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Title: Enoch Strone
Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim
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eBook No.: 1202341.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: June 2012
Date most recently updated: June 2012

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Title: Enoch Strone
Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim






Upwards in long sinuous bends the road wound its way into the heart of
the hills. The man, steadily climbing to the summit, changed hands upon
the bicycle he was pushing and wiped the sweat from his grimy forehead.
It had been a grey morning when he had left, with no promise of this
burst of streaming sunshine. Yet the steep hill troubled him but
little--he stepped blithely forward with little sign of fatigue. Once he
paused to gather a little clump of primroses, and once to stoop down and
admire a few shoots of soft green bracken springing up by the roadside.
His workman's clothes, open at the throat, showed him the possessor of a
magnificent pair of shoulders, the suggestion of great physical strength
was carried out also in his hard, clean cut features and deep set
piercing grey eyes. He passed a spinny where the ground was blue with
budding hyacinths, and he loitered for a moment, leaning upon the saddle
of his bicycle, and gazing up the sunlit grade. A line or two of Keats
sprang to his lips. As he uttered them a transfiguring change swept
across his face, still black in patches as though from grimy labour. His
hard, straight mouth relaxed into a very pleasant curve, a softer light
flashed in his steely eyes. A tiny rabbit scudded across the grass grown
path and disappeared down a friendly hole. He smiled at its frantic
haste, and presently resumed his climb. He reached a wooden gate at last
on his right hand side, and pushing it open skirted a grey stone wall
until he came to a sudden dip in the field, and with its back against a
rocky eminence a tiny cottage built of the stones which lay in heaps
about the turf. He leaned his bicycle against the wall, and taking a key
from his pocket unlocked the door.

"Saturday at last," he exclaimed aloud, in a tone which, save for a note
of bitterness, would have been full and pleasant enough. "Thirty-six
hours of freedom. Phew!"

He had plunged a basin into the soft water tank outside and held his
head in it for a moment. Then all dripping he carried a canful to a
hollow bath ingeniously fixed amongst the rocks against which the
cottage was built, and throwing off his soiled clothes plunged in.
Unconsciously he straightened himself at the touch of the water,
stinging cold from the well, and with his head thrown back, and clean,
strong limbs thrown into vivid relief against the shelving green turf,
he seemed for a moment, notwithstanding a certain ferocity of bearing
and demeanour, to grow into the semblance of one of those ancient and
mythical gods who walked naked the dark green slopes of Olympus.
Certainly there was no longer any sign of the grease-stained mechanic
when he emerged, and with his towel wrapped lightly around him stepped
into the cottage.

He reappeared in a few minutes clad in a grey homespun suit, which
showed many signs of wear, a pipe in his mouth, a book in his hand.
Leisurely he filled a kettle from the well and thrust it into the centre
of the small wood fire which he had kindled. Then with a sigh of relief
he threw himself upon the soft mossy turf.

The book lay unheeded by his side. From his high vantage point he looked
downwards at the wide panorama which stretched to the horizon, faintly
and mistily blue. The glorious spring sunshine lay like a quickening
fire upon the land. The tree tops, moving lightly in the west wind, were
budding into tender green, the dark pine groves were softened, the
patches of rich brown soil freshly turned by the plough gleamed as
though with promise of the crops to come. Below him the dusty white lane
along which he had travelled stretched like a narrow white belt,
vanishing here and there in the woods and disappearing at times between
lichen-stained grey walls. He traced it backwards across the silvery
brook back to the quaint village with its clustering grey stone houses,
red-tiled roofs and strange church tower, and watched for a moment the
delicate wreaths of smoke curl upwards, straight with the promise of
fine weather. Further still he followed it into the flat country past
the reservoirs, a brilliant streak of scintillating light, back into the
heart of the town from whence he had come, and which stretched there now
in the middle distance a medley of factory chimneys and miles of
houses--a great foul blot upon the fair landscape. He remembered it as
he had ridden out an hour or so ago, the outskirts with all their
depressing ugliness, a cobbled road, a shabby tram-car with a tired
horse creeping along a road where dirty children played weary games and
shouted shrilly to one another. A miserable region of smoke-begrimed
houses and small shops, an unattractive public-house at every corner
round which loafed men with the white faces of tired animals, and women
dragging babies and shouting abuse to their more venturesome offspring.
With painful distinctness he saw it all--the opened factory gates, the
belching out of a slatternly mob of shrieking girls and ribald youths,
the streets untidy with the refuse of the greengrocers' shops, the hot,
fetid atmosphere of the low-lying town. He closed his eyes--ah, how
swiftly it all vanished! In his ears was the pleasant chirping of many
insects, the glorious sunshine lay about him like wine, the west wind
made music in the woods, one thrush in particular was singing to him
blithely from the thatched roof of his cottage--a single throbbing note
against a melodious background of the whole wood full of twittering birds.
The man smiled to himself, well pleased. A day and half's respite from
slavery--here! It was worth while after all.

He stretched out his hand for his bode, and puffed contentedly at his
pipe. Suddenly he looked up, frowning. Someone was scrambling up the
rude path from behind the cottage. In a moment appeared the head and
shoulders of a man against the sky line. The new comer paused for a
moment to admire the view--then, seeing the figure recumbent upon the
grass, came hastily down.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Strone! I am glad to find you at home."

Enoch Strone looked his visitor up and down with frowning face.

"Have you lost your way?" he asked, gruffly. "This is private property."

The new comer flushed slightly. He was a middle-aged, pleasant faced
man, with brown beard and humourous mouth, quietly dressed in dark grey.
He wore a clergyman's hat.

"I came to see you," he answered. "My name is Martinghoe, and I am the
vicar of Bangdon."

Strone frowned more heavily than ever. He rose to his feet without any
attempt at greeting, burly, almost repulsive-looking in his slow anger.

"Yes, yes," he said, impatiently. "I know who you are. But what do you
want with me?"

"You are one of my few parishioners," Martinghoe explained, with a
smile. "I have tried twenty times to catch you, but always
unsuccessfully. Once or twice I fancy that I have seen you in full
retreat into the woods--this time I think I have run you to earth!"

Strone smiled grimly.

"I am afraid that you have wasted your time," he said, shortly, "if you
have come out here purposely to see me. I am not a Christian, and
nothing would induce me to set foot in a church. I have no money to give
away, and I get very bad-tempered when I am intruded upon. You will find
a more direct path into the road by that gate," he added, pointing

"I'll try it soon," Martinghoe answered, pleasantly. "In the meantime
you won't object to my sitting down for a moment and enjoying your view.
I'm really out of breath."

Strone grunted something inarticulate, relit his pipe, and took up his
book. The sound of a match made him glance up quickly. His unbidden
visitor had also lit a huge briar, and was puffing away contentedly.

"Not in the way, am I?" he asked. "This is such a delightful spot."

Strone laid down his book once more.

"Yes," he said, "you are. Listen. I'll be frank with you, and then
perhaps you'll go. I'm a mechanic, foreman at Dobell's engineering works
in Gascester, and I've bought this piece of land and built this cottage
myself because I'm fond of solitude, and I ride backwards and forwards,
winter and summer, for the very same reason. This is my Saturday
afternoon, which I look forward to all the week, and you've already
spoilt ten minutes of it. Now is that plain enough?"

"Quite," Martinghoe answered, without any sign of annoyance. "I'll go!
But first, is this book yours? It was brought to me by one of the
keepers, and I fancied that those might be your initials in it."

Strone literally pounced upon it The blackness vanished from his face
like magic. He took the volume almost tenderly into his hands.

"Yes, it's mine," he exclaimed. "I lost it last Sunday, and I've spent
hours looking for it."

"Heggs picked it up and he thought it might be mine. I hope you don't
mind. I read it through last night from beginning to end."

A transfiguring gleam of humour flashed across Strone's face.

"You!" he exclaimed, "a parson, and read fairy tales!"

Martinghoe roared out laughing.

"My dear fellow," he answered, "if you've read more poetry and fairy
tales than I have I'll make you a present of my whole library. I have a
first edition of the 'Sundering Flood,' and I know my Morris well. Do
you think that we read nothing but the Bible and theology?"

"I didn't know," Strone answered. "How should I?"

Martinghoe's hand fell upon his shoulder.

"Look here," he said, "don't send me away till we've had a chat. I'm a
lonely man, and I ain't so fond of it as you are. I haven't a soul to
talk to from week end to week end. You read a bit and so do I. You have
grit in you, or you wouldn't be here. Let's have a pipe together."

Strone smoked stolidly for a moment.

"You don't know the sort of man I am," he said, suddenly. "I don't
believe in a word of the Bible, and I'm not at all sure that I believe
in a hereafter at all. I look upon church-going as a farce, and nothing
would induce me to set foot inside one. Besides, I am a working-man--my
father died of drink, mother in the asylum. Is it likely that I'm fit
company for a parson?"

Martinghoe smiled.

"I don't believe that you've ever spoken to one in your life," he said,
"and you've an idea that we go about like Salvation Army captains
shouting for souls. I'm quite prepared to respect your religious beliefs
or disbeliefs. Your brain is as good as mine. You may be right and I
wrong. Who knows? Some day, perhaps, we'll talk of it, but not unless
you wish. As to the rest--well, it only proves that you're a better man
than I. The balance is on your side at any rate."

Strone for the first time surveyed his visitor with some appearance of
interest. He took note of the shapely, sensitive mouth, the broad
forehead, the clear, bright eyes which sought his so frankly. This was a
different type of parson to any with whom he had ever come into contact.
A man all over, loveable, human, magnetic! Yet Strone was-obstinate to
the backbone. He hated to change his mind.

"You don't approve of the Salvation Army, then!" he remarked, gruffly.

"I didn't say so," Mr. Martinghoe answered, smiling. "Only I think that
theirs is one of those rare cases in which enthusiasm defeats its own
object--over enthusiasm, of course, I mean. Yet it is very hard to be
critical, for they appeal to a class who are almost hopeless. Their
mistake, I think, is that they do not limit their energies to that
class. The attempt to convert men and women of education can do nothing
but harm!"

Strone looked up with a grim smile.

"Proselytism is a feverish pursuit," he remarked. "The man who has once
converted another to his opinion is never happy until he can start on
somebody else. You're quite sure you haven't a Bible in your tail-coat
pocket, Mr. Martinghoe?"

Martinghoe laughed.

"If I have, I'll keep it in its place!" he promised. "I won't try to
read it to you."

Strone move towards the cottage without another word.

"Excuse me," he said, "my kettle is boiling over. Will you have a cup of

Martinghoe jumped up with alacrity.



The Reverend John Martinghoe sat upon a knoll, drank tea out of a mug
and munched thick bread and butter with much apparent relish. Strone
entertained the first guest of his life with a sort of surly cordiality,
the mask of a considerable amount of shyness. Yet the two men dropped
into talk naturally enough afterwards when their pipes were lit.
Martinghoe himself, a scholar and a man of considerable attainments, was
amazed at the extent and depth of the other's reading. This was none of
the cheap culture of the superior working-man, no free library veneer.
Strone had drawn the sap where he had tapped the tree. He could quote
Carlyle by the page and, more wonderful still, he had read between the
lines, and he knew the other meaning. He spoke of Swinburne, and half
closed his eyes as though the roar of the Cornish sea were indeed in his
ears. Martinghoe became the listener--the study of the man was
fascinating. Softened though his face had become during the last half
hour it was yet hard, and in a measure sullen. His hands were roughened
with toil, he lay in a posture which not even his massive strength could
render graceful. All the while he talked oddly, jerkily, yet giving
every moment proof of a marvellous memory, an insight far above that of
the average well-read man. Martinghoe seemed to realise that this was
the unburdening of one whose lips had never yet been unsealed. There
were crudities of thought every now and then. Martinghoe caught them and
smoothed them down. Strone nodded with placid approval. Here and there
came a lurid piece of criticism, a passionate protest. Martinghoe felt
that he was looking out upon life from a new standpoint, and the
difference was wonderful. He exerted all his tact to keep the other
talking. It was evident that Strone had not won his way through
unscathed. His Carlylean hatred of all humbug and false pretence was a
militant thing, it had come to him with experience. His tongue at times
was like a lash, he himself had felt the sting of the things he loathed.
So it seemed when at last they rose as though with a common impulse to
their feet and Martinghoe stretched out his hand for his hat.

The sunlight had long ago faded from the land. A glimmering twilight
made dim patchwork of the fields, and an evening breeze bent the tree
tops in the wood below. Far away a wan glare in the sky brooded over the
town. Strone pointed downwards with the bowl of his pipe.

"You'll think me a heathen, I know," he said, "if not you, other people,
because I can't believe in a God. Yet I tell you this. Take my place
yonder for a week and your own faith would totter. Ay, that's a sure

"Go on," Martinghoe said. "I want to understand your point of view."

"Mine is the point of view of the man who knows," Strone answered. "It's
written down there in great black letters, and those who don't see it
are those who won't. You go to Gascester sometimes, I suppose, sir?"

"Not often," Martinghoe admitted. "I go only when I am obliged."

Strone nodded.

"You might go every day," he said, "and you would never know the place
as I know it. You would never see what I see. It's quite picturesque
from here, isn't it, with all those lights shining through the mist?
Now, I'll tell you the truth. I'll tell you what I see day by day.
'Miles upon miles of dirty streets lined with small red brick houses all
of a pattern, all hopelessly ugly, public-houses at every corner like
flies upon a carcase, stunted and weary-eyed men, vicious because their
eyes are for ever fastened upon the hideous side of life, because for
ever they must look downwards--drink-sodden and foolish women, leaving
their children to struggle up as best they can--and may your God help
'em, for they'll need it. Pavements crowded with sickly-looking youths,
apeing the sins of their elders--immature girls ever hovering around the
fringe of vice; drawn into it sooner or later as into a maelstrom. You
think I'm exaggerating. I'm not! It's truth! You may walk for miles, and
they shall stream past you in hordes. You shall look at them one by one,
and you will be amazed. It is as though the devil had smeared them all
with one great daub of his brush. They are all of the same hopeless
type, ever with eyes looking downwards, down into the nether world. They
are worse than cattle. They are like the swine possessed with the
knowledge of evil things."

"You are speaking of the slums, of course, Mr. Strone," his visitor
said, with a sigh. "I know that they are terrible. They are the one
great blot on our civilisation."

"It isn't the slums alone," Strone answered. "In their way the suburbs
are as bad. There's the manufacturer, a snob, bursting with self-conceit
because he's made his bit of money, forgets his shopmates, builds a big
house, sticks a crest upon his carriage, warms to his wife's petty
schemes for social advancement, goes to church, and heads a subscription
list. Eats too much, drinks too much, but worships respectability.
Narrow, ignorant! Great heavens, there aren't any words to describe how
ignorant and narrow such a man can be. He, too, looks ever downwards."

"You are too sweeping, Strone. You speak of a type! It exists, I know,
but not alone."

Strone shrugged his shoulders.

"I have nothing to do with the exceptions," he answered. "I speak of the
majority. The world is governed by majorities. Slum and suburb, our
cities are beastly places. Why don't you cleanse them, sweep them clean,
you Christians, who spend fortunes upon your churches and cathedrals,
and send missions into every country on the globe. There's your raw
material--your humanity--ready waiting. What's your God doing?"

"You're a pessimist, Strone!"

"I'm not! I'm simply a man who likes to see things as they are. I like
the truth and the daylight. Most of you who should have your hand to the
plough prefer to grope through life with a bandage about your eyes--only
your noses seem to lead you to the pleasant places."

Martinghoe was silent. The man's words were bitter enough, but his
earnestness robbed them of offence.

"You are rather severe upon us as a class, I think," he said. "Yet you
must remember that these cities you speak of--Gascester, for
instance--have many workers who are giving their lives for their
fellows. In every district practical efforts are being made to get at
the people. The generations to come will bear witness to the labours of

Strone shrugged his shoulders.

"It may be so," he answered. "It's easy to talk, I know. But you must
remember that I am one of the people. I see these things day by day. I
believe that whoever made the world, it was meant to be a place
beautiful, and life was meant to have its joys. Yet for ninety-nine out
of every hundred down there it is like a foretaste of Hell. Vice takes
the place of joy, and men and women go groping through the quagmire of
life with fast closed eyes. They see nothing, know nothing--save of
evil. It's beastly."

Martinghoe sighed.

"It is an inexhaustible subject," he said, "and I am deeply interested
in it. May I come and talk with you again?"

"Why not! I've had my say. Next time I'd like to hear you talk."

Martinghoe held out his hand.

"Well, I won't preach. I can promise you that. Good-bye."

* * *

Martinghoe had gone--was out of sight. Strone refilled his pipe, and sat
looking down upon the blurred landscape--the lights flashing here and
there, the glow in the sky, redder now and deeper. All around a soothing
and delicious silence was brooding over the land. The unwonted
excitement of speech was tingling still in his veins,--called for
action. He rose and strolled down to the boundary of the wood. For
awhile he lingered with his arms resting upon the paling looking into
the cool, dark wilderness, the tangled shades of bramble and young
pines, a delicate study in tender green only a few hours ago, now
impenetrable, a shadowy chaos. There was no reason apparently for him to
proceed further, nothing to attract him save the faint sweet music of
creaking boughs and moving tree tops, yet every moment he was conscious
of a stronger impulse to go forward. Afterwards he remembered and
marvelled at it, sometimes with wonder, sometimes a deeper feeling, as
he remembered all that hung upon those few moments' indecision. A man
without any superstitions himself, although a delighted student of the
ancient and picturesque superstitions of earlier races, he nevertheless
moved slowly along that dimly visible path with quickly beating heart
and a very distinct sense of excitement. There was something mysterious
in these shadowy solitudes, the deep silence broken only by the wind
music and the occasional scurrying of a scared rabbit. Yet his common
sense mocked him. What could happen to him here? Surely nothing! A
meeting with Heggs, the keeper, perhaps, the exchange of a pipe of
tobacco, a little chat about the nest of young owls over which he had
been watching so tenderly. Yet he was conscious of some such feeling of
half mysterious wholly pleasant excitement as had stolen into the heart
of Walter when he had passed into the Strange Land.


Strone came to a break in the wood, where the ground was carpeted with
hyacinths and the air faint with their soft, sweet perfume, and here in
the middle of the path his foot kicked against something soft. He
stooped and picked it up. It was a woman's shoe. He turned it over and
over again in his hand. It was made of some soft black material, nearly
new, with high heel and arched instep, and the lining was warm. It was a
cheap enough article of its sort, turned out by thousands with the help
of modern machinery, but it possessed a certain daintiness of shape, and
it had probably been labelled "direct from Paris." It was not a shoe, in
any case, to have been discarded, nor was it likely to have come into
its present position by supernatural means. The fact was borne in upon
him that the wearer must be somewhere close at hand.

He drew a deep breath which was almost a gasp. The little shoe seemed to
bum his hand. He looked slowly around him, and his heart was beating
like a sledge hammer. The shoe was probably an accident, its owner a
matron of years and many children. He scarcely cared. To him it was
emblematical of an unknown world, the world feminine, whose daughters
had filled the universe with poetry and swayed the lives of giants.
Nevertheless, a world unknown to him, a paradise across whose portals he
had never passed. How should he indeed? Those who had come his way he
had not even considered. Loud-tongued factory girls, anaemic
dressmakers, befringed barmaids he had counted sexless--the music of
Byron, the love-yearnings of Keats were never for such as these. The
women of his thoughts dwelt together in a wonderful garden fenced
jealously about with rosebushes and lilac trees, and many sweet-smelling
flowers and shrubs. The mechanic's place was outside. And now--

He found her almost at once--a dark prostrate body, her head resting upon
a fallen tree. What he had feared at first might be death, or at least a
faint, was only sleep. She lay there in the full grace of natural,
unaffected repose, and Strone stood over her with fast-beating heart. At
first he was vaguely disappointed. She was, after all, of his order. Her
little black jacket was shabby, and her brown skirt ancient. Around her
throat was a piece of ribbon, her hair was a deep soft brown. It struck
him that her eyes might be pretty. The mystery of the shoe was explained
in a manner which gave him a quick start. One foot lay bare upon the
turf, soft and white enough in the twilight--2 black stocking by her
side. In her sleep she had probably kicked the shoe away. Strone watched
and came back to earth.

"One of that noisy factory crew who had their treat at Crooks' farm, T
suppose," he muttered. "But what on earth is she doing here?"

He looked around with quick suspicion--groundless as it proved. She was
alone. Then he hesitated.

"Lost her way and fallen asleep. She'll be an awful nuisance. I'll go."

But he didn't. In his heart he knew that he had never meant to. Instead
he filled his pipe, lit it carefully so that the sound should not
disturb her, and sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree a few feet away.
He leaned forward with folded arms and studied her as a problem.

"Pity that sort of woman cannot sleep for ever--always dumb, free from
vulgar speech or awkward movement," he said to himself, softly. "She's
of her class no doubt. Just now she's graceful, long limbs, soft curves,
pretty hair. Probably when she walks she swaggers, and when she opens
her mouth--"

He shuddered, smoked on thoughtfully, and waited.

"Perhaps I'd better wake her. I can't sit here all night, and she's got
to get home somehow."

He stood up frowning, angry with himself for his little attempt at
self-deceit. For, apart from other considerations, he had been very well
content to sit there watching her. He stooped down and touched her arm.
She awoke at once, sat up in blank bewilderment, and screamed.

"It's all right," he said, gruffly. "I found you asleep here--thought
I'd better wake you. It's getting late."

"Late! Why, good gracious, it's dark."

She caught up her stocking and shoe, and, turning sideways, hastily put
them on. Then she rose lightly to her feet.

"What time is it?" she asked, fearfully.

"Nigh upon nine o'clock, I should say," he answered.

She looked around her helplessly.

"It's beastly of them," she declared. "They've gone and left me on
purpose. If they'd taken the least trouble to shout I must have heard
them. It's that mean Julia Ross. I'll pay her out for this."

"They have certainly gone," Strone remarked. "Where do you come

She nodded. Her eyes were full of tears.

"Yes. How far is it?"

"Nine miles!"

Her under lip twitched.

"Oh, lor!--and my foot's hurting awful. That's why I took my shoe off. I
ran away from Jim Hassell--he was plaguing me so, and I fell down. Nine
miles. I can't walk it. What shall I do?"

"Well, I don't know," he answered, puzzled. "There's an inn at

"I've no money for an inn," she answered quickly. "I'd stayed here only
I'm afraid. Are you a keeper?"

"No. I live close by."

She looked at him anxiously, drawing her gloves through her hand.

"Can't I, couldn't I sit in your house till morning? Would your wife
mind? I don't want a bed. An easy chair would do proper."

"I have no wife," he answered. "I live alone."

"Is there no other house?" she asked, in despair.

"Not within two miles--and they'd all be gone to bed," he answered.
"You can have my room if you like."

She accepted without the slightest hesitation.

"I'll be no trouble," she said, eagerly, "and I'll start off as soon as
it's light. Which way?"

She followed him along the path, limping a little and shaking out her
crumpled skirts. 'He helped her awkwardly over the paling, and led the
way up the steep green bank. At the entrance to the cottage he paused
and pointed backwards to that dome-like glow in the sky.

"That's Gascester," he said briefly.

She looked downward with a little cry.

"Why, how near it seems--and what a colour the sky is! Is that a fire?"

He shook his head.

"It's only the reflection of the lights in the sky. Come in."

"Is this where you live? What an odd little place."

"I hope that you were not expecting anything palatial," he remarked,


"Oh, nothing! You see as I live alone I don't require much room. Come

She peered about, and laughed softly to herself. It was a pleasant
laugh, and Strone was relieved. He had dreaded a giggle.

"Why, it looks as though you'd made all the things yourself," she
exclaimed. "Chairs and tables and bedstead and all!"

"That is precisely what I did," he answered, poking the fire.

"Why? Are you poor?" she asked. "We are."

"Well, I'm not rich," he answered, "but it wasn't that so much. I don't
like modern furniture--the cheap sort, anyway. I like this better."

"They look ever so funny," she said. "It's like a doll's house. There's
some beautiful furniture in the shop at the corner of our street--green
plush chairs and a sideboard, with a mirror in it."

He shuddered, and plunged his head into a cupboard.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"Yes," she declared, promptly. "I ain't going to take your supper,

"There's enough for two," he answered.

He produced some bread and cheese and cold meat, and busied himself
making coffee. Suddenly he stopped in the midst of cutting bread.

"What about your people?" he asked. "Won't they be anxious?"

She laughed heartily.

"It's Saturday night," she said, "and father will be too drunk to know
whether I'm home or not, and mother won't care. Someone else will have
to look after the kids, though."

He asked no more questions, but summoned her to the table, dividing up
the crockery as well as he could, for the entertainment of guests had
never entered into his scheme of life. She laughed at his efforts to cut
meat with a spoon, and drank her coffee as though scarcely used to it.
If there was any embarrassment between them it was not on her side. In
the midst of the meal she took her hat off, and threw it down. He knew
then that she was pretty, notwithstanding an abominable attempt at a

"What do you do with all those books?" she asked.

"Read them!"

"My! Are they novels?"

"A few."

"You must be very fond of reading."

"I am," he answered. "Aren't you?"

She shook her head.

"No time. I read the 'Young Ladies' Journal' sometimes. My married
sister takes it. I like the stories--real, good, love stories they are.
Have you any love stories?"

"One," he admitted, smiling faintly.

"What's it called? I wonder if I've read it?"

"It is the love story of Abelard and Heloise," he answered.

She shook her head disparagingly. She did not think much of the title.

"Never heard of it."

"It is scarcely a popular story," he said. "Tell me your name."

"Milly Wilson. Don't you want to talk about stories?"

"Not just now," he admitted. "Where do you live in Gascester?"

"Plumb Court, Wharf Street. Nice neighbourhood, ain't it? It's near the
shop where we work. I say, are you a gentleman?"

He shook his head.

"I have never been mistaken for such a thing in my life," he assured

"A schoolmaster, then?"

"No, I am a mechanic," he told her. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I don't know. You don't talk like me, and you seem to kind of fancy

He laughed long and heartily. She seemed doubtful whether to join in or
to be offended. As for Strone, he felt more at ease than as yet he had
done. After all he had better have stolen away while she slept, kept the
shoe--and the romance.

"I am sorry," he said. "You see I live alone and my manners suffer. What
are you looking for now?"

She was gazing about the room in a puzzled sort of way.

"I don't see any stairs," she said.

"There are none."

"Then where's your other room?" she asked, suddenly.

"I haven't one. In the summer I sleep out of doors. I am going to

She looked away awkwardly.

"I'm sorry to put you out. You must be sorry you found me."

"I don't think I am," he answered. "You would have caught cold there."

"I should have been mortal scared," she declared, laughing.

He rose, filled his pipe, and walked to the door. A flood of yellow
moonlight had fallen upon the earth. The dark tree tops were still,
every leaf and bough distinct upon the deep blue sky. For miles around
the outline of the country, the hedgerows and the sentinel trees were
like a painted landscape--a wonderful picture of silent life. Of
movement or of sound there was nothing. The whole land was sleeping. A
few insects were chirping in the hollow near the wood, the music of a
distant sheep bell came faintly from a great distance. Strone puffed out
dense volumes of smoke, and leaned against the doorway, happy after his
own fashion. This was the solitude he loved. Then he started and nearly
dropped his pipe, A soft hand touched his. The girl was by his side--her
pale face spiritualised in the moonlight, her eyes glistening with

"It is so beautiful here," she murmured, "and so still."

He smiled.

"You would rather be under the gas-lamps, perhaps!"

She shuddered.

"I wish that God would burn the whole town," she cried, passionately;
"house by house, street by street. I wish that I was never going to see
Gascester again. I wish--I wish--"

She was sobbing. Strone looked at her, surprised, curiously sympathetic.
She was so pretty, so much in earnest, and the story of her life, ay,
and the life of her kind, was written so painfully in her wan face.

"You are over-tired," he said, gently. "See, I will show you where to
sleep; to-morrow you will have forgotten all this, and I will take you
home across the fields."

She followed him wearily into the house; afterwards he climbed the hill
above the cottage, and smoked there for hours. He was restless, and ill
disposed for sleep. For ever there seemed to ring in his ears the
passionate unspoken wish of the child who slept now peacefully enough
on his rude oaken bedstead.


A grey morning, windless but cold. Strone awoke with a start, sat up and
listened. Surely he had heard light footsteps close at hand, or had he
been dreaming? He rose slowly to his feet, stiff, for the woodshed was
draughty, and he had not even a rug for covering. A distinct sound
now--the gate leading to the road was softly opened and closed. He
hastened to the front, lifted the latch of his cottage, and looked in.

The room was empty, the bed neatly made, and the remains of their supper
cleared away. His visitor had gone.

Curiously enough, his first impulse was of vexation. To steal away so
was surely ungrateful. Her absence should have been a relief--he was
inconsistently disappointed. Then he saw a piece of folded paper upon
the table. He opened it and smiled. In plain, childish characters he

My dear friend,--Thank you very, very much. I have slept
well, and I do not want to bother you any more, so I have gone away
quietly. I shall often think of this beautiful place, and good-bye.


He thrust it into his pocket, and then, without a moment's hesitation,
started swiftly for the road. He took a short cut, clambered over a
stone wall. She was already in sight, walking with downcast head in the
middle of the road. He stole near her on the grass border watching her
gait. She limped slightly. There was a curious listlessness in her
movements, not altogether, however, devoid of grace. He was almost at
her side before the snapping of a dry twig betrayed him. She raised her
head and looked at him startled.

"You're a nice guest," he exclaimed, "to steal away like this. What's
the matter?"

She flushed almost painfully. He saw signs in her of a new nervousness.

"I left a note," she faltered. "I'm such a bother to you--and I didn't
want to spoil your Sunday. I'm quite rested--I'll get on famous now!"

"You'll come back with me at once and have some breakfast," he said
firmly. "The idea of starting for a nine-mile walk like this. You'd
faint on the way."

"I thought maybe I'd get a drop of milk at Lingford," she said,
hesitatingly, "and I think I'd better go."

"Just as you like," he answered, gruffly. "I don't want to keep you."

Her eyes filled with tears. His gruffness vanished.

"Better come back."

She yielded at once. They climbed the hill together. The sunlight
streamed through the grey vaporous sky, and from a grassy field to their
left a lark rose in little circles singing to the morning. Down the
long, dusty road, with his feet up and a black bag in front, came John
Martinghoe on his way to an Early Celebration. He put on the brake when
he saw Strone, and gazed with wonder at his companion.

"Good morning," he called out, and Strone returned his greeting shortly.
Martinghoe looked back at the risk of falling, and his face was clouded.

"A stranger," he said. "Very likely a relation. I wish Strone hadn't
glared at me so. Hang it, I wish I hadn't seen them."

He turned the corner, and rode on. He was a lover of strong men, and
Strone, as a type, had fascinated him. He had no desire to see the feet
of clay. He put the thought away from him.

* * *

Strone was singularly unversed in women's ways. He knew nothing of their
tastes. He was shy and ill at ease under a mask of gruffness. Yet the
day slipped on pleasantly enough. After breakfast they sat out on the
hills, and what need was there of conversation? To her all things were
new and wonderful--the soft, mossy turf, the cloud-speckled blue sky,
the endless twittering of birds and chirping of insects against that
background of marvellously deep silence. The west wind swept through the
wood, and blew softly in their faces, almost it seemed like the murmur
of a distant sea. They talked spasmodically. She told him the details of
her dreary life simply and without bitterness--he was well able to
appreciate the miseries she spoke of. The long hours, the routine work,
the squalid slum in which she lived, the absolute hopelessness of any
change. So her cramped girlhood must pass into imperfect womanhood,
physically and morally she must become in time ground into the likeness
of those around her, a parasitical thing hanging on to the heart of the
great city. A pity, he thought, raising himself upon his elbow, and
looking thoughtfully at her. He, too, was of her class, but a man with
brains, unhampered with family, a skilled workman. Opportunity had been
his--in her position he, too, must have gone under--and she was
certainly pretty. Every hour he was more sure of it. Intelligent,
perhaps, receptive, without doubt, for in a vague sort of way these
hill-top solitudes meant something more to her also than their mere
external beauty. Yet he must let her go--back again into the pit. There
was no way in which he could help her. Had she been of his sex he might
have stretched out his hand, and pulled her up. But, then, be admitted
swiftly to himself, that in that case she would have been of no interest
to him. Strone had in those days much of the selfishness of the
home-made man of culture. He kept his eyes from looking downwards and
his heart from pity. He had worked out his own salvation--those who
could must of themselves struggle upwards into the light. But with this
girl it was different. He lay watching her--and thinking.

Often she irritated him--as when she spoke of her friends.

"Me and Charlie has been out in the country once or twice," she said,
"but it was never like this. There was generally a public-house where we
went to, and Charlie was hard to move when he got inside."

"And who," he asked, "is Charlie?"

"Well, I walk out with him sometimes," she answered, simply. "It ain't
nothing really, but he's taken me to the theatre once or twice. He's
real smart, is Charlie. He don't have to work like us, but he drives
about in' a trap, and sells things."

"Does he want to marry you?" Strone asked.

"No fear," she answered, bitterly. "I ain't near good enough for 'im!"

"If he makes you think so," Strone answered, with an energy which
surprised himself, "he's a cad."

She shook her head doubtfully.

"His mother lives in a villa," she said, "and he wears kid gloves. He
ain't my class."

Strone remained silent. He recognized the hopelessness of speech. A few
hours, which at the most was all that remained of her visit, was too
short a time for him to attempt to disturb the girl's whole outlook upon
life. So he passed away from the fringe of graver subjects, told her of
the birds who came hopping close around them, showed her the owl's nest
in the eaves, and the pond alive with newts. He caught one deftly and
showed her its brilliant orange chest. The day stole away; they had a
frugal dinner and started to walk to Gascester.

At the bend of the hill she turned around to catch a last glimpse of the
low-thatched roof and the grey smoke curling upwards. He was amazed to
see that there were tears in her eyes.

"It has been such a nice day," she murmured. "I shan't ever forget it.
It's like--another world--out here."

So the husk of her materialism had been quickly pierced. A new warmth
found its way into his manner. He was pleased to find that she possessed

"You must come out and have tea with me again some time," he said.


The single monosyllable, almost fiercely uttered, appealed to his sense
of humour. He laughed heartily.

"You shall come one Sunday," he said.

"My married sister has a bicycle," she remarked. "I might get her to
lend it to me."

He nodded.

"I have your address," he said. "I will write to you."

At Lingford a cheap little trap with yellow wheels and a dejected pony
came rattling through the village. A young man in a light overcoat and
cap, dissipated looking and pale, with a big cigar in his mouth, was
driving, and by his side a girl in a ready-made tailor coat, a collar
and tie, a heavy fringe, coarse-faced, bold-eyed. The young man waved
his whip and saluted them with a laugh which was half a jeer.

"Wot ho, Milly!" he sung out. "Got a chap, eh?"

Strone's face darkened--a streak of colour flushed in the girl's

"It's Charlie," she said, in an odd, smothered tone. "She's the barmaid
at the Peacock."

Strone made no remark. At the inn a brake was preparing to start for
Gascester. He paid sixpence for a seat and handed her up.

"Good-bye," he said.

She turned her head away. Her farewell was almost inaudible. The brake
drove off, and Strone saw that she was crying.


An odd restlessness crept into Strone's life during the next few days. To
his amazement he found himself thinking more than once of his strange
visitor during his long rides backwards and forwards to Gascester, and
in the still nights when he wandered about his curious little domain,
smoking and drinking in the sweet, clear air. He forgot her small
"gaucheries" even "Charlie" ceased to irritate him. He remembered her
pretty brown hair and eyes, her eager appreciation of his belongings,
her immense awe of his knowledge of books and living things, that
pleasant sense of companionship which somehow invested the memory of
that day with a charm which he was wholly unable to account for. She was
ignorant, a mere waif in that world within which Strone himself aspired
to dwell. He was wholly unable to account for the fact that she did not
slip easily out of his memory, an alien thing, kin to him only in her
humanity. Surely it could not be her sex alone which kept alive
recollections for the existence of which there could be no real reason.
It was humiliating. He found himself reading poetry--more thrilled than
ever he had been before by the wonderful Springtime. His work at
Gascester fretted him. He grew silent and irritable.

One day the head of the firm sent for him. He threaded his way through
the works and presented himself in the private office, cap in hand. Mr.
Dobell nodded pleasantly.

"Good morning, Strone," he said. "I hear that you are by way of being an

Strone's face was a study of impassiveness.

"I wasn't aware of it, sir," he answered.

Mr. Dobell smiled as one who knows.

"How do you spend your dinner hour as a rule?" he asked.

Strone shrugged his shoulders.

"I have a few ideas, now and then, sir," he answered. "I sometimes try
to work them out, when everything is quiet in the yard."

"So I understand," Mr. Dobell remarked.

"They are scarcely inventions," Strone continued. "You might put them
down as improvements. Where they have come to anything the firm has had
the benefit."

"I am perfectly aware of it," Mr. Dobell answered. "Sit down, Strone."

Strone found a chair and drew it up to the desk.

"My desire is," Mr. Dobell said, "to offer you every encouragement. You
are a valuable servant, and the firm realises it. I should like to
posses your confidence. Am I not right in believing that you have
something more extensive in your mind?"

"I am much obliged to you, Mr. Dobell," Strone said. "In a certain sense
you are quite right. You will remember a man named Lansom?"

"Perfectly well," Mr. Dobell answered. "He spent twenty years of his
life trying to make what he called the 'Miracle Crane.' He took to drink
in the end, and died in a hospital."

Strone nodded.

"He was an ill-balanced creature," he said, "but some of his ideas were
good--very good indeed. I used to work next to him, and we talked a
great deal about his scheme. He never perfected it--he never would have
perfected it. All the same--I think that it can be done."

"I have worked at it myself," Mr. Dobell said, thoughtfully, "and I have
come to utter grief. I got just far enough though to see that the thing
was possible."

Strone smiled.

