BEDESMAN 4
MARY-J-H-SKR1NE
BEDESMAN 4
KAM83C13K
BEDESMAN 4
BY
MARY J. H. SKR1NE
Author of "A Stepson of the SoU,"
"The House of the Luck," Etc.
FRONTISPIECE BY
ESTHER C. ADLINGTON
"Now frondes et non sua poma."
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1914
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY
THE CENTURY CO.
Published, April, 1914
TO
THE INHERITORS
2138260
CONTENTS
BOOK I
PASTURES NEW
BOOK II
THE DEAD HAND .......... 57
BOOK III
DENIAL ............. 107
BOOK IV
GWEN ........ ...... 199
EPILOGUE ............ 277
Book I
Pastures New
Bedesman 4
THERE were two of them, a boy and a
girl. For one, this fact had wholly
sufficed so far.
There never had been more. Neither
could recall a time when there had been
less. There were but sixteen months be-
tween them. As Granny Bold told Mother
at the time, twins would have been a lot
less work. But Mother, whose deepest
principles forbade her to desire what was
not ' * sent, ' ' replied seriously that she was
best off as the Lord pleased. Deep with-
in she knew she wished for nothing but
Life's good gifts as they were. They
grew together ; the boy, strong on his feet,
3
4 Bedesman 4
when lie got to them, and absorbingly in-
terested in Baby's comings-on and creep-
ings; till he guided her triumphantly be-
yond the kitchen and wash-house on to the
broad flags of the sunny garden path be-
tween the wall-flowers and the parrot tu-
lips. Thence they started, steadily and at
their ease, to travel on together: both
clearly aware of a broad road and a merry
one stretching on and on, under good sun-
shine. This outlook Mother's grave pie-
ties in no way altered. Calmly, naturally,
and without warning or flourish of trum-
pets, the road led them to an afternoon in
September, fresh and fair and soft with
autumn's earliest finger touch; which
afternoon was a beginning.
The boy stood leaning his arms along a
time-worn gate between one wide, green
meadow and the corner of another. A
green lane, a worn stony road-track in its
midst, ran away to his right between high,
Pastures New 5
ragged green banks. Beyond the near
fields, swept by great, purpling cloud-
shadows and bounded by far blue hills,
a wide landscape stretched, sown with scat-
tered gray villages, which thrust ancient
church towers through " immemorial elms"
in the mid-distance. The girl sat on the
bank and looked at the boy, who was rub-
bing his round chin reflectively up and
down his sleeve. Still, serious, unsmiling,
his brown eyes gazed up the grassy lane.
His comely childish head came of a hand-
some family, nay, of two. But the shapely
brow, the absorbed gaze, the young, still
lips, wore an unexplained air of power
that was their own. You looked at him
twice. He wore gray knickers, knit
stockings, stout shoes and an ancient
smock-frock, a garment now, alas! fast
disappearing from the earth. That same
Granny Bold, a "terr'ble one to sew,"
had made three of them for her dame-
6 Bedesman 4
school boy William, far away in ' ' Father 's ' '
childhood. Mother had put one by to be
a "pattern" for Emily. The other two,
on week-days, David was doing his level
best to wear out. Hate it as you may,
there is a fearful amount of "stand-by"
in a well-made smock. David looks back
with a tender smile to this discipline
of his childhood, that his mother thought
good for him. He has as yet known only
one woman fit to be a patch on his mother's
back.
Emily rose and wandered down the lane.
Her round face, fresh and sandy-haired,
was just the plain, wholesome countenance
of a healthy country child, whose chief at-
traction lay in a greeting look of uncon-
scious sincerity and good- will. Outwardly,
she was comfortable Granny Bold over
again ; who always suggested the full moon.
Dave was "at some of his thinkings," and
an unoccupied Emily gathered red and
Pastures New 7
black briony with resignation and slowly.
There was nothing morbid about Emily,
but childish love is like the daughters of
the horseleech, crying, "Give! give!"
To her surprise a quick call brought her
back. Dave stood upright; his eyes were
eager.
"Em'ly thee got to stand like that.
I 've a-got all of it ! Look ee ! Down lane
there Cromwell's soldiers did go that day,
all a-running. (The pack-horses did use
to come up along under the wood, like Dad
said.) They run all down through Pike's
Piece there and 'long under th' archway
right away to river; and there 'em fell in
wi r Squire Darner and 's men, as cut 'em
all to pieces. They drove 'em right up
and past here again. That 's why we
calls it Bloody Lane."
Though tea-time approached, the sun
was new-risen for Emily. She followed
him through ellipses, mixed pronouns and
8 Bedesman 4
all, though, the relevance of the pack-horses
remained as Greek to her.
"How do ee know?" she said, awestruck.
But at the bottom of her mind lay the
rooted belief that he knew all things.
The trouble of learning with him counted
for nothing.
"That gentleman what 's stopping up to
Eect'ry come in school. We was read-
ing and he come and telled up to we boys
'bout our countryside, and the fighting as
was. Folks knows a lot more things nor
they did use to."
"So 'em do," said Emily solemnly.
"You shut your eyes and think how 'em
looked! Helt-skelt! A-bangin' and a-
clangin' "
"Must a' looked just about horrid all
a-bleedin'," said frail woman.
He laughed. "I 'd a' been there, broke
head or none! You could get on, them
days. ' '
Pastures New 9
"So you can now-days," said Emily stur-
dily. As though any one could ever have
got on, if he could not !
"How do you come at it? I be goin* to
work after harvest. Fine lot o' chances
then!"
She rubbed herself against his shoulder
silently. He had never said it so plain
before.
His eyes wandered back up the lane.
He opened the gate and came through, and
stood, absorbed again.
"Sis, thee got to go home wi' theeself.
I'm for up to Bect'ry, now as ever is. He
did ought to know, and he mid be gone to-
morrow."
Emily swallowed down quite a small
sigh.
* ' All right. I '11 tell Mother. ' '
Along the field-path and over the stile
she trotted submissive away, towards cer-
tain brown farm roofs and a clustered
1O Bedesman 4
group of gray cottages, half-a-mile off.
The skirmish in Bloody Lane vanished
from her mental vision. It had been seen
through other eyes. Quietly, without any
emotional pathos, her heart within ached
a little. For she could not see what there
was to happen except his going to work,
"underground" most likely. Emily was
not a person of imagination. Neverthe-
less she saw Dave's face clearly, the day
he would leave school; as clearly as Dave
saw Squire Darner's men.
Through another and more tangled
green lane, she took a turn to the left lead-
ing to the cottages.
David went straight to the Kectory's
open front door. He had tugged at the
worn wooden lozenge that was the bell-pull
before he suddenly knew that "Mother 'd
have a fit." The peal, resounding, raised
a hot blush. But he was going through
with things.
Pastures New 11
"Beg pardon, please, miss, could I see
that gentleman what 's stopping here,
please, miss?"
The parlor-maid stepped past him, turn-
ing the corner of the house to where the
westering sun lay warm on the garden
bench.
1 'One of the boys, sir, is asking "
But David had followed her.
"Please, sir, " his words ran over each
other, "make so bold, sir, please, sir, I been
down Bloody Lane, sir. I can see 't all
just like you said, same as 't was a picture,
sir. And Father, he says "
The man with the large, hirsute, gray
head and the ill-fitting brown coat sat up-
right suddenly. He lifted a big book off
his knee on to the seat.
"Eh? (I saw you at the school.) What
is it about Bloody Lane? Does your
father know anything?"
"No, sir, Yes, sir, please. Th' old
12 Bedesman 4
pack-horse way from Devizes did use to
come along Bloody Lane over Pike's
Piece"
"Pike's Piece?" The gentleman sat
more upright still. "Is it far, boy!"
"No, sir, just through churchyard and
down meadow over the stile. ' '
"Come along," cried the gentleman.
They were crossing the churchyard be-
fore David knew much more, for this gen-
tleman was wont to go, when he was set
going. "Pike's Piece, Charley's Arch,"
he was muttering. "What put the pack-
horses into your head, boy?"
"Please, sir, my Gramfer he could
mind of 'em, when he were little. And
you said as they come from Devizes,
sir."
"Sol did. ' ' The gentleman 's look dwelt
on the smock frock, on the curious uncon-
sciousness of the eager eyes. "What
made you think out all this, eh?"
Pastures New 13
"Please, sir, you telled up that interest-
ing. An' I got studdin', and seemed like
as I could see 'em. And I do want to
know "
"Got studdin', did you? That's the
way to learn. What do you want to
know?"
David drew a long breath, gathering his
forces of expression.
"Please, sir in them days, did you
ought to ha* gone wi' Squire Darner for
the King, sir? or did you ought to ha' fol-
lowed wi' the Parli'ment?"
The gentleman pulled up in the midst of
the meadow, and rubbed one side of his
nose.
1 ' My good boy, all my life I Ve been at
that question. I wish I could tell you. I
wish to God I could.'*
His voice fell suddenly quite solemn and
he ceased to rub his nose.
"Personally, for myself but what 's a
14 Bedesman 4
temperament ? The events What would
you have done yourself, boy?"
David's face cleared.
"I should a' gone wi' Squire," he re-
plied at once, "sure to. There was Bolds
here, see, in them days, (and looked on,
Mother says), and Fielders too; and
worked for Darners, all on 'em did. But
I don't know as Darners was right. King,
he were a' ways a-choppin' and a-changin',
and breakin' his word times and often.
And he was on'y one. And the tothers
was for freedom, like Mr. Gladstone and
them as set up the co-ops."
The gentleman smiled all over his curi-
ous, eager face and down into his shaggy
beard. He began to walk on.
"You Ve got the right sow by the ear.
But the King was n't one. He was an
embodied principle too, then; just as Vic-
toria is. You seem to think about these
things."
Pastures New 15
* ' Mr. Dicey, he give me a book Please
sir, yonder 's Pike's Piece, where the tur-
muts is, and this here 's Bloody Lane."
"Ay! Ay! Now the pack-road "
"Down there. But you 'd have to climb
the fence "
It presently appeared that the gentle-
man regarded the prosecution of trespass-
ers as an irrelevance. The golden sun
was near setting and they had walked about
two miles before they stood again by the
old gate that looked on Bloody Lane.
"David Bold, The Wick," read the gen-
tleman from his note-book before he thrust
it into his pocket. "I '11 send you that
book. You '11 find it a bit stiff. But it '11
set you 'studdin'.' That 's the main
thing." His fingers closed on something
round in his waistcoat pocket and he stared
stonily over the boy's head at the church
tower. No. Not to a fellow-studder.
He nodded. "Good-by to you." David
l6 Bedesman 4
touched his forehead, and turned away with
a lingering look.
The gentleman thrust his hands into his
pockets and walked reflectively down
Bloody Lane, whistling low between his
teeth. At the turning he pulled up.
' ' Ay. Ay, ' ' he muttered, ' ' the boy 's right.
You can see it all, same as 'twas a pic-
ture."
At the Rectory he turned indoors and
went to his friend's study.
"I say, Eichards, is Dicey the name of
your schoolmaster?"
