description of his attitude towards them. A broken heart, a biting scorn, a fierce white-hot indignation, a dramatic pose so perfect that it merged in nature. Visions of a rich carriage—a white-faced girl, a worldly mother; and of himself, foot on spade, _ pulling his forelock with a face of stone. It was superb, complete, indescribable. Perhaps Jack would be sent to him as ambassador—that generous, simple English boy. Oh! the words in which he would answer him! the wan smile that would linger long in the memory, the set determined face in which he would once more set foot to spade and drive it home.

Chris’s face twitched with emotion, and he drew a sobbing breath. He was enjoying himself enormously.

The blind flapped suddenly in the night-breeze, and Chris came down with a run. This twill nightshirt was coarse to the skin, and how dismal the little room was with its crude furnishing, its uncarpeted boards! And it was to be his home for—for months— possibly years.

Then he began to review the last few steps again that had brought him to this; but with a lower elevation of mind. He began to consider at what point he had given himself away, and was unable to understand it. It was this horrible man who had entrapped him. He began to consider the horrible man.

What in the world was he really?. Chris summed up the evidence. Facts:—a rich man, an old Catholic, well-born and_ well-bred, living alone, religious, mystical, philanthropic, brutal. Gossip:—wild in his youth, having broken his wife’s heart, suspected of having extraordinary friends. There was not much unity to be brought out of this chaos; it wasa figure that appeared if not self-contradictory, at least unintelligible. When he had first met him he had thought him to be a distinguished-looking man of the world—and he was that; but he was a great deal more besides. And what did all these manceuvres mean? It was very odd treatment to deal out to a broken-hearted blasé sinner! The actress had been requested to pour out tea; the broken-hearted man to dig in flower-beds. One had been comforted, the other snubbed.

Then for the first time it began to dawn upon this dense creature that possibly there was some method in this distinction—that John Rolls, in his eccentricity, believed that digging in flower-beds had a redemptive value—that the whole affair was pre-arranged and determined upon. But that was impossible—Chris had said what he had said of his own free choice—he had run his own head into the noose; Rolls had merely asked questions; he had not made one Suggestion; it was from himself that the suggestion had come.

Ah! it was puzzling, puzzling. But how hard the world was!

So moods surged and chased one another through his brain. He experienced pride, resentment, curiosity, pathos, dignity—one after another; and as the series rose and sank like waves, his comsciousness grounded now and again, like an imprisoned boat, upon the brutal rock of fact beneath them all Here he was, here he would have to remain, with the flapping blind, the uncarpeted boards, the corduroy trousers, the grey flannel shirt. He was no longer Christopher Dell, Esq., author and journalist; he was Dell, under gardener at Foxhurst. Tbat was all that there was to be said about it.

He woke half-a-dozen times that night, and the situation asserted itself almost instantly, sometimes dreamily, sometimes dramatically. But all his prancings and attitudes did not prepare him for the clump of boots outside at half-past five, and a voice, with a strong Scotch accent, telling him to make haste.