"Yes, it is possible," he repeated. "What I want to say to you is this,"
Mr. Dobell continued. "There is every scope here for you if you should
chance to succeed in putting the thing together. Don't leave us. If you
have anything to offer we shan't rob you. If it's worth it--there's a
partnership. I have no sons, as you know, and no one in particular to
leave the business to. We don't want to grow fat on another man's
brains, but the greatest invention in the world is of no use without
capital. Go on working at it. You can have all the power you want, and
all the material. If you make the Miracle Crane we'll set our capital
against your ingenuity share and share alike."

Strone betrayed no elation, whatever he may have felt. He was looking
past his employer out of the high uncurtained window. His massive
forehead was puckered into a frown. He was thoughtful.

"It's fair enough, sir," Strone answered. "There's only one thing. I
think I can make it, and I'll not take it elsewhere without talking it
over with you. But--"

"Out with it, Strone," Mr. Dobell said. "Let's talk this out like men.
We'll understand one another, at any rate."

Strone nodded.

"Certainly, sir. I've a few ideas about labour and capital on which I am
afraid we should split. I am not ambitious to make a fortune. I don't
want to draw thousands a year myself and pay thirty shillings a week to
my men. It isn't honest."

Mr. Dobell raised his eyebrows. A very faint smile flickered across his
face. He had heard this sort of thing before.

"Why not? Brains must earn more than unskilled labour. You can't alter

"I can modify it, sir."

"Go ahead then."

Strone hesitated. He was not at a loss for words, but he knew his man.
Mr. Dobell was honest enough, but he had prejudices.

"The whole thing, sir," he declared, "seems to depend entirely upon the
point of view. You can't submit it satisfactorily to argument. I've a
sort of creed--just a jumble of ideas, that's all. You might pulverise
me logically, and next morning they'd all be there again."

Dobell leaned back in his chair. It was his policy to humour this man,
and he prepared to be bored.

"Go on."

"I think that where we mostly go wrong, sir," Strone continued, "is that
we are apt to be too self-centred. We look upon ourselves as separate and
individual units instead of one infinitesimal part of a great humanity.
Life's all framed that way. Everything encourages it. The struggle for
existence, the desperate competition, our system of government, even the
marriage laws. You see, life's a big thing, and an exciting thing. We're
caught up in the maelstrom and we forget."

"But you must believe," Mr. Dobell said, "in the necessity for

"I believe self-development is our first duty." Strone answered firmly,
"but as a means to an end--not an end in itself. Directly we've
succeeded, our next duty is to give others a leg up. Even if I've got
the brains, it's no particular credit to me. I am a selfish beast to
squeeze the world dry whilst I fatten."

"This isn't argument," Mr. Dobell remarked.

"It's just one of those subjects you can't argue about," Strone
admitted. "It's as though the cipher zero had stolen somewhere into all
the formulae which represent humanity. You can argue for ever, and you
don't advance a step. It's a matter for individual Sentiment. There may
be another life and there may not, but I'm pretty sure I couldn't walk
through the slums of Gascester and live myself in luxury. The difference
between failure and success is generally opportunity. The man who
succeeds mostly forgets this--the man who fails never."

Mr. Dobell tapped upon the desk with his pencil.

"Now be practical, Strone. Show me how this is to affect my offer--to
come between you and me. I've heard that you're a Socialist. It doesn't
seem to me to be a logical state, but I'm open to conviction."

Strone laughed pleasantly. He was beginning to like his employer. His
cynicism was relieved by a touch of geniality--he, too, was a hater of

"I'm not a Socialist, sir," he said. "I'm a firm believer in some of
their broader principles, but you're right when you say that it isn't a
logical state. That's why I rather like Christianity. It pleads that we
do as a favour what Socialism would like to convince us must be done as
a law. If I were an employer I'd want to run my works on a
profit-sharing basis, not nominally, you know--the real thing. I'd like
my work people to get five pounds a week--enough to live in a clean
neighbourhood, get out into the country on holidays, bring up their kids
in a wholesome way. I've no delusions, sir. I should draw a bit more
myself if it was to be made, and if I did I bet my most ignorant
mechanic would grumble and call me names."

They both laughed. Mr. Dobell rose.

"I hold you to your promise, Strone," he said. "Come and see me if you
succeed. Meanwhile, can I help?"

Strone hesitated.

"I'd like to leave a little earlier sometimes now we're slack, sir," he

Mr. Dobell nodded.

"You are your own master," he said, briefly. "You know what has to be
done. Come when you like, and leave when you like. Money all right, eh?"

"I'm getting all I want, sir, thanks," Strone answered. "Good morning."

* * *

Strone made use of his increased liberty to leave early that evening,
and on a sudden impulse altered his usual route. He had tea at a village
inn, lit his pipe, and rode slowly along the hilly pine-fringed roads.
He came at last to Bangton village, and turned by the church homewards.
From the vicarage lawn Martinghoe espied him and shouted lustily:

"Hi, Strone! Come in, man! You're not going to pass my house, surely."

Strone dismounted and brought in his bicycle.

"I didn't know you lived here, Mr. Martinghoe," he said, with an
admiring glance at the low grey stone house set against a background of
dark cool shrubs.

"Leave your bicycle there," Martinghoe insisted. "I will show you my
flowers, and you must have supper with me."

They walked about the pleasantly-perfumed gardens until the twilight
deepened, and from the open French windows a rose-shaded lamp gleamed
invitingly in the centre of a white tablecloth. A gong rang out--the
vicar pulled himself up in the midst of a delightful argument on the
influence of Ruskin as an apostle of the beautiful.

"Will you have a wash?" he asked.

Strone assented, and afterwards found his way into a low-ceilinged
dining-room, quaint but charming. Then came a surprise.

Martinghoe advanced to meet him and laid his hand upon his shoulder.

"Strone," he said, "I must introduce you to my sister. Lady

There floated out from the rose-lit shadows of the room a woman such as
Strone had never looked upon before. She was fair, and very tall; her
dinner dress was of unrelieved black; upon a band of black velvet which
encircled her long graceful neck gleamed a large, lustrous pearl. In her
eyes there was an expression strange to Strone--the bored listlessness
of a woman of the world. With a little inclination of the head she
passed on to her seat at the table.

"I am not always a bachelor, you see," Martinghoe remarked, as the soup
came in. "My sister has tired suddenly of the city of vanities, and has
come here to rusticate."

"The city of vanities is--London?" Strone asked.

She raised her eyelids.

"It is my brother's definition of a place which he will never visit,"
she remarked, in her soft, well-bred drawl. "Don't you think that he is
very prejudiced, Mr. Strone?"

"I cannot tell," Strone answered, "for I have never been there."

A flicker of amazed interest struggled with the impassivity of her

"You have never been to London? You are not a foreigner?"

Strone looked up, and his eyes twinkled with amusement.

"I am even a greater stranger to London and your world, Lady
Malingcourt, than a foreigner. I am a working engineer in Gascester, and
I do not often get a holiday."

She laughed, very softly, very pleasantly.

"You are so much to be envied," she murmured. "The most delightful thing
in the world is to have something to do."

"As, for instance?" Strone asked, sipping his claret with wonderful
appreciation, considering that the wine was strange to him.

"Oh, I have made many attempts at energy--all failures," she answered.
"I tried singing, but my master was so unreasonable; philanthropy, but
it was so tiresome; racing, but I lost my money. I am really a most
unfortunate person."

Whereupon, feeling that she had gracefully extricated herself from her
"faux pas," Lady Malingcourt leaned back in her chair and left the
conversation to the men. Through half-closed eyes she studied Strone
marvelling at his attire--the contrast between it and his easy fluent
speech, was a constant puzzle to her. Without the slightest awkwardness
Strone gave many signs of being totally unused to any form of society.
The small usages of the table he took to readily enough--when asparagus
tongs were placed by his side he simply asked what they were for in the
most indifferent manner, and gravely accommodated himself to their use.
Martinghoe was filled with admiration of the man I When he had pressed
him to stay he had utterly forgotten the presence of his sister and the
consequent alteration in his domestic arrangements. Strone, however, was
neither flustered nor assertive. Encouraged to talk he talked, when
opportunity came he was silent. Lady Malingcourt, who had been for some
time silent, from sheer inability to grasp the situation, came back once
more into the conversation. She, too, although she would not for the
world have admitted it, was a well read and well-informed woman, and she
felt a positive pleasure in breathing once more an atmosphere of
intellectual controversy. It was the first of many such struggles
between the two men representing in themselves and their two lives the
real and the ideal--the one passionately religious, pleading ever for
the Christian type as the penultimate ideal of civilisation; the other
frankly Pagan, fashioning his models of worldly stuff, giving to them a
reality and an actual vivid life by this selection of humanly beautiful
materials, so carefully and deliberately chosen. They sat talking till
Lady Malingcourt yawned, talked over their cigars in the garden till the
yew tree shadows were black upon the lawn, talked till the eager words
died away on Strone's lips and he stopped short, fascinated and amazed.
Through the opened window came the first notes of a woman's song, and to
Strone the air seemed suddenly sweet and vibrate with music. The song
grew. Strone thought that never before had he heard anything so
beautiful. He was strangely, wonderfully thrilled. All his life his
sense of beauty, keen enough, had most easily been reached by sound. The
soft swelling of a west wind in the woods; the minor wailing of the
night air in the pine grove which overhung his cottage; the singing of
birds; even the chirping of insects--these things had represented a very
high type of beauty to him. To-night, from the lips of this tired woman
of fashion came to him a new wonder in life. His pulses quivered with
the delight of it. When the song was finished there was a hoarseness in
his throat--he was scarcely conscious of his whereabouts. Upon the
threshold of the French windows she stood and looked listlessly out at
them, her beautiful slim figure softly defined against the rose-shaded
background, her bosom still rising and falling with the swell and
triumph of that last wonderful note. For she had sung her best, and she
knew it!

"I came hoping for applause," she murmured, "and not a word from either
of you."

Strone moved out from the shadows. His face was unusually white, and his
eyes were on fire.

"There is something better even than applause, Lady Malingcourt," he
said, "and which we offer only to the most beautiful things in life--and
that is silence."

Then he rode away with scarcely another word, and Lady Malingcourt
laughed softly and was well pleased.

"Your working man," she said to her brother, "is not far from being a

* * *

He rode back in a dream, a wonderful dream, through which there seemed
ever to beat upon his ears the throbbing refrain of the song which had
found its way to his heart. And on his table he found in a bowl of water
a bunch of dejected-looking wall-flowers and a scrap of a note

"We're on half-time at our shop, and I borrowed Nancy's bicikel and
brought you these. They faded awful quick coming, but I think the water
will revive them. I have waited two hours. I hope I shall meet you
riding back.

P.S.--I won't have no more to do with Charlie."

He took the note with him out into the night and tore it up. Little
white specks of paper fluttered ghostlike through the darkness.


It was in those days that Strone's ambition, kindled long enough ago,
burst suddenly into full flame. He neglected his reading and his
solitary country rambles for a spell of downright hard work. Many nights
he remained at the works long after the work people had left, locked in
his shed, with a single light burning,--labouring always at the same
apparently confused collection of wheels and strangely shaped pieces of
metal. His progress was slow, and a less forceful man would long ago
have been discouraged. There was a point beyond which movement seemed
impossible. Ever he was hammering away, as many others had done before
him, at a problem which seemed insoluble. He rode backwards and forwards
like a man in a dream. Ever those wheels seemed flying round before his
eyes, and somewhere between them and the piston rod there was a
link--but where? He told himself plainly that the thing was possible.
Some day it would come to him. He had always told himself that. Only
whereas a few months ago he had contemplated the end with a sort of
leisurely curiosity, he felt himself impelled to work now with a
feverish haste as though time had suddenly closed in upon him.
Martinghoe found him dreaming on his rocks one Sunday, and was surprised
at the warm welcome which awaited him. They had tea together and talked
for a while. Strone asked after Lady Malingcourt, and learned that she
was spending a few days at a country house close at hand.

"My sister," Martinghoe said, "is a woman of a curious type. Before her
marriage she was simple and wholesome minded enough, but society has
done its best to spoil her. Her husband was very rich, and they used to
entertain very largely. I am afraid that the simple things of life will
never again content her, though just now she is certainly a little bored
with existence generally. If she had married a politician or a
diplomatist she might have made a name for herself. She has brains, but
seems to find the labour of thought too arduous."

"Her husband has been dead for some years?" Strone asked.

Martinghoe nodded.

"Yes! He was an invalid from the day of their marriage. Beatrice has
never been the same girl since. I should be sorry to call her heartless,
but I am afraid she has imbibed a good deal of the selfishness of the
world she professes herself weary of. What excellent tea, Strone. May I
have some more?"

Incidentally Strone spoke of his finding Milly Wilson, of her life and
the life of her class. Martinghoe listened with sympathy. He felt that
the story was told him in the light of an explanation, but he never
alluded to his surprise at that morning meeting. From the first he had
great faith in the man.

"I do not think, Strone," he said, later on, "that women have ever
occupied much of a place in your scheme of life."

"They have occupied no place at all," Strone answered. "I find plenty of
sentiment in life apart from the sentiment of sex. Marriage is not a
state for which I have the slightest sympathy."

"You may change," Martinghoe remarked. "You are young, and for good or
for evil the woman has swayed the man throughout all time."

"You yourself--," Strone began.

"Should have been married long ago," Martinghoe interrupted, simply,
"but the woman whom I loved--died."

Strone said nothing, but his silence was sympathetic.

"You are faithful then--to a memory," he murmured, after a long pause.

"It seems like that," Martinghoe admitted. "The fact is that I have
never cared in the least for any other woman. I do not think, Strone,
that a strong man ever cares for two women in his life."

And then they talked of other things. Strone spoke of his inventor's
hopes, and Martinghoe was interested.

"Ambition is an angel's vice," he said. "Are you anxious for wealth,

He shook his head.

"I would not accept it," he answered. "I want the power which wealth
confers without the incubus or the disgrace of riches."


Strone laughed.

"My socialism, you know. I would like the control of a large industrial
undertaking, and I would like to have the framing and altering of many
social laws."

"Parliament?" Martinghoe suggested.

"I suppose so," Strone admitted, without enthusiasm. "Not for its own
sake though. In many ways life even now is very sweet to me, only it is
so hard to understand--to know oneself. One goes jogging along--and
then an upheaval. There comes a torrent of new emotions, new desires."

Martinghoe sighed.

"If only you had been granted the religious sense," he said, rising,
"what a bishop you would have made. By-the-bye, I wonder would you mind
my bringing my sister over one Saturday or Sunday? She is very curious
to see your cottage."

Martinghoe was lighting his pipe, and the sudden flash in the other's
dark eyes passed unnoticed Strone's voice he was master of. It betrayed

"It will give me very much pleasure," he said. "When?"

"I won't say for certain," Martinghoe answered "You see, Beatrice is
fearfully capricious, and if I fixed a date and told her she certainly
wouldn't come. We'll take you by surprise some day."

Strone's face fell, but he made no remark. At the gate he left
Martinghoe, and by chance chose to return through the wood where he had
met Milly Wilson and there to his amazement he found her once more, a
shabby old bicycle by her side, reading diligently.

She sprang to her feet as he approached, the book dropped from her hand.
There was no doubt whatever as to her prettiness. The pink flush in her
cheeks was charming. Strone, who had lately now and then developed
strange fits of loneliness, was honestly glad to see her.

"Were you coming to see me?" he asked.

She shook her head shyly.

"No. I've been here lots of times lately. Louie--that's my other
sister--she's bad, and I ride her bicycle."

"Thanks for the wallflowers," he said. "Will you come and have some

"May I?" she asked, eagerly. "I'd just love to!"

"Of course!"

He picked up her book. It was a little volume of Tennyson.

"Hullo I Are you taking to poetry?" he exclaimed.

She looked a trifle shamefaced.

"I wanted to read some of the books you read," she said, "and I saw this
in your room."

He nodded approval.

"Stick to it," he advised. "I don't know that I'd start on Tennyson,
though. Would you like me to lend you some books?"

"Would you--really?"

She was breathless. He took up her bicycle and carried it under his arm.

"Why not? I should be very selfish not to try and help you a bit. How
are things at home now?"

"About the same," she answered, drearily. "Only father has had no money
to get drunk with, and mother's been in bed with pleurisy. I've been on
short time too."

"How much do you earn?" he asked.

"Nearly sixteen shillings most weeks," she answered, with satisfaction.
"I'm rather quick."

"And how much do your people get?" he asked.

She laughed bitterly.

"How much do you suppose? Every copper. I kept back two shillings for a
pair of gloves last week, and father hit me."

Strone--so well acquainted with the class of home--was angry.

"The brute," he muttered. "Don't you sometimes feel like leaving them?"

"I can't do that," she answered, dolefully. "There are the kids--they'd
starve but for my money. Father doesn't earn anything regular."

It was a very hard problem. He let it alone for the present, and gave
her some tea, pulled down his books and talked pleasantly to her about
them. She was not without a certain quick intelligence, and her memory
was good. He packed up a few volumes and tied them to her bicycle.

"You must ride out again soon and change them," he said.

She looked at him eagerly.


He hesitated. It was within his power to lighten a little the burden
which lay upon her young shoulders. There was no one so far as she was
concerned to object to her visits--he was quite sure of himself. And yet
a curious hesitation held him tongue-tied. It was as though someone had
held up for a moment that impenetrable curtain of fate and the shadow of
a warning had stolen out to mock him. He brushed it away. The girl
caught his hand impulsively and her warm breath almost mingled with his.

"I may come?"

"Some Saturday or Sunday," he said. "I am always about then."

Her lips broke into a smile. She jumped lightly on her bicycle, and rode
down the hill--carefully at first to avoid the brougham and pair which
was leisurely ascending it. Strone watched the carriage also with
surprise, for it was a rough road and seldom used.

It drew level with him, and he became aware of a brilliant vision, a
Bond Street toilette, a woman fair and listless, leisurely extending a
daintily shod foot to the step of the suddenly checked carriage. He was
astonished to find himself the possessor of emotions more fierce and
vivid than any he had ever imagined. He was suddenly shy and awkward.

She stepped across the road and held out a grey gloved hand.

"How do you do, Mr. Strone? Are we really anywhere near this wonderful
cottage of yours?"

He pointed to where the smoke crept up behind the hillock.

"You are very near indeed. Lady Malingcourt," he said.

She paused. How stupid the man was, standing there like an owl.

"I am curious to see the outside," she said. "I cannot imagine what a
home-made house looks like. It reminds one so much of the picture books
of our youth. Can I see it from the other side of the field without
climbing anything?"

Strone threw open the gate, and she passed through into the field, her
grey skirt trailing with a silken rustle across the short green turf.
She looked at him sideways languidly--how stupid the man was.

"I have been paying calls," she said, "a dreary ordeal in the country.
People expect you to play croquet or smell flowers, and have tea out of
doors. So extraordinary. Life seems made up of people who live in London
and have houses in the country, or people who live in the country and
have houses in London. Such a wonderful difference, isn't there?"

"I suppose so," he answered.

Then there was a short silence. It was an event, this, so bewildering,
so unexpected, that Strone was unable to recover himself. A new shyness
held him speechless. Lady Malingcourt, who was wondering if she rightly
understood it, did nothing to help him.

"There was a young woman," she said, languidly, "who nearly ran into us,
coasting at a ridiculous speed down the hill. Was it your sister?"

"I have not a relation in the world," he answered.


He felt, rather than saw, the slight upraising of her parasol, the quiet
glance, which although not altogether inviting an explanation, at least
permitted it.

"It is a young woman whom I found in the woods here with a sprained
ankle some weeks ago," he said. "She has ridden out to see me twice
since. I am lending her some books. Her life is a most unfortunate

Lady Malingcourt yawned.

"How nice of you," she murmured. "I cannot imagine where your cottage is
hidden. Is it much further?"

"You can see the outside from the gate here," he answered. "The approach
is rather rough, but if you will allow me to assist you I can find an
easy way down."

Lady Malingcourt looked downwards at the stony path, and decided that an
exterior view would suffice. The appearance of the cottage perched upon
a ledge of the grassy hill excited her admiration.

"How sweet," she exclaimed, "and what a delightful situation. I had no
idea that there was such a view in the county."

"Few people have," he answered. "It is a little corner all to itself."

"And those beautiful grey stones," she asked, "where did they come

"I collected them from the land round about,". he answered. "Here and
there I am afraid that I robbed a wall."

"It looks so cool," she remarked, "and the thatch is lovely. So this is
the abode of a veritable hermit. You live here quite alone, do you not?"

"Absolutely!" he answered.

"You cook your own meals--do everything for yourself?"

"Why not? It is very simple!"

"You are one of those few people in the world, then," she said, "who are
able to realise what absolute solitude is?"

"I have learnt to regard it," he admitted, "as a luxury jealously to be

"In the abstract," she murmured, "it must be delightful. Yet it always
seems to me that solitude is for one's fine weather days. There must be
times when companionship is a luxury."

"The right sort of companionship," he said. "Yes, I can understand that.
I am not going to say that I have not known what it is to be lonely.
But, then, I would rather a thousand times suffer the worst pangs of
loneliness than have to submit to unwelcome companionship, wouldn't

She shrugged her shoulders.

"There are times," she admitted, "when I bore myself far more than any
one else could bore me. You should select the companionship you prefer.
Isn't that the easiest solution?"

He laughed hardly. There passed before him in swift mental review the
men and women with whom consort would be possible if indeed
companionship should become a necessity for him. The irony of the thing
appealed to his sense of humour--always a little grim.

"That is the easiest solution," he said, "for those who are in a
position to choose. But, after all, I do not think that I am a
companionable man."


She looked around to where the carriage was waiting.

"I must go," she said. "I'm so glad to have seen your cottage. Remember
that John is bringing me to have tea with you one day. I shall look
forward to it immensely."

"It will be a great pleasure to me," he said, in a low tone. "Your
brother has been in this afternoon."

She began to retrace her steps. He kept by her side.

"I hope you sent him off in good time," she said.

"I have promised to take him to Lingford Grange to dine to-night."

A sudden impulse prompted him to ask a question.

"Will you sing to them?"

She laughed.

"Oh, I don't know, I might if I were asked, but I fancy that they are
all very keen on bridge just now."

"Do," he said, quickly.

She looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Why? You will not be there, surely?"

He ignored the insolence of her question.

"If you mean that I shall not be one of Colonel Devenhill's
guests--certainly not," he answered.

"Then I cannot see what difference my singing can make to you."

He smiled enigmatically.

"Nevertheless," he said, "if you are asked to sing I hope that you

She looked around her as he opened the gate. The silence of the
approaching dusk seemed already to be hovering over the quiet country. A
bat flew over their heads, and from a little way in the wood an owl
called sleepily to his mate. She listened intently for a few minutes.

"After all," she said, "the country has charms. I think that I shall
give up Homburg and inflict myself on John for the whole summer."

She raised her skirts and picked her way across the flint-covered road.
The tall footman opened the door of the carriage, and she stepped

"Well," she said, "do not forget that we are coming to have tea with you
very soon."

She smiled at him, and leaned back amongst the cushions. Strone remained
at the gate until the carriage was out of sight.


The man stood like a statue, half invisible amongst the shadows. Only
his face, wrung with emotion, gleamed pale through the darkness. Out
from the window, ablaze with much illumination, out into the cool still
night came the wonderful music tugging at his heartstrings, sending the
blood rushing through his veins at fever heat. He was no willing victim.
When those first long sweet notes came quivering out he had made a quick
movement backwards. He would not give himself over to this witchery,
this most unholy bondage. He would seek safety in the woods, anywhere!
But his feet were chained. He was a prisoner. The song swelled and the
music grew, and with it his impotence. His passionate resistance melted
away. He gave himself up to the wonderful sweetness of this new emotion.
Then came the end--the dying away of that long sustained melodious note,
the crash of chords on the piano, the buzz of applause, merging into
conversation. And all these things Strone heard, or Lingford Grange with
its magnificent front and groves of poplars stood with its back sheer
upon a country road, and the newly built music room almost overhung the
pathway. He heard, and he listened for more. They would make her sing

Soon a silence, the silence of expectation--a note or two upon the
piano--and again her voice. More wonderful than ever. Seduction was
blended now with mockery. A light laugh was followed by a burst of
melody. It was a fantasy of music, elusive, capricious, delightful. Then
a touch of passion, a full flood-tide of weird, heart shattering notes.
It was surely the pleading of the lover--and once more the gay trill,
the note of mockery. The song ended with the woman's laughter. Strone
groaned where he stood, under the rustling leaves. It was like an omen,
a chill forewarning of his own certain fate.

Shadows passed backwards and forwards across the window, and Strone
waited, drunk for the moment with his stupendous folly. The memory of
this thing which had come like a thief in the night, must ever linger
with him--a shadow of shame in the future, a proof that even the sanest
of men may drift with little warning into the kingdom of lunacy. Yet
that night Strone was scarcely master of himself. The music had crept
into His brain, a new force was alive within him. He stood there
rigid, immovable. "She will come to the window," he said to himself.
And she came.

He knew her at once, as she came slowly into sight, leaning on the arm
of Captain Devenhill. A diamond star gleamed in her hair, a great bunch
of white roses were clustering loosely at her bosom. She walked straight
to the window and looked out. The spirit of the song seemed still to
linger in her face, her eyelids dropped a little, her lips were parted
in the daintiest of smiles! Against the lamp lit background she formed
perhaps the fairest image of a woman Strone had ever gazed upon. Her
bare arms and neck shone like alabaster, her black net gown glittered
all over with some marvellous trimming traced in a strange design about
her skirt. She stood there looking out, and Strone lifted his eyes to
hers. It was like fire flashing through the summer darkness. Then he
heard her voice.

"How delicious this air is. Could I trouble you to fetch my fan, Captain
Devenhill! It is on the piano."

The man disappeared. Then Strone's heart throbbed. Though he dared not
speak or move towards her it seemed to him that they were alone. He
watched her breathlessly. A white jewelled hand played for a moment with
the ornament which held her roses--then they came dropping into the
darkness, a little shower of white blossoms. Almost immediately the
young man rejoined her, the fan in his hand.

"Why, you have dropped your roses!" he Exclaimed. "One moment."

He disappeared. With a single bound Strone cleared the road, picked up
the roses one by one with hot, dry fingers, and regained his shelter
with the echo of a woman's soft laugh ringing in his ears. Captain
Devenhill came out through the stable gate, and strolled down the path,
pausing for a moment to light a cigarette. When he reached the spot
where the roses had lain he stopped short in amazement.

"Why, they are gone," he cried, looking upwards.

She leaned out of the window, and laughed down at him.

"Impossible," she declared. "Do, please, find them."

He poked about, looked up and down the road and swore very softly UNDER
his breath. Again she laughed, and the note of mockery was unmistakable.
He looked up at the window.

"You have spirited them away," he declared. "There is something uncanny
about it."

She nodded, and leaning down spoke to him softly.

"It was a ghost," she declared. "I was looking, and I saw a hand grab
them. Do come up and take care of me. I do not like your country
institutions, and I do not think that it was polite of your ghost to
steal my roses."

"I'd punch the ghost's head if I could catch him," he muttered. "Lady
Malingcourt, you are making fun of me."

She shook her head.

"I would not dare," she answered. "I do not know you well enough."

"In one moment. Lady Malingcourt."

He turned once more to the stable gate. A little white hand flashed
imperiously out into the darkness. Strone stole away swiftly and
silently. A minute later Captain Devenhill reappeared with a small army
of dogs about him and a lantern. The woman sat in the window and

He chose a safe place and watched her go by an hour or so later, leaning
back in the carriage with half-closed eyes as though asleep, and a cloud
of drooping white lace around her shoulders. It was only a glimpse. Then
he lit his pipe and trudged homewards across the hills. With the grey
dawn he turned upon his madness and fought it.


Day by day he rode backwards and forwards from his hillside cottage to
Gascester through the grey dawn and the white moonlight. Like a man at
bay he fought his madness--he, the grimy mechanic in grease-stained
clothing, who had drawn an evil poison into his veins. Heart and soul he
flung himself with grim determination into his great work. The wheels of
his models whirred and the great pistons throbbed with life. Out of
chaos there resolved itself before him a problem to be solved--beyond
was fortune immeasurable. So he toiled, not discouraged by many
failures, grim and unswerving in his resolve to struggle through into
the light. The days past--the nights alone were hard to bear.

Saturday came--enforced absence from the works--bringing rest which he
feared, sunshine and a west wind, sweetest and strongest of tonics. Yet
the thought of the long clear day's solitude within a few miles of
Bangdon filled him at once with evil joy and passionate fear. He lay on
the warm turf above the cottage all Saturday afternoon, smoking fiercely
and reading Heine. Then a gate slammed. The book slipped from his
fingers, he sat up listening, his heart beating thickly, his eyes
ablaze. It was a woman who came into sight, but a woman in an
ill-hanging skirt pushing a cheap bicycle, a woman hot and dusty with
riding. He ground his heel upon his feeling of sickly disappointment.
This was better for him. He rose and went to meet her--took the bicycle,
did his best to seem pleased.

"I didn't know whether I oughter come again so soon," she began,
doubtfully, watching him with anxious eyes.

"I am glad to see you," he said. "Have you come for more books? See, I
will put the kettle on."

He took it to the well and filled it, made up the fire and reached down
some things from the cupboard. She watched him, drawing her gloves
through her hand, anxious that he should notice that she had on a new
hat. He looked at her furtively now and then, wondering whether white
muslins and pink roses would have the power to transform her into a
creature of that feminine world of which it seemed to him that there
could be but one real habitant. Her thick stuff gown, her untidy skirt
and pitifully cheap little hat. He looked them all over mercilessly. She
felt vaguely that her appearance displeased him, yet he had seemed glad
to see her. She made up her mind to believe he was glad. It had been so
miserable a week--every morning she had woke up in her stuffy little
room with only this thought to cheer her--that she was one day nearer
Saturday. Much scheming--even a harmless little fib had gone to the
buying of the new hat. She had earned it fairly enough. A record week's
wages, a dizzy head, fingers and hands sore with labour. But her reward
had come. She threw herself upon the turf by his side.

They talked very little. The birds were singing and the west wind
blowing through the tree-tops. Below them a wide stretch of country,
blue carpeted woods, brown and furrowed fields, fields green with
sprouting corn. The girl spoke timidly of the books she had read,--he
listened, blowing out dense clouds of tobacco smoke. She talked, and
every now and then she sighed.

"It is so beautiful here," she murmured. "If only there was no going

He was silent. His eyes were fixed upon the tall chimneys and smoky
clouds which hung over the city. The girl was picking grass and throwing
it away. Her hand met his and sought his touch.

"If only he would kiss me," she thought. "If only he were like the

But in those days Strone had no thought of kissing her. In those days
she did not even possess for him the mystery of sex. He was kind to her,
but his kindness was born of an immense pity. He understood her life
and the manner of it. He would have liked to have helped her, to have
set her on her feet, to have seen her start the world under different
auspices. So her hand rested upon his without any movement on his part.
He ignored the fact that the tired, pretty face, with its wavy brown
hair, showed a continual inclination to droop upon his shoulder. She
wondered whether this were shyness or indifference. A little spoilt as
regards her relations with her sex she elected to believe the former.
She linked her arm in his boldly--and Strone, so unused to anything of
the sort, was embarrassed, and clumsily removed it.

She rose up at once.

"You don't want me here any longer," she said. "I'm off."

He stopped her.

"Why, what's the matter, Milly?" he exclaimed. "You have not had your
tea yet."

"I don't want any tea."

She stood with her back turned to him. He had an uncomfortable suspicion
that she was crying.

"What nonsense," he said. "Sit down while I see about it."

"I don't want any," she repeated. "I'm sorry I came. I'm sorry I ever
saw you. I'm off!"

She started down the turf walk, pushing her dusty old bicycle. Strone
groaned to himself as he followed in pursuit. He caught her by the gate,
touched her arm. She shook herself free.

"Let me be," she said, keeping her face averted.

He saw the gleam of tears in her brown eyes, and felt himself a brute.
Then somehow, he scarcely knew how it happened, his arm was around her
waist and he had kissed her. After that there was no more talk of her
going. She sobbed herself into an ecstasy. They returned together.

"I thought that you wanted me gone," she said, in a broken tone, mopping
her eyes with her handkerchief. "I was so miserable."

Strone was very uncomfortable. He almost wished that he had let her go.
However, he made the best of it, hurried on the tea and ignored sundry
affectionate little overtures on her part. Afterwards he chose for his
seat an isolated rock, and pointed out to her a place beneath. However,
he couldn't avoid her resting her head upon his knee. She began to
talk--volubly. It wasn't very interesting,--3, long tirade,--a record of
her woes, fascinating to him, for it was a page from the life of one of
his kind. What a bringing up! A father who drank, a mother to be passed
over in dark silence, a squalid home, children unwholesome and
unmanageable. What a struggle for respectability, and what would be the
end of it, he wondered, as the light grew dimmer, the evening insects
buzzed around them, and far down in the valley little yellow dots of
light leaped into life. Then he rose up, and she sadly followed his

"I suppose I must go," she said, doubtfully.

"I am quite sure of it, if you want to get home tonight," he answered.
"I'll carry your bicycle to the gate, and light your lamp."

"Come a bit of the way with me," she begged.

He hesitated. It was hard for him to refuse so outspoken a request. She
took his assent for granted.

"You needn't come far," she continued. "Just the corner of the lane. I'm
not afraid, but it's awful lonesome amongst the trees."

He pushed the bicycle, and she held on to his arm. So they made their
way down the white belt of dusty road, which midway down the hill seemed
to disappear in the shadow of the overhanging trees. She stole closer to
him, and her head leaned towards his.

"I'd be kind of frightened alone," she whispered.

Her breath fell warm upon his cheek, her lips willingly met his. He drew
away breathless--suddenly sane.

"Milly," he said, "you'll remember what we've been talking about? You'll
read the books and be brave?"


"Life isn't always black. There's a time when the clouds lift."

"When may I come again?" she asked, bluntly.

"Next Saturday, if you want to," he answered. "Not Sunday!"

"I can't come on Sunday," she said. "My sister uses the bicycle then."

He was devoutly thankful to hear it. He took her hand gravely.

"Next Saturday, then, Milly. If I am not here you know where the key is.
Stop and make yourself some tea."

"If you're away I'll wait," she answered. "I shan't want any tea."

He started her off, and trudged homeward with a sense of unaccountable
relief. He felt stifled, vaguely troubled by the memory of the girl's
white face and pleading brown eyes. Then a nightingale sang to him. At
once his mind was swept bare of all such thoughts. Once more the pine
and the clover scented air around him seemed quivering with strange and
passionate music.


A handful of white roses, drooping, half-dead, yellow at the edges. The
man looked at them with wistful fondness. In their next stage they would
still be precious to him--yet with their passing life certain throbbing
memories must grow fainter. They had lain against her bosom. They had
come to him through the soft, sweet darkness, a spray of white
fluttering blossom, and they had come of her own will. She was of
another world--a world which he might gaze at but never hope to enter.
Yet there had been a moment, a single pulsating moment, when he had
snatched her flowers from the dust and pressed them to his lips, when
all such barriers had seemed meaningless things, when he had felt strong
enough to shatter at a blow every law and tradition which would hold
them apart. A moment's madness only. Intermingled with his finer
imaginative qualities was a robust vein of common-sense. He might permit
himself the luxury of dreaming beautiful dreams, he did not yield to the
folly of believing in the possibility of their fulfilment.

Later he hid the blossoms away, and for hours the sun and wind burned
his face as he wandered over the hills and along the scant footpaths.
Larks rose up and sang to him from the fallow, chaffinches twittered
from the hedges, the sunlit air seemed alive with all the fresh pure joy
of springtime. And as he walked his heart grew lighter and his spirits
rose. After all, it was fine to be alive, to hear the glad rustling of
Nature waking from her winter's trance, to be kissed by the sun and
caressed by the winds. So his eyes grew bright and his brow smooth.
Those hard lines about his mouth relaxed. He walked with the easy swing
of a man to whom the taste of life is good. Far down in the valley the
church bells called to him. He sat on a gate and watched the little
knots of people streaming through the churchyard to the grey stone
church. Were they happier, he wondered, to whom life had no complex
side, whose simple beliefs dwelt untroubled in their hearts, who passed
calmly through life to a quiet death? Yet to him there could be no
content of this sort, as he very well knew. For good or for evil, he was
born to taste the fiercer joys or the fiercer sorrows of mankind. Those
simple folk might be content with the series of abstractions which they
termed life. Their pastoral joys were well enough--for him the cup of
life must be filled with purple wine, must be drunk in deep, glorious
draughts. There might be poison in the cup--yet he would drink. Those
who would live must risk death.

A bicycle bell tinkled in the lane below. John Martinghoe's cheery voice
called up to him.

"Wake up, you profane dreamer, and obey the church bells! Where are you
wandering to?"

Strone laughed back, a man's laugh deep and bass.

"Over the face, of the earth. I worship in a temple, you in a church.
Go and preach to your slow-witted farmers and their dense womenkind,
and don't abuse me.

"You are a heathen," Martinghoe declared, solemnly. "Worse, you are a
scoffer. If you go by the Vicarage, call and see my sister. She is
deadly dull."

He rode off, and Strone set his face towards the village. The bell
ceased. Once more that curious Sabbath stillness fell upon the land. In
the village itself no one seemed astir. He passed through the long empty
street--scarcely even a hamlet--a few grey stone houses clustering
around the country lane. His footsteps grew slower. He was passing the
tall hedge which sheltered the vicarage from the road. He reached the
iron gate, looked eagerly upwards. There was no sign of anyone in the
garden, or at the windows. One eager look and he was past. He walked on,
only the life and spring had gone from his footsteps.

A little way up the road he found a sheltered gate and sat down, hidden
in the dip of the hill. He took out his pipe, filled it leisurely, and
began to smoke. A hedge full of twittering birds noisily resented his
coming. A plover rose with her strange cry from the field behind, and
flew slowly over his head. He took no note of these things. A little
volume of Matthew Arnold's poems remained undisturbed in his pocket. His
own thoughts were running riot, not indeed in that pleasant picturesque
fashion of ordinary rest days when they took flight in his lazy moments
and led him into strange, untrodden worlds, into shadowy countries
peopled by the great but unforgotten dead.