Crossing Pike's Piece, David remem-
bered as in a dream that he had had no
tea, and forgot it again. He thrilled yet
to the stimulus of that quest after the pack-
horse road ; and he knew that he liked that
bearded man better than any human being
he had ever met. The understanding be-
tween them was a new thing in life. But
Pastures New 17
there was with David a thing bigger than
any man : a widening of his whole being, a
waking, a moving. At a gap in the hedge
he stopped and gazed. The sun behind
him had dropped in the last moments.
Vale and hills lay silent under the faint
bluish-gray haze of early evening. The
boy's eyes widened and widened. He had
grown up with that landscape as with his
mother's face. It had words for him that
no one knew. In eager moments, his soul
turned to it wordlessly. But he was not
consciously thinking of it.
It is fearfully interesting to be young
and not to understand yourself. But there
are moments when things not yourself en-
gulf all that.
The boy in the smock-frock knew dumbly
that he was very small and waiflike, and
alone in the vast world with dreams that
no one would understand, even himself.
The peasant does not 'accept his fate'; he
l8 Bedesman 4
dwells in the midst of it. But this one was
aware that he did not know what it was.
Only, like a bright-eyed frail young man,
who wrote a certain letter of dedication
from Davos Platz, he was sure that "the
best that is in us is better than we can
understand."
Then all at once the dream broke, and
he knew he was ragingly hungry. He
turned and made the quickest of ways
home to the gray knot of old cottages. In
an open doorway Emily sat, darning a sock
of Father's.
"Sis, be there any tea left? Where 's
Mother?"
n
ON a Saturday "Quar' come out" (in
the speech of Broughton Priors) at
midday: tired men, having earned their
Sabbath, emerging to look upon the sun till
Monday.
William Bold's Esther moved, with deft,
silent hands and step, in the deep-thatched
stone cottage, that stood back behind its
glowing front garden. There were wives,
if you 'd believe it as she sorrowfully did
would encourage a man to take dinner
with him the same on Saturday as other
days: as though they 'd never heard of
afternoons at the King's Arms. But this
quiet, paven place did not look as though
its mistress were one of "them as must be
all of a clutter, ' ' because the week was end-
ing.
19
2O Bedesman 4
Having washed the onions and her own
hands, Mrs. Bold stood for a moment in the
sunny doorway: a handsome, dark-eyed
woman, whose fine, serious face was full of
character. Only to meet her going to shop
was to be aware of a personality. Her
beautiful eyes, severely steady but alto-
gether benign, lacked something of the
country-woman's wide readiness of reply.
She thought for herself, measuring others
with a grave courtesy as respectful as her
old-fashioned "drop-curchy" at sight of
her ' ' betters. ' ' You felt that you probably
fell short. If you were sick or innocently
sad, she met you with a large love not to be
forgotten. But from herself, and so far as
in her lay, from those around her, she ex-
acted a standard above everyday, comfort-
able conventions. You had to live for God
in the world. It was not very likely to be
easy. In daily life she bore about with
her a scrupulous dignity of the neat and
Pastures New 21
the clean, the capable, the careful. Her
children did not know what it was to see
Mother look a slattern like some of the
women. Her oldest gown and shoes were
tidy. Her blue plates, that had come on
from Granny Fielder, were pale with a
careful old age : but Esther never chipped
a thing; and taught Emily, that would go
to service, a like care, as a grave duty owed
to God and man.
It was still much too early for William
when some one rapped on the door and an
unknown voice asked if Mrs. Bold lived
nearby. The visitor puzzled her. He was
clearly a gentleman, but no parson. She
found him scarcely tidy to be seen, espe-
cially his beard ; and he was far from con-
venient in "the mid of the morning."
Good manners, however, bade her greet
him with,
"Pray, sir, to walk in. There 's a step
down here, just inside. And it's a bit dark
22 Bedesman 4
if you '11 mind your head, sir. Please to
be seated."
She waited his pleasure, while he looked
round silently. He never had seen an in-
terior like this, out of a picture, or a novel
by the wife of the Warden of Cuthbert's.
Its wide hearth and hanging pot, the
bacon-rack between the black beam and the
wall, the dark dresser with its worn crock-
ery, all gave him the shock of pleasure that
comes with old things that are new. The
woman belonged to it all. Both wore a
curious and unconscious dignity, that hith-
erto he had only met in association with
great things of the past. A queer shyness
gripped him. It was time he spoke. He
had pictured the interview as easy enough.
It began to look different.
"You 're Mrs. Bold?" he said.
"Yes unless 'twas Granny you was
wanting, my mother-law, sir? She lives
down to the farm cottages."
Pastures New 23
"No," said the visitor, "I expect it's
you. You 've a boy, have n't you? Called
David."
Esther Bold's quiet face changed, subtly
and completely.
"I have, sir "
"Ah, well, I fell in with your boy two
days ago. Perhaps he told you "
"Yes, sir" her eyes were just like the
boy's "the gentleman as took him down
Bloody Lane "
"Well, no. He took me. I had a talk
with the boys in school-time. In the after-
noon he came to the Eectory door "
"Not the front door, I 'm sure I hope,
sir?"
"Oh, the front door, I suppose. I can't
say. He came round the corner after the
maid to tell me he 'd found out something
bearing on what I 'd been saying, and took
me off there and then." The stranger
ceased speaking. Their looks met. Up to
24 Bedesman 4
now she had not been sure that she liked
him. His eyes were clear and gray: they
met her with a gravity and a sort of calm
aloofness, which appealed to her inmost
instincts. She saw at once that he had
something responsible to say and was
thinking how best to say it, just as she
might herself. She yielded, wondering,
not unafraid.
"Your boy," he said slowly, "is not
quite an ordinary boy. He 's What are
you going to do with him, Mrs. Bold?"
David's mother moved in her chair.
"His father, sir, thought upon taking
him down quarry; you can put your own
boy along. My mind don't go with it.
Down there in the dark, they forgets the
Lord something terrible, the talk and
that. On the land you don't take the same
money. There 's the stables, or there 's
service. He 's a bright boy "
* ' Bright ! ' ' The gentleman 's voice made
Pastures New 25
her jump. "He 's brilliant. You ought
to keep him to school "
"Begging your pardon, sir, if you 're
thinking of the sums and that, the country
boys they don't have their health in them
shops, for all they may be clever."
Her guest moved his chair, with a loud
scroop of its legs on the stone floor, and
leaned forward. He seemed to take Es-
ther Bold into a large, firm, and quite un-
known grasp. It was the grip of the ex-
pert.
' ' Look here, my my good soul. Put all
those things out of your mind, while I ex-
plain. That boy is meant for his books.
Much more than that. There are two
kinds of gifted man, Mrs. Bold : the steady
useful fellow, who turns to most things
with success and the first-rater. He
stands by himself! He has got to do one
thing. Put him to another job, you waste
him alive. But that one, he '11 do su-
26 Bedesman 4
perbly, as no other in his generation can
do it. He 's himself, that man, not a type
of the race. Do you take me?"
The dark eyes were fixed on him.
"I am striving to, sir." Her quiet tone
quivered a little.
"That man" his voice dropped "is
your David, Mrs. Bold. You 've got to face
it. He has what we call the historic mind.
I know it, could n't mistake it, it 's my own
shop. But David will be a bigger man
than I am. He must follow me and others,
must "
There Esther Bold moved and spoke.
It was not manners, but she had to stem the
tide.
"I 'm no scholar, nor I have n't any gift :
but oh, sir! 'tis not the things as we 'd
choose: 'tis what the Lord sends, for we
to do wi' our might. My David he got to
serve in that state of life, him lookin' to
a better. We have to teach the children,
Pastures New 27
sir, for to make their callin' and election
sure "
It was a kind, even a fatherly smile ; but
that grip relaxed not one whit.
"A grand Book, the Bible, Mrs. Bold.
It 's given you the precise word I wanted.
Listen. Nicholas' School at Spetterton
takes boys from the national schools on
their ancient Foundation. I am one of
their trustees and have a nomination to
give. The present Master, a pupil of
mine, is at home. I made it my business
yesterday to see him, and he says your boy
should be well able to pass the entrance
examination. He 'd then get a free educa-
tion: they would run him for one of their
History scholarships at my own College;
at nineteen he would be coming up to Ox-
ford with the world before him. That 's
your David's calling, Mrs. Bold." The
smile broadened. "I feel pretty sure
of what I'm telling you. It's my business
28 Bedesman 4
to know a born student when I see him:
David will shape as I expect."
He ceased and watched her, realizing
that he had a definite thing to reckon with ;
that it was expressed in this woman, whose
eyes, wide and lovely and profoundly seri-
ous, had felt their way after him slowly.
A weighty pause fell. He was patient.
At last Mrs. Bold rose with a glance at the
clock.
"If you '11 please to excuse me, sir."
The two plates bore the washed onions,
peeled potatoes, turnips, and fresh young
carrots. She laid on sticks to kindle the
faded fire. The hanging pot worked upon
an anciently devised hook, that even amid
the annoyance of this check delighted his
heart. Mrs. Bold bestowed her vegetables
within; the plates went tidily back to the
dresser. One might have thought her
scarcely alive to a crucial moment: but
the man who wanted her David had a con-
Pastures New 29
sciousness of firmly repressed emotion in
the air. She returned to her place.
"I 'm sure, sir, I can't tell how to thank
you taking thought like you have."
Then she sat looking at the flickering fire.
The black pot began to whisper gently.
He remembered sardonically remarking to
another eminent novelist that, when the
Wardeness of Cuthbert's opened a cottage
door, you were conscious of hidden trag-
edy and a smell of onions. Mrs. Bold's
onions seemed to have no smell. About
herself there was no tragedy, nor anything
that resented: only a sort of fervent and
intense gravity, wherewith one did not in-
termeddle. She raised her eyes to his.
"You 'd be making our boy a gentle-
man, sir?"
He felt himself flush.
"At Oxford his companions would be
other gentlemen. All scholars are equal
there, Mrs. Bold."
30 Bedesman 4
He believed it fiercely; but lie wondered
if he were deceiving her. With the next
words his inward thermometer dropped:
but he thought, quite wrongly, that he
understood her the better.
' ' 'T would be a long while before he 'd
be making much," she said reflectively.
"We haven't but the one boy to look to,
if Father was took; wi' one of them acci-
dents might be " She paused. "I
think as I 've took it all in. He 'd have to
go now directly, 'ouldn' he, sir! If I was
to go in Spetterton wi' carrier, could I see
that gentleman, and talk wi' him!"
"Certainly you could. I '11 give you a
note." He tore a leaf from his pocket-
book, and she fetched from her mother's
gate-legged table a thin white envelope,
which he addressed with a firm pencil.
"I '11 have to talk to his father. I 'm
sure, sir, we 'turns you many thanks.
We '11 take the good Sunday for to turn
Pastures New 31
it over, and I '11 step up to Rect'ry Mon-
day or Tuesday. You 're leaving, sir?
Then I '11 write. Where to, please ! ' '
"Ah, yes. My name 's Brownlow Pro-
fessor Brownlow." He wrote " Oxford"
beyond the name of a College, and handed
her his card. Both had risen: for an in-
stant he stood looking at the grave-eyed,
personable woman with her curious air of
refinement that had nothing to do with
'breeding.'