A fiercer mood was upon him to-day. A giant folly had sprung up like a
weed in the man, and his hands upon his throat were nerveless and weak.
It was the most beautiful thing the man had ever imagined. Its poison in
his veins was like the wine of life, its murmurings in his ears music
such as had stolen away the senses of gods. His lonely life, his innate
worship of the beautiful had paved the way for such a catastrophe. The
mechanic who lives the life of a poet usually has to suffer for it.

So Strone of course fulfilled his destiny--his destiny of that morning
at least. He knocked the ashes from his pipe, strode down the hill,
pushed open the vicarage gate, and walked up the drive as though his
present object in life was to reach the house in the fewest possible
number of paces. The front door stood wide open, the sunlight fell
pleasantly upon the cool white stone hall. He paused upon the
threshold, his hand upon the bell. The sweet scent of flowers came
floating out from one of the rooms, a tall eight-day clock ticked
solemnly. A black cat, lying on a Persian rug, surveyed him with lazy
curiosity. On a chair was a red parasol and a pair of white gloves.
Suddenly the swish of skirts. She came lazily through one of the open
doors and paused in surprise at seeing him.

His boldness vanished'. He was painfully red and shy. His address was
abrupt, almost surly. He removed his cap awkwardly.

"I saw your brother," he said, "and there is a book I wanted--in the

She smiled faintly.

"Won't you come in and fetch it then?" she said. "The library is the
second door on the left--over there. What a delicious morning."

She passed on, opened one of the doors on the other side of the hall and
disappeared. He could scarcely believe his eyes when she vanished
without a backward glance or word. He cursed himself for a clown. His
clumsy shoes woke ugly echoes in the stone hall as he crossed to the
library. He closed the door behind him. An oath ground its way through
his teeth.

He selected a book at random and turned to go. On his way to the door he
passed the vicar's writing table. There was a photograph of Lady
Malingcourt in Court dress. He stood looking at it--longer than he was
aware of. A voice at his elbow made him start like a thief.

She had entered the room silently, and was herself regarding the picture
with critical gaze. She nodded at it approvingly.

"I think I look rather nice there--don't you?" she asked.


"Of course in your heart you disapprove," she went on. "John says that
you are an out and out socialist. I don't quite know what it means, but
I suppose if you lived in London you would stand on a tub in Hyde Park
and make speeches to the people. You would say that the money that gown
cost should have been spent in clothing the poor!"

"Indeed," he assured her, earnestly, "I am not so bad as that. I am not
a ranter. I suppose I'm what you call a socialist--but I'm not rabid."

"That is very comforting," she said, softly. "You look so hot and dusty.
Come and sit under the cedar tree and tell me about your socialism."

So Strone passed into paradise, forgot his flannel shirt, his hard hands
and his homely clothes. He sat on a stiff seat whilst she lounged cool
and graceful in her white morning gown in the deep shade. She possessed
the usual tact of a well bred women. She encouraged him to talk, and he
became at his ease. In a sense the man's sturdy eloquence fascinated
her. Through all he said his passionate love of truth rang like a
keynote. Rank was well enough, and wealth, but how immeasurably greater
humanity! The inevitable crises of life must ever leave man and woman
stripped of their trappings, children of the same family apart from each
other only as they themselves had fashioned their inward life. He
admitted that human laws necessitated wealth and poverty, the strong
must flourish and the weak decay. He was not a vapourer, a Hyde Park
orator. He had no hatred of wealth or rank--he hated only the falseness
and humbug which raised the possessor of these above the heads of their
less fortunate fellow-creatures, which reckoned these things sufficient
without any account of the immeasurably greater things of life. To the
woman it was like a very pleasant tonic. She was suffering from a
surfeit of society, and this was a new and most delightful form of
flattery. For she knew very well that the man was pleading his own
cause--and altogether it really was most picturesque. If only his hands
had been nice and his clothes a little more decent. She kept these
things in the foreground--all the time she had a faint mysterious
consciousness that not one of those men of her own world who had tried
their utmost to interest her had ever succeeded as this mechanic. They
satisfied her taste, this man struck here and there a note so deep that
she wholly failed to understand it. He demolished barriers in a manner
that amazed her. He made her even forget his tie. She was absolutely
free from any sense of danger. He admired her, of course, and his
admiration gratified her. Beyond that was not her concern. She was used
to having men in love with her, and they seemed to find a state of
hopeless affection very pleasant. If it gave him too pleasure, she had
not the slightest objection. In fact, she thought it very picturesque,
though a little daring on his part; and daring is always so easy to

Strone, with instinctive tact, avoided, so far as possible, leading the
conversation into personal channels. He was perfectly satisfied to be
sitting by her side, to find her interested in that graver side of life,
towards which their talk gradually drifted. Once more, in effect, he
found himself pleading his own cause, pleading for the larger culture of
the mind, as opposed to the culture of the body, the slighter graces and
adornments of life. Her resistance, after all, was only feeble. She
herself had come to Bangdon, suddenly weary of the deadly monotony of
social life. She had told herself that it was only a phase, that a
month's solitude in the country was all she needed. And now, for the
first time, she was half-inclined to doubt it. Vaguely she felt that
the man's words were winged with truth, that she had neglected many
things in life which seemed to her now both beautiful and desirable.

It was she, after all, who struck the personal note, and forced him to
speak of himself.

"You make me feel terrible ignorant, Mr. Strone," she said. "When did
you find time to read so much?"

He smiled.

"A man who has but few hobbies," he answered, "finds more time to
indulge in them. I have never cared very much for anything else but
books and the country. You see, I have had no distractions."

"You never cared for games or sport when you were younger?"

"I never had the money to indulge in them," he answered. "Books cost me
nothing. The Gascester Free Library, as you know, is famous. Now that
things are easier with me, I am too old to form new tastes."

She looked at him for a moment, and sighed. His clothes and tie were
certainly hopeless.

"It seems odd," she said, "to think of you as a workman--that is what I
suppose you would call yourself."

"It is what I certainly am," he answered.

She nodded.

"Let us continue to be mundane for a few minutes. I wonder, should you
call yourself an ambitious man?"

"I have never desired to be rich," he answered. "Perhaps that is because
until now I have not suffered for the want of anything which money
could buy."

"It could buy you your liberty," she answered. "You could become your
own master, travel when you liked, break off your associations with
Gascester, which cannot be very pleasant for you. Surely this is worth

"In a sense, yes," he answered. "Yet my work in Gascester has taught me
many things. It has shown me a side of life which I can never forget. It
has helped me to understand the great social problems of the world as no
one could upon whose back the scourge had never fallen."

"For the sake of the people whose cause you could plead," she said, "it
seems to me that you should be ambitious. You do not intend to remain a
mechanic all your days?"

"There is little fear of that," he answered. "I have other plans."

Unconsciously he straightened himself--a fire flashed in his eyes, his
jaw was firm set. Lady Malingcourt looked away from him and sighed. Oh,
for a man like this in her own circle.

"Would money help you?" she asked, carelessly.

"Not in the least," he answered. "My way is perfectly clear--and," he
answered, with a suddenly swift glance at her, "my goal."

There was a moment's silence. It was not possible, she decided, that his
presumption could be so great as to invest with any special meaning, his
last words.

Nevertheless, she kept her eyes withheld from his, and presently rose to
her feet.

"I am so much obliged, to you," she said, "for keeping me company this
morning. Will you stay and have some lunch?"

Strone declined, and she did not press it.

When Martinghoe returned from service he found his sister in a very good
temper. She declared that she had spent a most delightful morning.


"Your nice Robinson Crusoe has been here," Lady Malingcourt said, at
luncheon. "I have had a most entertaining morning."

John Martinghoe smiled. He was very fond of his sister, although in many
respects she was an enigma to him.

"I am glad to hear it," he said. "Strone is a wonderful chap, though I
shouldn't have thought he would have interested you."

She sighed gently.

"You don't appreciate me, John," she said. "I am really most
intellectual. Mr. Strone knows it. He said that he came for a book, but
I am quite sure that he came to talk to me."

He laughed outright.

"Might one presume to enquire what you talked about?"

"Society, rank, wealth! He demolished them all. Humanity is the only
thing in life worth considering. We should spend our life seeking for
the truth. It is beautiful."

"And you," he asked, "are a convert?"

"I don't like the word, but of course I agreed with him. I have always
thought so. That is why I came down here. I am convinced that society is
thoroughly hollow. I may have had some faint doubts before. I have none
now. Robinson Crusoe has swept them away. We all ought to be more

"Why Robinson Crusoe?" he asked.

"Oh, doesn't he live in a hut he made himself, and throw stones at
callers? I think that is so touching. By the bye, we are going to tea
with him this afternoon. I promised."

"Not really?"

"He insisted, and I was only too glad. We must go!"

"You are sure he won't throw stones at us?" Martinghoe asked, lighting a

"Certain. He approves of me very much. We are on excellent terms."

They strolled out into the garden. Martinghoe looked at his watch.

"I must be off to Sunday School directly," he said.

"Do you really mean that you are going to Strone's? Is it very far?"
she asked.

"Barely two miles, and a very pretty walk," he answered. "We must go if
you promised. Oh, by the bye, Captain Devenhill said that he was coming
over to tea."

"That decides it," she answered. "I am ready to start at any moment. I
do not like Captain Devenhill, and I am always afraid that he is going
to ask me to marry him."

Martinghoe threw away his cigarette.

"Devenhill is a very decent fellow," he remarked.

She looked at him from under the lace of her parasol.

"My dear John!" she exclaimed, reprovingly. "He would fall asleep after
dinner, and go on the County Council. Oh, he is far too agricultural.
Besides, he is younger than I am. If only you knew how young men bore
me. What time shall we start?"

"I must go now," he answered. "Meet me at the Brocken Rock at half-past
-three if you don't mind. Then we can take the footpath."

Lady Malingcourt went indoors and rang for her maid.

"I want the coolest walking dress I possess, a hat and some shoes," she
said. "The simplest things you can find, Mathilde."

"Milady knows that it is very hot," the maid ventured to remark. Milady
was well aware of it. She surprised Mathilde by starting out alone, and
her brother by being punctual. They reached Strone's cottage a few
minutes after four.

He received them out of doors. They sat down and admired the view. Lady
Malingcourt drank some water from the well and found it delicious.
Strone fidgeted about. He was, for the first few minutes, painfully

"You would like your tea out here," he suggested to his guests. "It will
be no trouble at all to bring it. I think that the kettle is boiling

Lady Malingcourt shook her head.

"I have come to see the inside of your cottage today," she said, smiling
up at him. "We will have tea indoors."

"Wherever you like," he answered. "Only I am afraid you will find it
very uncomfortable."

"Well, we will see," she answered. "I am going to look at your kettle
myself. I cannot believe that a man really knows when it boils."

She rose and shook out her skirts. Strone threw open the door of his
cottage, and they all entered. Lady Malingcourt exclaimed with

"How brutal of you, Mr. Strone, to have thought of making us
have tea out in that glaring sun. This is delicious."

Strone coloured with pleasure. The interior of his little dwelling place
was certainly at its best. The stone floor was as clean as much
scrubbing could make it, the atmosphere was cool and sweet. A home-made
oaken table stood near the window, and Strone's blue teapot and cups and
saucers had cost him a week's wage. There were heaps of wild flowers in
plain white bowls, homely enough, but of quaint design. A copper kettle
was singing upon a small fire, the chairs were rush bottomed, of plain
unvarnished wood and ecclesiastical shape, one wall was almost lined
with books. Strone had a few good prints, which Martinghoe hastened to
examine. Lady Malingcourt took off her hat and seated herself before
the teapot.

"You were right about the kettle, Mr. Strone," she said. "It does boil.
Please to pass it up, and I will make the tea--that is if you don't

Strone obeyed--a little embarrassed, but with a curious sense of
pleasure. Martinghoe laughed out loud. He had never seen his sister in
this light.

"What dear little caddy," she murmured. "Mr. Strone, I never suspected
it of you. You are quite an artist. And do you know, I had put you down
as strictly utilitarian."

"I am afraid your first impressions were correct, Lady Malingcourt," he
answered. "I am a very matter-of-fact person indeed."

"Will you tell me how it is then," she asked, "that you have not a
single thing in the place which is not in harmony?"

"I think only by avoiding everything which could possibly have come from
Birmingham," he said. "Nearly everything I made myself. The things I was
obliged to buy I looked for at second-hand shops until I found what I

"You must be very clever with your hands!" she remarked. "What a lesson
to you, John. My brother cannot even hang a picture decently," she

Strone smiled.

"You see, I am a real working man--a practical artisan," he said. "It is
with my hands that I earn my living."

"Nearly all the working men I have known," she murmured, "have earned it
with their tongue! But do tell me about your work, Mr. Strone. What do
you make?"

"As a rule," he answered, "parts of machines. Just now I am working at
something more important. I am trying my luck as an inventor."

She nodded.

"How interesting! What are you trying to invent? A new sort of machine?"

"I am trying to apply a well-known principle in a new way," he said. "I
am trying to make a crane which shall do the work of ten of the machines
in use to-day, or a hundred men."

The west wind rippled in through the window. She leaned back in her
chair with an air of lazy enjoyment.

"Can you tell us a little about it?" she asked.

"I think so," he answered, "if it really interests you."

Lady Malingcourt was ready to be interested in anything. He fetched
paper and a pencil, and drew for them on a simple scale a plan of the
Miracle Crane. He worked it up to the crucial point and showed them the
difficulty which had baffled all his predecessors.

"And you?" she asked.

"I shall make it," he answered, confidently. "It is a matter of a few
weeks only."

Their eyes met for a moment, and his heart leaped. For the second time
it seemed to him that the woman was awake in her--first, when those
white roses had fallen to him through the darkness, and again now when
his forceful confidence had kindled her admiration. After that he had no
lack of words. He was eloquent enough about his scheme and its possible
results. He spoke of the suspicion with which his fellow workers
regarded him--even to-day new labour-saving machines were looked upon
with hatred by the ordinary mechanic. He told them of Mr. Dobell's
generous offer, touching lightly enough upon the great change which
success must make in his own future. For indeed he showed small sign of
any personal ambition. The delight of the inventor overshadowed

The time slipped away. Far away in the valley below a church bell
startled Martinghoe. He sprang up.

"Time has flown!" he exclaimed. "I shall scarcely be I in time for
evening service. My friend Strone, you are a magician!"

She gave him her hand at parting. Her smile was pleasant, but she
avoided his keen, eager gaze. As they passed out into the road, she
looked thoughtfully behind.

"Robinson Crusoe is quite exhausting," she said. "What energy!"

"He is a type of one of the greatest forces in the world," her brother
answered. "I may be mistaken, but I think we shall hear much of Enoch

And Strone watched them from his gate till they disappeared, wandered
about amongst the fragments of their feast, sat where she had sat.
Henceforth his little corner of the earth was haunted.


It was knocking off time at Dobell's works. The whistle had sounded,
streams of grimy looking men were passing out through the broad gates.
Strone remained in his shed, where he had been locked in for hours. He
was pale and fagged, but he stood motionless, watching a strange
collection of revolving wheels. A tap at the door--unnoticed. Another,
and he threw it open.

Three men stood there. Strone looked them over.

"What is it, Haynes?" he asked. "I am busy."

The spokesman stood forward.

"Me and the mates," he said, "have a word or two to say to you about
this 'ere."

He pointed to the model. Strone covered it with his body.


"There's a deal o' talk about what you're up to. The gaffer don't send
you out on contract jobs now. The lads kind o' reckon you're on the
Miracle Crane."


"Going to do the work of a hundred men, ain't it?"

"I reckon so," Strone answered.

"That means a hundred men from here and everywhere the Miracle Crane
goes will be chucked."

"For the moment--perhaps."

"Well, we'd just as lief that crane wasn't made, Haynes said, doggedly.

"Why? The Union don't object."

"The Union can't," Haynes answered. "All the same, we reckon we've got
enough machinery running."

"That seems to be where we differ," Strone answered. "If that's all
you've got to say, I wish you'd sling your hooks. I'm busy."

"It ain't all," Haynes answered, pugnaciously. "We've nothing against
you. You're a decent sort of chap for all we know, and we wish you no
harm. But the lads a' kind o' got their backs up about that machine.
You'd best let it drop."

"I shall do nothing of the sort," Strone answered. "I shall make the

There was an awkward silence. Then Haynes stood out pugnaciously.

"Well, we say as you shan't," he declared. "You'd best take a hint."

Strone laughed contemptuously.

"You are ignorant fellows," he said. "Machinery is for your ultimate
good--for all our good. Eighty or a hundred men may suffer for the
moment, but thousands all over the world will be the better in the end."

"We don't see it," Haynes answered, "and, anyhow, those eighty or a
hundred are our pals, and we ain't going to see them starve. We're here
to warn you. That's all."

"Then you can be off again," Strone answered. "I've said all I'm going

"You'd best think it over."

"I shall make the crane if I can," Strone answered, "and I believe that
I can. I've no more to say."

The men looked round. The pile of offices was still lit up, and the
watchman was strolling round. They backed out.

"You're warned, Strone," Haynes said, solemnly. "Maybe you'll think
better of it."

"I'm not a fool," Strone answered, "and if any of you lay hands on me or
my machine, I'll shoot you like a dog. See!"

A small revolver flashed out in his hand. The men retreated without a
word. Strone locked the door.

For an hour he stood almost motionless, watching a certain part of the
whirling mass before him. Then he called the watchman to him.

"Neils," he said, "just stay here till I return, and don't let any one
enter the shed. I'm going up to speak to the boss."

The man nodded. Strone made his way across the yard and into the
offices. Mr. Dobell was preparing to leave. He called Strone inside his
room at once.


"I shall do it, sir," Strone said, quietly. "There's a little trouble
with the men."

Mr. Dobell laughed.

"Nothing serious, I hope."

"I've had three of them in to see me," Strone said. "They've had a bit of
a meeting, and they've got an idea that the crane will mean the sack for
a lot of them."

"Did they threaten you?"

"Something of the sort, sir."

Mr. Dobell smiled grimly.

"These are the men whom you want to make masters of, Strone. Pretty sort
of fellows, aren't they?"

"It's not their fault," Strone answered. "There's not much manhood in
them, that's a fact, but I'm not sure that I wonder at it. They're just
ignorant. Still, there must be a beginning. The next generation will
reap the benefit. These men haven't had a chance. They're not much
better than cattle. But that's? neither here nor there. A maniac can
kill an emperor, and I want to finish my work."

Mr. Dobell nodded.

"I will send you wherever you like," he said. "You have a free hand. You
can finish in London, or on the Continent. Only say the word."

Strone laughed.

"I'm too near the end for that to be necessary, sir," he answered. "In
fact, I don't require power any more. I was thinking I could finish at
home better than anywhere. All I want is quiet and a bit of stuff--not
half a cart load. Give me a week off, and say I've gone to Newcastle.
We could get a cart at once and escape trouble that way."

"You are sure you won't want power?" Mr. Dobell asked.

Strone was certain of it.

"I've just got to think," he said, "that's all. It'll come directly."

Mr. Dobell nodded.

"Will you have my carriage to take you home?" he asked. "You look tired

Strone smiled.

"Nothing rests me so much as the ride home, sir," he answered. "I'll be
there before the cart, and get % a place ready."

"And when shall we hear from you again, Strone?"

"In about a week, sir."

"Our understanding remains. You will come to me," Mr. Dobell asked

"Certainly, sir."

Strone rode out into the night, elated, wonderfully light-hearted. Now
at last he felt sure of himself. His one remaining difficulty had
vanished. In a week at the most he would be ready for modelling and the
Patent Offices. His trouble with the work people scarcely seemed to him
worth consideration. It would pass away directly 'his schemes were more
widely known. How cool the air was, how sweet the night wind. As he
passed the outskirts of the town a fancy seized him to ride round by
Bangdon. He stayed at an inn, drank home-brewed beer, and ate some bread
and cheese. Then he lit his pipe and rode rapidly through the 4 country
lanes, odorous with honey-suckle, and here and there with new-mown hay.
Bangdon was all asleep, but the Vicarage was a blaze of light. He leaned
his bicycle against the wall and crept as near as he dared to the house.
A party of six were still seated around the dinner table. Facing him was
Lady Malingcourt, on either side men whose faces he knew well, one the
county Member, the other Captain Devenhill. They were both good-looking,
both irreproachaby dressed, both apparently doing their best to
entertain her. She leaned first to one, then to the other. She did not
seem in the least bored. Once she leaned back in her chair and laughed
unreservedly. As he watched, his face darkened. The rose-shaded lamps,
the flowers, the men and women themselves, formed a vignette delightful
enough in itself, peculiarly displeasing to him. This was her world, and
she was very much at home in it. One might as well think of
transplanting a star from the skies as of placing such a woman within
his reach. He mounted his bicycle and rode slowly homewards. For days
the memory of those few moments was a torment to him.


Saturday afternoon. Once more the slam of the gate, the sound of
footsteps up the rough path. But I this time Strone was deaf to fears or
hopes--drunk with the fever of invention, face to face with that
single elusive problem. She leaned her bicycle against the side of the
house, and looked around for him--unsuccessfully at first. Then she
heard footsteps, a muttering, a smothered oath. He was walking up and J
down by the woodshed, his hands behind his back, talking disconnectedly
to himself, looking every now and then fixedly at a queer little model
which he had constructed close to the wall. She peered round the corner
of the cottage, half alarmed, half inquisitive. She had thrown aside her
hat, and the wind-tossed brown hair was waving about her head, her
cheeks were flushed--she was distinctly pretty. Strone, seeing her,
stopped suddenly short. Then he came slowly towards her.

"Why, child," he exclaimed. "Where did you come from? What are you doing

"It is Saturday," she pouted. "Weren't you expecting me? You told me
that I could come."

"Saturday." He passed his hand over his forehead. He had lost all count
of days. He came slowly hack to the present, laughed softly--the madness
died out of his over-bright eyes.

"That's all right," he said. "Saturday, is it? I'm glad you've come."

He walked by her side to the front, sank down on his favorite moss-grown
seat, and turned very white.

"Child," he said, "I never went to bed last night, and I feel queer.
Make me some tea."

She threw off her jacket, turned up her sleeves, and was instantly in
her element. She made him drink some milk while the tea was preparing,
and fetched out some cold things from the larder. He revived speedily.
They drank tea together, and he was very grateful.

"I have been trying to finish some work," he said as they sat watching
the sunset an hour later. "It is very important and very absorbing. I
had lost all count of time. I should probably have gone on until I was
ill. All the while my brain was getting clogged. I am very glad you

She coloured up with pleasure.

"I have thought of nothing else all the week," she said, simply.

He looked at her and sighed.

"That's foolish of you," he said.


"Well, supposing I went away?"

"But you are not going away?"

He filled his pipe slowly--the first for two days. He was conscious of
an aching in all his limbs--an intense weariness.

"I don't know," he said. "I might go abroad any day."

Her eyes filled with tears, her face was white with alarm. Suddenly she
threw her arms around his neck.

"Don't go," she sobbed, "don't go! I couldn't bear it! I'd just as lief
die then as not!"

He was taken by surprise, passive through sheer bewilderment. Her soft
cheek was pressed upon his, her lips touched his forehead.

"I have nothing else in the world to look forward to but coming here,"
she muttered, brokenly. "At home it gets worse and worse. It is like
hell. Father was locked up Tuesday night, and mother never came home.
I've had to do for the children all the week, and work overtime.
Sometimes I think they hate me because I try to keep straight--they'd
like me to be as they are. Please don't talk about going away, Mr.
Strone. I couldn't bear it!"

He raised her gently. He was very sorry for her indeed, and his tone was
almost tender.

"My dear girl," he said, "please listen to me. So long as I am here you
can come out every Saturday if you like, if it really helps you. I may
be going away soon, but not just yet at any rate."

She was comforted, but his unresponsiveness vexed her. She was aching
for his caresses, for a single note of endearment in his tone. He could
have beaten her afterwards if only he would have smoothed her hair,
kissed her once, passed his arm around her waist. But Strone did none of
these things, though the light in her eyes was very eloquent. She was
pretty enough, and his lonely life had made him to a certain extent
susceptible to the charm of her close presence, and half shy
endearments. But with his return to mundane things the old madness was
singing once more in his heart and through his blood. He drew away from
her quietly.

"I wish," he said, "I could help you more permanently. I can't. You've
got your work to do in life, and I've got mine. You've got, as you said
just now, to keep straight. It's hard work, but you'll do it. Life's an
ugly sort of thing when we're on the downward slope. Come into the wood,
and I'll show you a wren's nest. Then you must be off. I've more work to

She followed him with dull footsteps.

"Life's a cold sort of place when there's no one cares a snap of the
fingers for you," she said. "I don't see as it matters much what becomes
of me."

"Life seems very hard to all of us now and then," he answered,
evasively. "We all have our bad streaks. You're in one now. Never mind!
I always believe that life's arranged on the balancing system. You'll
have your good time some day. There! Put your hand in and feel."

"Why, I can't get more than a finger in," she exclaimed.

"It's a tiny nest, isn't it?" he answered. "The young 'uns only flew a
week or so ago. Listen."

A bird's long sweetly drawn out note rang softly through the silent
wood. They held their breaths. Strone raised his finger.

"A nightingale," he murmured. "Lean against the gate."

The nightingale sang to them, and the man and woman stood side by side.
Around them save for that \ sweet, sad song was an unbroken silence. She
crept closer to him. Her eyes were beautifully eloquent. In the half
lights the poorness of her ill-made clothes, her pitiful little attempts
at attractiveness seemed to fade away. Only the girl herself, with her
pale, passionate face, crept closer and closer to him. He was her one
hope, her single chance of deliverance. If only she could penetrate for
one moment the mask of his kindly indifference. Her eyes sought for his
wistfully. Speechless, she still pleaded with him, the song of the bird
was hers. She, too, was lonely, heart-weary.

She began to cry softly. He felt a little cold hand steal into his. She
stole closer to him, and her head drooped upon his shoulder. He turned
round with a start, and her heart sank like lead. There was no
possibility of mistaking what she read in his face. She knew that his
thoughts had been far away.

"I am going!" she faltered, and would have crept away, but that he
caught her by the arm.

"Don't hurry," he said. "There will be a moon presently. Besides, you
must have some supper."

"I don't want any supper," she answered, struggling with a great lump in
her throat. "I want to go away--at once. Let me go!"

"But, my dear child, why do you look at me like that?" he exclaimed.
"What have I done to vex you?"

She broke away, and hurried towards the cottage.

He followed, but kept up with her with difficulty.

"It is getting dark," he said. "Would you like me to ride some of the
way with you?

"No! Give me my bicycle, please."

He frowned at her.

"Don't be a silly child," he said. "What have I done to offend you?"


"When will you come out and see me again, then?"

She broke down. A flood of tears streamed down her face. Her slight
frame was shaken with sobs. She dabbed her eyes with a worn and wholly
inefficient pocket-handkerchief. Strone stood by, awkward and perplexed.

"Won't you tell me what is the matter, Milly?" he asked. "Is there any
fresh trouble you haven't told me of?"

She straightened herself, and looked at him with eyes dilated--pale and

"No! Only I'm not coming here again. You don't want me. I'm only in the
way of your thoughts about somebody or something else. I have been very
foolish to come at all."

"You are foolish now to go away like this," he said.

"You don't care!"

"Of course I do!"

She clung hard even to a forlorn hope. She leaned over her bicycle. Her
face softened, her eyes besought him.

"You don't meant it. You were thinking just then of someone else. You
started when I spoke to you."

He told a white lie, impelled to it by the pity which was in his heart.

"For a week," he said, "I have been working practically day and
night--only a few hours ago I found what I wanted. Can you wonder that I
am scarcely master of my thoughts."

She was only half convinced, but she was very willing to believe him.

"But you don't care--a little bit--about me!" she said, softly. "You

"Why not?"

She held up her face to him. Her lips seemed to seek his, her eyes were
faint with the desire for even a single tender word.

"If you cared," she said, breathlessly, "you would kiss me."

He touched her very gently, and, stooping down, kissed her forehead.

"Milly," he said, "if you mean care for you--in that way--you are quite
right. I want to be your friend, and help you all I can. But you must
not expect from me more than I have to give."

She shivered a little, as though with the cold. The tears seemed dried
in her eyes. Slowly she withdrew her hands.

"Now come in and have some supper," he said. "I will light a fire, and
ride home with you afterwards."

"I am going," she said. "Good-bye!"

"Milly! You are unreasonable!" he protested.

She looked at him with a wan little smile. Then she pushed through the
gate, set her lips tightly, and jumped on to her bicycle.

"Good-bye!" she said.

He let her go--it was best. She rode away, a dim, pitiful figure, into
the deep shadows of the overhanging trees. Her head was bent, she did
not look round. Strone lingered by the gate, and presently the
nightingale sang to him again.


The three men sat side by side upon the wooden bench in stolid and evil
silence. There was Syd King, a ranting pot-house orator, Haynes, and
Dobson, a heavy-browed, thick-necked mechanic. The landlord didn't like
the look of them, and his other customers seemed to prefer a distant
seat. But they drank freely and paid for what they had, so their
presence remained unchallenged. Yet they were an ugly trio.

The afternoon wore into evening. There was a purple flush on Dobson's
face, an ugly glare in Syd King's eyes. Haynes put down his glass

"Enough, boys," he cried. "To work."

They rose and passed unregretted out into the cool, sweet evening. Syd
King stood blinking for several moments. Haynes was trying to light a
cigar with a match held several inches away from the end. They climbed
into a little pony trap, and Dobson seized the reins. With a burst of
foul language they drove off. The place seemed the purer for their

Away from the inn their tongues were relaxed. They left the main road
and began to climb a steep country lane.

"Wot I want to know is this," Dobson began. "How far are your chaps
going? He'll be awkward."

King drew in his breath with the hiss of a wild cat.

"There's plenty of us, eh?" he asked. "I'd treat him as Pinner's boys
did Dave Hare. That's the way to settle such as 'im. Once for all, I

There was a short, grim silence. Then they flogged the pony until it
broke into a shambling trot. Dobson pointed with his whip.

"It's behind that hill," he said, "quietest spot round about here.
There'll be no one to hear him squeal if so be as 'ees troublesome. Hand
us a jimmy, King. We'll take one apiece afore we forget."

King handled his own lovingly, an ugly murderous-looking weapon.

"Better'n shooters," he murmured. "More quiet like, and yer can't miss.
How much further, Jo?"

"'Arf a mile," Dobson answered. "We'll hitch the pony to the gate up on
the hill there. Let's 'ope he's got some liquor in the 'ouse. It'll be
dry work arguing."

"Shut up, now," King growled. "It's so blooming quiet, 'ere, yer can
'ear for miles. We ain't none so far off either."

The little trap crept up the steep hill, the harness creaking, the pony
distressed. Haynes lit a pipe with trembling fingers, and Dobson picked
a handful of bracken and waved it to keep off the flies. An ominous
silence had fallen upon them. The end of their journey was at hand.

* * *

Strone lay on the short turf, smoking quietly, looking out upon the
glimmering world with new eyes. Sphinx-like he gazed with an impassivity
somewhat to be wondered at, for an hour ago he had finished his task.
Those silent days, those long spells of work when day had become fused
into night, and night into day, had left their mark upon him. His face
was thinner, his eyes almost brilliant, a slight feverishness had
flushed his cheeks. The man's sense of power had grown and deepened. For
he had faced great problems, and he had bent great forces to his will.
He had succeeded where other men had failed.

He looked out into the world and tried to apprise himself rightly. He
wanted to know where he stood. There was a place which he could claim.
Where? How high up, how low down? How far could wealth take him? What
was the value of his brains in the world's esteem? He tried to reckon
these things up, and he found it difficult. It was a kaleidoscopic misty
wilderness into which he looked. He was trying to deal with his future
from a wholly new point of view, and felt very much at sea.

Those moments of introspective thought became moments of
self-confession. He realised and admitted the change in himself. The old
ideals were unshaken, but they no longer had paramount sway. The gift of
his brains to humanity, the betterment of his fellows, the inauguration
of certain carefully conceived labour schemes no longer appealed to him
with that wonderful enthusiasm which seemed to have almost sanctified
his work. They were still dear to him, the end and aim of his practical
efforts, but they were no longer all controlling. A new thing had come
to him, a new emotion, quickening, irresistible, delirious! He was no
longer completely master of himself--a stray memory could set his heart
thumping, could scatter his thoughts to the four winds of Heaven. A
touch of madness this yet sweeter even than his sense of triumph. Such
madness too! What had he, Enoch Strone, to do with fair women and white
roses, though the woman had smiled for a moment upon him, and the
perfume of the roses still hung about his little room. Yet--wealth was
transfiguring--omnipotent. The words were her own. And in his hand was
the golden key.

Martinghoe passed by, clanging his bicycle bell, saw him from the road,
and promptly dismounted.

"I'm coming in for a drink, Strone," he called out. "This hill gets
steeper, or old age is upon me."

Strone walked to meet him.

"The wind is against you," he said. "Come in!"

They sat together for a few moments, and Martinghoe lit a pipe whilst he
sipped his whisky and water.

"You are idle to-night," he remarked, looking around. "No books, no

Strone took his pipe from his mouth.

"Idle," he answered, "because my work is done."

Martinghoe nodded quickly, looked a question which Strone answered.

"Behind there," he said, jerking his heads towards the shed, "is the
fulfilment of many years' work. I have committed a sin. I am an
inventor. Martinghoe, listen! I have made a miracle crane. It will do
the work of a hundred men--all the lifting machinery of the world will
be affected. It is the triumph of man's ingenuity over matter."

He broke off silently. Martinghoe was fascinated by the simple
directness of his speech.

"Bravo!" he exclaimed. "I congratulate you. You are one of the world's

Strone's face darkened.

"I don't believe that," he said, shortly. "It's an odd thing. Nature has
made me an inventor against my own convictions. I hate machinery."

Martinghoe looked up puzzled, waiting for an explanation.

"Sometimes I believe that machinery has been the greatest curse ever let
loose upon the class to which I belong," he continued. "It sounds rot,
but it isn't. Machinery has done away with the craftsman, it has made a
brainless parasite of the working man. It's right enough! I mean it.
There are a few trades yet where machinery isn't employed. I'll wager
what you like that the workmen who toil with their hands and are direct
producers even of parts are a grade at least higher than the operator on
a machine. Watch 'em stream out of the great factories in Gascester--a
brutal mob of dirty, unsexed-looking creatures with dull eyes and low
foreheads. It's the brainless mechanical work which has dulled the man
in them. Machinery's made units of them, crushed their individuality.
Every generation will be worse. We shall end with a race of parasites
little better than a horde of monkeys. God! I believe I'd do well to
smash my machine into a thousand pieces!"

"You forget," Martinghoe said, a little staggered at this sudden
outburst, "that machinery has cheapened the production of nearly every
staple article. The whole world reaps the benefit of that."

"Claptrap," Strone answered. "The world's flooded with cheap ugly things
which debauch our taste, and are generally useless. Tables and chairs
with legs that tumble off, cheap and pretentious, boots made of brown
paper, and clothes which fall into rags after an honest day's work.
These things are cheap enough in money, but the souls of millions of our
fellow creatures are in the balance against their cheapness. I tell you
that if my invention were not pure engineering I'd break it up this

Martinghoe rose reluctantly.

"You're a queer chap," he declared. "Come and smoke a pipe with me
to-morrow. I must be off now. By-the-bye, you haven't seen my sister,
have you?"

"Not this evening," Strone answered. "Is she driving?"

"Riding. It's late for her, but she's been a long way, and she's certain
to have company. Good night, Strone. See you to-morrow, I hope."

He passed briskly away, mounted his bicycle, and rode off. Strone
returned to his cottage--to find the door of his shed open and the
shadow of a man lurking behind it. He advanced quickly. As he passed the
angle of the cottage Syd King, with parted teeth and the grin of a wild
cat, leaped stealthily out. Something dull and black sang through the
air--a sickening crash. With uplifted arms and a loud cry, Strone reeled
and fell backwards. The three men bent over him. Haynes trembling
violently, the other two with black, murderous looks.

"You've killed him," the former muttered.

"Good job, too," Dobson muttered.


A blow which would have killed a man of ordinary strength kept Strone
senseless for about ten minutes. At the end of that time he sat up and
gasped. Recollection came to him but slowly. Something had happened!
Then Haynes and Dobson staggered out of the shed carrying something,
which they set down heavily. It was his model.

"Let that be!" he called out.

He was surprised at the weakness of his own voice. It seemed to him to
come from a great distance. It had a surprising effect upon the two men,
however, who dropped their burden and faced him hurriedly. Dobson
advanced a step or two.

"What, ain't you had enough?" he exclaimed, savagely. "I'll soon settle

Strone struggled to rise--unsuccessfully. The trees and his cottage
seemed spinning round, the earth gave way under his feet. Dobson bent
over him, his face aflame, murder in his eyes.

"We'd better settle 'im, you chaps. We can't have him coming round and
peaching on us. Ah, would you!"

Dobson dodged a weak blow which Strone aimed at him, and raised his hand
to strike. Then the ground seemed suddenly to shake with the thunder of
a horse's hoofs. Lady Malingcourt reined in her great bay a few paces

"What is the matter, Mr. Strone?" she asked, in a clear tone. "Are these
men robbing you?"

Her tone was like an electric thrill to Strone. He turned and faced her
with blank white face. She sat easily on her horse, unmoved, but with a
curious little flash in her eyes.

"Never mind--me. Lady Malingcourt," he faltered. "Please get
away--quickly. They're mad--or drunk--or both. Send someone down if you

She faced Dobson.

"You were going to strike him," she said. "You great coward."

The men, stricken dumb by the suddenness of her coming, began to
recover. Syd King picked up something from the ground and sidled towards

"Coward, am I?" Dobson muttered, thickly. "Let him get up and fight like
a man then."