"You '11 have to give in," he said smil-
ing; "there 's that in your boy will go its
own way, whatever we do."
Esther Bold's lips moved in a slow smile
and she sighed.
" 'T is like that with the children, good
guide 'em maybe you got 'em of your
own, sir! Good morning, and my service
to you, I'm sure. Your kindness '11 be give
back to you, sir. That 's certain."
Ill
ESTHEE BOLD fetched the white
cloth from the dresser-drawer. The
Professor's back had disappeared along
the road. She laid the table a little elab-
orately, then she went and stood at the
door. It seemed not a morning's length,
but years since she sent her white-clad
quarryman away after his breakfast. She
wanted to see him approaching, and yet
she shrank. Till he came this moving
thing was her own only. Her heart within
her was all stirred. It beat in her ears.
She was shaken with it, and rebuked her-
self. Closing her eyes, she prayed. But
there came no calm. Facts, yearnings,
fears crowded upon her. She wanted this
big thing for her child. Then she did not
32
Pastures New 33
want it. It was unknown. It was doubt-
ful. It threw the future out of drawing.
Yet a mother's hot ambition, below all, de-
sired, yearned for it. If William All
at once she saw the white figure at the turn
of the road, and instantly went inside
again.
Her husband, in his cream-colored
clothes with little brown straps below the
knees of his trousers, handsome, square-
set, red-headed, stood knocking the sticky
mud off his boots before he stepped over
the threshold. He lacked the curious, sub-
tle distinction and character that belonged
to his wife. But he was a fine man to look
at, and a good workman, and glanced
round the neat, comfortable place with a
cool pride of possession. He meant to buy
his house, as soon as there was a bit more
put away.
Esther, putting a plate to warm, did not
look at him.
34 Bedesman 4
' ' You be well to time, my dear. ' '
''Where 's the youngsters?" the father
said.
"Down to Granny's, doin' up her gar-
den. Took their dinner. Yours '11 be
ready soon as you be." He never sat
down in quarry clothes of a Saturday.
The loose linen jacket and old brown trou-
sers made him a less striking figure, but a
more comfortable. He had half satisfied
his hunger before, fixing steady eyes on
her, he said,
"What 's up wi' you, missus?"
Her eyes sought his silently. Theirs
was a faithful marriage ; though two trou-
bled years, when both were young, had
slowly taught her idealisms that the lover
she had met at Mother's favorite prayer-
meeting was merely a working man of
the usual flesh and blood. With the boy's
birth, its deep fears and dear hopes, she
had learnt to prize his man's strength;
Pastures New 35
and he had come nearer to understand-
ing.
Across her jug of home-brewed a com-
promise with his refusal to Hake the
pledge' she looked to see how he would
take her news.
"I Ve got a big thing to speak about,"
she said, not quite steadily.
"Eh?"
" 'T is a gentleman been here, from Ox-
ford College. He come after 'twas him
took our Dave out, that night as he were
late for tea." She paused. He eyed her
inquiringly. "He do want for we to send
Dave to Spetterton Free School: says as .
the child be out o' common clever, and
they 'd send 'n on t' Oxford College, when
he come up nineteen."
Her husband read new and strange
things in the brown eyes that he had never
quite fathomed.
"Do thee want it?" he said.
36 Bedesman 4
1 1 1 don' know if I do want it. ' ' Her eyes
showed her helpless yearning. "I do
want the Lord's will for >n, whatever 't is.
He 'd come up a gentleman. He 'ouldn't
learn no bad words: nor none o' that "
She ceased. Her lips were working, and
she could not speak steadily. "Thee 'd
have to stand out of 's money. 'T is thee
must say."
William sat silent. He knew her ; or be-
lieved he did.
"Thee do want it," he said. A scarcely
perceptible smile touched his lips. "Us
can get along like we be ; they '11 give me a
crane presently if I d' ax for it."
"Don't thee be takin' no risks," she said
seriously. The man who 'had a crane'
paid so many men and held the profits,
which in working a good seam might be
considerable. They were silent, till she
reached a white envelope from the mantel-
shelf above them.
Pastures New 37
"He give me that for to give to the
schoolmaster. Us did ought to see him,
whether or no."
"Frank Fletcher, Esquire," he read
aloud. "I've a-seen that place. 'T is
along the London road." His eyes trav-
eled to the clock.
"The carts '11 be by, 'bout a half hour
from now. Thee could get a lift in, and
back wi' carrier."
She nodded. "Granny she r d give them
childern their tea; and us could go to-
gether. Else we '11 have to bide till an-
other Saturday."
"I '11 go down to Mother's while thee
gets theeself ready."
"Don't ee say nothing," she cried
quickly. "There mightn't nothing come
of it. Tell 'em the carts is goin' and we
takin' the chance. 'Tis true."
He smiled again. She rose and stood
looking round.
38 Bedesman 4
"What about thee buyin' the house?"
she said, suddenly.
" That '11 be all right," said William,
solidly. Within, the instant pinched him.
It was a cherished dream and had involved
a second wage-earner. But when Esther
wanted a thing, it was usually a weighty
thing, a little above average, everyday de-
sires. She usually had it whether or no
she realized the fact.
"Us '11 go, then," she said gravely, and
opened the long brown door in the wall
that hid the stairs.
The long procession of low, solid stone-
carts with their heavy wheels left a broad
track, steel-blue, where the big slipper-
drags steadied them down the long hill.
On a great slab of broad creamy oolite, a
ton and a half in weight, Mrs. Bold spread
a shawl to save her best gown. William,
beside, walked the long eight miles in the
autumn sunshine.
Pastures New 39
That learned and wealthy gentleman,
Sir Humphrey Nicholas of Compton
Nicholas^ in the second year of King
Henry VII, set the clustered buildings
of his "Free Schoole for all ye poore
children of Compton and other good
menns children," together with his Bede-
house, in certain lands and tenements be-
side the river Combe : enf eoffing three Fel-
lows of Cuthbert's, Oxford, and others to
the number of eight, "in a moiety of his
Manor and in one mese and a toft cum per-
tinentibus lying without it." The College
in return covenanted to keep in repair St.
Margaret's Chapel and altar, where he
had founded a chantry; to appoint the
Chantry Priest, and to pay to him eight
pounds per annum for keeping of the free-
school ; also to each of the eight poor men
in the Bede-house ninepence per week,
with three and f ourpence yearly for a gown
and two and threepence for fuel; the resi-
4-O Bedesman 4
due of the rents being expended by the
Warden and Fellows in exhibitions or
otherwise at their discretion.
Thanks to his cautiously worded deed of
Feoffrnent and to the persistence of his de-
scendants in the Manor, the spirit of this
good Knight presided, through troublous
days and calmer, like a careful and far-
seeing guardian, over his green riverside
acres and thatched walls, now hoary and
lichen-grown. When in mid-nineteenth cen-
tury certain Commissioners came down
from London with every intention of "loos-
ing the dead hand of the Founder" from
this comfortable bit of property, they
found a flourishing and superior day-
school, no longer free, on the outskirts of
the thriving cloth-weaving town of Spet-
terton, (a hamlet in 2 Henry VII), where-
into little Compton had been long since
absorbed. Cuthbert's and Sir Hum-
phrey's deed withstood them to their face
Pastures New 41
and won ; for the school served the trades-
men class well, and the exhibitions were
valuable. So the government of the place
remained in the hands of the original eight
trustees, who, dismissing the "poore men"
to Flint 's Almshouse, by Spetterton Parish
Church, adapted their old abode to the
uses of a new foundation of boarders.
The latest successor of the original Chan-
try Priest, a rubicund young layman of
pleasing countenance, was playing tennis
on his sixteenth-century turf, with some of
his Sixth Form from the town, when the
stone-cart stopped. Esther Bold's eyes
took in ancient gateway and latticed win-
dows, nodding sunflowers and gaudy dah-
lias in the old Bede-house garden, while
William pulled the long chain under its
little penthouse. A gawky young man in
livery, who answered, threw open the door
of a wainscotted hall, carrying off the Pro-
fessor's letter: and they stood meekly wait-
42 Bedesman 4
ing, under the brooding gaze of the
Founder's portrait by Holbein, which
hung, deep-bearded and flat-hatted, above
the high stone mantel.
The healthful and slightly perspiring
presence of the Master in his clean mod-
em flannels entered from a side door.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Bold. Come into
my study, won't you?" He had shaken
hands courteously with both, causing Wil-
liam to blush up to his hair. "I saw the
Professor yesterday. We had a long talk
about your boy. Our term begins in ten
days. Yes, we have a jolly garden,
haven't we? I expect you 'd like to go
round the place first." He had rung the
bell. "Tea in half an hour, Clark. This
way, Mrs. Bold." He led them on by long
passages, up and down stairs, in and out of
tiny chambers, and through deep, low class-
rooms fitted with old desks in shocking
repair, to Mrs. Bold's careful eye. They
Pastures New 43
followed, meek and monosyllabic, till
they emerged again at length upon the
bowling-green, where the lads were still
at the interrupted game. The parents had
gone through all the survey speechlessly;
it seemed to them a sort of dream, scarcely
half realized ; Mr. Fletcher did all the talk-
ing, and found them " a bit heavy on hand. ' r
But on the stone bench under the study-
window, Esther Bold became aware that
she ought to speak. Her hands in their
neat knitted gloves met in her lap: she
steadied her soul for an effort.
" I 'm sure, sir, we be downright obliged.
I 'd never thought as it could be that beau-
tiful; and the beds and all, free gracious.
'T is main good of the gentlemen. But
surely, sir, our David bain 't fit. 'T is all
suitable to gentlefolks: and he but a poor
boy; for all he knows his manners, like
'em should all be taught, as you knows, sir ;
and speak the truth, as he knows I 'd
44 Bedesman 4
pretty near die if he didn't; and hurt no-
body by word or deed ; and his lips is pure,
sir, please the Lord they keeps so."
Her subject had taken hold of her and
she raised her eyes to the Master, who
liked her very much.
"We have several," he said gently,
"from from schools like David's." He
could not truthfully say "from homes like
yours." Board School boys from the
town were not like this one; and he knew
it, though he had never been inside a coun-
try cottage. "They do very well. He will
have one of the little Bede-house rooms
you saw. One Saturday in the term, if
you wish, he can come home till Sunday
evening. Come indoors now, won't you?"
For the sound of teacups came from within
the study.
"He 's a real nice young gentleman,"
Mrs. Bold opined gravely, as they turned
from the gateway towards the shops and
Pastures New 45
the Anchor Inn, whence " Carrier"
started, "for all I 'd looked to see some-
body a bit more serious-like, and that. But
I could kind o ' trust him. ' '
William nodded. At the bottom of his
mind, he felt himself miles apart from the
whole thing; in another world, his own of
the quarry and the fields, whence he could
not visualize this one. But certain facts
had taken hold on him, among them the
look and the voices of the lithe lads spring-
ing over the tennis-court. When he had
thought a bit, he spoke.
" There 's a lot in book-learnin'. I 'd be
doin' a lot better myself down quar' if I 'd
had a bit more cypherin' and that. I 'd
meant for he to learn the mensuration."
She assented gravely.
"Thee must turn it over and so must I,
takin' the good Sunday. 'T is thee must
settle it, my dear, 'cause o ' the money. ' '
"Did ought to put up wi' something, "
46 Bedesman 4
lie said slowly, "for the boy to come up a
gentleman. ' '
His wife's beautiful eyes were turned on
him: they were swimming in tears.
" 'T is 't is that I be feared on," Esther
Bold said, with shaken voice. Then she
controlled herself, going on quietly beside
him, with her steady, rapid step. He was
silent, vaguely wondering if you could
ever be sure where you 'd have a woman.
They reached home a little after sun-
down, taking the short cut over the fields
from the Plough, where 'Carrier' stopped.
The door was open, and Emily ran out to
take the parcels from Mother, who asked,
"Where 's Dave?"
"In the window there, wi' a book as
come from Eectory. I got supper laid,
Mother."
"That's Mother's careful maid. Put
'em on the pantry shelf, my dear."
Esther had read, with a little stab, some-
Pastures New 47
thing she had come to know in the open
childish face. She asked no other for her
daughter than woman's world-old drama
of dependence: but " 'twould come hard
on that poor child."
Monday afternoon had come. Esther
sat alone by the fireside, darning, when her
husband came in. "You be early, my
dear," she said.
"I be. We Ve a-finished up seam, and
I 'ad a mind to come back home before the
youngsters was in. I 've a-thought, Mis-
sus."
"You 'ave, then?"
"Yes. I Ve a-thought. I '11 stand out
o' the money, Missus. The boy shall
have 's chance. ' '
A quick trembling shook his wife; but
her voice was quite steady.
"You be a good father, my dear. I 'ope
as he '11 give it back."
48 Bedesman 4
William uttered a short sound inartic-
ulate, rough, emotional.
"Be goin' to clean myself," he re-
marked.
Esther Bold sat still by the fire, her
hands on her lap, her heart aflame. She
thanked God, and snatched the words back.
She called upon him and the cry became
praise. In the midst of it, she saw her
boy's head pass beyond the window.
Her son was growing that tall ! He was
beginning to have to stoop coming in at
the door, like his father. The step down
inside made the doorway shallow. Them
smocks would have to go now! Fanny's
Albert would be glad of them, all but the
one heirloom for Emily. Bless him! he
had a comely face. Would it look the same
in a month or two ?
"Dave, you can wash your hands: and
Emily, my dear, you mid fill the kettle.
Father 's came home."
Pastures New 49
The familiar world, the sound of her
own voice and the kettle's, gradually be-
came real again. But the inward argu-
ment went on. If the boy changed, whose
fault would it be? If he didn't, a sort
of miracle! God could work miracles.
David ought to know by now what went
before a fall.
"Father, your tea 's ready. Come, my
dears."
William sat in the arm-chair of au-
thority. The firelight danced on Esther's
comely head, on the bright pewter teapot,
on the boy over his hot toast, on Emily's
round eyes above her teacup. Emily, hav-
ing eaten her fill, was revolving in her
heart the question of an adjournment with
David to the wash-house; where, Monday
being boiling-day, the copper fire was still
alight. In summer they would run out
among the trees behind the house. Mon-
days were far lovelier in autumn and win-
50 Bedesman 4
ter ; when they meant the blue three-legged
stool and the turned-up basket, beside the
square, glowing mouth of the copper: the
cob-nuts ; the cold, bare boughs in the wind,
beyond the little window; perhaps, the
snow; the warmth within; and Dave's
stories, endless, breathless! Emily knew
no joy greater than that hour's. But,
from the absence of talk she knew Dave's
"signs" as a careful farmer knows his
heavens she feared to-night his head was
in that book. She washed the tea-things
always. To-night, before she had touched
them, her mother spoke, rather suddenly.
" Father, I think 't is time now for tellin'
David what we been a-talkin' of."
The boy had gravitated instantly to-
wards the dresser, where the brown book
lay. He turned his face full of sudden
question.
William Bold sat upright in his chair.
"You can tell 'em, Missus," he said.
Pastures New 51
When the children were concerned, he
never was the chief speaker.
''Come here to me, David, " said Es-
ther Bold. When she felt a thing deeply
and anxiously, her tone and her face were
never without a hint of sternness. The
boy understood it. It only awed and ex-
cited him. He came and stood by her
chair.
"David, the Lord have looked upon
thee. Father and me have got a girt piece
o' good luck come to us for thee, David."
She paused, delaying, choking back she
scarcely knew what, joy or fear.
"There ain't a boy in this parish nor
plenty more here round about, as ever
come by the like. I hope you '11 lay it to
ee, David, and give the Lord back."
"What, Mother V 9 David asked breath-
less. The room was shaking with Emily.
' ' Your gentleman what took 'ee out come
here Saturday. He 've planned as you
52 Bedesman 4
should go to Nich'las Free School to Spet-
terton. They be goin' to be wonderful
good to 'ee there : and give 'ee book-learn-
ing all free gracious, more 'n plain writin'
and cypher. Latin and history-books and
all sorts. Nor that ain't all."
The boy's bright eyes devoured her
face.
''They says if Father can give up
thoughts of you earning anything or doin'
for yourself, they '11 keep ee come you be
nineteen, and then send ee to Oxford Col-
lege, for to see if the folks up there '11 take
ee to instruct, like they does the gentle-
men. This here school have got some sort
of a hold upon Oxford College, as they 're
bound to take a boy from there once a year.
It mid be you, David."
The boy's breath came short and
quick.
"You did ought to thank your father,
David, as have made up his mind for to
Pastures New 53
stand out o ' your money, and part keep ee
'isself for you t' 'ave such a chance."
David stepped across the narrow hearth.
"Thank ee, Father," he said in a high,
excited, childish voice, "be main good of
ee, Father."
His mother caught her breath. The boy
had taken it in.
Emily behind had stood looking on
with scarlet cheeks. Her little soul,
shaken and eager, was filled suddenly to
overflowing with passionate pride. He
was going to be seen for what he was ! to
do the marvels she had always known he
could do! Now nothing could have re-
strained her. She sprang forward and
caught David round the neck.
1 ' Oh, Dave, Dave ! ' ' she cried out. ' l Oh
Dave! I be that glad." Her pale eyes
glowed and danced. No thought but of
selfless joy was in the child.
The boy turned, caught her by the shoul-
54 Bedesman 4
ders and jumped with her up the room and
back again. His cheeks were flaming : his
eyes lit ; he was a creature transformed ; a
boy no longer, that dumb, conscious thing
that is a boy.
The tears leapt up into Esther Bold's
eyes. She was not a crying woman, but
they blinded her.
As the dancing children came near her,
she stretched a hand, rose, and arrested
them, looking on them with eyes of fierce
love, and shaking lips that for a long min-
ute would not speak.
"My son, when you be come up a gen-
tleman, mind what your mother did say to
you this night. Wherever you be and what-
ever you Ve a-done, don't you never come
ashamed o' your sister, David. She do
love thee faithful."
Book II
The Dead Hand
IV
DAVID'S box had departed early by
the carrier: an ancient hair- trunk,
which had gone with Granny Fielder and
Mother to their first places. It was
studded with elaborate designs, in brass
nails which Emily rubbed to blazing point
after the packing.
The entrance examination had resolved
itself into written questions, imprisoning
in an empty class-room, till five of a sunny
afternoon, a David oppressed with a sense
that his life depended on them.
In due course a letter came.
"Dear Mrs. Bold, I am glad to tell you
that David has passed in. He should pre-
sent himself here not later than five next
Monday, when term begins. He will have
57
58 Bedesman 4
time to unpack and settle down before hall
tea at six. Believe me faithfully yours, F.
B. Fletcher."
The sheet bore a square stamp with a
facsimile of the Holbein above the date
1487.
No one ate much dinner that Monday.
Emily, mounting the narrow brown stair-
case from the kitchen, clad herself in the
gray frock and white hat of Sunday. She
was to walk to Spetterton with David, and
return with the carrier. A fine instinct
that she but half understood kept Esther
Bold at home. She had kissed and sol-
emnly blessed him, and David was ramming
his new straw hat down on his head, when a
diversion occurred in the form of Granny
Bold, bustling up from the farm cottages,
"one vast substantial smile."
"He do look smart! Granny 'ad to
come and throw shoe after 'n! Here,
sonny, lovely and ripe!" From a seem-
The Dead Hand 59
ingly limitless pocket came two huge and
scarlet apples; after more diving also an
old bag purse and a pierced " three-
penny. ' '
"Keep that and thee '11 have money.
What, won't 'em go in thee pocket? Let I
try."
"Here 's my basket," said Emily
quickly. He was pernickety about that
jacket ! Granny with some noise embraced
the departing hero. With a twitch of the
boyish mouth, he held up his face silently
again to Mother.
"Don't 'ee fret after 'n, my dear."
Granny came in from the gate. "Come
down my place, or sh' I stop a bit and help
with thee sewing?"
"I haven't no call to fret," said Esther
gravely. "I 'm sure you got plenty sew-
ing, Mother. Mine 's most done."
The pair went soberly down the hill.
Crossing the stile, where the vale showed
60 Bedesman 4
distant chimneys, David pointed. "There
's where I be goin'." His face was full of
new things.
"I wish as I could see ee there," said
Emily slowly.
"They don't have no girls," he replied
gravely, well aware that hers was the re-
verse of the shield.
"If 'em did, I ain't sharp enough. Nor
Mother couldn't spare me till I goes to
place. ' '
" 'T is like as if we had to go different
ways." He spoke with a gravity like his
mother's. "But 'tis just the same,
really. ' '
She nodded, swallowing deep in her
throat. "To be sure 'tis," she said,
stoutly, ' ' and thee Ve never finished telling
up about that old man in the book."
Sitting on the last stile they slowly dis-
posed of Granny's apples. The short cut
brought them past the tall white hospital
The Dead Hand 61
and down into the town about half-past
three. They visited Mother's shops and
deposited Emily's basket in the high white-
covered carrier's cart. Then under the
old inn's archway they kissed simply and
parted; a pair of children " going different
ways. ' '
Emily turned towards the shelter of a
friend's back-parlor where she was to get
her tea: she neither cried nor consciously
grieved : she only felt cold all over and very
silent. The child-soul hates the irrevoc-
able.
David, turning from the inn, was glad to
mount back to the lane between bramble
brakes, that ran towards the west; streets
have always an untrusted strangeness to
the country-bred.
On the high road at right angles that
went traveling over the hill to London be-
tween golden trees and broad green mar-
gins, the boy stood still a small, lonely
62 Bedesman 4
figure, with, lifted head, scenting the air of
the future.
The town, set with two tapering spires
and many factory-chimneys, lay beneath
its faint haze of smoke, below. Beyond it,
his own wide vale and blue hills met the
horizon line.