She laughed scornfully.

"Likely enough, when you strike him from behind," she said. "Let him
alone, and be off."

Dobson staggered towards her with an ugly smile.

"We've a bit of business to settle first with him, my fine lady," he
said. "We've no objection to your staying, though--we'll be glad of your
company by and bye, eh lads? What do you say, my dear? Will you get down
and spend a bit o' time with us, eh? There's a drop of Strone's whisky
left. Come on, King. We'll have her down."

They made a clumsy rush towards her--and pandemonium followed. Lady
Malingcourt's spur and whip, freely used, converted a highly strung and
none too good-tempered horse into a mad creature. She rode at them like
a whirlwind. Dobson, who caught at her rein, she struck across the face,
and as he reeled she rode him down. King was kicked in the chest in a
sudden backward plunge, and lay on the ground moaning. Haynes turned and
ran for his life to the wood. All the time she sat her horse with
perfect confidence, her cheeks pale, her lips indrawn, but perfectly
cool. The animal plunged and kicked for several moments. She patted his
neck and spoke soothingly to him. Presently he was quiet, although he
still trembled, and his satin-like side heaved. She rode over to Strone.

"Are you badly hurt?" she asked. "What is it all about?"

Strone was an ugly sight, for the blood was streaming down from a wound
in his temple.

"I shall be all right--directly," he said. "It's the miracle crane they
came to smash--and me too."

He pointed to the model, which remained untouched. She nodded with quick

"I want to bathe your forehead," she said. "I will first see that they
are not likely to do any further mischief."

She backed her horse a few steps and looked down at Dobson. He was
breathing heavily and was quite unconscious. Across his face was a livid
mark where he had struck him. King, too, was lying on his back groaning,
but he tried to get up when she approached. She drew carelessly away.

"That little creature isn't much hurt," she said, carelessly. "Perhaps I
had better not dismount. My groom must be up in a minute or two. His
horse went lame, so I rode on."

"There is a revolver on my shelf--if I could only get up," Strone

He made an effort and fell back, ghastly pale.

"Is it loaded?" she asked.


"Tell me exactly where it is."

"On the second shelf--over the fireplace."

She rode to the door and dismounted. Syd King, who had been shamming,
slunk off. She fetched the revolver and a basin.

"We shall not need it," she remarked, "the little man has run away. I am
afraid this is going to hurt you, but it must be done."

It hurt so much that he fainted. She tore up a handkerchief and bound
his wound skilfully. Then she forced some whisky between his teeth. His
colour became more natural, and in a moment or two he opened his eyes.
The touch of her cool fingers was delicious.

"You are better," she said, quietly. "I can hear my man coming now."

She drew a silver whistle from her pocket and blew it. The groom, who
saw signs of something unusual from the lane, dropped from his lame
horse and came running up. She strolled over to where Dobson was still
lying, and stood looking at him.

"I think this brute is going to die," she remarked, carelessly.
"Wildfire kicked him in the side."

Strone was past speech. The groom arrived breathless.

"John," she said, "you are to wait here till I can send a carriage for
Mr. Strone. If that man there tries to get away or moves shoot him. Here
is the revolver. If Mr. Strone comes to make him drink some more whisky.
Hold my stirrup."

The groom obeyed.

"Yes, my lady."

"There's another of these creatures in the wood," she said, swinging
lightly into the saddle. "I don't think he'll come back, but you'd
better not leave Mr. Strone."

"Very good, my lady."

She turned and cantered off, a canter which soon became a gallop. In
less than twenty minutes she was at the Vicarage. Her brother met her at
the door.

"You are late, Beatrice," he exclaimed. "I was getting nervous."

"Oh, you mustn't scold," she answered. "John, I'm a heroine--really. I
have saved the miracle crane and Robinson Crusoe's life. I don't
understand what it was all about, but I believe Wildfire and I between
us have killed one man and lamed another. Please to order the brougham
to go and fetch Mr. Strone at once."

Martinghoe stared at her in blank amazement. "What on earth are you
talking about, Beatrice?" he exclaimed. "I was with Strone an hour ago,
and he was all right."

"Well, I was with him twenty minutes ago," she answered, "and he's got
concussion of the brain pretty badly, I think. I bound his head up as
well as I could. Send the brougham, John, and I'll go and change. You'll
hear all about it at dinner time. And, oh, you'd better send the boy on
your bicycle to the police station. There's the creature I nearly killed
lying there still."

"For Heaven's sake, Beatrice, what does it all mean?" Martinghoe
exclaimed, ringing the stable bell violently. "Do be more explicit."

She sighed, and looked back upon the stairs.

"Dear me," she said, "I thought that I had made it so clear. I found
three men trying to kill poor Robinson Crusoe, and Wildfire and I rode
them down. Robinson Crusoe's badly hurt, so I suppose he must come
here--and I really think the man I knocked down will die, but the police
station will do for him. Please order dinner in. I shall only be a few
minutes, and I am very hungry. Don't forget to let the boy fetch the

"But, Beatrice--"

"I decline to offer any further explanation until dinner time, but you
can order up some champagne for me. I really am quite exhausted."

Martinghoe despatched the carriage. His sister was invisible for half an
hour, and the door of her room was locked even upon her maid. When she
appeared for dinner there was an odd flush upon her cheeks, and a
strange look about her eyes. She drank a full glass of wine before she
touched anything to eat.

"Poor Robinson Crusoe," she murmured. "What a head he will have. Now I
will tell you all about it, John."


Strone had concussion of the brain--a fever followed. A weaker man would
certainly have succumbed. His sober life, however, and his fine physique
came to his rescue. In a fortnight he was convalescent.

Those were wonderful days. Martinghoe would not hear of his removal, and
Lady Malingcourt, in a mild sort of way, actually helped to nurse him.
They were days the effect of which remained with him all his life, which
went far, indeed, towards the fashioning of his future. He came back to
his senses, thrilled into very vivid life by the thought of that
wonderful episode. He owed his life to her, to the almost reckless
bravery with which she had elected to defend him. The memory of it left
him tongue-tied. Day after day passed, and his pent-up gratitude
remained unspoken. It found at last some faltering expression which she
checked at once.

"I did hope," she said, stifling a yawn, "that you were going to show
your common-sense by avoiding that subject. It is so ridiculous to
imagine that anyone could have ridden away and left you to be murdered
by those madmen. If you want to thank anyone, thank Wildfire. It was his
heels that settled the matter. You look ever so much better to-day."

"I am almost myself again," he answered. "Tomorrow I shall be well
enough to go away."

She laughed softly.

"I fancy that the doctor will have something to say about that," she
remarked. "Besides, it is foolish. We have plenty of room here--or
rather John has--and I know that he likes to have you."

"It is very kind of you both," he murmured.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"John leads a lonely life out here," she said. "I hope you will remember
that, and come and see him often when I am gone."

He looked up at her quickly. His heart had stopped beating.

"Are you going away?" he asked.

She smiled.

"Don't you think that I have paid rather a long visit as it is?" she
asked. "I have two houses of my own I am supposed to lode after, and I
had no end of engagements for last month and this. As a matter of fact,
this is the longest visit I have ever paid here in my life."

He raised himself upon his elbow.

"The longest visit you have ever paid here?" he repeated. "Perhaps that
is because you have had more friends staying near?"

She looked into his eyes and laughed softly. Strone felt the hot colour
burn his cheeks. Something had happened! She was changed. The tired
woman of the world had gone. She was not bored, she was not listless any
longer. She was looking at him very kindly, and her eyes were
wonderfully soft.

"Perhaps I have found one more," she said, smiling, "and have been
content to be without the others. Let go my hands, sir, at once--and
remember you are on no account to sit up."

She drew a little away from him. His brain was in a whirl. He was
scarcely sure of his sanity. Then a maid announced some callers, and
with a little nod and an admonition to go to sleep she left him. Sleep!
What chance of that for him? Her hand had lain for a moment in his--the
touch of her slim, soft fingers still thrilled him. No wonder that he
felt the life stirring once more in his veins.

He saw no more of her that afternoon. Only from out of the open window
he heard occasionally the sound of her voice, once or twice her lazy,
musical laugh--more indicative of contempt than merriment--came
travelling out to him. Strone waited in an agony of impatience for her
visitors to go--and waited in vain. She did not reappear that afternoon,
and her visitors. Captain Devenhill and his sister, remained to dinner.
Strone, who was to have spent the evening downstairs, sent a message of

Later on Martinghoe came up and sat with him. They pulled their chairs
up to the open window, and Strone smoked his first cigar since his

"Mr. Martinghoe," Strone said, "do you know that I owe my life to your
sister? Those blackguards meant to kill me."

Martinghoe nodded.

"I am afraid they did, Strone. I must say I am rather proud of Beatrice.
She was always plucky, though."

"She won't let me thank her," Strone continued. "I must speak of it to
someone. I shall never forget it, Mr. Martinghoe, as long as I live."

Martinghoe nodded kindly. Then he noticed the flush on the other's face.

"It is one of the subjects," he said, "which the doctor says we must
leave alone till you are stronger. Dobson is in the hospital, as you
know, and I doubt whether he will ever come out--the other two men got
away. Listen. Beatrice is going to sing."

Strone talked no more that night. To him it seemed as though life itself
were suddenly set to music.

* * *

Meanwhile that great change in Strone's temporal fortunes, which as yet
he had only dreamed of, had actually come to pass. Mr. Dobell was a
constant visitor, and every day he brought fresh news. Strone's model
had been rescued, and it spoke for itself. Patents had been applied for
in every country of the world. Already an offer was forthcoming for the
American rights, the amount of which sounded to Strone like a fairy

"It's a hundred thousand pounds," Mr. Dobell said, "and the Syndicate will
re-sell for a quarter of a million at least. But it will be cash, and we
want the money. What do you say?"

"I leave it to you," Strone said. "Do as you think best."

Mr. Dobell nodded, and drew a parcel from his pocket.

"Of course, I don't know exactly how you are situated, Strone," he said;
"but we are both business men, and there need be no false modesty about
finance so far as we are concerned. I have opened a private account for
you at the Gascester Bank, and I've brought you a cheque-book. Here are
the partnership deeds too. You must look them through at your leisure."

"You're very kind," Strone answered.

Mr. Dobell laughed.

"The miracle crane is going to make both our fortunes, Strone," he said.
"Look sharp, and get well. We want you at the works."

He drove off in his dog cart, and Strone undid the parcel, looked
wonderingly at the cheque-book, and started with surprise at the amount
in the bank book. For the first time he realised in some measure his
altered position in life. A golden key had come into his hands, many
doors in the pleasure house of the world would fly open now at his
touch. Pictures, statuary, a library, travel, these things which he had
always craved were now within his reach. It had come with a magical
suddenness--it was hard even now to realise. Where was he to draw the
line? Where were the limits of the things which he might set himself to
win? Then the four walls of his room fell away. He stretched out his
arms, his eyes kin died, he tore away the bandage from before his eyes.
No more hypocrisy! The madness which had become the joy of his life was
stealing through all his veins, his heart beat fiercely with the delight
of it. He pitted his common-sense against what he had deemed a fantasy,
and his common-sense vanished like smoke, and the fantasy became a real
living thing. She was as far above him as the stars--z delicately
nurtured woman, with all the grace and beauty of her order--he was a
mechanic of humble origin, ignorant of the ways of her world, of the
world to which she must for ever belong. What matter? He was a man,
after all, and she was a woman--and there was the golden key. It was in
his hands, and who in the universe had ever been able to set a limit
upon its powers! With her own lips he had heard her murmur, half in jest
and half in earnest, her adoration of it. His common-sense mocked at
him, but the madness was there like a thrall. So when he heard her
carriage stop, and the trailing of her skirt as she crossed the lawn, he
rose up and went to meet her.

Full of his purpose, on fire with eagerness, and very nervous, he failed
to notice a certain change in her manner which at any other time would
instantly have depressed him. Her eyes had lost a certain kindly light
with which she had lately regarded him, her tolerant good humour had
given place to an aloofness which was almost frigidity. Yet he rushed
upon his fate.

"Will you sit down for a few minutes?" he asked. "There is something I
want to say to you."

She paused.

"I am a little tired," she said. "Will another time do?"

"No," he answered. "I am going away early tomorrow, and your brother
tells me that you have friends coming to dinner."

She followed him without comment to the seat under the cedar tree. She
leaned back and half closed her eyes. She was certainly a little pale.


"Mr. Dobell has been here."

"Your employer?"

"Yes. At least he was my employer. He is to be my partner."

She opened her eyes and looked at him now with languid curiosity.

"Is that not rather a sudden rise in the world?" she asked, carelessly.

"It is very sudden," he answered. "It is the miracle crane. Mr. Dobell
has had it patented, and we have been offered one hundred thousand
pounds for the American rights alone. Mr. Dobell says that there is a
great fortune in it."

She looked at him with wide open eyes, eyes full of an expression which
baffled him, which, if he had been a wiser man and more versed in
woman's ways, should have been a warning to him.

"I congratulate you," she said, quietly. "You are wonderfully fortunate
to become rich so suddenly, at your age."

Her tone was altogether emotionless, her lack of enthusiasm too obvious
to be ignored. He was puzzled. He became nervous.

"You know that it isn't the money I care about," he said. "You yourself
have always admitted that to be a power in the world wealth is a
necessity. I only care for money for what it may bring me. You once said
that the millionaire is all powerful."

"Did I?" she answered. "That of course was an exaggeration."

He rose suddenly to his feet, a flush in his cheeks, his tone husky. He
stood over her, his hand upon the back of her seat, his eyes seeking to
penetrate the gleeful nonchalance of her tone and manner.

"Lady Malingcourt," he said, "for wealth and even for power I have but
small ambition. A pittance and a cottage would content me. But there is
one thing in the world--perhaps I am mad to dream of it--I know I am,
but if ever I had the smallest chance of gaining it there is nothing I
would not attempt, nothing I would not do."

There was a sharp break in his voice, a mist before his eyes. Lady
Malingcourt was studying the pattern of her lace parasol. Suddenly she
closed it and looked up at him.

"Don't you think you had better postpone the rest--until after dinner?"
she said, quietly.

"No," he answered. "You and your brother. Lady Malingcourt, have been
very kind to me. You have made me sometimes almost forget the difference
between a mechanic such as I am, and gentlepeople such as you. So I have
dared to wonder whether that difference must be for ever?"

"You are really rather foolish to talk like this," she remarked, smiling
placidly at him. "I do not know quite what difference you mean. There is
no difference between your world and mine whatever, except that a
mechanic is often a gentleman, and gentlepeople are often snobs. You are
wonderfully modest to-day, Mr. Strone. I had an idea that people with
brains like yours considered yourselves very superior to the mere
butterflies of life."

"I am speaking as I feel," he answered. "I have tried to make myself
think differently, but it is impossible. One can't ignore facts. Lady
Malingcourt, and when I am with you I feel rough and coarse and
ignorant; I feel that even to think of what I want to say to you is
gross presumption."

She rose slowly to her feet.

"Then do not say it, Mr. Strone," she said, quietly, "and leave off
thinking about it."

His eyes sought hers eagerly, passionately. There was no sign in her
face of the woman from whose hands had fluttered those white roses,
through the darkness into his keeping. Her head was uplifted, her eyes
cold--even it seemed to him that her delicate lips were slightly curled.
His heart sank like lead.

"You see, after all, I am right," he cried, bitterly. "You are angry
with me, you will not let me speak. You think I am mad because I have
dared to dream of you as the one hope of my life."

"No," she answered, "I am not angry with you. I hope that you will never
allude to this again so I will tell you something. The difference of
rank between us counts for nothing. You are young, and you have gifts
which will make you, when you choose, willingly accepted amongst any
class of people with whom you care to spend your days. But,
nevertheless, I consider what you were about to say to me presumption."

He started quickly. They were face to face now upon the edge of the
lawn. Lady Malingcourt had drawn herself up, and a bright spot of colour
burned in her cheeks. It was one of those rare occasions when she
permitted her feelings to have free vent.

"That you are a mechanic," she said, "makes you, to be candid, more
interesting to me. Nothing in your circumstances would have made your
feelings towards me anything but an honour. It is as a man that you
fail. Your standard of life is one which I could not possibly accept. I
presume that it comes from your bringing-up, so I do not wish to say
anything more about it. Only I beg you to consider what I have said as
final, and to do me the favour of thinking no longer of what must remain
forever absolutely--impossible."

She swept past him, and entered the house. He remained for a moment
nerveless and tongue tied. The lash of her bitter words stupefied him.
What had he done?--wherein had he so greatly failed? After all, what did
it matter? About him lay the fragments of that wonderful dream which had
made life so sweet to him. Nothing could ever re-establish it. He
staggered out of the gate, and walked blindly away.


The man's passion found kinship with the storm which broke suddenly over
his head. The thunder clouds rolled up from the horizon, and the
lightning shone around him with a yellow glare. Below him the tree tops
and the young corn were bent by a rushing wind--even the cattle in the
fields crept away to shelter. The sky above grew black, forked lightning
now glittered from east to west, writing its lurid message to the
trembling earth. He sat on a high rock bareheaded, and the rain falling
now in sheets drenched him through and through. He had lost all control
of himself. The passion which had been his sole inheritance from his
drink-sodden parents mastered him easily. At that moment he was almost a
savage. He cursed John Martinghoe and the moment when he had been lured
into the belief that his self-education and mastery of self had made him
the equal of those who were divided from him only by the accident of
birth. He cursed the woman whose kindness had led him into a fool's
paradise, the sudden change in his position which seemed now only a
mockery to him. The fit passed with a little outburst of shame.
Nevertheless, it was with bent head and grey-lined face that he crept
downwards to his cottage, drenched to the skin.

There were signs of recent habitation about the place which he did not
understand, but which troubled him little. He heaped wood upon the
embers of a fire and sat over it, shivering. Almost a stupor came over
him as he sat there, weak from his recent illness, numbed to the bone
with the clinging dampness of his clothes. If this thing had happened to
him in health, he would have met it more bravely. After all it was the
end which he had always told himself was inevitable. A sense of bitter
shame was mingled with his dejection. He had built up his life so
carefully only to see it sent crashing about his ears at a woman's light
touch. So he sat brooding amongst the fragments while the rain beat
fiercely against his windowpane and the wind howled in the wood.

Stupor and sleep co-mingled. He came to himself suddenly, awakened by
the opening of the door, the sweeping of the wind like a whirlwind
through the room. He looked around. Milly stood there, her pale cheeks
glowing with the sting of the rain and the wind, her hair in picturesque
disorder, her eyes alight with the joy of seeing him. She dropped a heap
of parcels and fell on her knees by his side.

"Oh, thank God!" she sobbed. "Oh, I am so glad to see you, so glad!"

Her streaming eyes, the warm touch of her hands pierced his
insensibility. He even smiled faintly.

"What are you doing here, child," he asked, "on such a night, too? Why,
you are wet through."

She evaded his question, horror-stricken at his own state.

"You're fair soaked," she cried, "and you only just out of bed. Mercy

She brought out his grey homespun clothes from the chest, and with deft
fingers herself removed his coat and waistcoat, talking all the while.

"They must have been mad to let you come back on such a day," she
exclaimed. "Well, I never. The rain's gone through the lining. It's a
mercy you've had sense to keep the fire in. I'll make you a hot drink

He submitted himself to her care. After the agony of the last few hours
the sound of her shrill but not unpleasant voice and her breathless
anxiety on his behalf seemed almost grateful. He was hustled into dry
clothes, and his feet and hands were rubbed into a state of glowing
warmth. Fresh logs were thrown upon the fire, a kettle boiled and some
tea deftly prepared. From one of her parcels came bread and meat. He ate
at her bidding. Outside the storm grew in violence.

He slept for awhile, and awoke to find her watching him. She lay
crouched almost at his feet, the firelight playing on her brown hair,
her eyes wet with tears. A clearer sense of what was happening came to
him. He sat up suddenly.

"How did you come here?" he asked. "How did you know that I was coming

It was the moment for which she had been waiting in painful anxiety. Her
voice shook.

"I--didn't know!"

"Then what--I don't understand," he said.

"I haven't a home," she said. "Mother died last Thursday, Nancy's taken
the kids, father's in gaol--he's got six months."

His old pity was revived. He smoothed her hair.

"Poor child!"

At his touch the sobs came. Her head drooped upon his knee.

"Nancy wouldn't have me in the house, her husband thinks he likes me,
and I am afraid of him. I'd nowhere to sleep, so I walked out here,
meaning to sleep in the woods. Then I heard of what had happened, and
that you were away, and I stole the key and crept in. Don't turn me out,
oh, don't! I'm all alone in the world, and I don't want to be like the
others. Let me stay! I'll do everything for you. I won't speak when
you don't want me to. You'll never know I'm here, except when you want
anything done. Oh, please, please be kind to me. If you don't I shall go
and drown myself. I've been miserable so long."

Her cry went to his heart, pierced even the dull lethargy of his own
despair. The rain was dashing against the window. He glanced at the
clock--it was nearly midnight.

"Poor little waif," he murmured, "and there are so many like you."

She crept sobbing into his arms, her hands were clasped around his neck.
For her it was happiness immeasurable, for him, too, there was a certain
solace in the thought that this lone creature loved him and was
dependent upon him. She went to sleep, curled up upon his knee, holding
him tightly to her. He sat with wide open eyes, gazing into the fire all
the night long.


John Martinghoe stood at his study window watching the dying away of the
storm. All night long the wind had gone roaring over the hills and down
the valleys, and the rain had fallen in torrents. Now with the morning
the skies were clearing, and the wind had dropped. Behind him Lady
Malingcourt was yawning over her letters.

"John," she said, after a while, "I believe that you are one of those
depressing creatures whose spirits are affected by the weather. You have
scarcely wished me good morning, and you are as gloomy as an owl."

"I was thinking," he said, "of Enoch Strone."

She poured herself out some coffee and opened another letter.

"He has disappointed you, has he not?" she remarked.

"I don't understand his sudden departure," Martinghoe admitted. "He
wasn't fit to go back to that cottage, and on such a night, too."

"He is probably being well taken care of there," she answered, quietly.

Martinghoe turned quickly round. She, too, had heard something, then!

"What do you mean?" he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Mr. Strone always represented himself, did he not, as a man without
relations or friends? He has spoken often of his absolutely solitary


"It isn't nice to talk about, is it, but I daresay you know as much as I
do. I passed his cottage yesterday, and there was a girl there--from
Gascester. She seemed quite at home, and she had no account to give of

"You spoke to her, then?"

"Yes, I am sorry to say that I did. Your Mr. Strone had interested me. I
must confess I was anxious to find that there was some explanation of
her presence."

"And there was none?"

"Absolutely none."

Martinghoe sighed.

"I am very sorry," he said. "I liked Strone. I believed in the man and
his self-respect."

"He is a fool," Lady Malingcourt said, in a bitter undertone. "John, I
have an invitation from Lurton Towers. I think I shall go."

He laughed.

"The world and its vanities once more. I was afraid the quiet here would
pall upon you."

"I have enjoyed it immensely," she declared, "but I really think it has
come to an end. All the young men have asked me to marry them, and one
can't live in a country where one meets rejected suitors in every lane
and at every party. It's too embarrassing."

"I wonder whether you will ever marry again, Beatrice?" he asked,

She stood up and came over to his side, a beautiful woman, young,
graceful, and rich. More than one society paper had asked the same

"I believe not, John," she answered. "If I do I warn you that it will be
a 'mesalliance.' You know I have a weakness for men."

"You are rough upon our aristocracy, Beatrice!"

She laid her hand upon his shoulder.

"Not necessarily, John. It is only the idlers whom one meets in society,
and they do not count for anything. The men are politicians or colonists
or soldiers, keen soldiers I mean, not drawing-room danglers. They have
better things to think of than marrying and dancing attendance upon
women. Who on earth is this coming across the fields like a madman?"

Martinghoe followed her gaze.

"It is Strone," he exclaimed. "What on earth is the matter with the

Lady Malingcourt turned from the window.

"He will be shown into your study, of course," she remarked. "If by any
chance he should inquire for me I do not wish to see him."

"I will remember," Martinghoe answered gravely.

* * *

With wind-tossed hair, splashed with mud, pale and wild-eyed, Strone
stood in the middle of the study when Martinghoe entered. For the moment
the two men were speechless--Martinghoe was shocked, Strone defiant,
still breathless with exertion. It was the clergyman who first recovered

"Why, Strone," he exclaimed, "what on earth have you been doing? Sit
down, man. You will be ill again if you don't mind."

Strone looked at him dully. He made no movement towards a chair.

"I'm here--on business," he said.

"On what?" Martinghoe repeated, wonderingly.

"On business. I want to get married. You see to that sort of thing,
don't you?"

Martinghoe dropped into an easy chair speechless. His first thought was
that illness had touched Strone's brain.

"You're joking, Strone," he exclaimed, weakly.

Then Strone laughed long and bitterly, and the echoes of his laugh
reached to the little morning-room where Lady Malingcourt sat with her
letters spread out before her.

"A man doesn't joke about his own damnation, does he!" Strone exclaimed.
"Get out the papers! Tell me what to do!"

"Let me give you a glass of wine, Strone," Martinghoe said, quietly.
"You're not quite yourself?"

"Keep your wine," Strone answered, fiercely. "I've told you what I want.
Here's the woman's name. I've written it down. Now tell me what I have
to do."

"It is very simple, Strone," Martinghoe answered, "but this is a serious
matter, and I had no idea that you contemplated anything of the sort.
Come, be reasonable. Sit down and have a chat with me about it."

"I'm damned if I sit down in this house again," Strone answered. "It's
your duty to see to these things, isn't it? Why do you keep me waiting?"

Martinghoe rose suddenly. Before Strone could protest, he had taken him
affectionately by the arm and led him to his own chair.

"Strone, old fellow," he said, "you're in trouble. Just you forget that
I'm a parson, and tell me all about it. Now sit down there and out with
it. What's the good of having friends if they can't help you at a pinch.
God knows I'll help you through it if I can, old man."

And Strone, whose strength was utterly gone, sapped away by his illness,
his misery and that terrible walk, broke down for the first and only
time in his life. He sank into the chair, and turning sideways buried
his face in his hands. His huge frame was shaken with sobs. Coldness and
ridicule he was prepared for and armed against--the man's sympathy was
irresistible. Martinghoe sat silently by his side, his hand resting
gently upon Strone's shoulder.

"Never mind, never mind," he murmured. "Have it out! I've been through
it myself--and we're locked in."

It was an altered face which Strone turned upon him presently.
Passionate no longer, but piteously pale and lined--as it seemed to
Martinghoe--with the traces of an indelible sorrow. Nevertheless he was
calm. Martinghoe forced him to drink wine.

"Don't hurry," he said, "sit quiet for a bit and talk afterwards."

Strone nodded gratefully. There was a long silence. Strone became
himself again.

"Mr. Martinghoe," he said, "please forgive me! I forgot myself when I
came in. I was mad!"

"Not another word," Martinghoe begged. "I could see that you were

"I've got to make a clean breast of everything to you, Mr. Martinghoe,"
Strone said. "It'll do me good, and I'll like always to feel that you
know the truth. It's a confession," he continued, "that's what it is!
You're going to think me the biggest fool upon this earth. Never mind!
Here goes! Last month I had lived alone for fifteen years! I've had no
friends, I've known no women. I've read a lot, and I've got to be fond
of beautiful things. You came to see me--I found an unexpected pleasure
in talking with you. I came to your house--I met Lady Malingcourt. Don't
think me mad, sir. Remember, I had never spoken to a lady in my life.
Your sister is very beautiful, and she was very kind to me. I heard her
sing. I went clean mad! I know it! But at least I meant to keep it to
myself. Then my miracle crane turned out a success. I was to be rich. I
lost my head! I found myself alone with your sister. I wanted to simply
ask her a few questions and to try and find out from her answers whether
at any time in the future there would be the least chance for me.
Instead I lost my head. I showed her plainly the folly of which I had
been guilty. She treated me--much as I deserve."

Martinghoe was slowly recovering from his amazement. He thought well of
Strone, but the man's confessed aspirations had taken him wholly by

"I am very sorry," he said. "It was a mistake, wasn't it, to say
anything to my sister, at present at any rate?"

"It was a mistake," Strone answered bitterly, "which I must regret all my
life. I left in haste. The storm came on, I reached my cottage,
desperate and miserable. But I've got to tell you about Milly--the girl
you saw me with one Sunday morning. She's a Gascester factory girl,
mother and father drunkards, living in a beastly court. I found her one
evening in the woods, and she told me her story. I was sorry for her,
and I let her stay with me all one day. She came again! It gave her
pleasure, and I couldn't find the heart to stop her. Then came my
accident and illness--and yesterday afternoon when I got back to my
cottage the girl was there. She sobbed out a pitiful story. Her mother
was dead, her father in prison. She was turned out of her house and came
over to see me. My cottage was empty--she took possession of it. She had
been there for two days. She prayed me not to turn her out--to let her
stay. Martinghoe, you've got to believe me! I never thought what it
meant. I wasn't myself. It didn't seem possible to turn her out. So she

Martinghoe was speechless. The tragedy of the man's life was there, grim
and hopeless. His heart was racked with pity. The horror of it was
appalling. He remembered the girl, recalled what he knew of her class,
and a passionate desire to save Strone seized him.

"Strone," he said, thickly. "You are going to be rich, you can see that
she is removed from her miserable life. You can make her future secure.
Answer me like a man. Is this marriage your duty--or--or--"

Strone interrupted him, and his words were like a knell.

"It is my duty," he answered. "There is no escape. You are a clergyman
and a Christian, Martinghoe. You would not dare to advise me to shirk

Martinghoe stood up. He held out his hand.

"God help you, Strone," he said.

And the pagan answered "Amen!"


The two women stood face to face on the threshold of Strone's cottage,
Milly surprised, untidy, annoyed. Lady Malingcourt a study of cool and
elegant simplicity.

"Did you want me?" Milly asked--a somewhat unnecessary question,
considering that her visitor had knocked at the door.

"You are Mrs. Strone? My brother and your husband were friends. I
thought that I should like to come and see you," Lady Malingcourt said,

Milly stood back from the threshold reluctantly.

"Will you walk in?" she asked. "I didn't know as my husband had any
friends--not out this way, at any rate. I've heard of you though. You're
the lady that rode those chaps down when they tried to kill Enoch."

Lady Malingcourt smiled deprecatingly.

"It was all very much exaggerated," she said, gently. "My share of it,
at any rate. Tell me--how do you like living out here?"

Lady Malingcourt had subsided into a straight oaken chair. Milly leaned
against the table. She was miserably conscious of the fact that her arms
were red and her hair untidy. She had been cleaning up--the whole place
seemed to shine with her exertions. Lady Malingcourt, on the contrary,
who had been dressed by her maid and had driven down, was spotlessly

"I don't know as I mind being here so much," she said, "but it's awful
lonesome when Enoch's away. I'd like to live near the town, but he

"You must be very proud of him," Lady Malingcourt said. "He is very

"Yes," the girl answered. "He's clever enough."

There was a short silence. Lady Malingcourt was a woman whose social
gifts were many, but she scarcely knew how to make headway with this
sullen, uncommunicative girl, who was evidently displeased with her
visit, and did not take the trouble to hide her feelings. She looked
around the room. It was the same, yet different. Everything was
spotlessly clean, but somehow the atmosphere was altered. The chairs
were ranged in order against the wall. There were enormities in the
shape of woollen antimacassars, a flimsy curtain hung before the small
window. A table on which Lady Malingcourt had noticed a "Spectator" and
"Fortnightly Review" was littered over now with copies of the "Young
Ladies' Journal," some cheap and highly-coloured sweets, an untidy
workbasket. Lady Malingcourt sighed softly, and then finding those keen,
jealous eyes fixed upon her face was for a moment uncomfortable. She
rose. Her visit was not likely to be a success. She had come partly on
impulse, partly to gratify a strange and unreasonable curiosity. She had
learnt what she had desired to know. She realised the tragedy which was
overshadowing Enoch Strone's life.

"You must walk over to the Vicarage some day," she said, holding out her
hand. "I am not there very much, but my brother will always be glad to
see you."

Milly took the offered hand awkwardly, even with some reluctance.

"Visiting ain't much in Enoch's way," she said, "and I don't know as I
care much about it myself."

Lady Malingcourt remained for a moment as though she had something more
to say, and in that moment the eyes of the two women met. Milly had not
been brought up in the school which reckons self-control amongst the
virtues, and in her face was clearly written her distrust and jealousy.
Lady Malingcourt saw these things and was silent. The words which had
trembled upon her lips remained unspoken. She left the cottage with a
formal farewell, and walked towards her carriage, passing on the way a
pasty faced young man, sucking industriously at an extinct cigarette.
She returned his impertinent stare with a glance of frigid contempt. He
strolled jauntily on and when he reached the cottage whistled.

"Hi! Milly!"

She came out, recognised him, and nodded a greeting.

"Here again," she remarked. "You seem wonderful fond of this part of the
country all of a sudden!"

"It's the scenery," he answered her, with a solemn wink. "Where is the

"Inside," she answered laconically.

The young man looked for a moment uncomfortable. Then he caught sight of
a gleam of mischief in her eyes, and grinned.

"What a one you are for kidding," he remarked. "Come for a stroll in the
wood. We can see him coming."

She shook her head.

"You get along, Charlie," she said. "You ain't no call to come round
'ere. How's Ada?"

"Bother Ada," he answered vigorously. "Who wants her?"

She laughed shortly.

"You did--once," she declared. "You'd better take and marry her. Make
first-rate wives, those barmaids."

He waived the subject.

"Come down in the wood," he suggested again. "I want to talk with you."

"Not me," she answered. "If you want to talk, talk here. He comes home
any time now."

The youth was annoyed. He rolled another cigarette with yellow stained
fingers, and stood with his hands in his pockets, looking disparagingly
around him.

"Why don't you make him live in the town?" he asked. "He could afford a
real good house with a servant. He's making piles of money."

"Better ask him yourself," she answered, bitterly.

"Like it out 'ere?" he asked.

"I hate it," she answered, brusquely. "I ain't got a soul to speak to
from morning to night. When he comes home it's books, books, books. He's
that wrapped up in 'em that he hasn't a word for anybody."

"You'd better have had me, Milly," he said, with a leer. "I've got a
trap of my own now--yellow wheels--regular slap up."

She faced him indignantly.

"You're a nice chap to come 'ere and talk," she answered. "When you
could have had me for the asking you didn't want. Oh, your sort makes me
sick--always on the whine--only wanting what yer can't have. Why don't
yer go and take Ada for a drive in yer trap with yellow wheels instead
of fooling round here? I don't want yer, I'm sure."

"Oh, get on," he answered, gloomily. "I've chucked Ada. I only took her
out once or twice. You was the girl I was kinder set on."

"Pity you didn't mention it," she answered, with a sniff.

He knocked off a thistle head viciously with his stick. Every now and
then he looked stealthily towards the lane beyond the grey stone wall.

"You were in such a blooming hurry," he grumbled.

"Anyway I'm fond of you--always was, and I don't like to see you put on."

"Who's put on," she interrupted, truculently.

"You," he answered. "Strone's making piles of the ready, rolling in
money. I don't know what he does with it, but he's no right to keep you

"How do you know he's making piles of money?" she demanded.

"Why, don't everyone know it?" he declared, contemptuously. "He's a
partner in Dobell's, ain't he? Perhaps you didn't know that."

"No," she answered, "I didn't."

"He ain't doing yer right, Milly," her champion declared, confidently.
"You don't need to be so blooming standoffish."

He edged a little nearer to her. She kept her face averted, but did not
move away. He reflected that he had kissed her more than once, and an
unreasoning desire possessed him to repeat the enterprise.

"Come down in the wood," he said. "The sun's so 'ot here."

"Not now," she answered. "He'll be home directly. You'd better go. He
won't care about seeing you round."

"He'll have to lump it, then," the young man declared, valorously. "He's
got his friends, ain't he?"

She nodded.


"And I'm your friend, ain't I?"

She regarded him curiously.

"I suppose so."

"Then why shouldn't I come and see you? It's awful lonely 'ere, Milly.
Will you come out for a drive one afternoon?"

She hesitated. The idea fascinated her. The days were terribly long, and
she was not made for solitude. All the time he watched her with fishy,
anxious eyes.

"I'll see," she answered.

He rose up.

"Monday afternoon," he said. "I'll bring the trap."

"I don't promise," she answered, slowly.

"Oh, you'll come," he declared, confidently. "We'll have a high
old time. I'll be here about three. Milly, give us a kiss, old
girl. I'm off with Ada fair."

She withdrew precipitately from his threatened embrace.

"I like that," she exclaimed, "and out 'ere for 'im or anyone to see. No

"Well, let me come inside for a moment then."

She shook her head.

"It's past his time," she said. "You'd best be off."

He rose with suspicious alacrity.

"Well, it'll keep," he declared, jocosely. "On Monday then, eh?"

"I'll see," she answered.


Once more Strone pushed his bicycle up the long, flint-strewn hill,
paused at the bend to wipe the moisture from his streaming forehead and
sought for a moment the shade of the overhanging trees. He drew a long
sigh of relief, the old joy of these quiet places beat once more in his
heart. A late summer had come at last to fruition. The bracken was knee
deep in the woods, the primroses and hyacinths were gone, but the hedges
were wreathed with wild roses, and the perfume of honeysuckle was heavy
on the slowly moving air. In Strone himself the change was wonderful.
His step was listless, the fire had gone from his eyes, deep lines
furrowed his forehead. He held himself no longer erect, but as a man who
carries a heavy burden. Life had narrowed in upon him, he looked forward
with a shudder, the past was as a sealed book. Only some days there came
little flashes of memory. He found himself suddenly recalling those
wonderfully sweet days of his freedom, when every shadow of care seemed
to pass away as he rode out from Gascester, when the wind and the sun,
and the song of the birds had been his companions. That was all over
now. He climbed the steep hill with listless footsteps, no longer full
of anticipation of those long hours of exquisite solitude which had
become so dear to him. Those days had gone by--for ever. Milly would be
waiting at the door, would shower upon him caresses which long ago had
palled, would chatter emptily and dwell peevishly on the long day's
solitude. He found himself thinking with a shiver of the interminable
evening. There was no escape. If he went out she would follow him, if he
read she sulked. He groaned to himself as he turned the last corner and
caught a glimpse of the grey smoke curling upwards.