On the hither side, the hill dropped to
fields and lines of willows, the green out-
skirts of the town. A cluster of gray
buildings, irregularly roofed with a deli-
cate mingling of brown thatch and old,
mellow, red tiles, stood back from the
broad road. A golden sun bathed the
place in the mellow peace of his sinking;
warm upon gabled gateway and quaint,
hooded bell-turret and long lines of small,
twinkling window-panes. Beyond, the
road ran on, rising over a long, high-shoul-
dered ancient bridge, to the gray and misty
town.
The boy on the hill knew that he looked
The Dead Hand 63
at his home-to-be, home in a new and un-
known fashion, yet in truth and already his
spirit's home. It had not yet struck him
to be frightened of a new life or unrealized
comrades. An unconscious courage came
to him with his cottage blood. One thing
only mattered. He was going to "get
learning. ' ' The heart within him swelled :
as he felt and felt, with some part of him
whose full use he did not yet know, after
a new, mysterious glory of life. Brough-
ton Priors, Emily, the cottage just over the
hill, were worlds away; himself suddenly
years older. We are at our youngest with
our mother. And he knew not yet the sav-
ing truth that no one is ever the same age
all over him.
From the quiet place a musical, quaver-
ing clock chimed half-past four. David
went gravely down the hill towards his
fate. The little wicket in the large door
opened. A solid man in porter's livery,
64 Bedesman 4
red-badged on the sleeve, let Kim pass in.
The man looked the boy over with an ex-
perienced eye.
"Which '11 you be?"
11 David Bold."
"Any of that yours?"
David looked at a miscellaneous pile of
luggage in the opposite corner, and picked
out Phyllis Fielder's hair-trunk as in a
dream.
"I '11 give you a hand with it presently.
You can come along in the lodge, now and
write your name. Your things is there."
Wondering what they might be, David
followed into a warm, square little room
with a small iron door high up in the wall.
On a desk a large leather-bound book stood
open ; the long yellow page was headed :
"Sir Humphrey Nicholas' School and
Bede-House. Roll of Foundation Schol-
ars."
"Your name there; age here; father's
The Dead Hand 65
name and address here. Try the pen first.
Can you spell it all?"
David replied, with inward offense. He
had always known how to spell: but he
observed that the last boy had written
' ' Edward ' ' with three d 's. The solemn in-
diting in round text of his own descrip-
tion brought him a sense of gravity and
fate.
The porter took an object from a chair-
back and held it up smiling. A long gar-
ment of black serge, the shape and like
of which David never had beheld.
" 'T is your gown," he answered the
astonished eyes. "You haves it on to go
in to the Master. Slip into it. I reckon
it 's a bit long."
The strange feel of deep folds about his
legs made David but half conscious of the
odd, flat cap that his guide thrust into his
hand. "You bring 'em back here, and
fetch 'em again ten minutes to eight ; after
66 Bedesman 4
that you goes on wearing 'em. Come along
to the study ; put your cap on. ' '
"David Bold, sir," the porter an-
nounced, throwing open the door beyond
gateway and dim hall.
David was too much absorbed in his
clothes to have thought what he would see.
The low window of a pleasant room lined
with pale blue wainscot stood open to the
bowling-green; a young, upright woman
was pouring out tea for the Master, who
lounged smoking in an arm-chair.
"All! Come in, boy. Cap fit?"
"Yes, to be sure," said the lady, looking
at David with eyes that might have been
embarrassing, had not the mirror over the
mantel seized his own.
" 'T is never I!" He was unconscious
that any one heard.
The long black lines that fell to his feet
bore a broad edge of red; the cap a red
tassel ; his left breast a square brass badge
The Dead Hand 67
repeating the Holbein stamp, surmounted
by a large red B and a figure of 4.
"What 's that for, please ?" cried the
quick childish voice.
"Bedesman Four: that number is on
your room. The gentleman on the badge
is your Founder."
"For whose soul," said the lady, in her
deep voice, "you are ever bound to pray."
* l Does he live here ? ' ' said David eagerly.
She only smiled.
"Shall he have a piece of cake, Frank?"
"I think he 'd better wait for his own
tea. Going, Dolly?" He crossed to open
a glass door beyond the window. "I '11
come over after supper, if I can. ' '
"A picture of a child," his sister said,
too low for David's ears.
The Master, coming back, glanced at the
clock. "You and I will go and see your
room. At school prayers you '11 be for-
mally admitted. After that, come to this
68 Bedesman 4
door and knock, and we '11 have a chat."
Through the still open garden door they
reached another creeper-hung entrance,
and a flight of stairs with black broad ban-
isters, scratched with many names.
"Here you are."
They stood in a low chamber, whose lat-
ticed window filled the length of one wall.
The floor was bare ; the room provided with
a row of pegs, a gas-jet, three shelves, a
worn table on heavy black legs, and two
high-backed wooden chairs. An odd piece
of furniture between a school desk and a
chest of drawers stood across the open
chimney. The small place, black-wain scot-
ted more than half way up, gave a curious
impression of space. A coat of arms in
faded reds and blues was blazoned above
the hearth. A late-blowing rose thrust
two creamy blooms in at the window.
"This is your own place, where you do
your work out of school: you can ask fel-
The Dead Hand 69
lows in, within rules. Here 's your bed,"
said the Master, pushing back a sliding
panel in the wall; "you wash in the lava-
tory off the stairs. You wear your cap to
go into the town, about the place here only
your gown. You *ve three neighbors, Mar-
tin, Scraggs, and Willis : four down below.
You ? re the eight Bedesmen, who come in
by Trustees' nomination; this is the old
Bede-house. Through that passage-door,
see, the other foundationers live."
David nodded. He was not in the least
interested in the other foundationers.
The Master departed with a kindly nod.
Left alone, half of David went out of the
window. The bowling-green lay enclosed
by a quadrangle of irregular buildings, the
hooded bell-turret rising from a tiled roof
at one end : the other closed by a tall close-
clipped yew hedge. Opposite him, where
other roofs dropped to a second and
smaller gateway, he could see fields and
70 Bedesman 4
willows ; between them a steel-blue glimpse
of river reflecting a crimson sun. The
place lay empty, and all the view seemed
his own, till approaching voices made him
withdraw within his own domain, which in-
stantly took possession of him. At last a
steady, rapid bell began to ring and he ran
down. Following the little troop of boys
traveling towards the building under the
bell-turret, he found himself standing at a
short table across two long ones, with six
gowned figures at whom he did not venture
to look. Somebody said something sono-
rous and incomprehensible; a loud clatter
of cups and voices began. David found
himself hungry enough: but the unknown
noise confounded him; he shivered: the
scene was utterly strange; he began to
understand that he was one of fifty, and
scarcely found courage to look up till a dig
in the left side caused him to start round.
"Hullo, Four, are you a deafy?
The Dead Hand 71
What 's your name f ' ' The head above the
far from clean gown was sandy and rubi-
cund: the amused eyes not unfriendly.
David drew breath. It was only another
boy.
"I can't but half hear what you 're say-
ing. Bold 's my name." He lived to
thank such guardian powers as suppressed
the David.
"I 'm Two: next door to you. I 'm a
bird-stuffer and I play the cornet.'*
"Why shouldn't you?" said David, see-
ing an answer was expected.
"Three has got the measles; won't be
back for a fortnight, the ass."
A general rising and dispersal broke off
these enlightening details. The neighbor
linked arms with one opposite, observing:
"Well, Toads, how 's your old self I" and
David regained his room with satisfaction.
At ten minutes to eight o'clock when
Granny Fielder's trunk, empty, had been
72 Bedesman 4
carried to the box-room, the same bell rang.
The same hall was bright with lights, the
half -hundred boys ranged along the walls.
The porter bearing David's gown and cap
stood beside him at the end of the row of
Bedesmen. A homelike evening hymn
brought a lump into the new boy's throat;
but the day's Psalms were followed by
prayers, whose curious language stirred
his imagination. Then the porter mo-
tioned him to stand forward in the midst.
The gowned Master on the platform ad-
dressed him by name, filling him with an
instant's thrill of terror. He had read
most of what followed on a soiled square
card, taken from a nail on the lodge wall
and still held tight in both hands ; but it all
sounded quite new.
"David Bold,
"Sir Humphrey Nicholas of good mem-
ory directeth for his honor and credit that
his Bedesmen and Scholars be of honest
The Dead Hand 73
and virtuous conversation, that they haunt
not taverns, neither play at unlawful games
of cock-fighting, cards, nor dice-tables,
neither carry any weapon invasive to fight
nor brawl withal : and that the Scholars be
submiss and obedient to the Master in all
things touching good manners and learn-
ing. All this wilt thou observe and
keep?"
David looked Mr. Fletcher full in the
face.
"All this," said a clear, rustic, childish
voice, ' * I will obser-rve and keep. ' '
Then the Master, having clad the neo-
phyte in gown and cap, bade him,
"Kneel thee down."
" Admitto te," the strong male voice
went on. The boy, gripping his card, fol-
lowed in the English parallel column to the
end of the "Dominus custodial." He had
forgotten the public place, even the watch-
ing boys. His eyes swam. He did not
74 Bedesman 4
understand the still, solemn elation that
thrilled him. But it is not definite under-
standings that feed the soul.
When he reached the study-door, the
place was full of boys hand-shaking, but
the Master cried, "Come in, Bold," and
presently, the room having cleared, the boy
found himself sunk in a deep chair by the
empty grate.
"Like it, eh!" the Master asked with a
whimsical smile.
"I likes it very well, please, sir," said
David squarely, with eager eyes.
"You '11 like it better to-morrow when
games begin "
David's face clouded for an instant. He
spoke with a touch of scorn.
"I do want to get learning. I can play
about between times."
The Master smiled again.
"In a week's time you '11 think games
are work, too. We are n't all head, like the
The Dead Hand 75
turnips. We 're legs, and arms. Got any
fists, by the way?"
David laughed out and held them up.
He was not in the least afraid of this gen-
tleman, whose humor he relished. The
'jaded schoolmaster mind' acutely relished
him. Not often did Frank Fletcher meet
the child still in the boy.
"If any one plagues you," he observed
gravely, "it 's cheaper in the end to use
those at once."
For an instant David looked sharply ter-
rified. Then memories of one Bill Bobbins
relieved his mind. "All right, sir," he
observed, with an odd dryness.
"So. You '11 do. Now let 's talk about
your books."
"Martin," Mr. Fletcher put his head out
of the study, and captured the sandy-haired
bird-stuffer. "Your new Bedesman 's a
country lad and innocent. Keep an eye on
him, eh? when they begin to find it out."
76 Bedesman 4
The gas went out suddenly as the clock
struck. A broad, oblique streak of moon-
light leaped into sight across the dark
boards. Gradually silence fell. The low
wind whispered in the creeper. The voice
of an owl came from the fields where the
river ran.
David Bold lay on his back in the box-
bed, where generations of Bedesmen, old
and then young, had lain before him.
As the quiet chime spoke again, his lids
began to fall.
"Pray God take care of me all night,"
murmured Esther Bold's son.
He turned on his side, but for a long
while was awake for sheer happiness ; and
the keen relish of a new world, and of the
future.
Over the hill at Broughton Priors, a lit-
tle girl cried herself to sleep. Showers
come on at nightfall.
V
DAVID always remembered with an
odd distinctness the Friday morning
in the third week of school when he seemed
to wake from a wild and exciting dream,
once more a normal, though a different,
human being. Till then he had constantly
pursued his life and never caught it up.
At a queer, compact desk in a sunny
class-room, he was ending an elementary
Latin exercise with a fierce and joyful ap-
plication of blotting-paper. The peasant
mind does not take kindly to new lan-
guages. It has too limited a hold on that
single one which it calls its own. The
room had emptied three minutes back, but
David waited by the master's desk. He
liked the calm, unfathomable remarks of
77
78 Bedesman 4
the small, misshapen man who looked at
his exercise.
"You don't care for Latin, Bold
wouldn't have written that or that.
You 're not careless."
"By times I am, sir, when I wants to get
done. ' '
"No. To get to something else. ('I
wants' is a false concord.) A whole man
doesn't make favorites of his subjects.
You 're learning to live, not to scrap up
knowledge. ' '
"You can't help living," came with a
touch of scorn from David's deep puzzle-
ment, "you can help learning. The more
part of them does."
"I can't contradict you." Mr. Tithe-
ridge hitched his gown on to his queer high
shoulder. "You '11 come to see many
things, Bold, unless you shut your nose
inside a book, then you '11 just see cob-
webs. ' '
The Dead Hand 79
Mr. Titheridge liked this rustic boy, who
was n't afraid of him; and limping off on
his tall-soled left boot, left his pupil to the
task of digestion. It was an hard saying:
he could not yet hear it. Yet it waked him
up : he suddenly knew he had to take hold
on himself, to face the racing current.
For a sharp, illuminant instant, he won-
dered if himself were the one thing worth
taking hold on. Then, passing out into the
kind sunshine, he relinquished what he
thought a conceited idea. The chimes
were announcing noon. The scurry of liv-
ing by unfamiliar, inexorable hours, a deep
countryman shyness, and the joys of new
learning had hitherto caused David's hu-
man surroundings to be as shadows : Mar-
tin with his blaring trumpet ; the wise face
of little Botley in the next desk, piloting
one through early whirlpools; a day-boy,
with a tall, small head, all were as figures
seen in the twilight. To-day, facts were
8o Bedesman 4
round him : the border dahlias flamed with
color: figures were individuals. Espe-
cially he realized the slim, blue-clad person
of Miss Fletcher crossing the green, her
arms full of books which Flora, her
brother's growing St. Bernard, a large and
slobbering infant anxious to lick her face,
sent on to the grass in a cascade.
"Let I have her, miss," cried David,
startled out of a growing regard for his
pronouns.
"Oh, thank you: but don't try to pick up
the books too," as the teething Flora, go-
ing about seeking what she might devour,
struggled towards a bound Browning.
"You're Bold, aren't you!" Miss
Fletcher said. Flora disposed of, they
were seeking each book's gap in the library
shelves together. "Will you come to tea
with me on Sunday at five? I often have
boys then."
"Thank you kindly, miss," said David,
The Dead Hand 81
slightly alarmed. In his former dream, he
had known she lived across the green, and
that certain girlish figures, thronging parts
of the playing-fields in dark blue skirts and
scarlet sashes, represented a department
over which she presided.
On Sunday, mindful of Mother, he
brushed his gown, removed some layers of
ink-stain from his fingers and crossed to
the gateway opposite his window. On the
bright strip of garden, before a harmoni-
ous modern building adjoining the old, a
graceful bay window looked, showing a
white table within. Miss Fletcher's voice
cried, "This way!"
In a charming room, sparsely but dain-
tily furnished, four girls in fresh Sunday
frocks were gathered, with a couple of
foundationers and the tall day-boy.
David's home eyes dwelt with satisfac-
tion on the girls; at sight of other boys a
paralyzing shyness gripped him.
82 Bedesman 4
A brown-eyed maiden called Bridget
supplied him with beautiful cakes and
somewhat serious conversation, but looked
as if she could laugh. Being still quite a
natural person, David was neither awkward
nor wanting in an archaic code of manners
descended from Granny Fielder. But she
found him extremely bashful and his
country accents strange, though his young,
striking head gave her pleasure. After
tea, a rather serious feast,
"The Mistress has just got this lovely
book," said Bridget producing a fascinat-
ing reprint of Mallory.
Despite the approach of the tall day-boy,
her brother, the tongue of Bedesman 4
was loosed by the first grave and glowing
picture. His bright eyes met Bridget's:
his grammar fled to the four winds. When
at the sound of a bell, he had gone reluctant
away, and brother and sister turned home-
wards, Bridget opined:
The Dead Hand 83
"That country boy r s very intelligent;
and not a bit like the town ones. He 's got
all his knowledge in different places/'
"You 're awfully sharp about a chap,"
said Ned approvingly from the air above
her.
When they met again, David no longer
dwelt with his neighbors as though they
existed not: but had found a tardy grati-
tude for Botley, and drawn dismal howls
from the cornet. From a righteous battle
with one Briggs, large and lump-headed,
he emerged, thanks to William Bold's
quarryman arms, bruised, but purged of
fears.
On a golden late October Saturday,
"day-boys' holiday" and the week's jewel,
the fields called to him ; and half -past three
found him consuming partially ripe cob-
nuts on a stile near the river.
Descending to let a couple cross, he was
face to face with Ned and Bridget.
84 Bedesman 4
" Which way are you going?"
"I don't but half know."
"Come with us round Frimley Wood,"
the girl said.
She wore a white blouse, a skirt and
knitted cap of golden brown, the color of
her eyes, and went on with rapid, quiet
steps beside her brother, whose small,
clever head was perched, above his low
flannel collar, on an elongated throat. His
tall legs traveled somewhat loosely. Bur-
ton was no good at games.
They went on together, the first squir-
rel chased and held by David that Bridget
might study his wise, alarmed countenance,
making them fast friends. Burton had al-
ways been interesting, but Bridget had the
unique charm of the comrade-woman.
"I did n't know there 'd be girls," David
said, "my sister 'd give her eyes to come
for all she is n't sharp."
"We 're foundationers, too," said Brid-
The Dead Hand 85
get proudly, "Sir Humphrey left six
pounds a year for the Mistress, and a pair
of white wool stockings at Christmas for
each girl, at one shilling per pair. We get
the shilling! The Mistress thinks he was
ever so much before his age. She 's all for
co-education. ' '
"What's that!"
"Boys and girls together. She says she
could claim to-morrow to share your class-
rooms and work together. But she and
the Master think we 'd keep each other
back; through not needing things in the
same shapes. I wonder if they 're right.
I get along twice as fast when I work with
Ned."
David reflected. "I don't want the
Founder to be kind of a prophet," he
said, not knowing what words were coming
till they came, "it makes him not real-
like."
Bridget looked at him curiously.
86 Bedesman 4
''What 's your best subject?"
"History," said David promptly.
She nodded. "So 's mine. The Mis-
tress is running me for Oxford scholar-
ships. I 'm in luck, being under her."
' ' So am I ; the Professor sent me. Can
girls go to Oxford?"
"You really might have heard of wom-
en's colleges. Dad's keen about them.
You know who he is? The architect that
designed the new class-rooms. Grand-
father did that first awfully good bit, in
'85, and Dad has developed the idea."
"You live here, then?"
"In Church Square, for generations.
Ned, which way are we going home?" (Ned
jerked his long neck towards the right.)
"Haven't you seen the chapel, St. Mar-
garet's, where the Founder 's buried
where we go to church on Founder's day?
You Bedesmen should," the girl said seri-
ously; she found in her an odd motherli-
The Dead Hand 87
ness for this bright-eyed creature, short of
the right words yet full of frank curiosity.
The wood-path led to a green meadow,
where, retired and overhung by golden
trees, a small, calm, gray building faced
them. Its old greenish bell filled a little
round-headed archway. The nail-studded
door's flat, iron handle-ring lifted a large,
worn, wooden bolt. Within, a scent as of
a still place, ancient and faintly damp,
rested on the quiet air. There were no
seats, save a few stacks of rush-bottomed
chairs in a corner. The irregular floor
seemed made of worn, inscribed stones.
Behind the low altar, hung with a breadth
of dim brocade, and bearing flowers, one
realized a draped half- wall; the east wall
stood beyond a deep gap. Its high, green-
ish window showed figures in worn color-
ing, hard to make out.
Bridget touched a David silent and at
gaze ; who, following her to a wrought-iron
88 Bedesman 4
wicket, reached the space beyond the
shrine. South of the east window, a cano-
pied table-tomb rose from floor to barrel-
roof. The sculptured knight wore a doc-
tor's gown, his feet upon a couchant mas-
tiff; his quiet lady's gentle and youthful
head, in a close coif, pointed and pearl-
bordered, rested like his on a fringed pil-
low. To the boy's young eyes they
seemed to lie very still.
"Four daughters and three sons; they
were the second wife's." Bridget spoke
low, pointing to the mounting and meeting
rows of small gowned figures below. ' ' See
the dead baby up in the sky. She died
when he was born, the year we were
founded. I 'm afraid he 's rather like a
caterpillar." But David scarcely smiled.
' * Bid, ' ' said Ned 's voice, ' * come here. I
don't believe Dad looked at this corbel."
When they were out in the sunshine
again, David said:
The Dead Hand 89
"Be the Statutes writ down?" and then
flushed at his grammar.
"To be sure. The Master 's got them,
and they 're in a book of Dad's, too. Of
course, we can't keep them all nowa-
days.'*
"No," said David, slowly. "They
did n't take my knife from me. I offered
the Master, for all 'twas my Granfer's.
Nor I never seen a dice-table."
"See, you 've got till six. Come home
to tea, and you could see the book."
The factory-quarter of Spetterton lay to
the north-east. The Parish Church with
its low tower, retired in a wide graveyard,
filled one side of the deep, irregular
square, Flint's Almshouse another. The
Burton's house was white and solid; three
steps rose from the street to the serious
door sheltered by a round stone projection.
The windows were tall, and heavily
framed. The long, low, cozy room at the
90 Bedesman 4
back had three, with deep seats looking on
a walled garden. The carpet was worn;
all the furniture old and much of it quaint ;
the table strewn with books and parts of a
blue linen blouse that Bridget was making
with a hand sewing-machine. Under one
window a desk had a great book open upon
it, from which some one was minutely copy-
ing an architectural drawing apparently
Ned, who sat down to it instantly. The
girl rang and an elderly woman in spotless
apron but no cap, with a thimble on her
finger, appeared.
"Tea, is it? Dear, Miss Bridget,
don't fling your cap down there; and clear
up them pieces, else you '11 lose 'em. The
Master 's just come in."
' * All right, old Nan. Bring some honey-
comb, bless you. This is Mr. Bold. I 'm
going for Dad. ' '
Her chattering voice came back up the
stairs, and she came in hugging the arm of
The Dead Hand 91
a gray-headed man in riding-breeches. It
transpired that he had been visiting
Broughton Priors Church, in connection
with a new vestry; and David's eager eyes
brought questions and frank replies. The
four sat round a generous table, Bridget
pouring out tea. Father and children
bandied family jokes, but the guest never
felt "out of it"; it seemed to him he had
never seen three people so fond of one an-
other. The one drawback was that he
could not understand all they said. He
liked them as he liked no one save the Pro-
fessor; as though he were of one world
with them. That he was for the first time
in a 'gentleman's' house as an equal did
not matter. When at half -past five, Brid-
get told him frankly that he ought to go,
his face fell: he wanted a thing so much
that the girl saw.