Then he stopped short in the middle of the lane. What little colour the
heat had brought into his cheeks died away. He looked wildly around, as
though half inclined to leap the grey stone wall and vanish in the
tangled wilderness beyond. Yet there was nothing more alarming in the
way than a smartly turned out victoria descending the hill towards him,
and leaning back amongst the cushions a tired looking woman in a white
dress and hat with pink roses. Almost at the same moment she saw him,
and leaning forward she stopped the carriage. To his amazement she
stepped lightly out, gave the man an order and waited for him in the
shade of a great oak tree which overhung the road.

He ground his teeth together and advanced to meet her steadily. She
greeted him with her old quiet smile. She too, he thought, was looking
pale and listless.

"I'm so glad to see you. Do you mind resting your bicycle somewhere and
coming into the shade? I will not keep you very long."

He obeyed her in silence. Words seemed difficult to him just then. They
stood in the shadow of the trees which hung over from the wood. The
foxgloves and bracken brushed against her skirt. She lowered her
parasol, and seemed for a moment intent upon studying the pattern of the
filmy lace. The man's heart beat out like a sledgehammer. Yet he stood
there, slowly mastering his emotion, and it was the woman who found
speech so difficult.

"Mr. Strone," she said, at last, "you would not consider me an impulsive
person, would you?"

"By no means," he answered.

"Yet I am here," she continued, "upon an impulse. Yesterday I was at
Cowes. In the morning I had a letter from my brother--he wrote chiefly
about you. I hate travelling, especially in the summer, but to-day you
see I am here, and I have come for no other purpose than to see you."

"It is inexplicable," he said, slowly.

"Never mind! It has happened. I am here, and I am going to indulge in
the luxury of plain speech. You do not mind?"

"I have heard plain speaking from you before," he answered, looking her
in the face.

She faltered visibly. It was so hard to say--even from her to him. She
forgot all the advantages of her birth and social training, the graceful
tact which in all the ordinary affairs of life served her so well had
suddenly become a dormant and an inutile thing. They stood face to face,
man and woman, and she was tongue-tied. Above their heads the twittering
of birds, up the road, the occasional jingling of harness as her
impatient horses pawed the ground, fretted by the heat and stung by a
small army of flies. For once her readiness of speech had deserted her.
Their eyes met, and he saw a woman who was strange to him, a woman the
languid calm of whose features had fallen away as a mask, whose delicate
ivory cheeks burned with colour, whose clear cold eyes were suddenly
revealing new and wonderful depths of feeling. All the bitterness fled
from him.

"Forgive me," he said, softly. "I will listen to whatever you have to

She smiled faintly. Something seemed to have fallen away from between
them. Speech was no longer difficult.

"I will live up to my new reputation," she said. "I will remain a woman
of impulse. I will tell you something which a few minutes ago I was very
sure that I would never tell you."

She paused. He remained speechless, his eyes fastened upon her.

"Go on."

"One afternoon when you were at the Vicarage I had a fancy to look at
your cottage. I came--and found it occupied. I questioned the girl. She
was a friend of yours, she said, her things were about the place, she
was confused, what she said seemed incapable of bearing more than one
interpretation. I accepted the inference--and that afternoon there was
plain speaking--on the lawn."

He was no longer steady on his feet, and in his ears was the rushing of
strange sounds, trees and sky were mixed up together.

"You believed--that?" he gasped.

"I judged you," she answered, "by the standard of a world which I
believe to be lower than yours. Remember, too, that in many ways I knew
so little of you. Different classes of society regard the same thing
from such different points of view. Yes, I judged you. I want your

He looked at her wildly.

"What infernal sophistry," he cried. "What is sin in your world is sin
in mine. All that lies upon my conscience is your doing--and I have paid
the penalty with eternal bondage."

"Mind," she continued, drearily, "I do not say that even without this I
could have answered you differently."

He silenced her with a passionate gesture.

"No matter," he cried; "you would not have sent me away with a knife in
my heart, a raving lunatic, fit for any devil's trap! It is bad enough
that it should have happened, it is worse that you should have told me.
What, in God's name, have you come here for?"

She smothered a sob.

"Don't you know why I came," she said. "John wrote that things were
going ill with you. You looked thin and miserable, he said. You would
not see him, he had met you wandering about like a man in torment. I am
a selfish, idle woman, Enoch. I have no future, and I go drifting down
the broad stream of what we call pleasure, because there is nothing else
for me to do. But with you it is so different. You have a great
future--you are a man, and you have power. I want you to rouse
yourself--I want to hear you make a stir in the world. This is what I
have come to say to you--to preach a very simple doctrine. Make the best
of things."

He dropped her hands, he pointed over the road.

"What about her?" he cried, hoarsely.

"It is the hardest part of all I know," she continued, "but she loves
you, and, Enoch, a man can make of the woman who loves him what he
pleases. You must do your duty. She is yours, she must share your life."

"Then my life must be an accursed thing," he moaned.

She shook her head.

"Be a man, Enoch Strone," she said, firmly. "Do your duty to her and she
will repay you. Remember that even such a marriage as yours is no light
thing. For good or for evil the yoke is upon your shoulders. A woman who
is scorned and neglected by her husband is in an evil way. Once you were
brave and faced your duty. All that you will undo if you drive her from
you. Take her into your life--and for the rest--I want to hear you make
a stir in the world. There is room for you in great places, Enoch
Strone. This generation is empty of strong men. Fill your life with
ambitions, and remember all those wonderful dreams of yours. Strive to
realise them. Tell Milly about them; let her know each day how you are
getting on. Come out of the crowd, Enoch, and let me feel that I have
known one man in my life at least who was strong enough to climb to the
hilltop with another's burden upon his shoulders."

He listened to her with kindling eyes, conscious that the old passion
for life was moving once more in his veins--conscious too with a certain
sense of wonder at the transformation that this woman who was pleading
with him so earnestly stood revealed in a wholly new light. The delicate
vein of mockery which sometimes gave to her most serious sayings an air
of insincerity, as though conversation were a mere juggling with words,
seemed to have passed away. She spoke without languor or weariness, and
her words touched his heart--stirred his brain.

"I have been a coward. Lady Malingcourt," he said, gravely. "You have
made me realise it. I shall be grateful to you all my life."

She smiled a little sadly.

"Perhaps," she said, "I too shall have a better conscience when I hear
the world talk of Enoch Strone. For I know, I fear I know, whose hands
have fastened that burden upon your shoulders."

The man in him leaped up, vigorous and eager. He faced her with glowing

"If the burden had been twice as heavy," he cried, "I would bear it
cheerfully now. For ever--"

He stopped short. Some instinct told him that any further words were
unnecessary. As she had spoken and looked, so would she remain to him
for ever. So he called her carriage, and once more her fingers rested in
his great work-hardened hand.

"Good-bye," she said simply. "Good fortune!"

He took his bicycle and trudged through the white powdery dust up the
steep hill, upwards to the hilltop, his head thrown back, new dreams
forming in his brain. And downwards the woman was carried, leaning back
amongst the cushions of her victoria, her dim and unseeing eyes fixed
upon vacancy, a faint wistful smile upon her lips. For her there were no
dreams, a sense of weariness sat heavy in her heart. Her brief spell of
living had passed away. The old languor crept like an evil narcotic
through her veins.


"No, I ain't going, I tell you! What's the use o' bothering? Go and make
it up with Ada. I don't want nothing to do with you."

The young man was both hurt and annoyed. He was wearing a long and very
light driving coat, kid gloves, and a bowler hat of rakish appearance.
When he had contemplated himself in the glass a few minutes before
starting he had recognised at once how hopeless was Milly's case. Strone
was carelessly dressed, rough in his manner, something of a crank. No
wonder Milly was weary of him. Her marriage he looked upon as entirely
due to pique. On the whole it did not displease him. Milly, he felt
convinced, was his for the asking. He would be able to play the gallant
without fear of consequences. So when Milly flatly refused to take that
expedition with him on Monday afternoon he was naturally more than a
little annoyed.

"You're off your blooming nut about Ada," he exclaimed, testily. "You
haven't no call to be, I tell you I've chucked her. Don't want no more
to do with her. There was only one as I ever cared about--you know that,

The speech, which once would have made her heart beat, passed by
unnoticed. She simply yawned over her work and tilted her chair back
against the side of the cottage. To further irritate her visitor Milly
was certainly looking her best that afternoon. She was wearing a new
blue serge dress which Strone himself had chosen. Her luxuriant hair was
carefully arranged, and a bright ribbon pinned around her throat was
chosen to harmonise with her complexion. Lothario puffed at his black
cigar savagely and thrust his hands into the side pockets of his driving
coat in sporting fashion.

"Look here, Milly," he said, persuasively, "just walk down and have a
look at the trap, anyhow. That won't do you no harm, will it? You might
bring your hat along in case you change your mind, eh?"

"Shan't," she answered, tersely. "I don't want you, Charlie, nor your
trap. You'd best be off. He may be home soon, and then you'll catch it."

He laughed derisively.

"Who's afraid! Besides, he don't leave work until six, and it's only
three now. Lot's of time for a tool round."

"You can stay, of course," she continued, sewing vigorously, "if you've
a fancy for being where you're not wanted. I'll take my work inside."

She rose up, but he stood in the way.

"Give us a kiss, Milly!"

"I'll give you a slap on the cheek, you impudent young beggar," she
answered. "Just you listen to reason. I've had enough of you. It ain't
no use your coming fooling round. Enoch's a good sort, and I'm going to
stick to him. He's a sight better nor you and me put together."

An angry flush suffused his yellow, unwholesome cheek.

"Well, what's upset you all at once?" he exclaimed.

"Last time I came you didn't make much fuss about a kiss, and I ain't
going to be made a fool of by you, that's straight. No, you don't. Now

She tried to pass him. He caught her by the waist--for a moment they
struggled fiercely. The young man's face became an evil thing to look
upon. He put out all his strength, and Milly was overmastered. But of a
sudden there came to him a most wonderful and unpleasant experience. He
felt himself lifted from his feet as though by a grasp of iron--a moment
later he was screaming in a gorse bush half a dozen yards away. Strone
stood over him with a queer smile upon his lips.

"What's this, Milly?"

She trembled from head to foot.

"He wanted me to go for a drive with him, and I wouldn't. Nasty little

He struggled slowly to his feet.

"All right," he said. "You've encouraged me to come here, ain't you? You
ain't made much fuss about a kiss before. I don't want no more to do
with you. I'm off."

But to go it was necessary to pass Strone, and Strone stood big in the
path with the same queer smile upon his lips.

"If you speak another word to my wife or about my wife," he said,
quietly, "I shall thrash you."

"All right," the young man muttered, sullenly. "I don't want to give her

Milly turned very pale. Strone laid his hand lightly upon his collar.

"Come this way," he ordered. "Milly, stay where you are."

"What yer going to do?" Lothario whined. "Let me go! D'yer hear?
Milly's always been a pal o' mine. I could tell yer--"

Strone shook him till his teeth rattled.

"If you don't keep your ugly mouth shut," he said, "I shall certainly
kill you."

"What yer going to do, then? Let me be. I'll go right off."

"I'm going to give you a ducking," Strone answered.

Lothario resisted violently. Strone took him up as though he were a
baby, and threw him into the middle of the pond. The toads hopped, and
the newts darted away for their lives. Strone waited to see that the
shock had not stunned him, and then returned to Milly.

"Milly," he said, gravely, "your friend is down there, and he has a
little trap. Do you want to go with him? If so, remember it must be for

"No, no," she sobbed. "Little beast! I hate him."

"How often has he been here?"

"Three times."

"You have let him kiss you?"

"Y-yes; only once."

"You have nothing more to tell me?"

"There is nothing more, Enoch. You won't send me away?"

"No," he answered, "of course not. We are husband and wife, Milly. I
didn't listen much to the service when we were married, and I daresay
you didn't. Let us make a bargain with one another. Promise me that you
will never encourage any more men to come and see you in my absence, and
that you will not permit any liberties. I don't want to be hard on you,
child. I know your bringing up was none of the best. We will make a
fresh start. You shall promise me this, and in return I will make you
the same promise. That's square enough, eh?"

Her earnestness spiritualised him. The pale face lifted to his moved him

"I promise, Enoch. You are too good to me."

"Then that is over," he said. "Now make me some tea, and I will tell you
some news."

She brought it out to him, waited upon him breathlessly. The terrible
gloom which had oppressed her so much had passed away. He was dressed in
new and well-fitting clothes. Even to her untrained eye there was a
wonderful change in his bearing and demeanour.

"Milly," he said, "would you like to live in London?"

The thought was like paradise. She strove to contain herself.

"With you, Enoch--anywhere."

"With me, certainly," he answered. "We shall go there next week. You
will be able to have a decent house and servants. Dobell's are opening a
London branch, and I shall have to manage it. I ought to have told you
some of these things before. I had no right to keep them to myself. You
will never be poor again, Milly. It seems as though we were going to be
very rich."

"Enoch! Enoch!"

He smiled at the excitement which baffled speech.

"To-morrow I have ordered a carriage to come out. We will go into
Gascester, and you must buy some clothes. You had better go and see your
sister, and I will arrange something for the children."

She burst into tears.

"I don't deserve it," she sobbed. "Enoch, I'll try to be a good wife to

* * *

Afterwards he walked out by himself, crossed the field, and entered the
deep, cool shade of the wood. It was significant that he passed the spot
where he had first met Milly with a little shudder, and hurried away as
though even the memory of that night pursued him. All the while a subtle
sense of excitement was in his veins, mingled with a strange, haunting
sadness. For him the life in quiet places was over. This was his
farewell pilgrimage. Henceforth his place was in the stress of life, in
the great passion riven heart of the world. His days of contemplation
were over. There had come Milly, and he very well knew that the old life
here, where the singing of every wind, the music of the birds, thrilled
him with earlier memories, was impossible. After all, good might come of
it. The sweetness of solitude, of crowding the brain with delicate
fancies, of basking in the joy of beautiful places, was in many senses a
paralysing sweetness. Man was made for creation, not contemplation. So
he turned his eyes upon the new world, and there were big things there
to wrestle with. The cry of his fellows was in his ears, the cry of
those to whom life was a desert place, the long, drawn out murmur of the
great nether world. Life would be good there where the giants fought.
Perhaps some day he might even win forgetfulness.

Late that night, as John Martinghoe sat smoking a last pipe in his
study, there came a soft tapping at the long French window. He opened it
cautiously and peered out. A man stood there, grim and with stem, white


"Come in, man."

But Strone shook his head.

"Not now. Listen. I want you to write--your sister to-morrow. You will
do this?"

"Of course, but come in. Have a pipe with me and a drop of whisky. Don't
stand there like a ghost."

Strone made no movement, took no notice of the invitation.

"Listen," he continued. "Say that I am doing her bidding; tell her that
I shall do it to the end. That is all."

"Come in and write her yourself, Strone. We're friends, surely."

Strone's hand came out through the darkness.

"Good-night, Mr. Martinghoe, and good-bye. Tomorrow I'm leaving a life I
have loved very dearly, for a new one which is strange to me. I'm in no
mood for talk."

He turned away. Martinghoe watched him vanish and dropped the curtain.

"Poor Strone!"



"My dear Lady Malingcourt! Really, if I wasn't sure that you were one of
the best natured women in the world I wouldn't dare to ask you. But you
see how it is. The man is here, or will be here, and he must take some
one in to dinner. George says we must be particular not to offend him.
That class of person is so sensitive."

"From which I gather," Lady Malingcourt remarked, with a yawn, "that I
am to be taken in to dinner by some one particularly disagreeable. Well,
I don't mind! Only please do not call me good-natured. It is so
irritatingly untrue. Besides, it makes an inconvenient reputation for
me. People expect so much. Who is he?"

Lady Constance Sydenham finished fastening her bracelet, and stood
prepared at last to receive her brother's guests.

"My poor woman, it is dreadful, but positively you are our only hope.
The Duchess and the very big wigs are out of the question, of course.
They go in with the cabinet. That only leaves Polly Arlington and you.
Well, I know Polly. She'd snub him all the time, and laugh outright if
he tries to eat his soup with a fork. You needn't smile, my dear. The
last one we had did, sooner than ask for a spoon, which somehow they
hadn't given him."

"What is it that is going to take me in?" Lady Malingcourt asked.
"Something Oriental? I draw the line at colour only."

"The colour will be all right if he washes, which I hear they don't,"
Lady Constance answered. "It's a Labour member."

"I don't mind that at all," Lady Malingcourt answered. "I am quite used
to the species. We had plenty of them in Australia, and they were most

"I daresay," her hostess answered, absently. "Over here, though, I'm
afraid the type is different. The last one we had made speeches in Hyde
Park, and had conscientious objections to evening clothes, or rather his
constituents had. I've heard something odd about this one but I can't
remember what it is, or his name. Groves, bring me the guest list at
once. Duchess, how nice of you to be so punctual. I want to talk to you
about the bazaar. We've got the hall, and Mrs. Botter-Black has promised
to kiss everybody--for a consideration. Dick, talk to Lady Malingcourt,
please. She's been entertaining for her cousin, the Governor-General at
Melbourne, and she's only just home. She wants to know everything about
everybody, George, come here at once, sir. If you can't get down
punctually to receive your guests, you shall dine 'em at the House or at
the club. You know that half of them are strangers to me."

Lady Malingcourt smiled at the young man to whose care she had been

"One thing at least," she remarked, "has remained unaltered during my
absence--and that is Connie's tongue."

Dick Alward, Lord Sydenham's secretary, dropped his eyeglass and smiled.

"In the House," he said, "she would be invaluable. In private life she
is a source of wonder to all of us. Statistics are supposed to be my
forte, and I once tried to calculate how many million words a day she
spoke. I gave it up. The task was Brobdingnagian. How did you like

"I stayed there two years," she answered. "The newspapers gushed when I
left, and the women gave me a picture."

"I read it all in the newspapers," he answered. "We were told that you
had left a gap which could never be filled, and of broken hearts which
could never be mended twelve baskets full. That sounds biblical, but it
was in the 'Melbourne Punch.' By-the-by, I was to tell you everything
about everybody. Where shall I begin?"

"Do not begin at all," she begged. "I left England to get away from
everybody and everything. Let me find out their disasters and their
triumphs by degrees."

Lord Sydenham strolled over to them.

"I hear that my sister has been giving you a scare," he remarked. "She
has been telling you about my labour member."

Lady Malingcourt nodded.

"I am meditating flight," she said.

He looked down at her with twinkling eyes.

"You need not," he assured her. "My labour member is a 'rara avis,'
indeed. He is the head of his party, he commands fifty votes, and he is
the one man in the House of whom it is safe to predict with absolute
confidence that he has a future. More wonderful still, he is a

"You take my breath away," she declared; "but you have restored my
appetite. Do tell me his name."

Lord Sydenham turned round, and touched a bystander upon the shoulder.

"Strone," he said, "I want to introduce you to my cousin. Beatrice,
allow me to present Mr. Strone--Lady Malingcourt."

* * *

Under the fire of dinner-table talk they relapsed easily enough into
more familiar relations.

"I am not at all sure that I like you," she said, looking at him
critically. "Your dress coat came evidently from Saville Row, and your
tie is perfection. You are not in character at all. I expected a
homespun suit, hob-nailed boots, and a flannel shirt. I wasn't sure
about the collar, but I counted upon a red tie. Please don't tell me
that you are a club man, and that you go to afternoon teas."

He laughed. Even his voice was subdued.

"No fear of that," he declared. "I am asked here, and I came purely as a
matter of business, and my dress suit was made for this or a similar
occasion. When I go out it is generally to meat teas in the suburbs, or
midday dinners with my constituents in Gascester. In the street or at
the House I dress according to my station. I have even a red tie of
which I am very fond."

She stole another glance at him. There were streaks of grey in his black
hair, deep lines in his hard, clean-shaven face. If a dinner such as
this was a rare event to him, he showed no signs of awkwardness. He
joined now and then in the conversation around. Most of the men seemed
known to him.

"I have read of you," she said, abruptly, "of your maiden speech and
rapid progress in the House."

He lowered his voice.

"It was what you wished."

"Nothing has ever given me more pleasure," she said, simply. "You got my

He nodded.

"Two words only--'well done.' I have it in my pocket to-night."

She abandoned the subject precipitately.

"And your social schemes?"

"They progress," he answered, thoughtfully. "I have had disappointments,
but on the whole--yes, I am satisfied. When you kre at Gascester I
should like to show you some of my experiments."

She talked for a few minutes to her neighbour on the other side. Then
she turned to him and smiled.

"This is the second time we have met at dinner," she said.

"I do not need to be reminded of it," he answered, quietly.

"Your brother asked me to stay to supper,--I think that he had forgotten
that you were there. I was in my working clothes, and I am afraid that
the flannel shirt was a fact."

She smiled.

"Yes, and you laid down the law upon Ruskin, criticised 'Sesame and
Lilies,' and talked of Walter Pater as though you had known him all your
life. You were a revelation and a puzzle to me. I was so weary of life
just then. I believe you were the first living person who had interested
me for many months."

His eyes were looking into vacancy. His words were spoken in the
slightest of whispers. Yet she heard.

"And afterwards you sang to us. It was wonderful."

Then the talk buzzed round them, but they were silent. The woman who had
represented her Queen in a great country and the man who had been
climbing with steady feet the ladder of fame were both thinking of that
little country vicarage amongst the hills. She saw him, the first of his
type she had ever met, reserved, forceful, at times strangely eloquent,
in soiled clothes and brusque manner, yet speaking of the great things
of life as one who understood--who meant to conquer. And he remembered
her, the first woman of her order with whom he had ever spoken, the
first beautiful woman whose hand he had ever touched. He remembered her
soft voice, her lazy musical laugh, her toilette and her jewels, which,
though simple enough, were a revelation to him. She represented to him
from that moment a new world of delight. All those forgotten love verses
whose form alone he had been able to appreciate, welled up in his heart,
sang in his book, filled for him with glorious colour the whole
literature of love and passion. Her coming had given him understanding.
He looked back upon those days as he had done many a time during the
last few years--but to-night there was a difference. Like a flash he
realised what her coming I back meant to him. The old madness was
burning in his blood. He had thought himself cured! What folly! The
battle was before him yet.

He was roused from his abstraction by a word from her, and found himself
apologising to his left hand neighbour for a twice asked question. The
conversation became political. A moment later he was gravely discussing
the prospects of the Better Housing of the Poor Bill. Amidst a rustling
of laces and swish of silk, which sounded to him like the winged flight
of many tropical birds, the women passed out. Strone noticed that Lady
Malingcourt avoided his eager gaze as she followed her hostess from the


Strone was treated with much deference, for he was without doubt in the
political world a person of some importance. The balance of parties
being fairly even, the Government was dependent upon the support of the
Labour men to neutralise the Irish faction. And of late Strone had been
pushing his claims with calm but significant persistence. The Government
were pledged to his "Better Housing of the Poor" Bill, and he had firmly
refused to have it shelved any longer.

"You are ready for Thursday night, Strone?" Lord Sydenham asked.

"I have been ready for four months," Strone answered, smiling. "I am so
ready now that I am afraid Thursday is the limit of my patience."

"There will be no delay this time," Lord Sydenham assured him, genially.

Strone moved up a seat.

"I should like to have your opinion," he said, "as to the consideration
which the Bill will receive in the Upper House."

Lord Sydenham shrugged his shoulders.

"Our majority is quite large enough," he said. "Of course there will be
more opposition than in the Commons. You are prepared for that. I am not
even sure about the Bishops."

"I have seen the Archbishop by appointment," Strone said, "and I have
discussed it with him thoroughly. He has promised me the Episcopal

Lord Sydenham arched his eyebrows.

"You don't let the grass grow beneath your feet, my friend," he

"We are pledged to the measure," Strone answered, "and it is my duty to
make a certainty of it. There was another point. Lord Sydenham, I wished
to mention to you. You have referred to my bill as a Government

Lord Sydenham assented, dubiously.

"I want to be assured," Strone continued, "that it will go to the Lords
not as a Labour Bill which has secured the support of the Government in
the Lower House, but as a Government Bill, pure and simple. You
understand me, I am sure. There may be individual dissentients in the
Upper House in the former case, in the latter it becomes a party

Lord Sydenham looked grave.

"You ask a good deal, Strone," he said.

"I do not think so," Strone answered. "From the first my terms were that
the bill should become law. It is in your interest as well as mine that
the Lords should not throw it out. You have it within your power to
ensure this."

"I will see Wiltshire," Lord Sydenham promised. "I cannot do more at
present. Your bill is going to hit the landlords very hard, you know,

"There are a good many landlords," Strone answered, "whom I would rather
see hanged than merely hit hard."

The Duke of Massingham moved down, wineglass in hand.

"Come, come, Strone. What's this I hear--you want to hang the

"Not all, your Grace," Strone answered, with a gleam in his eye. "Only
those who house men and women like rats, who let their property tumble
to ruin whilst they drag the last shilling of their rents from starving
men and women. To such as these I would make the criminal laws apply.
They are responsible for many human lives--for the lower physique of our

The Duke nodded.

"Very true, Mr. Strone," he said; "very true."

Strone hesitated, and continued, more slowly.

"I cannot hold those altogether guiltless, either, your Grace," he
continued, "who, in exalted positions themselves, hand over the
management of their property to agents, whose interest it is to delay
repairs and exact rents. Upon the list of buildings which I have
personally visited, and which I propose to mention in the House on
Thursday next, are Merton Courts, Soho, which, I regretted to discover
this afternoon, are the property of your Grace."

The Duke started, and almost dropped the cigar which he was smoking.

"I fancy that you must be mistaken, Mr. Strone," he said stiffly. "My
agent, Mr. Jameson, is a most respectable man, and he knows his

"Yes, he knows his business," Strone admitted, bitterly, "which is to
receive all he can and pay as little as possible. Your Grace will
probably be surprised to hear that, out of eighty inhabitants of Merton
Court, thirty are now suffering or have suffered from diphtheria, the
majority have bad throats, and the stench even upon the staircase is so
bad that one is afraid to breathe."

"I will visit the place to-morrow," the Duke declared. "If it is as bad
as you say it shall be demolished and rebuilt."

"I should further recommend your Grace," Strone continued, "to change
your agent. There are other properties under his control which I should
class as unfit for human habitation. I will give you a list if you

"I will make a personal visit to them all," the Duke replied, "and
Jameson shall certainly go if I find myself in the painful position of
having to agree with you. I presume, Mr. Strone, that having called my
attention to the matter you will now erase my name from the list you
spoke of."

"I am afraid I cannot see my way clear to do so," Strone answered,
quietly. "There is scarcely an owner there who would not do all that was
necessary to save exposure if the chance were given him. I have breathed
that atmosphere myself, and I can feel but little sympathy with those
who are responsible for it."

The Duke rose and bowed stiffly.

"It may be as you say, of course, Mr. Strone," he declared. "I have no
desire to influence you unduly."

They drifted into the drawing room, which at Sydenham House was on the
second floor. Strone looked eagerly around for Lady Malingcourt. He
found her at last outside on the balcony. He dropped into a seat by her

"What a frown," she murmured. "Have you been lecturing people or been

He sighed.

"The inside of everything in the world," he said, "is thronged with

"As for instance?"


She settled herself down comfortably in her chair.

"I know all about your Bill," she said. "Tell me what has gone wrong."

He told her briefly.

"The whole thing is a gigantic juggle," he wound up. "Nothing seems to
be done because it is the right and honest thing to be done. It is all
managed by an exchange of interest. Do this for me and I will do this
for you. That is what it amounts to. I know that Lord Sydenham hates my
bill, but he is going to support it in the Commons because he wants my
50 votes to keep him in office. I have an idea that there is a plot to
throw it out in the Lords, or at least to send it back to me for
modification. So we go on playing round the fringe of things. Nothing
ever seems to get done."

"Still impetuous, my friend," she said, smiling.

"Impetuous! I have given pledges to my constituents. I may have to meet
them in the autumn, and there are some things which cannot be explained
from a platform."

"Your Parliamentary career is beyond the vagaries of one constituency
now," she answered. "You have made your mark."

"By speeches only," he answered, discontentedly. "I want something to
show for my labours."

They were silent. Below them was the Green Park, and the pleasant
rustling of leaves amongst the lime trees came to their ears, a musical
murmur, indeed against the deeper roar of distant traffic, footsteps and
human voices. Hansoms with their twin lights burning softly like live
things flashed by in a never ceasing procession, a soft breeze blew in
their faces. Lady Malingcourt was looking steadily into vacancy.

"It is odd that we should meet like this," she said, softly.

He understood her, and smiled.

"Last time," he said, "we were in the heart of the country, the very
quietest of quiet places. To-night I suppose we are very near the heart
of the world."

"It is a study in contrasts," she remarked. "Bangdon was an ideal spot
for dreams, but it is here that one must work out their destiny. For men
London must be a paradise."

"For a man with ambition," he said, "there is no other place."

"You have never regretted the change in your life?" she asked.

"It was my salvation!" he answered.

"Tell me, how you have managed to accomplish so much in so short a time,"
she demanded. "Three years ago you were unknown. To-day I hear you
spoken of everywhere as the acknowledged leader of the Labour Party. You
have quite a Parliamentary reputation too!"

He smiled.

"I have been exceptionally fortunate," he declared. "You see, the
Miracle Crane has made our fortunes many times over, and when I decided
to go in for Parliamentary work my partner took over the main control of
the business. A constituency turned up at the right moment, and I got in
at the by-election by a dozen votes. The Labour Party, as you know, was
in a poor way. There were half a dozen men who wanted to lead it, and
they were all too jealous of one another to stand on one side. I had the
advantage of money, and I was an outsider. Hence my position."

"I should imagine it is no bed of roses."

His face darkened.

"Our chief enemies," he said, "are within our own ranks. We are cursed
with adherents who are continually making foolish speeches and bringing
us all into disrepute. Then you can have no idea of the small jealousies
and narrowness which cramp us on every hand. One would never imagine
that we should be the one party in the House whose aims are the
loftiest--whose cause is the greatest. No, you are quite right, Lady
Malingcourt. It is no easy matter to lead the Labour Party in the House
of Commons."

"Yet," she said, "there is a great work to be done."

"And we shall try our be$t to do it," he declared.

"United we are a formidable body as things arc just now--but it is just
the keeping them together that is so difficult."

"I shall come to hear you speak on Thursday," she said.

"I shall do my best! It is a great chance for us!"

They were silent for a moment--someone in the room was singing.
Afterwards she glanced swiftly up to him.

"What have you done with the cottage?"

"I have left it--exactly as it was," he answered, in a softened tone.
"Nothing is altered. Sometimes I go there. It rests me."

She looked away.

"And your wife?"

"She is well."

"Is she--in London?"


"Have you--any children?"

"None--thank God!"

She kept her head averted. The last two words had told her much that she
was anxious to know.

"And you live?"

"In Kensington!"

"Tell me about your wife."

"You have remembered?"

His voice hardened.

"I have tried to do my duty," he said. "It has not been easy, but I have
done my best."

With a relief that was absolutely mutual she abandoned the subject.

"Do you know that all my friends are very uncomplimentary to me since my
return home," she said. "Everyone has told me how much older I look."

His eyes met hers steadily.

"I can see no change," he said. "To me that afternoon might have been

"Australia is very trying," she said.

"You must tell me about it."

They talked till the emptying room brought them back to the present. She
rose up, very beautiful in the dim moonlight, slim and stately as ever.
Unchanged but for a certain increased womanliness which it seemed to her
that this man alone had power to evoke. Those of her friends who had
spoken of a certain weariness--almost a hardness--which had come upon
her during the last few years would have seen no trace of it at that

"Almost," he said, "this reminds me of the night when it rained white
roses--which Captain Devenhill never found."

She flashed a very sweet sidelong glance at him--an unspoken question
trembled upon her lips.

"I have them still," he said, simply. "I shall always have them."

Lord Sydenham touched him on the shoulder.

"One word, Strone," he said. "I will not keep you a moment."

Lady Malingcourt bade them good-night gravely, and vanished. The two men
stood together upon the balcony.

"The Duke has been talking to me, Strone," he said. "He is anxious that
his property should not be alluded to on Thursday night."

"It is," Strone answered, "not to be wondered at."

Lord Sydenham hesitated.

"Strone," he said, "you are a youngster from a Parliamentary point of
view, and I'm sure you don't think a word of advice out of place from an
old hand. Never make enemies--especially such enemies as the Duke of
Massingham. His influence is very great, it may become a factor worth
your consideration at any moment. I am commissioned to make you this
offer. Omit his name, and the whole of his properties shall \ be
rebuilt, and, mark this, your Bill shall go through the Upper House

Strone hesitated.

"I don't like it," he said. "It's a bribe after all."

"If you want to accomplish anything in this world," Lord Sydenham said,
slowly, "either for the sake of your own personal advancement or for the
sake of a cause which you have at heart, you must broaden your views.
Don't be pig-headed. It's fatal. You mayn't like giving in, but mark my
words, if you don't the Duke will wreck your Bill."

"In which case, of course, our compact is at an end," Strone remarked.

"I can only do my best," Lord Sydenham answered.

"I will think it over," Strone decided.


Strone pushed his way through the little crowd of servants who were
waiting about the entrance to Sydenham House, and turned westwards on
foot. This meeting, always looked forward to, always counted upon as a
certain part of his future, had taken place at last. She was unchanged,
as beautiful as ever, and her old power over him was not one whit
lessened. More vividly than ever he realised how his present position
was almost wholly owing to the stimulus of her appeal to him. Step by
step he had fought his way doggedly onwards. Difficulties had been
brushed away, obstacles surmounted. He had kept his word, he had
justified her belief in him. He had taken his place if not in her world,
at least amongst those who had the right to enter it. Henceforth they
might meet often. Surely the summer of his life had come.

And as he walked through the quieter streets more daring thoughts even
came to him. He dreamed of a friendship which should become the backbone
of his life, which should bring him into constant association with her,
which should give him the right to offer at her feet the honours he
might win--she, the woman who had first inspired him. He saw nothing of
the passers-by; the respectful good-night of the policeman and the faint
importunities of the waifs who floated out from the shadows and vanished
again like moths were unheard. The old music was singing in his blood;
he walked as one whose footsteps fell upon the air. And then--crash down
to earth again. He was in front of his house in Kensington, unlit and
gloomy. He made his way quietly in with the aid of a latchkey, and stood
for a moment in the hall hesitating.

From a room on the ground floor came the glimmer of a light. He made his
way there softly, and opened the door. A woman was stretched upon an
easy chair asleep. He stood over her with darkening face.

Milly had not improved. Her prettiness had vanished before a coarsening
of features; she was stouter and untidy even to slatternliness. Her
cheeks just now were flushed, and she was breathing heavily. On the
table by her side was a tumbler. He took it up, smelt it and set it down
with a little gesture of disgust.

She showed no signs of waking. After a moment's hesitation he ensconsed
himself in a neighbouring easy chair, and, taking a roll of papers from
his pocket, began to read, pencil in hand. For some time he worked; then
the manuscript slipped from his hand. He sunk a little down in his
chair. With wide open eyes he sat watching the extinct grey ashes on the
hearth. The clock ticked and the woman's breathing grew louder. There
was no other sound in the house. He was alone with his fate.

Something woke her at last. She sat up and looked at him.

"Hullo!" she exclaimed. "How long have you been there?"

"An hour--perhaps more," he answered. "You were asleep."

"No wonder," she grumbled. "Enough to make one sleepy to sit here hour
after hour alone. You've got home from your fine party, then."

He rose up.

"It is late," he said. "I will turn out the light."

"Wait a bit," she answered irritably. "I want something to drink."

"I wouldn't have anything more if I were you," he said; "Come to bed

"Oh, indeed! You've had all you want, I know. Pass that whisky bottle."

He poured out a little and filled up the glass with water. She raised it
to her lips with a contemptuous little exclamation.

"Whisky ain't good enough for you, I suppose," she remarked. "Been
drinking champagne, eh?"

"I really don't remember," he answered. "If you prefer champagne there's
plenty in the house. I'd rather you drank anything than spirits."

It struck him that there were several empty glasses about, and the room
smelt of tobacco smoke.

"Have you had visitors?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Yes. Mr. Fagan and his wife."

He frowned.

"I don't see why Fagan should come when he knew I was out," he remarked.

She laughed hardly.

"You'd grudge me even their company, would you? Well, they came in to
sit with me, and Fagan let a hint or two drop. You'd better look out,
my man."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"They ain't none too well pleased with you, these labour chaps aren't,
and I don't wonder at it. What do you want going to lords' dinner
parties dressed up like one of them. Fagan says that ain't what you were
sent to Parliament for."

"Fagan is an ignorant ass," Strone exclaimed, passionately. "I am doing
my best for the cause, and my way is the right way. My presence at Lord
Sydenham's to-night was no personal matter. It was a recognition of our
Party, and a valuable recognition. I am surprised that you should listen
to such rubbish, Milly."

"Fagan may be right and he may be wrong," she answered, "but he reckons
that you're getting too big for your boots. It don't want fine gentlemen
to speak for working men."

"We won't discuss it, Milly," Strone said, quietly. "I will put out the

"Hold on a bit," she exclaimed. "Look here! Why shouldn't I have a say
sometimes as to what we should discuss and what we shouldn't? Were there
any women at your fine party to-night?"

"Yes," Strone answered, "there were women there."

"Then why wasn't I asked?" she demanded, setting down her empty glass.
"That's what I should like to know. Just answer me that."