"Dad, may he see that book with the
Statutes in it?"
92 Bedesman 4
David 's eyes shone: but he cast a dis-
traught glance at the clock.
"Can you take care of a book?" Mr.
Burton smiled.
"I '11 strive to," the boy said earnestly.
It was his mother's word.
" And I woll that the sayde Freest of my
Chantry be a discrete man and able of
connyng to teache Gramer: And I woll
that he sing his Masse and say his other
Divyne Service at the aulter of my Chapell
of St. Margarett in ye Parishe of Compton
and to pray specially for the soules, etc.
And I woll that he kepe a Gramer School in
the faier Howse therto by me ordained and
that he frely without any wages or salarye
except only my Salarye hereunder speci-
fied shall teche all maner persons children
unto the tyme that they be convenably in-
strut in Gramer by hym after their capaci-
teys that God woll geve them : And I woll
The Dead Hand 93
that the same connyng and discrete Freest,
with all the sayd children his scolers and
with myn eight Bedesmen, shall one day in
every weke that is upon Saturday come
into the sayd Chapell, unto the place of the
grave ther where the bodyes of my wyff
Dame Margarett and my Fader and my
Mother lyen buryed and ther say togiders
the Psalm of De Profundis, with the versi-
cles and colletts thereto accustomed after
Salisbury use, and pray specially for the
soule of my so dear wyf and for my soule
and the soules of my Fader and Mother
and for all Christen Soules: And once a
year that is on St. Margarett 's Day in ye
afternoon to say the Dirigay and Comand-
asonay "
David lifted his chin from his hollowed
palms, and, sighing, rubbed his hands over
his ears. What on earth was the Comand-
asonayf
The shadows lengthened and deepened
94 Bedesman 4
in the little wainscotted Bedesman's cham-
ber; and with them the new dream gath-
ered closer round, the dream that was calm
and real, no one's made-up tale, but true.
He gazed up at the faint blazoning above
the hearth. As he bent his head again the
fusty scent of the old book came up, excit-
ing him to the depths of his soul like some
new wine.
"And the same connyng Freest shall
teche the children his Scholers to say Grace
as well at dinner as at supper also he shall
teche them good maners and specially to
refrain from lieing to honoure their par-
ents and serve God devowtely in hys
Churche. And every Scholar shall be at
the saide School in the mornynge by seven
of the Clocke and at the tyme of his firste
admyting and writing of his name in the
boke of Scolers "
Slowly the gentle dusk was creeping be-
tween the eager eyes and the old blunt
The Dead Hand 95
print, the queer spellings. Reluctant, as
one breaking a spell, David rose to kindle
his gas. With the starting jet, the dark
lines of wainscot and the books and the
gown upon the door peg leaped to sight.
His eyes clung to the straight-hanging red-
bordered garment. His soul grew aware,
as though some dawning light broadened
and glowed. That firm, un-stirring hand,
that relaxed not, had first taken hold in the
year of grace 1487, when America was
yet to be, the quiet hand of a bearded
Englishman, Doctor of Laws in the Uni-
versity of Oxford: who in a heart-rending
hour desired that those after him, living
truly, should also call upon God for a sweet
soul gone hence and no more seen. He
lived still: still his words had power; still
his bounty gave to craving, eager souls the
jewel of learning, set in the sound gold of
a fair tradition.
Where did one find the Psalm of De
g6 Bedesman 4
Profundis? Bridget would know To-
morrow was Sunday. David had dropped
back into his chair. The .Past, most alive
of all things, had gripped him again. For
this Bedesman was of his own nature Hers
for good. Till now he had not known it.
Turning a handful of leaves, he lost him-
self among the elaborate provisions of the
pious and cleanly Dean Colet, and of one
Peter Blundell a clothier of ' ' Tyverton in
Devon," who, with his love for "floores
well-plancked with plancks of oke" and for
"faire greate chimneys," had apparently
known how to be comfortable.
: T"^VON'T ee go furder 'n Frankley
JL/ turning, my dear. Thee mid miss
him."
"He '11 be sooner 'n that, Mother."
The gate swung behind Emily. In her
round and simple countenance "large
mornings shone."
Esther Bold went back to her mending.
But the drama of her daughter lay at her
heart. Time, bringing new things, weans
a childish heart from the old. After eight
weeks Emily was still unweaned. She had
flagged, drooping to a lonely look: "seek-
ing to" her mother, till Esther was
ashamed to rejoice in a new friendship
born of the child's new pain. But the boy
he was sure enough to have traveled on.
His mother's heart shook, there. She put
97
98 Bedesman 4
away her basket. It was wiser to stir
about, till the two chattering voices, ap-
proaching on the road, caught her back to
a time that was gone. Her eyes swam.
Then he was in the room. Two vigorous
arms had her round the neck. Grown!
To be sure he was. That was the ''good
living." And he had a look smarter?
was it only that? He looked round with
eager eyes; seeing everything new.
''Seems all different somehow," he said
slowly, as Emily's foot climbed the stair.
' ' Our chairs Mother, they 're just like
them in my room. You did ought to see
my room : 't is pretty near 's big as this :
the window 's longer. There 's pipes.
But 't is cozier with the fire. And 't is "
Suddenly he nestled to her, and she knew
she meant the heart of home: he was al-
ways a coaxing one from a baby. "Thee
be just the same," he said in her ear.
"Thee mother don't change. She ain't
The Dead Hand 99
young like thee. Be happy there, child?"
"Bare and happy. 'T is lovely." A
slow smile broadened. He was still, warm
against her, staring at the fire.
"I 'm getting learning," he said in a low
voice, not free from awe, "more every day.
Mr. Titheridge he can teach."
"Don't Mr. Fletcher?"
"Not till you get in the Sixth. Master,
he rules, back of everything, so as you feels
lovely and safe. Mother "
"Well?"
1 * Our Founder were good to us. Mother
do thee say prayers for them that 's
dead?"
Esther Bold was brought up short. She
paused, seeking the deeper truth.
"They be safe, my dear: not but what
I often thinks on Mother and them.
Seems like Mr. Eichards he holds with it,
if 'twas n't some o' them antics, like they
say he haves."
1OO Bedesman 4
' * 'Cause Founder said to go to my
lady's grave. 'T is Psalm 130. I found
it in the Prayer-book. Darner her name
was, Mother: like the Bolds and the Field-
ers worked for, far-back times."
Here Emily entered. As he watched her
set the tea :
"Sis, have a brown frock, your next;
'tis awful pretty."
"What do thee know?" Emily laughed.
"I can see. Bridget she wears it and
cap to match. The girls do come ; to Miss
Fletcher, t'other side. Bridget's got a
brother a day-boy. I been to tea there."
Whoever Bridget was, Emily did not
care about her.
"Mother, sh' I fetch in a bit more
wood?" David said.
She was so pleased that she felt
ashamed. "Take off thee jacket first,"
she answered calmly.
Out at the back door, the bright North
The Dead Hand 101
wind fluttered David's pink shirt sleeves,
as, a village lad again, lie loaded Ms arms
with sticks. Standing still for a minute,
he scented the breeze through the fir-trees.
He felt l ' queer, ' ' shaken, as though he were
not sure who he was. Home had gathered
him to its warm arms ; but it was i ' differ-
ent somehow." It did not mean all of
him : and it had grown smaller. Glancing
away, he saw the white figure of his father
turning the corner. David went in.
Somehow he preferred to have his jacket
on when Father came in. He suddenly
knew that part of the "difference" in
things was in his feeling about his father.
Why? Mother was just the same more
so.
At tea, he knew the male eyes watched
him. William Bold, who wished his son to
"come up a gentleman," found he did not
relish all the signs that his desire began to
be fulfilled. His wife knew it. She talked
1O2 Bedesman 4
to the children : but the boy had turned sud-
denly silent, almost shy. He went with
Emily to the scullery, to wash the tea
things. Sisterly eyes knew he had not
been at ease. Emily hated his correcter
language, after the old rough-hewn speech.
The last cup put away, he spoke, and her
heart leaped. ''Us '11 have a run, Sis."
Out of the back door and down the slope
they scooted, bare-headed both, till at the
stile they stopped for breath: leaning
against it, panting, laughing. He pushed
a flying lock behind her ear.
"Miss me, Sis?"
The round, simple face quivered.
' ' Course I does. ' ' He saw it all clearly.
"See here," he spoke quickly, "when
I ? m on my own, us '11 live together, Sis,
you and me. You shall see to the house,
and I '11 be studding and reading, writ-
ing, most like " he paused and his eyes
widened.
The Dead Hand 103
1 ' Thee '11 get married then, ' ' said Emily
sedately.
"I shan't want no wife, if I got thee.
I wonder if I was to write "
The pause was long; Emily's eyes grew
imploring. He roused himself, looking to-
wards the west. "We got time to go up
in the wood before 't is dark," he said.
In the little chamber at the top of the
stairs with the three-quarter door, where
his white bed had received him each night
since the baby became the boy, where
the birds talked under the thatch till you
fell asleep, he lay to-night, wide-eyed, hear-
ing Emily's soft breaths beyond the
wooden partition. He was queerly aware
of an empty box-bed in the valley beyond
the hill, where a slow chime told the quar-
ters. This little room had a closed-in feel-
ing and was cold, though he loved to be in
it. The spotless sheets smelt of wood
104 Bedesman 4
smoke. Drying-day had been wet. Over
the evening fire, a joke of his father's had
loosed his tongue and there had followed
long, long tales, and pourings-out. Now
how strange it all looked! To-morrow
back again, to lessons, to play, no one there
aware of this other world that was
''home," himself deep in the intense inter-
ests, the passionate "learning"
Could one really be two people? He
was.
On Sunday, after afternoon church, they
walked all together to Frankley turning,
and the three watched the one over the
hill's brow. Going home, Emily lagged
behind.
"He be a lot come on," said William.
"I believe," his mother said, slowly, "as
he '11 stop the same boy."
"To be sure, will," his father said, not
without a hint of puzzlement.
Book III
Denial
VII
THERE came an April morning, warm
and sunny. Through Church Square
a quiet and cheerful traffic rattled on its
way. "Spetterton's Grandfather," the
giant elm, whose massy trunk was sur-
rounded by irregular seats; and all the
churchyard sycamores and limes, had
clothed themselves in tender and transpar-
ent greens. In the warm, walled garden
behind number 17, a fragrant place, vivid
colors flamed softly.
The front door and the garden door op-
posite it stood open; so that a tall boy,
arriving on the top step and glancing
through, saw as the center of a glowing,
spring-like picture, a girl, trim and work-
manlike in a blue overall, who seemed to be
107
io8 Bedesman 4
dealing a trifle masterfully with an eld-
erly, shirt-sleeved gardener.