"It is so hard to make you understand, Milly," he said. "I was not there
as a private guest at all. Socially everyone was of a different rank. I
was there as a man who could command votes. You would not have been
comfortable, and I am sure that you would not have enjoyed it."

"You mean I ain't good enough," she declared, fiercely. "That's what
you're thinking. What's the difference between us, I should like to
know. You were a mechanic and I was a factory girl. I can behave as well
as plenty as calls themselves ladies."

"I have no doubt of it, Milly," he answered. "It happens, however, to
have nothing whatever to do with the question. Please to come to bed

She plumped down upon a chair and folded her arms.

"I won't," she said. "Me and you have got to have this out. We're husband
and wife, ain't we? I won't be left alone, night after night. What with
your Parliament and your meetings and your parties, I don't get a show
nohow. You ain't taken me to a theatre for a month. When you're at home
at all you've been shut in the study writing, writing, writing, as
though your life depended upon it."

"It is my work," he answered, coolly. "I have to do it. It is part of my
life. You can live at Gascester if you like."

"And have you gallivanting up here with your fine friends," she
exclaimed, scornfully. "Not me. Why don't some of 'em come and see me? I
shan't bite 'em. If you're good enough I am."

"I can't ask people to come and see me whom I only know politically," he
answered. "Be reasonable, Milly. The Sessions will be over before long,
and then I will take you to the seaside."

She was a little mollified.

"Will you take me to a music-hall on Thursday?" she asked. "The Masons
are coming up from Gascester."

He smiled.

"Not on Thursday. It happens that I am to make a speech in the House
that night of some importance. I thought perhaps you would like to come
and hear it."

"Not I," she answered, bluntly. "I've been there once, and it gave me
the blues. A lot of old fossils that want putting in a museum, I call
'em. Make your speech on Friday night instead, Enoch. I've promised the
Masons we'd take 'em out."

"It is quite impossible," he answered, with a faint smile. "The date has
been fixed for a long time. If you had the least sense of what was
reasonable you would not ask such a thing."

Her eyes flashed angrily.

"Come, that's the style. Call me unreasonable now. Bother you and your
speech. I'll take the Masons out myself, and I'll write and make sure
that Dick comes. Oh, we'll have a good time, never fear."

He hesitated.

"Milly," he said, "don't go out with those people. The young men are
cads, and I don't like the girl. Leave it till next week, and I'll take
you anywhere you please."

She laughed scornfully.

"I don't want your friends," she said; "don't you interfere with mine.
Give me some more whisky."

He caught her arm, and holding her as in a vice with one hand, with the
other poured the contents of the bottle into a bowl of flowers.

"You've had all the whisky you're going to have to-night, Milly," he
said. "Now--go to bed."

She was suddenly pale. Before he could tell what she was about to do she
leaned over and struck him a stinging blow on the cheek with the palm of
her hand.


He did not move. He was numbed with a curious sense of horror. She
turned away and left him with a shrill little laugh, which sounded oddly
in his ears for long afterwards.


Strone had never ranked as an orator even amongst his own party. He
was looked upon as a keen and skilful debater, a man of sturdy
common-sense, marvellously clear-headed and thoroughly earnest. On the
night of his great speech, however, he made a new reputation.

His opening phrases scarcely gave promise of anything of the sort. He
was unaccountably nervous, over-anxious to do justice to the cause which
was so dear to him, and at the same time horribly aware that he was not
succeeding. Suddenly, however, after a somewhat prolonged pause a wave
of memory swept in upon him. He remembered what he himself had passed
through, the underworld of the great cities was laid before him. It
stretched away before him, a ghostly panorama, its wailing rang in his
ears, the death cries of its children shook his heart. Then, indeed, he
straightened to his task. His speech was stilted no longer, his deep
voice shook with passion. These rows of unemotional men, some sorting
papers, some whispering, some giving him a laboured attention--they too
must see and hear. And they did! It was as though a great canvas were
stretched before them, and Strone, with the lightning brush of a great
master, was painting with lurid touches a terrible picture, a picture
growing every moment in horror, yet from the sight of which there was no
escape. "It is like this," he cried, and the wan, starved faces of dead
children gleamed pale upon the canvas; "Like this," and loathsome vice
and unspeakable disease stalked before them, and shook bony fists, which
seemed indeed to move on the canvas and threaten the spell-bound
audience. "See!" And countless forms seemed to throng the canvas, an
endless and awful perspective of suffering and death-smitten humanity.
"Men and women like you and yours, born with an equal right to taste the
sweetness of life, ground into the likeness of parasites and criminals
by your accursed social laws. Murder is a terrible crime, but it is not
only their bodies which you destroy, but their souls. God help those on
whose shoulders the burden of these things must rest."

There were statistics, a plain statement of the practical measures
necessary and a brief but passionate peroration. A thrill went through
the House when Strone spoke of himself, only newly come from that world
for whose salvation he pleaded. All the sins of the universe, all that
was ugly, and vicious, and detestable sprung from that pestilential
under-current down which were ever drifting the great stream of lost
humanity. Drink was an effect, not a cause. A miserable existence begat
despair, despair drink, and drink crime. Let them awake from their
indifference, their cynicism, or false philosophies, and strike a mighty
blow at the great heart of the hideous monster. Life and freedom were
gifts common to all. Those who sought to make them a monopoly for the
rich must pass through life to the shadow of death with an appalling
burden upon their shoulders. And more than any in the world, those men
to whom he then spoke must face this responsibility.

So he pleaded, no longer at a loss for words, passionate, forceful,
touched for those few minutes at any rate with a spark of that Divine
fire which carries words straight to the hearts of men, the gift of true
eloquence. When at last, and with a certain abruptness, he resumed his
seat, there reigned for several moments a respectful and a marvellous
silence. Then a storm of cheering broke the tension, cheering from all
parts of the House, led by the Prime Minister, joined in by the leader
of the Opposition. Strone gained much for his cause that night--his own
reputation he made for ever. He had become a power amongst strong men.
He was henceforth a factor to be reckoned with. During the debate which
followed, pitifully tame it seemed, men craned their heads to look at
him, reporters eagerly collected such crumbs of information as they
could gather concerning his history, his past and his future. And Strone
himself sat with impassive features but beating heart, for up in the
wire-covered gallery he had seen a pale, beautiful face, whose eyes were
fixed upon his, who seemed to be sending a message to him through the
great sea of space. Presently, indeed as he passed from the body of the
House, a note was thrust into his hand, hastily written in pencil.

"Well done, my friend. Some people are having supper with me at the
Milan Restaurant. Will you come on there as soon as you can? Do give me
the pleasure of telling you what I think of your speech."

Strone crumpled the note up in his hand, hesitated for a moment, and
turned towards the exit. But he was not to escape so easily. His way was
beseiged and his hand shaken by many whose faces were strange to him.
The Leader of the House spoke a few courteous words. Lord Sydenham
patted him on the back. He passed out into the cool night air, with
burning cheeks and eyes bright with the joy of life. Yet, even then the
man was true to himself, steadfast to his great aims. It was the triumph
of his cause which delighted him, his personal laurels were to him a
matter of secondary importance. He had made people feel, if only for a
moment, the things which he felt. He had pierced, if only for a short
time and for a little way, beneath the surface that marvellous cast-iron
indifference with which nineteen-twentieths of the world regard the
agony of the submerged twentieth. Good must come of it. Not only was his
bill safe, but the way was paved for other and more drastic measures.
The work of his life stretched out before him. It seemed to him then a
fair prospect.

He passed through the streets with a wonderful sense of
light-heartedness. His own troubles were for the moment small things. He
had found the panacea for all sorrow. At the Milan he handed his coat
and hat to a liveried servant, and was ushered to a table brilliant with
flowers and lights at the head of the room. Lady Malingcourt rose to
receive him, and held out both her hands.

"Welcome, master of men," she exclaimed, with a gaiety which seemed
intended to hide the deep feeling which shone in her eyes, and even
shook a little her voice. "You have given us a new sensation. We are
deeply and humbly grateful."

The Duke of Massingham patted him good naturedly upon the shoulder.

"I can congratulate you with a whole heart," he said, "for you have
spared me. Your cause will not be the loser, Mr. Strone. If it costs me
a year's income, I will mend my ways."

A chair was brought for him between Lady Malingcourt and Lady Mary
Sychester, the Duke's daughter. They filled his glass, and the
conversation interrupted by his entrance was resumed.

"I saw you in the House," he said to Lady Malingcourt.

"I would not have missed it," she said, simply, "for anything in the

He bent over towards her.

"I should like you to remember," he said, softly, "that my own presence
there--all this--is due to you. I should like you always to remember

She shook her head.

"No," she said, "I cannot believe that. Your lethargy would have passed
away in time."

"I do not think," he said, "that it would ever have passed away.
Whatever may come of it, or of me, should be dedicated to you."

"Mr. Strone," said a soft voice at his elbow, "I must tell you that you
made me feel very uncomfortable once this evening. You spoke with such
bitter derision of the fashionable craze for slumming--you likened it, I
think, to the craving of the gallery for the blood and thunder of the
melodrama. I think you were a little severe."

"I was, without doubt, too severe," he admitted. "One is led into

She sighed.

"I am sure I tried to study the problem of how to do a little good
amongst the people I visited," she said. "It seemed insoluble. Everyone
must admit that conditions exist which should not. It is very hard to
try and set them right."

"Degeneration," he said, "has been a slow process, and regeneration must
also be a weary task. You and I, Lady Sychester, may work every minute
of our days, yet we can scarcely hope to see the result of our labours.
Generations must go to the remodelling of any corrupt social state.
Nevertheless, we should not cease to do all that we can. There is
scarcely any honest attempt which has not some effect, even if it is

"I wish," she said, "that you would come and see us some day, and help
me with your advice."

"I will do so with pleasure," he answered.

"I shall write and remind you," she assured him.

Lady Malingcourt bent over to him.

"You should start a crusade, Mr. Strone," she said. "Half the women in
the world are heartsick for the want of something to do."

He laughed.

"You speak with authority," he said. "Yet I wonder how many women in
this room would give the diamonds they are wearing to drag up a single
one of their fellows into the light."

She looked thoughtfully around. The room was full--a brilliant study in
light and colouring. The shaded \ electric lamps shed a rosy glare on
the little parties of bejewelled and bedecked women--the soft hum of
laughter and pleasant voices mingled with the music of the violins. The
air was heavy with the voluptuous odour of flowers and cigarettes and
many strange perfumes. It was the hour of relaxation. Strone, who,
too, had been studying it, smiled softly to himself. Of all the
gorgeously dressed women in the room, Lady Malingcourt in plain black
net with a single pearl hanging by a pendant from her neck was the most
striking and the most beautiful.

"This place," she murmured, "is an education. If only they could
contrive to keep out people like those. The women are awful. Hear them

He glanced carelessly over his shoulder. Then his heart stood still and
a sickening sense of shame possessed him. The little party to whom she
had pointed were most certainly conspicuous in many ways. It was Milly
and her friends from Gascester.


Strone's first horrified conviction was a true one. Milly and her
friends had had quite enough to drink. Their voices rose with shrill
persistence above the pleasant murmur of conversation which floated
about the room. The young man was volubly finding fault with the bill.
The director of the rooms came up frowning.

"What is the matter here, Jean?" he asked quickly, in French.

The waiter shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

"Monsieur is not satisfied with his bill," he said. "It is quite
correct. They are pigs. They have had too much to drink."

The director took the place of his subordinate. He regarded the young
man with disfavour. He wore a made-up tie, and a red silk handkerchief
protruded from his waistcoat. His cheeks were puffy and his eyes

"The bill is quite correct, sir," he said. "I must beg you to pay it at
once and leave."

"And--what?" the young man demanded.

"And leave! There have been complaints about the noise. At once, if you

The young man lost his nerve. He thrust his hand weakly into his pocket.
His sister, however, a florid young woman with a huge fringe, and an
imitation diamond in her hair, stopped him.

"Such impertinence," she exclaimed. "Pay the man his money, Dick, but we
shall please ourselves when we go. We've paid for what we've had, ain't

"For what we haven't had, I should think," the young man answered,
plucking up some spirit. "Look 'ere, you, Mr. Head-waiter. What do you
mean by charging half a crown for one cup of coffee?"

"It was Turkish coffee, and specially prepared," the man answered,
impatiently. "The bill is correct. Be so good as to pay it, and leave."

"I'll pay the bill, though it's a blooming robbery," the young man
answered, "but I shall leave when I'm ready."

The director looked towards the door.

"Monsieur should consider the ladies," he said quietly. "If he does not
leave at once we shall be compelled to have you all removed."

The young man turned round with a hollow show of dignity.

"Do you know whom you are talking to, sir?" he asked. "Here's my card!"

The director did not even glance towards it. He was getting angry.

"I do not want to know who you are, sir," he answered. "I only desire
that you leave this room at once with your party. We are not accustomed
to having people here who do not know how to behave themselves."

"You can do as you jolly well please," the young man declared, loudly.
"I shall go when I choose, and the ladies, too. I can tell you this,
though. It will be the last time I or my friends come near this place."

"Monsieur will not have the opportunity," the director said drily,
beckoning to the door, "and his friends we can very well dispense with."

The table had become the focus of attention. Lady Malingcourt set down
her lorgnettes with a little shiver. She had recognised Milly. She
glanced at Strone, and her face was full of pity. He avoided her eyes,
rose, and murmured his apologies. Then he crossed the room and
approached the little group.

"Milly," he said quietly.

She looked up and recognised him with distinct relief.

"Hullo!" she exclaimed. "You here!"

He took up her gloves and fan from the table.

"Come with me."

She obeyed without a murmur. The director stood back respectfully.
Strone passed him a bank note.

"Take the amount of the bill from that," he ordered. "Come, Milly."

The young man welcomed Strone vociferously.

"How are you, Strone? I say, talk to this Johnny for us, there's a good

Strone took not the slightest notice. He motioned to Milly and she
passed before him down the room. They were the cynosure of all eyes.
Strone, though he never turned an eyelid, suffered acutely.

"Have you anything in the cloak room?" he asked.

She shook her head.


The commissionaire called a hansom. Strone handed her in and took the
seat by her side. They drove off. Milly burst into tears.

"It's a beastly horrid place," she sobbed. "I never knew such rude
people in my life."

Strone made no reply. He was sitting with folded arms looking fixedly at
the lights which flashed across the dark river. She mopped at her eyes,
and glanced sideways at him.

"You might have stood up for us a bit, Enoch."

"Unfortunately," he answered, "my sympathies were on the other side."

"We hadn't been doing anything," she exclaimed, indignantly.

"You were all three behaving shockingly," he said. "I saw you roll up
and throw a serviette at Mason. Your voices were audible all over the
room. The Milan is not a public-house."

"What were you doing there, I should like to know?" she asked, suddenly
aggrieved. "Didn't I ask you to take me out this evening, and didn't you
say you had to make a speech or something? You're a nice sort of a

"I made my speech," he answered, "and then received an invitation to
supper. I can assure you," he continued, bitterly, "that if I had known
what was before me I should not have accepted it."

"Felt ashamed of your wife, didn't you?" she asked, passionately.

"I had cause to."

"A fig for what you felt," she cried. "I don't care for you or your
stuck-up friends. You can keep 'em. Let me get out. I won't sit here
with you. I'll walk! Do you hear?"

He held her firmly in her place.

"Sit still! Listen to me!"

"I won't!"

"You shall. I asked you to go to the House of Commons to-night to hear
my speech. You declined. If you had come this would not have happened.
Let us understand one another. I will give you all the time I have to
spare from my work, and you must be satisfied with that. I will not have
you going about with people like the Masons."

"I have to put up with such friends as I can get," she said, sullenly.
"I ain't good enough for yours."

"I will have no friends, Milly," he answered, gravely, "who think that.
I will do the best I can to make life endurable for you, only you must
do as I ask about these people."

She suddenly turned upon him, pressed her face to his, leaned her head
upon his shoulder. He was horrified by the quick impulse of revulsion
which seized him. Her hair had been done by a small hairdresser, and
smelt of cheap scent. A hideous aigrette brushed against his cheek. Her
cloak fell open, and her dress, far too decollete, and of a hideous blue
silk, revolted him.

"Enoch," she sobbed. "Why ain't you a little fond of me? I'm so

"I am fond of you, Milly," he answered, lying boldly. "Sit up, dear. We
are in the street."

"I don't care. Kiss me, Enoch."

He obeyed. The touch of his lips was like ice. She drew back suddenly
and looked at him. Then she shivered a little and pulled her cloak
around her.

"I wish I were dead."

"Rubbish!" he declared. "You shouldn't have such fits, Milly. You must
try and be a little more reasonable."

"Enoch," she asked, suddenly. "Is there another woman?"

"If you ask such mad questions, Milly," he said, sternly, "I shall not
talk with you at all."

"It is either that," she said, in a low tone, "or else it is your stupid
work--or else--you never cared for me a little bit. I liked you better
at Bangdon. I wish we were back there."

He sighed.

"You mustn't talk like that, Milly," he said. "Remember that it is a
man's duty in life to make the best he can of his career, and the
woman's duty is to help him."

She laughed oddly.

"Fancy me--helping you!"

"You can! You can help me by keeping away from those people whom you
know I dislike, by reading a little every day, by taking some interest
in my work."

The cab pulled up. They entered the house together. It was late, and the
servants had gone to bed. Strone turned on the electric light. She stood
watching him--a dishevelled and unpicturesque looking woman in her ugly
dress and untidy headgear.

"I ain't the right sort of wife for you, Enoch," she said, wistfully. "I
ain't, am I?"

"Don't be silly," he said with an attempt at lightness. "There's no
reason why we shouldn't get on all right. We'll make a fresh start and
see what we can do."

He turned the handle of his study door. She stood on the bottom stair
and watched him. Her eyes were full of tears. That fateful room again!



He turned round a little impatiently.

"It's late! Ain't you--coming now?"

He avoided her eyes.

"Not yet. I have some letters to write. Make haste and get to sleep. It
will do you good."

She dragged herself upstairs with weary footsteps. Strone passed into
his study and locked the door.


The next morning's post brought Strone a pile of letters. He glanced
them through hurriedly enough--invitations, congratulatory epistles,
appeals for charity. But towards the end he came across one in a
familiar handwriting. He leaned back in his chair and opened it. It was
dated from the National Liberal Club.

Dear sir,--We are much disappointed not to have seen you here to-night.
It was, I thought, understood that an informal meeting should take place
to report progress and discuss the prospects of the Bill. We took the
liberty of sending round to your house, but found you' had not returned.
There are several matters which we should like to put before you, and as
I believe to-morrow is Director's Day at your office in Leadenhall
Street we will wait upon you there at eleven o'clock.--I am, yours

Richard Fagan.

Strone read his letter through and flung it on one side with a little
exclamation of contempt. Not a word of congratulation. By his speech he
had ensured the passage through the House of a Bill which Fagan and his
friends had been working at for years. They took no account of his
success! They went out of their way to complain at his absence from a
meeting of which he had received not the slightest intimation. He felt
that this note was the beginning of the end, the first definite sign of
revolt in a party who were already contemplating throwing him over. He
glanced at his watch, and sent for a hansom. As he passed into the hall
Milly descended the stairs.

She was wearing an untidy dressing-gown, and her hair was coiled in
dishevelled fashion on the top of her head. Her eyes were red, and her
general appearance far from attractive. Strone looked her up and down
with a disapproval which he took no pains to conceal.

"You are rather late this morning!" he remarked, coldly.

"What if I am," she answered. "It don't matter to no one, does it?"

"You please yourself, of course--but I think that you might get down to

"What for?" she asked, sharply. "Who wants me? You don't! I was down
yesterday, and you never spoke a word. You went off without even saying

"I am sorry for that!" he said. "You see, yesterday was an anxious day
for me!"

She laughed hardly.

"They might all be anxious days," she declared, "for all the notice you
take whether I am in the room or not. As for not getting up to
breakfast, well, I like to lie as long as I can. It makes the day

"Good-bye," he said.

"Good-bye, and good riddance," she answered, with an ill-natured little

He set down his hat.

"What is the matter with you, Milly?" he asked.

"Matter with me? Oh, nothing," she answered, sullenly. "It's fair
sickening, though. Off you go again first thing in the morning, and I
shan't see you again till to-morrow morning, and then it'll be the same
thing over again. How do you suppose I'm to amuse myself cooped up here?
You and your Parliament work, indeed! I wish that it were all at the
bottom of the sea!"

Strone thought for a moment.

"I am sorry that I have not more time to spare, Milly," he said. "If you
are feeling lonely I must try and get away more. Would you like to come
and have lunch with me to-day?"

Milly tossed her head, but she was evidently mollified.

"Have I ever refused--when I've been asked?" she demanded, tartly.
"Where and what time?"

"Say half-past one at the Trocadero," he decided. "I'll try my best to
be punctual."

She opened the door for him and held up her lips. Strone hated himself
for the aversion with which he kissed her. He said something cheerful,
and drew a deep breath of relief as he passed through the gate.

He took a hansom to the offices of Messrs. Strone and Dobell, Ltd., and
for an hour or more was immersed in business. Punctually at eleven
o'clock his head-cletk brought him word that the deputation had arrived.
They were ushered into his private room, and from his first glance into
their faces he knew that they had come in no friendly spirit. He smiled
grimly as he shook hands with them and prepared for the contest.

Mr. Fagan was accompanied by three supporters whose faces Strone
scarcely knew, and who seemed quite content to remain so far as possible
in the background. They were to some extent surprised and impressed by
their surroundings. For Strone and Dobell, Ltd., were no longer country
engineers. They held a patent of world-wide value, and their business
had increased by leaps and bounds. Strone's private room was plainly but
handsomely furnished. From the adjoining offices came the click of
typewriters, the subdued voices of many clerks. The whole place had a
busy and prosperous appearance.

"I received your letter, Mr. Fagan," Strone said, leaning back in his
chair. "I was not aware that you expected to see me last night. I had a
private engagement. However, I shall be glad to hear what you have to
say now."

Richard Fagan, a weaver by trade, and M.P. for Oldham, stroked his long
beard thoughtfully.

"You must not think, Mr. Strone," he said, "that we have come here to
urge any formal complaint against you. You made a rare speech last
night. There's no denying that. There isn't a paper on either side that
hasn't something to say about it."

"I am very much obliged to you," Strone answered, impressively. "At the
same time, I believe I am right in concluding that your visit here is
not altogether a congratulatory one. You have come here not to applaud
but to condemn. Very well! Let me know what I have done or left undone.
Let me understand the exact position, at least."

Mr. Fagan coughed deprecatingly.

"You must remember, Mr. Strone," he said, "that you're the boss of an
independent lot, and we like things explained."

Strone nodded.

"Go on! I'm here. Question number one!"

"There was the matter of the Duke of Massingham's property," Mr. Fagan
said, slowly. "That was a flagrant case. We had him on the hip. Why
didn't you bring it forward and expose him? You had all the facts?"

"I exercised my own discretion in the matter," Strone answered, coolly.
"I did not see that any useful end would be gained in doing so."

"He is an aristocrat, one of the very class whom we have to fight
against. It was a fair weapon."

"I am not sure," Strone said, "that I am with you there. I do not look
upon the aristocrats as the natural enemies of the poor. I believe the
Duke of Massingham to be a well-meaning man. I know that he has
dismissed his agent, is pulling down his property and rebuilding it on
thoroughly sound lines."

One of the three broke silence. John Inman, a long, lean man, with shock
hair, a collar which was certainly not clean that morning, and no tie.

"Mr. Strone," he said, "the papers say that you were having dinner at
Lord Sydenham's on Monday."

"Quite right," Strone assented. "I was. What of it?"

"The Duke of Massingham was there?"

"He was."

"Did you have any conversation with him about this property?"

"I mentioned it."

The deputation, for although self appointed that is what they were,
exchanged glances.

"He probably tried to induce you to leave his name out of your speech?"

"He did! I made him no promise. I did what I thought best."

There was an awkward silence. Strone smiled upon them scornfully.

"You are meaning, I suppose," he said, "to impute that I was--what shall
we say?--squared by his Grace. Is that it, Fagan, eh?"

"It ain't that," Fagan answered, "but we don't quite see what you want
messing about with those swells for. There! Now it's out. You're our
man, ain't you? You were a workman a few years ago, and we chose you to
lead our little party. Well, you ain't a workman now--they say you are
getting on towards being a millionaire, and we read your name in the
paper as hobnobbing with these swells all the time--and to tell you the
long, and short of it, we're beginning to wonder whether you're the
right sort of man for our job."

Strone swung round in his chair.

"My income last year," he said, "was twenty-two thousand pounds. Of that
sixteen thousand pounds went back to my workmen and to build houses for
them. I am not ashamed of that as a practical exposition of my
principles. I was present at Lord Sydenham's dinner from a political
point of view only. I represented labour there; socially to these people
I do not exist, and don't want to. You hint that I made a bargain with
the Duke of Massingham. I made none. Yet of his own free will he has
guaranteed the passage of our bill through the House of Lords. You
have come here with fancied grievances against me. What do they amount
to? Simply that having pushed the claims of our little party people are
beginning to recognise them. You know very well that we stand better
than ever we did. We are in a position to make terms. I am already
drafting a bill to improve the position of labour in large manufacturing
corporations. There are several other measures you know of which stand
well. I am doing my best. If you are not satisfied, let Fagan come and
take my place."

Fagan hastened to dissent from any such idea.

"You take our little remonstrance too seriously, Strone," he declared.
"All that we want to impress upon you is that you must keep your
independence. You are a labour man. You haven't anything to do with the
Government or the Opposition. Keep away from them both. You'd make a
very fair progressive Conservative. We've got the idea that Lord
Sydenham thinks the same."

Strone smiled impatiently.

"My colours," he said, "are nailed to the mast. I am not likely to
desert them. I come from the people, and the whole desire of my life is
to open the eyes of all educated men and women to the hideous defects in
our social laws. My ways may not be your ways. Very well, when the time
comes tell me so, and let another take my place."

The deputation withdrew half apologetically. Strone proceeded with his
business for an hour or more. Then the luncheon hour came--the clerks
trooped out, the outer office was quiet. Strone leaned back in his chair
and thought.

He knew the men and their natures--small, jealous, suspicious. He
recognised their point of view, and despised it. He knew in his heart
that if these were the prophets whom the great cities had sent to be his
coadjutors that the time must come before long when he must choose
another party or form one of his own. They were honest men, most of
them, but ignorant and prejudiced. They would never prevail against men
of trained reasoning power, men of acumen and intelligence. A rough sort
of eloquence to which most of them owed their election went for nothing
in the House. Strone knew that certain lofty dreams of his, as yet but
dimly conceived, but gaining for themselves power and reality every day,
could never be realised with the aid of such as these. The crusade must
be amongst the thinking men and women of the world. Hyde Park oratory
and all akin to it was a useless power. Personal influence, the reviews,
the conversion, one by one of those who led the world in thought, these
must be the means whereby his cause would be won. These men only
cumbered the way, brought disrepute upon a glorious cause. Yet for the
moment they were necessary. Before long they would be calling him
apostate. In years to come they would deem him their enemy.

He changed his coat, sent for a hansom, and drove westwards. In the
vestibule of the Trocadero Milly was waiting for him. They were to have
lunch together and do some shopping. Milly had spent several hours over
her toilette, and was eminently satisfied with the result. She looked
eagerly for his approval when they met. He did his best to satisfy her,
but it was at no time easy for him to dissemble. It seemed to him that
all the primary colours and all their satellites were struggling for
supremacy in her hat and dress and scarf, and the result was hopeless
and inextricable confusion. So he found a plain answer to her first
question difficult.

"I'm all right to-day, ain't I, Enoch? I thought you'd like this hat."

She had bought it in the side street of a suburb, attracted by the label
which announced its Parisian extraction. It was a mixture of red, lilac
and purple--and her dress was green. Strone nodded bravely.

"Very smart indeed," he answered. "I've been thinking, though, Milly, I
don't allow you enough for your clothes. If you like we'll do some
shopping this afternoon."

She was willing enough.

"But what about the matinee? I want to see that girl at the Palace."

"We'll go this evening," he said. "I need not be at the House until
late. I should like to choose a dress for you."

She regarded him suspiciously.

"You're afraid I shouldn't know what to get alone, eh?"

He laughed at her and adroitly changed the subject. Strone had ordered
an excellent luncheon--champagne, and the band was playing gay music. He
honestly did his best to enjoy himself--to make her enjoy herself. So
far as she was concerned he succeeded.

"I like this immense," she declared, when the coffee was brought, and
Strone lit a cigar. "I should like to do this every day."

"Good for my work," he laughed.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Not much else you think of but your work. I want a liqueur, Enoch. Some

She drank it off and looked longingly at her empty glass.

Strone paid the bill and rose hastily.

"Come along," he said. "I have been to the bank this morning. We will
try and spend some money."

They took a hansom and drove to Bond Street. It was a trying afternoon
for Strone. Milly was not always reasonable. She had a hankering, which
she did not attempt to conceal, for the most daring essays in colour and
the most advanced styles. Most of their purchases were compromises, but
after all Milly was only human. She became the possessor of a completely
new wardrobe, and Enoch had shown his interest by helping in the choice
of everything. She drove home in high good humour, and allowed Strone to
select for himself her evening gown.

They went to the Palace, where Strone soon wearied of the performance,
whilst Milly was delighted. Once she turned impatiently to him.

"You look as sober as a judge," she exclaimed. "Why don't you laugh?
It's funny enough, ain't it?"

"Well, I don't know," he answered, doubtfully.

She tossed her head.

"Too frivolous for you, I suppose," she remarked. "You're a poor one at
enjoying yourself."

She turned her back to the stage, but her pleasure was damped. It
flashed across her mind how Dick and Emmie Mason would have enjoyed with
her the somewhat doubtful song whose humour Strone had failed to catch.
She sighed heavily. Was it to be like this always?

Nevertheless, it had been a gala day for her, and she was more than
usually good-humoured when Strone put her into a hansom and bade her

"Can't you chuck the House for one night?" she asked, suddenly, making
room for him beside her. "Come on home with me."

He shook his head.

"I've had my play," he answered. "Now comes the work. Good-bye, I shan't
be late."

She nodded, and the cab drove off. Strone stood on the pavement and drew
a long breath. The cool night air was delicious, the sense of freedom a
luxury. His last words came back to his mind. He laughed bitterly, and
turned towards Westminster.


Strone had embarked upon a career in which reputations are swiftly made
and lost. His own never wavered from the night of his first great
speech. Chance made his little party a very important factor in the
political history of the next few months. Chance also made his own share
in the struggle a great and arduous one. For this little handful of men
sent to represent the vast interests of the democracy were mostly of the
type of Fagan and his class. Earnest enough and steeped with the justice
of their cause, they were yet in many ways marvellously narrow-minded.
Obstruction and clamour seemed to them their most natural and reasonable
weapons. They did not understand Strone's methods, his broader views,
his growing friendship with Lord Sydenham and the more enlightened
members of the Government. To them he seemed always to be losing golden
opportunities. More than once he helped the Government out of a tight
corner without demanding anything in the shape of a recompense. They
failed altogether to understand how Strone was building up in the regard
of thoughtful men both in the House and throughout the country an
immensely increased respect for the new social doctrines of which he was
the exponent and the little party of which he was the recognised leader.

Strone himself knew that the thing could not last.

Nothing but sheer force of will and the expenditure of much persuasive
eloquence kept his followers faithful to him. Day by day the tension
grew more acute. He was never actually sure of their allegiance until
the division bell had rung. One or two waverers had already taken up an
independent attitude. Fagan himself seemed to be contemplating something
of the sort. No wonder that in those exciting times he reverted to his
old attitude towards Milly. There were no more shopping excursions or
visits to music-halls. Dimly he began to realise what the future might
have held for him. In those days he set his heel grimly upon all the
poetry and the sweeter things of life. He refused numerous political and
general invitations. He avoided every place as much as possible where he
was likely to meet Lady Malingcourt.

One night he was walking home earlier than usual when he caught a
glimpse of her in Piccadilly. A brougham passed by and he saw her
leaning back with pale face and listless eyes. He bent forward eagerly,
and a moment afterwards regretted it. For she saw him and immediately
pulled the check string.

He threaded his way amongst the stream of vehicles to where her carriage
remained on the other side of the road. A footman opened the door for
him. She gathered up a snowy profusion of white satin skirt and made
room for him by her side.

"You are my salvation," she murmured, with a faint smile. "Please

He hesitated.


An imperious little gesture. He was by her side, and the door was softly

"To Amberley House, your ladyship?" the man asked, glancing discreetly
at Strone's grey clothes and soft hat.


The carriage rolled away. Strone leaned back with a long drawn sigh.

"You have saved me," she said, "from suicide--or something equally
disagreeable. I was going to the Duchess of Amberley's reception."

"And now?"

"We are going home. We are going to sit upon my balcony and listen to
the lime trees. You are going to talk to me, and we will imagine that we
are in Gascestershire."

He said nothing for the moment. Presently he looked at her. She was more
than ordinarily pale, and there were faint lines under her eyes. The
shadow of a great weariness was upon her face.

"What do you do it for?" he asked, suddenly.

"My friend," she answered. "I do not know. My feet are upon the
treadmill, and I move them. Do not look at me like that. These glaring
evenings are horrible. You can see that I am getting old."

He smiled.

"You do not look well," he said, "but it is weariness and not age which
is stealing upon you."

"It is true," she answered. "Tell me how to avoid it."


"Work? That is so vague. You are not properly sympathetic," she

The carriage stopped before the corner house of a handsome square. They
passed up the steps together.

"This is your first visit to me," she remarked, "and you have had to be
dragged here. We will go upstairs."

They passed through a dimly-lit drawing-room, the air of which seemed to
Strone faint and sweet with the perfume of many flowers, out on to a
shaded balcony, over which was a long striped awning. In the corner were
two low basket chairs. She sank into one, and motioned him to take the

"This," she murmured, "is luxury. Smoke if you will--and talk to me.
Tell me how you are getting on in the House."

"None too well," he answered, gloomily. "I am all the while upon the
brink of a volcano--and somehow I do not fancy that it will be long
before the emption comes."

"What do you mean?" she asked, turning her pale face towards him. "I do
not understand. I cannot believe that there is anyone in the House whose
position is more secure than yours."

He smiled grimly.

"My party," he said, "are thinking of dropping me!"


"My party," he repeated; "Fagan and his following, you know, are in a
state of smouldering revolt. They find fault with me constantly. I
cannot make them understand my aims or my methods. They have come to the
conclusion that I am dazzled by the notice of my superiors."

"Your superiors!" she murmured, scornfully. "Who are they?"

He laughed. Her little speech had been too vigorous for flattery.

"Never mind I They have their own ideas, and I do not conform to them.
They think that a labour leader should be a thorn in the side of
everyone, and should certainly not accept invitations for dinner."

"Such rubbish!"

"Exactly I But they are very much in earnest, and it may be my fate at
any time to find myself devoid of a following. They want me to imitate
the tactics of the Irish Party."

She nodded.

"Well," she said, "let them throw you over. Who but themselves would
suffer! Personally, I believe that your association with them is only a
drag upon you."

"That is all very well," he answered. "They are a rough lot, I know, and
most of them fatally ignorant. I do not believe that any class of men in
the world are so girt about with prejudices as those whose eyes have
been opened a little way. But, after all, they each have a vote, and as
parties are at present they are an immensely powerful factor in the

"That," she said, "is only a temporary matter, a matter of weeks or
months. After all, you must remember they are an isolated body of men in
the House. Your place is with the only great parties of progress. You
are moving towards them day by day. Your joining them sooner or later is

He smiled.

"Lord Sydenham has been very kind to me," he said, "but I fancy I should
be a sort of ugly duckling amongst the Conservatives."

"You would be in office in less than twelve months," she declared. "Do
let me tell Sydenham that he may talk to you about this."

He shook his head.

"I came into the House as a Labour Member," he said, "and unless
something unforeseen happens a Labour Member I must remain. Besides, I
hate to think of myself as a party man. The rank and file remind me most
unpleasantly of a flock of geese. They must follow their leaders
blindly, their personal opinions go for nothing."

Her eyelids quivered--the merest flicker of a smile passed across her

"But how nice not to be obliged to have personal opinions! Think what a
delightfully restful state."

"It would not suit me," he declared, bluntly.

She laughed, very softly, and very musically.

"That I am sure it would not," she agreed. "You are such a vigorous,
independent person. You will never prove an unmixed delight to whichever
party you finally join."

"In time," he answered, thoughtfully, "I, too, shall probably succumb,
and learn to think with the brains of other people. But just now I am a
rebel. It seems to me that the hardest part of Parliamentary life is the
inevitable loss of individuality. It is a sort of suicide."

"I do not believe that it is inevitable," she declared. "It is hard to
retain it, I know, but the man who succeeds finds his way into high

There was a short silence. A breath of the west wind bent the lilac
boughs towards them, a wave of delicate perfume floated in the air.
Strone half-closed his eyes. Their thoughts went backward together.

"Tell me," she murmured, "how does this life compare to you with the
old days at Bangdon Wood? You were a man of contemplation--you have
become a man of action."

"I was a free man, and I have become a slave."

Her fan of white feathers gleamed softly through the growing darkness.
Her eyelids drooped.

"You have passed into a wider and a greater life. You are in the way of
realising the best ambitions which can come to a man. Life is all
wonderfully different to you."

He sighed.

"There are times," he said, "when I fancy that I am grasping at a
shadow, when it scarcely seems worth while to accomplish anything. For
the end of it all is the same."

"You talk," she murmured, "as a woman might talk whose ambitions are
bom only to be strangled at their birth. For you there is no harking
back. What is better in life than power, the consciousness of writing
one's name in unchanging letters across the face of one's generation? Go
cm, my friend. There is a kingdom before you."

He turned a weary face upon her.

"These are the things," he said, "which I have told myself. But, Lady
Malingcourt, life has another side, and to go through life without once
glancing upon it--"

"Ah, is it worth while?" she interrupted. "What is greater than power?"

"It is a joy for heroes, but even heroes are sometimes men."

They were silent for a moment. From beyond the square came the tinkle of
bells, the low roar of traffic surging westward. Near at hand was the
rustling of the evening wind in the large-leafed lime trees, the faintly
drawn out music of a violin from one of the adjoining houses.

"Tell me," she asked, suddenly, "--about your wife. Does she like
London. Is she interested in your work?"

A curious restraint--almost a nervousness--fell upon them both.

"I do not think that she is," he answered. "London does not suit her
very well. She is not quick at making acquaintances."

He did not allude to her again, nor did she. The vision of Milly rose up
before him as he had seen her last. He sat looking out in the twilight
with stem, set face. Lady Malingcourt watched him. Perhaps they both saw
in the soft darkness some faint picture of those wonderful things which
might in time have come to pass between them. For when Lady Malingcourt
spoke again there was a sweetness in her voice which was strange to him.

"You yourself," she said. "Do you think that you do well to ignore the
social side of life? You do not go anywhere. It is not for lack of
invitations. Believe me, in political life to-day there are many strings
which are pulled behind the curtain."

"I am a labour leader," he answered, simply, "and there is no place for
me in the society you speak of. The handful of votes which I command
to-day, are all very well, but they may be gone to-morrow."

She leaned forward eagerly. The cloud of weariness had passed from her
face. Her white bejewelled fingers touched his coat sleeve.

"My friend," she said, "you are making a rare but a fatal mistake. You
undervalue yourself. Do not shake your head, for I know what I am
talking about. Lord Sydenham has spoken to me; there have been others,
too. There are many people who are watching you. You must not disappoint

He gazed into her intent face and sighed.

"Sometimes," he said, in a low tone, "I think that it is my fate to
disappoint myself, and all other people. Lady Malingcourt, can you tell
me why it is that I now when many of the things I have dreamed of are
becoming realities, my desire for them seems sometimes honeycombed with
weakness? I find myself confronted by that horrible distaste for
life--what shall I call it?--mental lassitude, faint heartedness, an
evil thing but hideously powerful. Often lately I have wished myself
back at my cottage, I have closed my eyes, and the old days of poverty,
of freedom, have seemed wonderfully sweet. It is weakness," he went on,
a sudden hoarse passion in his voice, "cursed weakness. I will stamp it
down. I shall outgrow it. But it's there, and it's a live thing."

Afterwards he liked to think of her as she had seemed that night. The
weariness, the flippancy of her outlook upon life seemed for the moment
to have fallen away like a mask. The woman shone out,--flamed in her
eyes, was manifest in her softened tone.

"It is the toll we all have to pay," she said. "We expect too much of
life. The things which look so beautiful to us when we are hammering at
the gates crumble into dust when we have passed through into their
midst, and seek to grasp them."

"Is there nothing in life," he said, "which is real--which remains?"

She did not answer him, her silence was surely purposeful. She sat with
half closed, eyes as though listening to the music of the breeze-shaken
limes, and Strone felt his heart beating madly. The significance of his
question and her silence were suddenly revealed to him. A mad desire
possessed him to seize her hands, to force her to look at him. Instinct
told him that the moment was propitious, that the great gulf between
them was bridged over by a sudden emotional crisis, which might never
occur again. He had found her the victim of a mood, marvellously
plastic, marvellously alluring. Her silence, her averted eyes, the quick
rising and frilling of her white bosom were like wine to His timidity.
He drew nearer to her. Then from the street below came an interruption.
A furiously driven hansom was pulled up, a man sprang out, glanced
upwards and waved his hand. A curse trembled upon Strone's lips. Lady
Malingcourt sat up and returned his greeting.

"So like Sydenham," she murmured. "However he may have loitered on the
way, he always arrives in a desperate hurry."


Strone and Lord Sydenham came face to face in the hall--the latter
recognised him with amazement.

"Was it you whom I saw with my cousin?" he asked.

"Yes," Strone answered. "I was just leaving. Good-night."

"Wait a moment," Lord Sydenham exclaimed. "I wanted to see you
particularly. Come upstairs again."

"All right at the House?" Strone asked.

Lord Sydenham laughed curiously.

"That depends on how you look at it," he answered. "The division came
off after all."

"I was paired," Strone said, quickly.

"I know! But your men went solid with the opposition."

Strone stood still in blank amazement. It had come then--already. Lord
Sydenham watched him and was satisfied. He led the way into the drawing
room. Strone followed like a man in a dream. He heard a greeting pass
between the two. Their first few sentences were unintelligible to him.

"What an unwarrantable hour, my dear Sydenham, to throw yourself out of
a hansom upon my doorstep. You ought to consider my reputation with old
Lady Snabell. She is my next door neighbour."

"Hang Lady Snabell, and all such old cats," he answered, lightly. "I
have come to tell you of our new majority. We have just secured it upon
an unexpected division. One!"

She was suddenly grave.

"Do you mean it, Sydenham?"

"All Fleet Street," he answered, "is hammering it into type. To-morrow
you will see it with a black headline and a leading article. We can't
last a month."

"Was it sprung upon you?"

"No! Strone's men went with the opposition."

Strone caught up his hat.

"I will go and find Fagan," he said. "He is either an imbecile or a

Lord Sydenham shook his head.

"Too late now," he declared. "It's almost midnight. Sleep on it,
Strone. There's something behind, no doubt."

Strone was white with rage.

"The miserable fools," he muttered. "This is the result of their
bickerings and distrust. All I have been striving for must go for

He stood with clenched hands, his head thrown back, his eyes ablaze with
anger. He had been deceived and tricked, and by the very men whose cause
in his hands was becoming a religion. It was ignoble. The man and the
woman watched him curiously. Lord Sydenham lit a cigarette and sat down.

"Strone," he said. "I don't blame you. I'm sure you knew nothing of it.
I've been uneasy about Fagan for some time. Those fellows ain't used to
having a man with ordinary common sense for a leader. After all, they
can only hasten matters. We must go to the country in the autumn, and we
shall come back with a larger majority than ever. The question I'm most
interested in at this moment is--what are you going to do?"

"I do not know," Strone answered, bitterly. "A unit is of no account in
Politics. They have bound my hands just as the work was beginning to
grow. I do not think that I shall stand again."

Lord Sydenham smoked in silence for a moment or two.

"Strone," he said, "I will be frank with you. I believe that your
career as an independent Labour Member is over. I do not think that your
constituency would return you again in the face of this revolt of your
party. Well, you should have had your lesson. You are a man of common
sense. You must see for yourself that however great their cause, and
whatever may be the class of men attracted to it throughout the country,
the Labour Party, as it is represented in the House, is a rank delusion.
You have nothing in common with Fagan, and his crew. They talk rot, and
you know it. They have neither discretion nor sense. They clamour for
the impossible like a lot of children. They ask for so much that they
never have the slightest chance of gaining anything. Their methods are
irrational, and they are not even trustworthy."

Strone smiled grimly.

"Pity Fagan isn't here," he remarked. "He's very sensitive to

"It would give me great pleasure," Lord Sydenham said, "to repeat my
words to him. I have an immense respect for the principles which they
are supposed to represent, but I must own to thoroughly disliking Fagan
and his clique. They are lacking in the first elements which make for
success in political life. They have neither stability or
self-restraint. I defy you, Strone, or any man to make anything of

"My opportunity is gone," Strone said. "They have thrown me over."

"It is a proof," Lord Sydenham answered, "of their colossal folly. As
for you, Strone, it will be the making of your political career. Come,
we are perhaps keeping Lady Malingcourt up. I will walk a little way
with you and explain what I mean."

Lady Malingcourt rose up and moved towards the door.

"That is a very polite way of hinting that you are going to talk
secrets," she remarked. "Sit here as long as you like though. I rather
like the idea of my little drawing-room being used for the hatching of a
political conspiracy."

"We will not be guilty of such sacrilege," Lord Sydenham declared,
rising. "It is late, and I shall have a busy day to-morrow. I am going
to walk part of the way home with Strone."

They passed out into the cool night. Lord Sydenham removed his hat and
walked for some distance, carrying it in his hand. Suddenly he turned to
his companion.

"Strone," he said. "You must join us."

Strone laughed--enigmatically.

"I am handicapped;" he remarked, "with principles. Besides, imagine the
horror with which your old-fashioned Conservatives would regard my
social schemes. It is impossible."

"I hope to convince you," Lord Sydenham said, earnestly, "that it is
nothing of the sort In the first place, I want you to remember that
during the last ten years a marvellous change has transformed the
relative positions of the two great political parties. The advent of the
Liberal Unionists into our ranks was the consummation of what was fast
becoming inevitable. To-day it is the Conservative Party who are the
party of progress. It is the party to which you must naturally belong."

"I will grant what you say about the new Conservatism. At the same time,
there are many important points on which you and I would be very far

"Assuming for the moment," Lord Sydenham went on, "that you secured a
seat in the new Parliament as an Independent Labour Member, have you
considered your absolutely hopeless position? You would have little if
any following. You would be, to speak plainly, an impotent and
ineffective force. Your life would be frittered away in making speeches
to which no one would listen and elaborating schemes which must remain
for ever in the air."


"I do not attempt to defend our present system of Government," Lord
Sydenham continued, "but it exists, and it will continue to exist for
your time and mine. I believe you to be something of a philosopher,
Strone, and I put it to you, therefore, whether it is not better to
adapt oneself to circumstances which are existent and unassailable
rather than to stand on one side and sulk because the end we desire
cannot be attained by the exact means which recommend themselves to us.
As an independent member, you will be absolutely powerless. Therefore I
say join us--on these terms."

Strone laughed loud and long. A policeman looked over his shoulder at
them, a passer-by turned round.

"Is this a joke?" Strone asked. "Few could you welcome such a firebrand
amongst our well ordered ranks? I should be a cuckoo in the nest with a

It was Lord Sydenham's turn to smile.

"You alarm me," he said. "Your natural history carries you so far no
doubt as to remember what follows the advent of the cuckoo. Do me the
credit, Strone, to believe that I am not making you this offer without
serious consideration, and I am not making it upon my own initiative
alone. I know very well that you are no hare-brained socialist. You do
not preach the nationalisation of the land or any such foolery. You know
very well that no human laws can make equal men born into the world with
divert gifts. As for the rest, I can assure you that the thinking men of
my party are as eager as you are for the betterment of the poor. Some of
your own pet schemes will be part of our programme for next session.
Join us and you shall take charge of these measures. You will strengthen
us, and you will give the people in the great manufacturing centres
confidence in our desire to legislate for them. You yourself will be in
the position to do effective work which you could never attain to by any
other means. We believe in you, Strone, and your motives. I do not wish
to appeal to your personal ambition in any way, but--we will make you
the youngest Cabinet Minister since the days of Pitt."

A very rare agitation shook Strone's voice. He seemed to be looking no
longer along the broad gaslit street, he saw down the avenues which lead
to fame and high places, he saw the passionate dream of his earlier
youth which of late had seemed so shadowy, so difficult of achievement,
suddenly leaping into actual and vivid life.

"You have taken my breath away," he said. "But your party discipline is
so arbitrary. I might find myself hopelessly at variance with you on
some point or other--I could not pledge myself to unswerving service."

"We would not exact it of you," Lord Sydenham answered, quietly. "As
your political life grows so will your experience, and you will
understand that of necessity life is made up of compromises. This is
your street, is it not? I am going to leave you to think over what I
have said. I do not press you for any immediate answer."

Strone held out his hand.

"You are very good. Lord Sydenham," he said. "It is useless, I suppose,
to ask you to come in."

Lord Sydenham nodded. "But I should like a cigar," he added, suddenly,
feeling his breast pocket "I will come to your doorstep."

At the gate Strone looked up in quick surprise. It was one o'clock, and
he had never doubted but that his house would be in darkness. The
drawing-room, however, seemed to be a blaze of light. Whilst they stood
there a man's voice singing a comic song came travelling out to them. It
was not a particularly choice one, even of its order, and the man's
voice was harsh and repulsive. At the close of the first verse the
shrill laughter of women drowned the pianoforte. Lord Sydenham glanced
at his companion. Strone's face was suddenly pale, and the hand which
still rested upon the gate seemed striving to bend the wrought ironwork.

"On second thoughts," Lord Sydenham remarked, "I will smoke a cigarette.
I have my case. Goodnight, Strone."

"Good-night, Lord Sydenham!"


Strone walked slowly up the steps, let himself in with his latchkey, and
stood for a moment in the hall before the drawing-room door. The noise
inside was unabated, his entrance had been unobserved. He was strongly
tempted to pass upstairs to avoid a scene which he knew quite well would
be repulsive to him. Then the sound of a man's voice, his wife's
Christian name, her shrill reply, decided him. He opened the door and

It was all very much what he had expected--and dreaded. The room was
full of tobacco smoke. In the centre a card table strewn with cards and
cigar ash, empty champagne bottles, decanters, and a medley of glasses.
Milly was sitting upon the sofa, and by her side Dick Mason, his face
flushed to an ugly red, his arm in suspicious proximity to Milly's
waist. His sister, in an outrageous pink gown, was sharing the piano
stool with a young man whose face seemed repulsively familiar to Strone.
Their giggling ceased at his entrance. Dick Mason removed himself with
clumsy stealthiness from Milly's side. Milly alone seemed unmoved. She
sat quite still and eyed him defiantly. Her cheeks were flushed, her
hair untidy, and she was smoking a cigarette.

"Well," she said, "home early, ain't you?"

"It is past one," he answered, briefly. "How do you do, Miss Mason?"

He shook hands with her and nodded to her brother. Then he glanced at
the young man on the music stool, and there was an awkward silence.
Milly and Ada Mason exchanged glances. The latter began to talk volubly.
The young man on the music stool smiled in a sickly fashion and began to
turn over the leaves of his song book.

"We've been keeping your wife company for a bit, Mr. Strone," she said.
"Such horrible hours you Parliament gentlemen keep. I shouldn't be able
to do with my husband out till this time of night always. You must find
it very dull, dear," she added, turning to Milly. "I am sure it would
send me crazy unless I had a lot of nice lively friends."

Milly laughed heartily.

"Oh, we're supposed to get used to it, ain't we, Enoch? Don't stand
there looking so solemn. Sit down and be sociable, do."

Strone did not move. Miss Mason rose with a toss of the head, which
completed the dishevelment of her hair.

"I don't think Mr. Strone looks very much inclined to be sociable, Milly
dear," she said. "Come on, Dick. We'd better be moving."

Her brother rose with alacrity, also the other young man. Milly pressed
more drinks and cigars upon them, and bade them good night in boisterous
fashion, reminding them of an engagement for the next night. Strone
opened the front door and shook hands with Ada Mason and her brother.
But when the young man who had accompanied them tried to slink by
Strone's hand fell upon his shoulder like a vise.

"Listen," he whispered. "If ever I find you here again I shall thrash
you, you understand. You little cur."

The young man muttered something inarticulate and shuffled off. Strone
closed the door, and returned to the drawing-room. Milly was there,
stretched upon the sofa. She raised herself a little at his coming. She
faced him with the old defiance in her eyes.


Strone looked meditatively around the room. Its condition and everything
in it grated upon him. He stood with his elbow resting upon the
mantel-piece, thinking. Once more Milly addressed him.

"Well! Got anything to say, eh? Out with it!"

He roused himself with an effort.

"There is a good deal to be said," he answered. "The question is whether
it is worth while. Do you like this sort of thing, Milly?"

"Why not? I must have friends. I can't sit here alone--night after

"You can come down to the House."

"And listen to a lot of dry rot! No thanks!"

"You can take one of the maids and go to the theatre."

"Thanks. I tell you I ain't so fond of my own company, or of going round
with servants."

"It seems to me, at any rate," he said, "that you could spend the time
better than this."

"Oh, you're a fine judge," she cried, passionately. "You go your way,
better let me go mine. What do you care who my friends are, or how I
pass the time? Not a scrap! It's only your beastly stuck up vanity which
makes you say a word about it. You think the Masons ain't class enough
to come to your house. I don't care. They're good enough for me."

"You are wrong," he answered, coolly. "I will not have a young man come
here who sits with his arm around your waist. I won't say I'm surprised,
Milly--but I am disgusted."

"I thought you'd have something to say about that," she answered.
"Where's the harm, anyway? Dick Mason and me are old pals. And what
right have you to interfere, anyway? What sort of a husband are you to
me, Enoch Strone, eh? Supposing I let him put his arm round my waist, or
kiss me, what call have you to complain? We're a nice affectionate
couple, ain't we? How do I know you ain't got someone you fancy? How do
I know that ain't the reason you treat me, your wife, Enoch--like the
dirt beneath your feet?"

Her voice had risen in strength, gained in passion at every syllable.
She was on her feet now, facing him with blazing eyes. It seemed to
Strone in that awful moment of self-revelation that she had become the
accuser, that he himself was responsible for this loathsome scene, for
all her follies, for all the follies which she might hereafter commit.

"You are mistaken, Milly," he cried, hoarsely. "I have not treated you,
I have not thought of you like that."

She had the upper hand. Heedless of how she had gained it she pushed
home her advantage. Her words lashed him like scorpions.

"Rot! You do! You have done every day. Do you think I ain't like other
women--because if you do, you're wrong. You think that because you don't
beat me, give me money and clothes and a roof that that's the end of it.
Look 'ere! I shouldn't mind your beating me, I shouldn't mind if you got
drunk, I shouldn't mind going to the pawnshop with all our fine things
if--if--now and then you cared a bit, Enoch."

"I have been wrong, Milly," he muttered. "I didn't know that you felt
it--like this!"

"Didn't know! How much did you care, eh? Enoch, perhaps I'm hard on you.
You didn't want to marry me. I made you. More fool me. Give me a little
money and I'll go away and live my own life amongst my own people. I
can't go on like this any longer."

He set his teeth--crushed down a whole world of beautiful dreams, and
faced his destiny.

"I have been wrong, Milly," he repeated. "We will let bygones be
bygones. I will do my best to make you a better husband."

She crept slowly towards him.

"I ain't good enough for you, Enoch," she faltered, "and lately I've
given up trying. It hasn't seemed any use. You've so many fine friends,
and you're so clever, I feel somehow as though I were keeping you back.
Better let me go away, Enoch. I'll change my name. I shan't ever
disgrace yours."

"Rubbish," he answered, with an attempt at lightness. "We'll make a
fresh start...You mustn't talk about going away."

He drew her to the sofa and kissed her. She sobbed herself to sleep upon
his shoulder. Strone sat there with the dead weight of her body against
his, a cold and terrible vigil. His eyes were fixed upon the disordered
table, strewed with cards and cigar ash, the wine stains and empty
glasses. The woman by his side slept like a little child.


Once again Milly felt herself taken at a disadvantage. She looked over
the top of her novel from the sofa where she lay, and then rose slowly
to her feet. She barely touched the tips of Lady Malingcourt's fingers.

"I have been meaning to come and see you for so long," Lady Malingcourt
said in her quiet, even tone. "Please don't disturb yourself. May I sit
here? Now I want you to tell me how you like living in London? It is
such a change after Bangdon, isn't it?"

Milly sat on the edge of the sofa. She wore an untidy dressing-gown, and
she was conscious of it. Lady Malingcourt was, as usual, perfectly

"I don't think I care very much for London," Milly said, slowly. "There
are a great many people here, but they ain't very sociable. Bangdon was
lonesome, but I think I liked it best. You came to see me there, didn't

Lady Malingcourt nodded.

"Yes! I am Mr. Martinghoe's sister, you know. We have both been very
much interested in your husband's career. You must be very proud of

Milly's face darkened into downright sulkiness.

"I don't know as I am," she answered, slowly. "It's all very well, his
being a Parliament man and that, but I sometimes think it makes him
forget he's got a home at all. I don't see nothing of him now. Every
night he's out till the Lord knows what time, and I've got to sit here
all alone."

"Still, you must like reading his speeches," Lady Malingcourt suggested.
"Of course, you have been to hear him. My cousin is in the Cabinet, you
know, and he thinks Mr. Strone quite one of the most promising debaters
in the House."

"No, I've never heard him speak," Milly answered. "I read what he said
once, but I couldn't understand a word of it. You see," she added, a
little defiantly, "I was a factory girl before he married me, and I
didn't have no education to speak of."

Lady Malingcourt was a little nonplussed. She could not fail to see that
Milly's attitude was belligerent. Nevertheless, she was there with a
definite purpose before her, and she meant to go through with it.

"It is so easy to pick up things nowadays," she murmured, "and I think
that all men like their womenkind to be interested in their concerns,
don't you?"

"No, I don't!" Milly answered, bluntly. "I haven't noticed anything of
the sort about Enoch, I can tell you! He never tells me a word. What I
know about his life outside this house I hear from Mr. Pagan."

Lady Malingcourt raised her eyebrows a little.

"I do not think," she said, "that Mr. Fagan is a very good friend of
your husband's!"

"And why not indeed?" Milly demanded. "I call Mr. Fagan a real
sensible man. He don't go poking his nose into the society of people who
only want to make use of him. He minds his own business, in Parliament
and out of it. That's the sort of man I like."

Lady Malingcourt declined a controversy.

"I only know Mr. Fagan politically," she remarked. "I had not formed a
very high opinion of his talents. As a man of ability he is not, of
course, to be compared with Mr. Strone."

"Maybe," Milly answered. "I don't know about that. I only know that he
doesn't go running after people who ain't his sort. He's a workman sent
to Parliament to represent workmen, and he doesn't forget it."

Lady Malingcourt smiled pleasantly.

"My dear Mrs. Strone," she said, "when you have been mixed up in
politics as long as I have you will understand that a man's work does
not begin and end in the House. Take your husband's case, for instance.
He has become the recognised champion of some very important social
movements. It is part of his task to bring round to his own way of
thinking all people of influence and position. This he can only do by
mixing in Society. I happen to know that at a dinner-party lately at
Lord Sydenham's he completely won round the Duke of Massingham to his
views upon a most important matter. The Duke, as you know, has the ear
of the Upper House."

"Were you at that dinner-party?" Milly asked with blunt irrelevance.

Lady Malingcourt stared.

"Yes," she answered. "I was there. Why do you ask?"

Milly flinched from the' challenge.

"Oh, nothing! I daresay you may be right, Lady Malingcourt. All I can
say is that I hate the whole show. I wish Parliament and all the rest of
it were at the bottom of the sea. I don't care a bit about them. I want
my husband. I never see anything of Enoch from morning to night. That
may be the fashion in Society. It isn't my idea of married life."

Lady Malingcourt was thoughtful.

"Mrs. Strone," she said, "I am sure you would not wish to be in any way
a drag upon your husband. He is one of those few men to whom great
things are possible, and we are all so much interested in him and his
career. You must have a little patience with him just now. It is a very
anxious time for him. You must let his friends try and amuse you a
little. I want you to come and see me. We will have a little luncheon
together quietly one day next week and drive--"

Milly interrupted her. She had risen to her feet, and was standing with
her hand resting upon the table. Her hair was untidy, and her
dressing-gown was carelessly fastened. She was not an attractive picture
to look upon.

"I'm much obliged, Lady Malingcourt," she said, "but I'd rather not come.
It's no good my playing at being a lady. I ain't one, and I shall never
make one. Enoch knows that right enough. I should only be uncomfortable
if I came to your house, and serve me right. If you want to do me a good
turn, and I don't know why else you came here, don't encourage Enoch to
get mixing himself up with your people. I know he's different to me--but
I can't help that. He married me! I'm his wife, and I want him. And all
the while I know that there's something gradually drawing him away from
me. It's going to these parties that's done it. He sees women, ladies
who are more his sort, and it makes him colder and colder to me. He
tries to be kind, but it hurts him. And he's mine--my husband! I won't
have him taken away from me. He's mine--and I want him."

Milly, in a sudden paroxysm of jealousy, had betrayed herself. Her
fierce tone, the angry gleam in her eyes, were unmistakeable. The matter
had become a personal one. This was the woman whom she feared. A rare
flood of colour streamed into Lady Malingcourt's pale cheeks. She hated
this ignorant woman--she hated herself for the impulse of generosity
which had brought her here. She rose to her feet.

"I am afraid that I do not quite understand you, Mrs. Strone," she said.
"The matter of your personal relations with your husband is, of course,
no concern of mine. I wanted to offer you my friendship, to try and
relieve a little the loneliness of which you complain. But--"

Milly interrupted her.

"Can't you see that I don't want your friendship--or anybody's?" she
exclaimed, bitterly. "I want my husband!"

Lady Malingcourt was very nearly angry.

"You must forgive me, Mrs. Strone, if I tell you that I think you are
very unreasonable," she said. "You are, I imagine, fond of your husband.
Don't you want to see him succeed--to realise his ambitions? You can do
this best just now by forgetting yourself and your own desires. In years
to come he will be grateful to you, he will remember this, and you will
have the gratification of knowing that you helped him."

"I don't--want Enoch to be a great man," Milly sobbed. "I only want him
to remember that he is my husband--and--and I don't want anybody to come
between us."

She subsided on to the sofa, and mopped at the tears which were
streaming down her face. Lady Malingcourt watched her for a moment in
silence, a dishevelled, untidy woman, her limitations written plainly
enough in her pretty, unexpressive face, puckered up just now into the
semblance of a sulky child's. She glanced around the room, disfigured
everywhere by Milly's lack of taste and love of bright colours. Then she
straightened herself and her face hardened. Her first impulse of pity
was gone. After all, it was the man who must suffer.

"I am sorry that I am not able to be of any service to you, Mrs.
Strone," she said. "Good afternoon."

Milly heard her let herself out without stirring, heard the jingling of
harness outside, and from behind a curtain watched her visitor drive
away. Then she sank back upon the sofa, and buried her head in a

"What does the like of her want--with my Enoch?" she asked, bitterly.


"Quite a senatorial pose, Mr. Strone. Really, I am not sure that I ought
to interrupt. Only you see Lord Sydenham has left me alone with a
terribly deaf old person, and I felt that I must either escape--or
expire. Come and explain why you are not voting, and amuse me, if you

Strone was taken by surprise, but the length of her speech, and as usual
she spoke very slowly, gave him plenty of opportunity to recover
himself. He even found time to admire her wonderfully fitting grey gown
and the beflowered hat, which a Parisian milliner had parted with
unwillingly. Lady Malingcourt had the reputation of being the best
dressed woman in London.

"You have had tea?" he asked.

"Ages ago. Shall we sit down here? I really have no scruples about
leaving Sir Francis. He keeps fidgeting about with a blue book, and I
believe he is going to ask a question or make a speech or something. Why
are you not voting?"

"It is a minor question," he answered. "My vote is of no particular
importance, and I happen to disagree most emphatically with both

"Pear me, how unfortunate," she remarked. "Politics do seem such a
muddle. I am quite sure that if I were a member I should join a party
and vote as I was told. It must save so much trouble."

"I am quite sure you would not," he answered, smiling. "You would be up
in rebellion in a fortnight."

"Well, we shall see," she said. "Once down at Bangdon I told you that I
had tried most things in life--now I have found one other excitement. If
this fails I think that I shall go into a nunnery. But for the present I
am a politician."

He laughed outright.

"And your politics?"

"I am a progressive Conservative. I am looking forward to the General
Election breathlessly. Remember too, please, that I am a person to be
conciliated. I make no promises, but I might be inclined to canvass for
anyone whom I thought worthy. By the bye, why have you not been to see

He was silent. He hated falsehood, and to tell her the truth was

"Many things have happened to me since we met last," he said, slowly.
"My little party has thrown me over. I am nothing but a Parliamentary
waif. Last week I was in Gascester looking after my little colony there,
and the week before I took my wife to Paris for a day or two."

She raised her eyelids ever so slightly.

"Yes! Did you enjoy it? Paris always seems to me so deadly dull at this
time of the year."

"Our point of view," he remarked, "would not be the same. We are both
in reality trippers. We had never been there before. We saw the sights."

She yawned.

"Did you see them from a char-a-banc?"

"It was a matter of francs only," he assured her. "We had a victoria and
a guide. My only private pilgrimage was to the graves of Abelard and
Heloise. What an imaginative nation. Their tombs were fragrant with wet

"The Parisian proper," she remarked, "is the soul of romance. But to
return to our discussion. Lord Sydenham has been talking to me of you.
You are to be a feature of the new Parliament."

"He is very good," Strone answered, doubtfully. "I am afraid that I may
be a very unsatisfactory one."

"You anticipate trouble. Believe me that allegiance to party is not half
so difficult as it seems at first to a person of your temperament. There
is a certain amount of elasticity about our opinions concerning everyone
and everything. Besides, 'esprit de corps' is a factor to be reckoned
with. It grows every hour after you have once been admitted to the ranks
of an established party."

"You are very consoling," he said, "and you do not talk either like one
who has just taken up politics for a new fad."

She smiled--a little wearily, and looked away into the dark
slowly-flowing river, speckled here and there with glints of sunshine.

"I think," she said, "that I must have lived for a very long time, for
nothing whidh I take up comes to me wholly new. It is always a going
back. Politics interested me once--when I was a child and my father was
in the Cabinet. To-day I seem to be only the reflex of other people's
opinions. I trust Sydenham more than anyone. I believe my cousin is the
most brilliant and the most conscientious man of our party." Strone
agreed with her. Just then Lord Sydenham came out and threaded his way
towards them through a maze of chairs and little tables. A sudden
thought came to Strone. He watched Lady Malingcourt's face, watched her
soft tired eyes, and the smile which for a moment transformed her face.
His own face grew grey to the lips, a sick, cold fear was at his heart.
Lord Sydenham was freely spoken of as the next Prime Minister--Lady
Malingcourt was confessing to a new interest in politics. They were
obviously on the best of terms. He looked away and watched the shipping
with fixed, strained eyes, struggling to regain the mastery over himself
which he had for a moment lost. Their heads were close together. They
were talking confidentially. What more natural or more suitable? His
head sank a little lower. It was as though something were amiss with his
heartstrings. It was the complete realisation of his colossal folly.

Her voice broke in upon his silent moments of agony.

"I am trying to induce Lord Sydenham to play truant, and I think he is
almost persuaded. We thought of an impromptu dinner at the Carlton. Will
you come? I can easily get a fourth."

He turned round.

"I am sorry," he said. "I am afraid not."

She looked at him curiously. The last few moments had left their mark.

"Is anything the matter?" she asked. "You look white."

"Nothing," he answered. "The merest headache."

"Then we will cure it," she declared, gaily. "We will treat ourselves
to the best dinner we can get, and go somewhere after. You can put off
your engagement."

"I am afraid not," he answered. "I promised to take my wife out--if I
could get away."

There was a moment's dead silence. Strone's answer fell almost like a
bomb amongst them. At that moment an acquaintance touched Lord Sydenham
on the shoulder and drew him a little apart. The two were alone.

"I am leaving town--very soon," she said, slowly, "and I believe that I
have engagements for every night until I go. I should like you to come
this evening."

He looked at her with suddenly flushed cheeks, his strong face
transformed by a sudden passion.

"What does it matter to you," he said, hoarsely. "You will have your
cousin. I shall be in the way."

She looked him full in the face from under the shadow of her parasol,
her eyebrows slightly raised, her lips twitching as though with the
inclination to smile.

"Foolish," she murmured.

Strone was ridiculously and speechlessly happy. Lord Sydenham rejoined

"It is all settled," she said, turning towards him. "We meet at the
Carlton at eight o'clock."

"If it costs me my seat," Lord Sydenham answered, gaily, "I shall be

"And I," Strone echoed. "At eight o'clock."

* * *

Milly was waiting for him when he reached home, all ready dressed. She
welcomed him noisily.

"Bravo!" she cried. "I'm dead tired of my own company. Let's go to the
Troc., Enoch, eh?"

"I'm very sorry, Milly," he said, awkwardly. "I can't take you out
to-night. I'm going to have dinner with Lord Sydenham."

Her face fell at once. Her lips quivered.

"I've given you every moment I could spare lately, Milly," he continued,
hastily, "and we'll go somewhere to-morrow. I'm sorry to disappoint you,
but I can't help it this time. Are my things put out?"


He hastened up stairs. In a moment or two she followed him.

"I ain't going to mind--much, Enoch," she said. "Perhaps I'll take Lucy
to the theatre. Got all you want?"

He looked up with a sudden pang of remorse. Tears and voluble complaints
would have been better than this.

"Everything, thanks. Yes, take Lucy and go somewhere. I shan't be late

She nodded, watched him dress, followed him downstairs, and whistled
herself for a hansom. She held up her lips and he kissed her hating
himself for the impulse of repulsion which swept through him.

"Good night, Enoch."

He looked back at the corner of the street. She was still standing there
watching him.


They stood together under a tall palm, Lord Sydenham and Beatrice
Malingcourt, and Lord Sydenham said something which had been in his mind
for many days.

"I want you to tell me, Beatrice," he began, "what there is about this
man Strone which attracts you so much."

The white feathers of her fan fluttered slowly backwards and forwards.
She discovered that one of the ornaments on her bracelet had become
unfastened, and she paused to secure it.

"Let me ask you a question, too," she said. "What is there about him
which makes you so anxious to get him into your party?"

"Strone," he answered, "is a strong man and an earnest politician. He
has practical and popular views on the great social question which the
Government must face in a few years' time."

"He is a strong man," she repeated, thoughtfully. "Yes! I suppose that
is it."

"But you," he remarked, "have acquired a reputation for
exclusiveness--for hypercritical tastes as regards your associates, and
especially your intimates. Now Strone, from a man's point of view, is
admirable enough--but from yours, I do not understand."

The feathers fluttered gently for several moments. She bowed and smiled
to some acquaintances who were passing into the restaurant.

"Why should my point of view," she said, "be so different from a man's?
The small graces of life are very charming, but I am certainly not one
of that order of women who place them above character. The man's social
deficiencies are apparent enough. Yet I, who knew him when he was a
workman pure and simple, am only astonished that they are not more

He looked thoughtfully into her impassive face.

"You are evasive," he murmured. "I wonder why!"

"And you," she answered, "have developed a woman's failing--curiosity. I
wonder why!"

"I will ask you a question," he said, "which it should tax even your
ingenuity to elude. Supposing that it were possible--would you marry
Enoch Strone?"

The music rose and fell, the murmur of conversation around was like a
pleasant babel. Lady Malingcourt remained impassive. Even Lord Sydenham,
who was watching her closely, found her Sphinx-like.

"If the other considerations," she said, "were in order, and if by
chance he should desire it--why not? He is a man, is he not--like you

"The other considerations! That includes, I suppose, caring for him?"

Lady Malingcourt became didactic.

"I have always considered," she said, "that a certain amount of
affection is quite a desirable ingredient in matrimony. It is old
fashioned, I suppose, but what else is left for us? Modernity has spread
to Balham, and is quite a craze at Forest Hill. I think that we must all
become old fashioned."

"I agree with you," he said, gravely, "that marriage should be
something more than a bargain. And because I agree with you, Beatrice, I
want you to marry me."

"I absolutely decline," she answered, "to be proposed to standing up."

"Then let us find a corner somewhere and discuss it," he answered. She
shook her head.

"I wonder," she said, "if by any chance you are in earnest."

"There is nothing in life," he answered, "which I have ever been so
much in earnest about. I meant to wait until next session, but lately, I
think there has been a change in you. To-night I decided that I would
not wait any longer."

She looked at him thoughtfully. He was all that any woman could desire
in a husband, rich, distinguished, handsome too, notwithstanding his
stooping shoulders and pale cheeks. She had quite made up her mind to
marry him--some day--a year ago. Now the desire had gone from her
Strone's appearance was a relief.

"Come and see me to-morrow," she whispered. "I want to think about it."

Strone joined them.

"Only two chairs," he said, "but there will be plenty of room directly.
I have ordered coffee."

She followed him. Lord Sydenham excused himself for a few minutes and
lingered to speak to some friends. He had all the self control of the
carefully trained politician, but he did not care just then to talk to

The chairs were in a secluded corner. Lady Malingcourt leaned back with
a little rustle of silken draperies.

"My friend," she said, softly. "I am going to ask you a peculiar
favour. Do not speak to me for five minutes."

Strone nodded, lit his cigar, and looked out upon the gay throng of
people. Lady Malingcourt from behind her fan watched him. Strone was
well-groomed and well-dressed. There was very little in his appearance
to distinguish him from the crowd of men by whom they were surrounded. A
good tailor and innate good taste had secured him against solecisms--the
small variations in his toilet from the prevailing fashion were rather a
relief than otherwise. His hands were large and still a little coarse,
but they were well cared for and well shaped. She studied his face,
stem, hard, a trifle rugged but full of power, relieved from any
suspicion of coarseness by a mouth as noble as a woman's, yet straight
and firm. She judged him dispassionately, and found him good to look
upon. No one could call him handsome, no one could pass him by without a
second glance. She withdrew: her eyes but remained silent. A curious
emotion had seized her. The husk of life seemed to have fallen away. She
felt younger, a curious longing stole into her heart for the hills at
Bangdon, the soft west breeze, the song of the circling larks, the
musical chirping of insects. Life seemed suddenly to have swelled into
great proportions. She was frightened, nervous. She did not recognize
herself. It was a moment of self-revelation, a single lurid sweet
moment, the memory of which could never pass away. Then the crash of
music, the murmur of voices, some trifling incident of her surroundings
brought her back to the present. Only there was with her henceforth a
new apprehension of things, the taste of life had suddenly possessed a
sweeter and more potent flavour. Lord Sydenham's answer was no longer a
matter of doubt. She sat up and sipped her coffee.

"I am ready," she declared, "to be entertained. You shall begin by
telling me what you have been thinking about. Have any of these fair
ladies taken your thoughts prisoners?"

"I have not seen them," he answered. "I have been thinking of Bangdon."

He could scarcely have said anything more in accord with her own frame
of mind. She raised her eyes to his, and he was amazed at their
wonderful depth and colour. The change came home to him, and his own
pulses beat fiercely.

"Let us talk about Bangdon," she said. "Do you remember the first time I
saw you? John brought you in to dinner."

"If I had known," he remarked, smiling, "that there was a woman there I
should have run for my life."

"Yet I do not think that you were shy. What a surprise you were to me.
You wore the clothes of a mechanic, and you talked--as even John could J
never have talked. Do you know, I think that you are a very wonderful
person. It is so short a time ago."

He turned towards her and his face was suddenly haggard.

"It is a lifetime--a chaos of months and years. Let us talk of something

"No! Why?"

"Don't you understand?" he asked, fiercely.

There was a short, tense silence. The diamond star upon her bosom rose
and fell. Lady Malingcourt did not recognise herself in the least. Only
she knew that he at any rate had been swift to recognise the wonderful
transfiguring change which that moment of self-revelation had wrought in
her life. But for that she knew that his self-control would not have
precipitated the crisis. A sort of glad recklessness possessed her. At
least she had found, if only for a moment, something which filled to the
brim the great empty cup of life.

"You are so enigmatic," she murmured.

"You had better not tempt me to be otherwise," he answered.

The delight of it carried her away. Their eyes met, and the memory of
that moment went with him through life--to be cherished jealously, even
when death came.

"Why not?"

"Because I love you. Because you know it! You have filled my life. You
have made everything else of no account. I love you!"



No answer. Yet she was in the room, for he could hear her heavy
breathing and trace the dim outline of her form upon the sofa. An ugly
suspicion seized him. He turned up the gas and groaned.

Milly's sleep was a drunken one. Of that there was no manner of doubt.
Her face was flushed, and her hair untidy. An empty tumbler lay on the
ground beside her, the air of the room reeked with whisky. Strone bent
over her, his face full of disgust, his heart full of evil thoughts.
This was the woman to whom he was chained for all his days, whom he had
pledged himself to love and cherish, the woman who bore his name, and
who must rise with him to whatever heights his ambition and genius might
command. There was no escape, there never could be any escape. He stood
and looked at her with loathing in his eyes. He did not dare to wake her
lest the passion which needed but the spark of a jeering word might
overmaster him. So he walked restlessly up and down the room. The woman
slept on.

Presently he saw that she had been writing--a proceeding so unusual that
he came to a standstill before the table. An envelope and a letter lay
open there, the first words of the latter easily legible in Milly's
round characters started him. He glanced at the address. It was to Mr.
Richard Mason, Fairbanks, Gascester. Without any further hesitation he
took the letter into his hand and read it.

Dear Dick,--The last time I saw you I turned you out of this house,
because you asked me something as you didn't ought. I am writing these
few lines to know if you are still in the same mind. I don't want you to
make a mistake. I don't care one brass button for you--never shall. But
things have turned out so that I ain't happy here. I never ought to have
married Enoch, that's sure. He ain't the same class as you and me. He
don't care for me, and he never will. That's why I reckon I'm going to
leave him. Now if you want me to go to Ireland with you next journey say
so, and I'll go. If I try to live here any longer I shall go mad. You
ain't to think that it's because I like you better than him, because I
don't, and no born woman in her right senses would. What I'm looking at
is that if I go away with you he'll be free. That's all. There's no
other way that I can think of, except for me to do away with myself, and
that I dursn't do. So if you say come I shall be ready.

Yours, MILLY.

The sheet of paper fluttered from his fingers. He turned to find her
sitting up--watching him.

"You've been reading my letter," she cried, with a little gasp.

"Yes," he answered. "I have read it."

She stared at him, heavy-eyed, still dull of apprehension. There was a
short silence. She struggled into a sitting posture, by degrees her
memory and consciousness returned.

"I don't care if you have," she declared. "Put it in the envelope and
post it. It would have been on the way by now if Mary hadn't brought in
the whisky. It's what you want, ain't it? You'll be quit of me then and
you can go to her."

He tore the letter across and flung it into the fire. She watched it
burn idly.

"I don't know why you've done that," she said, wearily. "You know you
want to be free. I don't know as I blame you. I saw you with her

"What do you mean?" he asked, quickly.

"Just that. I took Mary to the St. James's, and coming back we stopped
to watch the people come out of the Carlton. She's very beautiful,
Enoch, and she's your sort. I ain't. How you must curse the day when you
first saw me."

There was a silence. Their eyes met, and the hopeless misery in her face
went to his heart like a knife. In that moment he realised how only
salvation could come to her. He crossed the room and sat down by her

"Milly," he said, gently, "let us try and talk like sensible people. I
am afraid I haven't been a very good husband to you, and this sort of
thing "--he touched the decanter--"has got to be stopped. Now tell me
how we are to turn over a new leaf. What would you like to do?"

She drew a little breath which became a sob

"It's me," she exclaimed, passionately. "I'm a beast. I ain't fit to be
your wife, Enoch. Let me go my way. I'll never interfere with you.
You've been too good to me already. You can't care for me! Why should

He took her hand in his.

"Milly," he said, "we are husband and wife, and we've got to make the
best of it. Now I want you to promise to give up that stuff, and in
return I will do anything you ask."

"Then care for me a little," she cried; "or if you can't pretend to, if
you'd only kiss me now and then without me asking, act as though I were
flesh and blood--treat as a woman instead of a ghost, I'd be easily
satisfied. Can't you pretend just a little, Enoch? Maybe you won't mean
it a bit--I don't care. I'd close my eyes and think it was all real."

Her voice broke down, her eyes were wet and shining with tears. He
kissed her on the lips.

"I will do more than pretend, Milly," he said.

She came close to him--almost shyly. A look of ineffable content shone
in her face.

"You're real good, Enoch," she murmured. "If only we were back at

"Would you like to live there again?" he asked.

"Rather. Enoch, I hate London! I hate it, hate it! Take me back to
Bangdon, dear. If only we could have your little cottage again and I
could see after it for you. That's what I'd like. I wouldn't want any
servant. I'd do everything myself and finish in time to walk down the
lane and meet you. Enoch, I can smell that honeysuckle now. You began to
teach me a bit about the flowers and birds. I wish we were living there
now. I wish we'd never come away. I seem to have been drifting further
and further away from you every day up here. It's a hateful place."

"I think I want a holiday," Strone said, quietly. "The Session is just
over. We'll go down to Bangdon if you like."

"Enoch! Do you mean it?"

She threw her arms around his neck. She was rapturously happy, and
Strone forced himself to turn a smiling face upon her.

"Why not?"

"And when you come back," she asked, timidly, "you won't leave me
behind? I don't want to be anywhere without you, Enoch."

"It is very doubtful," he answered, "whether I shall ever come back. If
I do you shall come too."

Milly drew one long, deep breath of happiness. It was her salvation.


The woman was disturbed by the sound of voices, and because she was in a
house where she was accustomed to take liberties and because both the
voices were familiar to her she laid down her book and listened. The men
who talked were Sydenham and Strone--the woman who listened was Beatrice

"The thing is absurd," Lord Sydenham declared, with a note of anger in
his thin, well modulated voice. "Your refusal I must accept if you
insist. I should do so with less regret perhaps because sooner or later
you must come to us. The step may seem a bold one to you to-day. In a
year or so it will become inevitable. I might be content to wait,
although you will be wasting some of the best years of your life. But
when you tell me that you are giving up your career--leaving
Parliament--going back to your manufacturing--oh, rubbish. I haven't the
patience to argue with you."

"Don't try," Strone said, coolly. "It wouldn't be any use. I'm sick of
politics--too much talk--too little progress. Why, it's the work of a
lifetime to get the simplest measure passed through the House,--like
trying to drive a tin tack into an ironclad."

"For an independent member with no following, of course it is
difficult," Lord Sydenham answered, impatiently. "Isn't that precisely
why I want you to come to us?"

"You want me to sink my identity,--to become part of a machine, to
pledge myself to support no end of measures I disapprove of. It isn't
honest. I don't want to ram the truth down people's throats. I want to
convince 'em."

"You talk like a crank, Strone. What's the use of kicking against the
pricks? Party Government rules, and it will rule during your lifetime
and mine. Disapprove of it if you like, but make use of it. You wouldn't
refuse a priceless gift because the hand which offered it you wasn't

"I'm not so sure of that," Strone answered. "Look here. Lord Sydenham,
you're wasting time. It goes without saying that I'm grateful to you.
I'll try to prove it. My mind's made up. I'm not open to argument. I've
private reasons which are more powerful than my own feeling in the
matter. There! Now let me go away. Label me a fool and forget me." |

Lord Sydenham was silent. There was something behind then. He had
suspected it all the while. His anger melted away. The pity of it moved
him to make one more effort.

"Strone," he said, gravely, "those private reasons can be no concern of
mine. I must not even allude to them. But let me ask you seriously
whether you realise what you are doing. You have rare gifts--you have
all the qualities of the successful politician. I offer you a firm
footing upon the ladder--your ascent is a certainty. I will not appeal
to your personal ambition. I appeal to your religion."

Strone looked up with a queer smile.

"My religion?"

"Yes! I use the word in the broadest sense. Consciously or unconsciously
you have proclaimed it in your conversation--the House--the Reviews. If
you are not one of those who love their fellow men, you, at least, have
a pity for them, so profound that it has become the 'motif' of your
life. It is a great cause, yours, Strone. You have made it your own.
None but you can do it justice. Think of the submerged millions who have
been waiting many years for a prophet to call them up from the depths.
You have put on the mantle. Dare you cast it away?"

Strone's face was haggard and his lips dry.

"I am not going into idleness," he said. "I am going back amongst them.
I have much to learn yet."

Lord Sydenham interrupted him.

"Never in your life," he said, "will there come to you such an
opportunity as this. I offer you a place in the Party which will be in
the majority next session--the lawmakers. I offer you also my own
personal support of the labour measures we have discussed. It must be
yes or no."

"It must be no," Strone said, slowly.

Lord Sydenham looked at him as one might gaze into the face of a Sphinx.

"Strone," he said, "we have spoken together and reasoned with one
another as politicians and possible allies. Tell me--as a friend--man to
man now--can I offer you my counsel, will you give me your confidence?"

There came to Strone a swift rush of feeling--of the I surprised emotion
felt once before in the little study at Bangdon Vicarage. Only this man
was not John Martinghoe, and the floodgates of his speech remained

"You are very kind, Lord Sydenham. I shall never forget it. My answer is
final. It must be no."

"In that case," Lord Sydenham remarked, with a sigh, "there is nothing
more to be said."

Strone rose to go. A curtain fell, both men turned at the unexpected
sound of Beatrice Malingcourt's voice.

"There is something more to be said! Forgive me! I have been listening.
Please go away, Sydenham. I am going to talk to Mr. Strone."


They drove through the crowded streets side by side, Strone silent and
impassive, Beatrice Malingcourt watching him through half-closed eyes,
wondering with an almost passionate curiosity what things might be
working in the brain of the man. What was his point of view, his code of
morals?--he was a man, but instinctively she believed him to possess
them! They had not met since the night at the Carlton. Something, she
felt, had happened. Perhaps he regarded his self-betrayal as traitorous,
their subsequent estrangement in view of it as a matter of course. It
came home to her that the man's point of view was probably primitive.
She smiled softly to herself. It was fortunate that she had been at
Sydenham House. He was surely contemplating a gigantic, but unnecessary
sacrifice--on her account.

The carriage drew up at the door. She led him upstairs into her little
den, cool and perfumed with drooping clusters of Bangdon roses.

"I am at home to no one," she told her maid. "Let them serve tea in an

She chose a chair for him and seated herself where a stray gleam of
sunlight touched her hair. She herself was, as usual, perfectly dressed.
Her muslin gown was a miracle of spotless simplicity, the roses in her
hat exactly the right pink for her complexion. She drew off her gloves
and leaned forward.

"Now," she said, softly, "I am ready. What you would not tell Lord
Sydenham you must tell me."

He sat for a moment with close drawn lips. She scarcely understood his
dejection, the utter hopelessness of his aspect. For weeks he had
avoided her--his manner now was constrained and difficult. Yet her eyes,
her tone, the touch upon his arm as she had led him upstairs had all
been intended for his encouragement. He could scarcely be so blind as
not to see this.

"I told Lord Sydenham all that there is to be told," he said. "You heard
me say that my retirement from the present political life was due to
private reasons. I thought that you might have guessed. It is because of
my wife!"

Lady Malingcourt gazed at him, speechless, more amazed than ever before
in her life. Since her visit to Milly she had regarded her as an utterly
hopeless person. In going she had acted upon an impulse which was
undoubtedly a generous one. Milly should have her chance, and if she had
shown herself in the least anxious to avail herself of it Lady
Malingcourt would have made the greatest sacrifice of her life. But she
had found Milly at her worst. She was surely an impossible companion for
such a man as Strone. Already by her own showing he had realised it. She
was a sore spot upon his life. No sane person would ever be able to
blame him when the separation which she believed inevitable should come
to pass. Strone must know this! Because of his wife! What did the man

"I do not understand," she said, blankly. "What has your wife to do with

"I have promised her," Strone said, steadily, "to live at Gascester."

Lady Malingcourt was hopelessly bewildered. Strone's face was like a
mask, but every line and furrow in it was deepened.

"Years ago," he continued, "you yourself spoke to me of my duty towards
her. I have tried very hard to do it, and I have failed. Now I am going
to try again. In London she is alone, and my work leaves me no time
whatever to devote to her. I have promised to relinquish it to live at
Gascester. Milly unfortunately has an unconquerable aversion to
solitude, and I am afraid, too, that she has inherited one of the vices
of her order. I am going to take her into fresh scenes, amongst fresh
people--to help her fight her enemy. That is why I am forced to refuse
Lord Sydenham's offer."

To Lady Malingcourt it was one of the most humiliating moments of her
life. In many respects a vain woman, she had felt a certain amount of
pride in her ascendancy over this strong man. She had flattered herself
that her insight was unerring--his absolute devotion she had never for a
moment doubted. He had come into her life at a critical moment, had
found it empty, had excited from the first her strong interest. She was
by no means an emotional woman, very few men in the world had moved her
to more than a passing curiosity. Her retirement to Bangdon had been
chiefly due to a desire to escape from a society whose routine was fast
becoming irksome to her. She was weary of the men paying her empty
court, all fashioned from the same mould, hopelessly respectable,
aristocratic and dull, or roues with sapped health and blemished
reputations. She had found in Enoch Strone a virility marvellously
attractive, a fierce devotion which she had accepted at first with
amusement, afterwards with I feelings which she never dared to wholly
admit, even to herself. His rapid rise had touched her imagination--she
had counted herself his political inspiration. A woman of few
affections, self-contained, and with a wonderful amount of self-control,
it was amazing to herself that her stay in Australia with its many
distractions never once disturbed in her mind I the place which Enoch
Strone had taken to himself. She had returned eager to meet him
again--returned to find him also unchanged, and from that moment she had
given herself up with the keenest pleasure to the development of their
relations. His sudden self-betrayal on the night of the dinner at the
"Carlton" had not displeased her. It was after all the natural prelude
to a more sentimental phase of their friendship. His devotion supplied a
very pleasant savour to life. It was fast becoming a necessity to her.
She was too proud a woman to fear any danger for herself or from him. As
for his wife--well, there had been a generous moment when she had been
prepared to face what would have been the greatest sacrifice of her
life. She had gone to Milly prepared to make the best of her, even to
the extent of her own self immolation. She had come away with a keen
sense of relief. Nothing of the sort was necessary. Milly was wholly
impossible. She strove to hide her feelings, but her voice vibrated with
scornful anger.

"Your wife," she said, "has had her chance. You have done your duty to
her. You have proved her to be an impossible companion. You have now an
altogether higher duty--a duty to the nation and to your fellow-men. Do
you mean to tell me that for the sake of a meaningless tie you are
willing to sacrifice a career which may alter the lot of millions. You
are a sane man and you propose this."

"There are others who can follow me--who can do my work here," Strone
answered. "There is no one else who can save Milly from--hell."

"It is most surprising devotion," she said, quietly.

"There is no question of devotion," he answered. "Milly is weak,
incapable of enduring solitude, and with a cursed heritage from her
father and mother. She has started on the downward path. I believe that
I am the only person who can save her. Surely you of all people don't
blame me."


"You are a woman. You know the end of it. How can I plead for my fellow
human beings whilst the only one dependent upon me sinks before my eyes?
Every lost creature in this world would look at me with her eyes and
call to me with her cry of desire."

"You amongst the sentimentalists!" she exclaimed, softly. "My friend,
there are limits even to your power. You cannot alter destiny, you
cannot cut out of human nature the things which are evil and grow
flowers in their place. You set yourself a hopeless and a thankless
task. Surely you will not go into exile, lose the esteem of your
friends, your hold upon the great things of life, for the sake of an
idea. It is worse than lunacy. It is a crime."

"You pleaded for her once. Would you have me leave her to her fate?"

"There are other means of providing for her," she answered, coldly.
"You have done your best. Your duty is finished."

"If only I dared think so," he murmured.

Her hand rested upon his shoulder, her tone became one almost of

"You must not think that I am unfeeling," she said.

"Indeed, I am not. Only your whole future is at stake. It is the question
of your life's work against one unworthy woman. I wonder how you dare to

"The woman is my wife," he answered. "Nothing can alter that. I know my
duty. I've got to do it."

She rose slowly to her feet. Her face became hard and cold.

"Then there is no more to be said. Good-bye."

Her tone frightened him.

"What do you mean?" he cried, hoarsely.

"That you must take your choice between us. Oh, be reasonable," she
continued, in a suddenly softer tone. "You pretend to care for me, don't

"Pretend? Oh, my God!"

"I won't let you wreck your life then for want of a few plain words,"
she continued. "I think that I, too, care for you a little--enough to
promise you my faithful friendship, my companionship whenever you care
for it. And--Enoch--whatever I may not give to you I promise that I will
not give to anyone else."

There was a moment's tense silence--to Strone a moment of agony. The
walls of the room had fallen away--it was night time, once more he stood
amongst the shadows, watched her lean towards him, watched the white
soft blossoms come falling through the darkness to his feet. Once more
everything else in life was dwarfed and of no account beside his love
for this woman. The man's passion went tearing through his veins. He
held out his arms.

"Milly shall find her own hell," he cried, "only your hand must fill my
cup of forgetfulness. Come!"

She shrank back, her cheeks flushed, her bosom rising and falling
quickly. A new emotion had seized her. She had called up something which
she was powerless to control. The warning of all the ages seemed burned
upon the wall in letters of fire.

"You shall have your price--her soul and my eternal shame. You shall
have them. I'll let her go--down the tide. Only you must share the
burden with me. It will be our joint sin. Come! Have you courage enough?
Do you dare to face it?"

The man was wonderful. She was almost carried away. Yet she hesitated,
and he read her mercilessly.

"You are not great enough," he cried. "In the days to come you would
shrug your shoulders and say that it was her natural end. It's the
brutal selfishness of your sex, and your class. If Christianity should
ever turn out to be more than a dream God help you--and the others."

He moved to the door. On the threshold he paused. She was standing
motionless. He could not tell whether she were angry or sorrowful.

"Forgive me," he said. "I said more than I meant to. You and I see
things differently. The future may bring us nearer together. Good-bye."

He hesitated and passed out. She called to him, but it was too late.
Before she could reach the stairs he had passed out of the house.

"You are not great enough," he cried.




"I want to give a party."

"Give one by all means."

"Yes, but a dinner party."

Strone shook his head.

"You can entertain your friends in any way you like, Milly, but you
mustn't count on me. Stick to teas and luncheons."

Milly made a needless clatter with the coffee equipage. Her husband had
vanished behind his paper. She leaned across the table to him.



"Such a lot of people have asked us to dinner."

"We haven't been."

"No, but we've got to ask 'em back all the same. I know, because I've
got a book that tells you all about it."

Strone laid down his paper. It was less than half-a-year since they had
set up housekeeping in Gascester, but even those few months had left
their mark upon him. There were new lines about his mouth, grey hairs
showing here and there amongst the black. This was only one of a hundred
little annoyances which confronted him every day.

"Milly," he said, "I am glad for you to find friends amongst these
people, and I don't want to interfere with you in the slightest.
Entertain them in any way you 'please, only don't bring me into it--just
at present. I have too much on hand to care about making new

Milly was dearly dissatisfied.

"They ain't fine enough for you, I suppose," she remarked. "Won't do
after your London friends, eh?"

"I had few friends in London," Strone answered. "My life before that you
know. The fact is, I'm not a sociable man. You must do your own
entertaining. Your card plate seems full enough."

"My, isn't it!" Milly admitted, with a smile. "It takes all my time,
Enoch, going about returning calls. But they all ask about you, and you
never seem round. You don't play golf, or ride, or drive, even on

"Those are pursuits," Strone answered, with a faint smile, "to which I
may take later on in life. Just now I have more serious things on hand."

"Oh, bother!"

Milly sat with clouded face during the rest of breakfast. Afterwards
Strone lit a cigarette, and led her into the garden.

"Milly," he said, "I'm doing the best I can to make you contented. Don't
ask for impossibilities. We tried the country, and you found it too
dull. I don't blame you. I couldn't be there all the time, of course,
and you were lonely. Then you thought you would like a house near
Gascester. Well, I have taken one. You have the carriage you wanted, and
everyone comes to see you. Be satisfied."

"I am satisfied," Milly answered. "Only I don't see what you want to
spend all your time fiddling about down at the works."

"It is necessary," Strone answered, "and if it were not I should do it
from choice. Good-bye."

He climbed into the dog-cart, and drove towards Gascester with an odd,
bitter smile upon his lips. He was passing through the suburb which had
once been the place of all others in the world which he had hated the
most. He himself was now a resident there, his ambitious dreams checked
if not entirely dissipated. The whole aspect of life had been changed
for him. One of Mr. Dobell's sons had taken his place in London. Strone
had gone back to the works. There was plenty of scope for him there, and
it was work which he liked. Yet every now and then a passionate
discontent filled his heart. He had been on the threshold of greater
things, he had seen a little way into the promised land. Henceforth life
could never be more than endurable.

It chanced that John Martinghoe came to see him that morning, keen to
look over Strone's wonderful works and model colony, which a leading
magazine had made famous. Strone showed him everything--by degrees a
certain reserve shared by both of them melted away, they sat and talked
over their cigars as in the old days. And Martinghoe, with an abruptness
which took the other by surprise, asked him a blunt question.

"Why did you give it up, Stone?"

Strone moved uneasily in his chair. Martinghoe watched his cigar smoke
in silence.

"Don't tell me unless you like. It isn't exactly curiosity which makes
me ask. Only the pity of the thing strikes home sometimes."

"Ay," Strone repeated as though mechanically, "the pity of the thing."

"Not that your work here isn't something to be proud of," Martinghoe
continued. "Only one feels that you've been doctoring a single patient
when you've had a remedy for the whole race. I understand, too, that the
present Government were most favourably disposed towards you."

"You heard that from your sister?" Strone asked, quickly.


"What else?"

Martinghoe hesitated--only for a moment. They were both men who loved
the truth.

"She wrote of you as a man out of his senses. On the threshold of a
brilliant future, in which your success was bound up with the betterment
of millions of your fellow creatures, you drew back because your wife
dislikes London. There's something inexplicable about this, Strone. You
gave me your confidence once. I'd like to feel sure that you aren't
making a colossal mistake now."

"I should like to be certain of it myself," Strone said, quietly. "Look
here, Martinghoe. You married me, and you know all about it. How much of
that balderbash which I repeated at your dictation is binding upon me?"

"Every single word of it," Martinghoe answered.

"For good or for evil--for better or for worse, eh?"

"Most surely."

"Then I could do no other than what I have done," Strone answered.

He told Martinghoe the history of that evil night in his life, his
finding Milly--asleep--the letter--his promise. And Martinghoe
afterwards reckoned that marriage, which from his primitive point of
view had seemed to him at the time a simple but necessary act of
justice, as one of the evil deeds of his life.

"Your sacrifice," he said, "was at least magnificent. I pray that it may
be effectual."

A queer gleam of humour lit up Strone's hard face.

"It is effectual," he answered. "We tried solitude. I did my best with
her. It wouldn't do. She hasn't a h'aporth of imagination. Then I sat
down and reasoned the matter over. What did other people do in our
position who had made money? I took Dobell into my confidence--partly.
He never hesitated. Take a house somewhere near Gascester, he said, in
the suburbs, and your wife will make friends in ten minutes. And by Jove
she did, Martinghoe. If it wasn't for the miserable side of it, I could
laugh every time I see our card plate, every time I see Milly sitting in
her victoria with her calling hat on. She's positively prim now--almost
smug. She shudders at the mention of the Masons. She goes to church
twice on Sundays, and if she drinks wine at all it is only because she
thinks teetotalers are bad form."

"It will last, you think?" Martinghoe asked.

Strone nodded.

"Certain. It seems that even in Gascester there are grades of society. I
don't know which Milly is in, but she's training for a rise already.
Life for her has become a splendid evolution--she'll work her way
through the lot. She's got something to think about, and to aim at.
She's safe. I'd rather the means had been worthier, but character is
immutable. You can't alter Milly."

"And you?"

Across Strone's face there flickered for a moment some shadow of the
misery which every now and then was uncontrollable.

"Well," he said, "I have heaps of work here. I'm on the Royal
Commission for the Betterment of the Poor, you know, and I still have
the reviews. In time, when Milly's anchorage has stood the test of time,
I may have another chance. But somehow I feel that I can't. It isn't
often more than once in a lifetime that the doors fly open before one so

"I am glad to have heard your point of view, Strone," Martinghoe said.
"I'd like to tell you, if I may, that I think you're right. It was the
woman's soul which was in your keeping--and you have saved her. I do not
see how you could have justified yourself if you had stood aside and let
her sink downwards."

"Your sister," Strone said, quietly, "thought otherwise."

"Beatrice is a very brilliant but a very worldly woman," Martinghoe said.
"Of course, her point of view is not indefensible. She is an
individualist, and she considers the abnegation of your future a sin
against yourself. But Beatrice is full of ambition. You know, of

He stopped short. Something which flashed from Strone's eyes checked
him. There was a single luminous moment. Then Martinghoe finished his
sentence, having risen and strolled towards the window.

"She has made up her mind at last, I believe, to marry Lord Sydenham. He
has been her suitor for many years."


Ever the same deep stillness, a sort of brooding calm as though the land
slept, the faint rustling of a west wind, the slighter murmuring of
insects. And save for these things, silence. Strone stood on the
threshold of the empty cottage, which as yet he had not unlocked,
looking down upon the familiar patchwork of fields and woods, looking
away indeed through the blue filmy light with unseeing eyes, for a whole
flood of old memories were tugging at his heartstrings. A curious sense
of detachment from himself and his surroundings possessed him. Milly,
his house at Gascester, his shattered political career, were like
dreams, something chimerical, burdens which had fallen away. A rare
sense of freedom was upon him. He took long breaths of the clear,
bracing air. The place had its old delight for him. He threw himself
upon the turf, and closed his eyes. Here at last was peace.

Then the old madness again, burning in his brain, hot in his blood,
driving him across the hills, stirring up again the old recklessness,
the old wild delight. She was going to marry Lord Sydenham. She was
passing for ever out of his reach, and once she had been very near. His
heart shook with passionate recollections. With every step he took his
fierce unrest became a more ungovernable thing. What a farce it all
was--his stern attempt at self-control, his life shut off now from
everything worth having, a commonplace drone-like existence. After all,
what folly. The cup of life had been offered to him, his lips had
touched the brim. Was it poison after all which he had seen amongst the
dregs? Yet what poison could be worse than this?

Past the Devenhills' houses whence the music of her voice beat the air
around him, filled his ears with longing, brought almost the tears to
his eyes. Had he lived, indeed, through such delights as these mocking
memories would have him believe, when he had watched the roses
fluttering through the darkness, elf flowers, yet warm and fragrant
enough when he had snatched them from the dusty road, and crept away
with them into the shadows! Oh, what manner of man had he become to be
the slave of such memories? He was ashamed, yet drunk with the sweet
madness of it. Nowhere in this strange country of flowers and sweet
odours, of singing birds and delicate breezes, could he hope to escape
from the old thrall. The dreary machinery of life seemed no longer
possible to him. Milly and her unconquerable vulgarity, his narrowing
career, even his work mocked him with their emptiness. He turned
backwards to Gascester, but not homewards. He caught the evening express
with a moment to spare, flung himself breathless amongst the cushions of
an empty carriage just as the train glided from the station. Without any
clear purpose in his mind, he obeyed an impulse which seemed
irresistible. He must go to her.

At St. Pancras he remembered for a moment that he was wearing his
ordinary homespun clothes, disordered, too, with his long walk and race
for the train. Nevertheless he did not hesitate. He called for a hansom,
and drove to her house. The servant who admitted him looked him over
with surprise, but believed that Lady Malingcourt was within. She was
even then dressing for the opera. Strone was shown into her study--and

It was nearly half an hour before she came to him, and whatever feelings
his sudden arrival had excited she had had time to conceal them. She
came to him buttoning her gloves, and followed by her maid carrying her
opera cloak. The latter withdrew discreetly. Strone rose up--a strange
figure enough, with his wind-tossed hair and burning eyes.

"You?" she exclaimed, with raised eyebrows. "How wonderful!"

The sight of her, the sound of her voice, were fuel to his smouldering
passion. His heart was hot with the love of her.

"Is it true?" he asked, fiercely. "I have seen your brother. He says
that you are going to marry Lord Sydenham."

She looked at him in faint surprise.

"And why on earth should I not marry Lord Sydenham?" she asked.

It was like a sudden chill. She was angry, then, or she did not care.
Yet there had been times when she had looked at him differently. He made
an effort at repression.

"There is no reason why you should not," he admitted. "There is no
reason why you should not tell me--if it be true. For God's sake, tell

"It is perfectly true," she answered.

Then there was a silence. The man looked into a hopeless future, the
woman buttoned her gloves. When she had finished she looked him steadily
in the face.

"My friend," she said, "it is you yourself who are responsible for our
unlived lives. You had the gates open before you--you preferred
respectability, a villa at Gascester and the domestic virtues. I do not
blame you, I have ceased even to wonder at your amazing blunder. Only,
having made your choice, why do you come down upon me in a whirlwind of
passion as though the thing which I have done was not the most natural
thing in the world?"

"It is not natural," he cried. "Lord Sydenham is nothing to you."

"Well, he soon will be--my husband."

"You do not care for him."

"An excellent reason to marry him then. I shall have no disenchantment
to fear."

"Oh, this is mockery," he cried. "You can juggle with words, I know. I
am no match for you at that. Don't!"

"Don't what?"

"Marry Lord Sydenham."

She nodded her head thoughtfully.

"On certain conditions," she answered, "I will not."

"What are they?" he asked, hoarsely.

"You accept the place in the Government which was offered to you and
re-enter political life."


"You never ask more of my friendship than I am willing to give."


"You leave your wife altogether."

He started, and shook his head slowly.

"You don't understand. Milly has--a weakness. Even now I have to be
always watching."

"I know more of your wife than you think," she answered. "I know the
circumstances of your marriage, and something of her life since. My
conditions must stand."

"Do you know," he said, "that it would mean ruin to her--body and soul?"

"She is not fit to be your wife," Lady Malingcourt said, coldly. "You
can never make her fit. I think that you would be justified in ignoring
her claim upon you. There are limits to one's responsibility."

"Your brother would not say so," Strone remarked, thoughtfully.

"My brother is narrowed by his religion," she answered. "He has taken
it in too large a dose, and he has lost his sense of proportion. The
duty you owe to a woman with whom you have gabbled over the marriage
service is of no account beside the duty you owe to the whole world of
your fellow creatures."

"These," he said, "are your conditions."


He drew near to her. The struggle of the last few months seemed lined
into his face.

"Listen," he said. "I want to be honest--to you. I can't see it any way
but this. There's the woman and all the great underneath millions I
wanted to help on one side--and on the other--you."

"No," she interrupted. "Your life's work was never meant to be in
Gascester. It is your domestic duty, or what you imagine to be your
domestic duty, against your duty to your fellow creatures. You can leave
me out. The balance is struck without me. Be a man. Free yourself--make
use of your powers. The world is a great place for such as you. Strike
off your shackles."

"There will be no more--Lord Sydenhams?" he asked, breathlessly.

She smiled upon him--a transforming, transfiguring smile. It was the
woman who looked out upon him from those soft, clear eyes.

"I am not anxious," she said, "to be married at all. Only one must do
something. And lately London has been very dull. Is that you, Sydenham.
I am quite ready. I am afraid that you must be tired of waiting."

Lord Sydenham had entered almost noiselessly. He looked from one to the
other doubtfully.

"I am not interrupting anything in the nature of a conspiracy, I trust?"
he enquired, with a faint note of sarcasm.

Lady Malingcourt smiled.

"I am endeavouring to make Mr. Strone repent of his hasty decision," she
said. "I believe that I have succeeded."


Strone walked in his grounds before breakfast, his hands behind his
back, his face furrowed and anxious with thought He had all the
sensations of an executioner. Milly had to be faced--his decision made
known to her. All the way from St. Pancras this thing had been before
him, had hung around his pillow like an ugly nightmare. Now, in the
clear morning sunlight, the brutality of it seemed to be staring him in
the face. She was settling down so eagerly into this new life, so proud
of her home and belongings, so timidly anxious to avoid any of those
small lapses which kindled Strone's irritability. Of course she could
continue exactly as she was. There would be no difficulty about her
income--she could go on her way making friends, become even a power in
the small social world, whose recognition had given her such unqualified
delight. But Strone was not a man to deceive himself, and he knew very
well that under the good-natured vulgar exterior there remained the
woman, passionate, jealous, hyper-sensitive. He remembered that last
night in Marlow Crescent. He had saved her then only to fling her back
into the abyss! He tried hard to reason with himself. There was a world
open to him of which she could not possibly become a denizen. Her
presence by his side would hamper his career--would place him
continually in a false position, would be a serious drawback to him in
the great struggle on behalf of those suffering millions into which he
was longing to throw himself. For Strone at least was honest in this.
His personal ambition was a small thing. He was an enthusiast in a great
and unselfish cause. The favour of Lord Sydenham, the social recognition
which Lady Malingcourt was able to secure for him, he welcomed only as
important means towards his great end. He was shrewd enough to see their
importance, but for society "ipse facto" he had no predilection


She came out to him across the lawn. He turned and watched her
thoughtfully. She wore a loose white morning wrapper, simply made and
absolutely inoffensive, and he noticed, too, that the fringe against
which he had made several ineffectual protests was brushed back, greatly
to the improvement of her appearance. She was pale, and her eyes watched
him anxiously. Almost it seemed to him that she might in some way have
divined what was in store for her.

"Enoch," she exclaimed. "You are home, then."

"Yes," he answered. "I came in so late last night that I did not disturb
you. Is breakfast ready?"


She led the way and he followed her. She asked him no questions as to
his unexplained absence yesterday, and she made several attempts at
conversation, to which he returned only vague answers. Towards the close
of the meal he looked up at her.

"I want to have a few words with you, Milly, before I go," he said.
"Will you come into the study when we have finished?"

She nodded.

"Come into my workroom," she said. "I've got something to say to you.
I--I had a visitor yesterday."

Even when they were alone and the door was shut, he shrank from his
task. He looked around, surprised at the evidences of industry.

"Are you making your own dresses?" he asked. "I didn't think that was in
your line."

"No, but there is plenty of work to do," she answered, hurriedly.
"Enoch, I had a visitor yesterday."

"You get a good many, don't you?" he answered, indifferently.

"This one was different. It was Mr. Martinghoe."

He was surprised.

"Did he come to see you?"

"No, he came to see you," she answered. "He had been to the works, but
you were not there. He stayed for a long time, and we had a talk."


She got up, and stood leaning with her elbow on the mantelpiece. For the
first time a certain fragility in her appearance struck him. He had
always considered her the personification of coarse, good health. She
spoke, too, without her usual bluntness, with unusual choice of words,
and some nervousness. Strone awoke to the fact that there was a change
in her.

"Enoch," she said, "Mr. Martinghoe brought some news. You'll hear it
when you get to the works, for he will be there to meet you. Somehow,
though, I'm glad to be the first to tell you. They want you to stand for
Parliament for the Northern Division of Gascestershire."

He stared at her.


"It is the Conservatives. There's a deputation of 'em coming. Mr.
Martinghoe don't say much, but I think it's through him."

Strone was amazed.

"A rural constituency," he remarked, half to himself. "It wouldn't do at
all. Besides--"

"Please I want to go on," Milly interrupted. "Enoch, there's Melborough
in the division. That's quite a large town now."

He nodded.


"Enoch, I want you to do me a great, great favour," she said, earnestly.
"I want you to accept this offer. Don't interrupt. I know that it will
take you back into the life you gave up for me. I don't care. I've been
thinking about that lately, and I reckon I've been a selfish beast. I
made you give up the things you liked, and you might have become a great
man but for me. Enoch, I'm all right now. I'll swear it. There's never
no more fear about me. I'll live in London with you, or here, and you
can come down when you can spare a bit of time. I ain't going to be a
bit jealous of anything or anybody. I ain't indeed. And, Enoch, I want
to be a better wife to you," she added, with a little tearful break in
her tone, "if I can. I ain't the wife you ought to have married, dear. I
know that. I ought to have been clever, and known how to dress and talk
nicely, and all sorts of things. I'm going to try and improve. It's too
late for you to choose again, Enoch, but you've been real good to me,
and I ain't going to give you any more trouble."

A transformation. Something had found its way into Milly's heart and
stirred up all the good that was there into vigorous life. In her eager
tear-dimmed eyes he saw something shining which altered for ever his
point of view. He was bewildered. What was this thing which he had had
in his mind! Yesterday seemed far away: the thought of it made him
shudder. But what had come to Milly? He reached out his hand, and struck
from the table by his side a soft, shapeless object. He picked it up,
looked at it in blank amazement. It was a half-dressed doll.

"What on earth are you doing with this, Milly?" he exclaimed.

"I--I bought it at a bazaar. I thought I'd like to have it...Enoch!"

Her tone was half apologetic, half tremulous. Their eyes met, and he
understood. A new sense of humanity brought man and woman into a
wonderful kinship. He opened his arms, and Milly crept into them with a
little sob of contentment.


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