The boy walked coolly through the house,
and, smiling, descended the old curved gar-
den steps and deposited at their foot cer-
tain soundly-tied paper parcels. Then he
stood looking on. Yes. She was like that,
this friend of his. As if no one could be
enough alive ! Hear her !
"No, Sparks then I must begin again.
The iris-bed "
The working man's quiet eyes dwelt on
her with a fatherly smile and a patient nod.
Not till he had retired with large slow steps
to a far-off corner did Bridget turn, and,
pushing back her sun-bonnet, realize the
new-comer.
"David! That's good! Why I just
wanted your mind on the tulips. But
what 's that? not the love-in-a-mist from
your mother?"
"She tied it up with some other bits of
Denial 109
things. There 's a creeper, red-flowering,
my aunt sent her from Cornwall : but it 's
a bit faddy. Have you got a cozy corner
to the north! Let me undo it and we '11
put them in.'*
' ' Your mother, ' ' said Bridget, with con-
viction, "must be a jewel. Oh, boy ! cut it !
My knife 's just sharpened."
"She is, rather, but she don't let you
cut string," said the boy, with a quaint
gentleness. "Here 's the creeper, see.
Where shall the lavender go 1 "
Half an hour's busy work left them rest-
ing on the seat beside the old pear-tree,
warm and full of words.
"What have you done with your holi-
days? G-ot on with Froude? I r m half
way through vol. III."
1 ' How a girl does race at things ! I have
been going over and over that first chapter.
I could n't leave it. But now I Ve finished
vol. I. Most of the time I Ve been out
HO Bedesman 4
of doors. I 've dug up our garden and my
grandmother's: and done a good few other
things. ' '
''Have n't I told you 'a good few' is bad
style? Can't you see it 's almost non-
sense?"
"Why not? Plenty nonsense words are
rare good to use. I find them every day.
You take a first-rate book and count "
"My blessed boy, don't argue. I 'm
merely taking an interest in your English
style. Ah what are you thinking
about?"
David looked down between his feet, si-
lent but unembarrassed, though her eyes
dwelt on him. Like most of her male
friends all her life they were many he
understood Bridget. Perhaps, as with one
Beatrice, "Adam's sons were her breth-
ren." She was David's closest friend.
But he had a thing at his heart, deep,
moving. Only slowly, he knew that you
Denial ill
do not keep a big thing back from the
friend.
"Master gave out prize subjects this
morning,' 7 he said.
"Well I"
"Well the essay 's decent. 'This place
in the Founder's day.' "
"David! Mistress put that into his
head, I know!"
"No. It was some old lady up at the
Hall, just come. He told me so."
"Not my godmother! Did he say Miss
Nicholas?"
"Miss Nicholas! No."
"Founder's heir. She 's come back
then! And we thought she 'd let it for
good."
"Well, she '11 be giving the prizes, or
else some learned friend of hers. That
last big-wig ass on his hind legs, wasn't
he?"
"Bather. Did you send in, then?"
112 Bedesman 4
"Yes. I made a poor job. I shan't this
time." He sat gazing before him, silent,
at a gorgeous tulip-bed. She watched him
with softened eyes.
"You won't. Suppose it were the be-
ginning?"
He gave one quick nod, and a wise
woman arrived at the holding of her
tongue. She rose and went to root a weed
from the tulip-bed. He said, as to himself :
"Good to begin already." Bridget came
back.
Sitting down she smiled, picking up a
corner of his Bedesman's gown that lay on
the seat between them. The porter's wife
had lately let it down to within the last
inch of its liberal turning.
"Your own subject," she said. "I *ve
never known another but you that cared
to walk about Spetterton in this. Boys are
such self-conscious loonies !"
Denial 113
He lifted his head as with offense.
"There 's graceless fellows in every
school."
f l Oh, come ! It 's just want of imagina-
tion."
"If you choose to give smart names to
ugly things. You think what they owe
him!"
"Yes, but if you 're a born idiot, why,
you are! You can't expect things centur-
ies old to appeal to them, because they ap-
peal to you."
He rose with a quick movement and
stretched his arms above his head.
"I must go, Bridget, or be late for hall.
I '11 come one day, and talk it over, and see
how that creeper 's doing."
"Do. Dad might have some books.
Oh, David"
He turned.
"I want to thank your mother. Why
114 Bedesman 4
shouldn't you and Ned and I ride over on
Saturday? Dad would lend you his old
bicycle. ' '
David paused. That jewel of his lay
close against his heart.
"I 'm not the best of men on a bike."
He began to laugh. Then she saw him
catch himself up. He went on deliber-
ately, his eyes on the -tulip-bed.
"No. That 's not speaking truth to-
gether. I 'd like to go well, and for you
to go. Only "
Bridget's frankness veiled itself with
something gentle as she waited for
more.
"It 's her I 'm thinking on. She 'd be
pleased and proud, I know that. But "
"Yes?"
"I wouldn't have her take you for a
young lady. You 're not what she 'd
mean, anyway."
"David," said Bridget, with deep se-
Denial 115
piousness, " shake hands. You have some
glimmerings of intelligence."
" Thank you kindly, I 'm sure," said
David, a small smile stirring his lips. "I
should be pretty well baked lop-sided,
should n't I, if I hadn't some by now, be-
ing as I ami"
"Maybe," she answered, "but I think
you 'd always have had them. It comes
out in other ways." She glanced at the
gown.
He shook his head gravely.
"Not if I 'd been left at bird-starv-
ing."
"What is bird-starving?"
"What my younger brother 'd be at
now, if I had one. You sit under the
hedge with a clapper when the crop 's
coming up, to drive them off. You may
bide there best part of a morning and not
see half a dozen, if Farmer 's a careful
man."
li6 Bedesman 4
f
"Time to think!"
"You leaves off thinking, when that 's
your life. Look here, Bridget, I shall be
late."
"Well, come on Saturday and hunt
Dad's book-shelves."
When he was gone, she stood still in a
muse. How curious it was to hear his
tongue, his very words, change when he
thought of the fields ! The voice of a gong
and an aroma of roast mutton reaching
her, she ran up the steps, unbuttoning her
overall.
The use of a common playing-field
caused a " girls ' half" to fall on a boys'
whole school-day, save on the Saturdays
dear to both. Bridget's afternoon was
free. When Ned, who was leaving at mid-
summer, to be articled to his father,
followed David's road, she stood looking at
her neat new bicycle. Then she sat down on
the top garden-step and thought for a con-
Denial 117
siderable time. Bridget had a clear and
a stable mind. After a bit, she usually saw
her woman's way. Alone from babyhood
with two male things, she had had to learn
how. She went indoors and put on a
clean white blouse. Contemplating a
springlike hat, she shook her head, tried
the more natural "tammy"; then, thank-
ing the heavens for a windless day, de-
cided on the hat. "It 's a formal call,"
she remarked to herself, "though most
likely the compliment will be lost on her. ' '
When she had visited the garden again,
she rode away through Spetterton High
Street, and turned up the hill past the hos-
pital, a stiffer climb than the London
road. Among the green lanes, she stopped
to pick white violets, dawdling under the
sweet sunshine, promising herself to
gather more coming home.
It was after half-past three when she
came to the gray cottages. In the bright
n8 Bedesman 4
garden before the little house that stood
back, she saw a lavender-clump lately dis-
turbed.
Save this, nothing but chance guided her :
and dismounting she pushed the gate and
went to knock at the door.
"Is Mrs. Bold at home?" she said at
a venture.
Within, all was silence. Through the
door, down the two little steps, she saw the
small quiet house-place full of the sun-
shine, the dresser, the gate-legged table
against the wall, the other, round and with
the half cloth on it, ready for the tea cups,
the clean broad stones underfoot. She
had never realized David's home, even
when she had thought about it. Now with
a sudden shock of understanding and
change, she wondered, was her visit that
thing worse than a crime, a blunder f an in-
trusion into her friend *s sacred things?
"Rubbish," concluded Bridget, with de-
Denial 119
cision, taking refuge in mere good man-
ners. She knocked again to encourage
herself.
A step sounded on a creaking stair, and
Esther Bold came through the house-
place. Her dressing for tea being as much
a matter of course as a Duchess 's for din-
ner, she had been upstairs changing her
gown. Her clean apron covered up her
brown skirt; her beautiful hair, un-
streaked as yet, lay close to the shapely
head so like her boy's, in firm plaits; her
grave mother's eyes looked in love on
every young thing. The girl's clear look
took her in silently for a moment : intensely
attracted, unfamiliarly shy. Those eyes
stirred something unknown and demand-
ing, that she was afraid of, deep at the
roots of Bridget. She spoke quickly.
"You 're Mrs. Bold? I came over to
thank you ever so much for the lovely
creeper and the love-in-the-mist, and all
12O Bedesman 4
you gave David for my garden. He and I
put them all in this morning, and "
"Do please to come in, miss," said
Esther Bold. Bridget fiercely regretted
the tammy. It was her way to come to
grips with a disagreeable thing.
"I can't," she said mournfully, "if
you 're going to call me that! I 'm just
Bridget Burton, David's school-fellow.
He doesn't make hosts of friends; and
I 'm proud that he 's mine. The school 's
going to he proud of David, I can assure
you, when he 's a bit older." Esther
Bold's cheek flushed.
She held the inner door quietly open.
Bridget knew she had pleased.
"Will my bicycle be safe? Oh, thanks,
I'll fetch it in."
Eeturning, her bright eyes met Esther's
across a mass of soft white, pink-
tinted.
"I thought you might like some of my
Denial 121
double tulips. These are just out, and
David said you had none."
"Well, I 'm sure they 're lovely. But
do ee come in." Mrs. Bold turned round
a fireside chair. Beaching an old blue
jug from the dresser, she stepped "out
back" to fill it. Then looking across the
nosegay at the fresh face full of its char-
acter, the ruddy plaits, the young, lissom
figure, she smiled. "I 'm sure I *m that
pleased to see you, like one of the flowers
yourself, such a lovely day. You live to
Spetterton then, m my dear!"
' ' My brother 's with David at Nicholas ' ;
and I 'm in the Sixth Form on the girl's
side. That 's how we know each other.
My father made the plans for the new
vestry at your church. Mrs. Bold, who
did make that sampler!"
"That 's mine. They don't teach ee
samplering there, I reckon. 'T is all for-
got now. My mother 's there, you
122 Bedesman 4
should look at that. And here 's my Emily
coming, must show you hers; and we '11
have a cup o' tea."
"Is she at school?"
"She left Christmas-time; come the
winter she '11 be going to place, I hope.
Her Granny 's ailing just now and Emily 's
mostly down there. My dear! here 's a
visitor come to see us, Miss Burton as
goes to school with Dave, and have brought
us them lovely tulips."
Emily came to an abrupt stand-still;
she carried a bundle tied in a blue hand-
kerchief, as well as a milk-can; and she
wore a lilac-checked long pinafore over
her cotton frock. The wide-open friend-
liness of her blue eyes was crossed sud-
denly by something strange to them, as
they realized the girl examining Granny
Fielder's stitchery, who held out a greet-
ing hand.
Emily took it and let it drop: turning,
Denial 123
shy and wordless, to hang up her sunbon-
net.
"You got to fetch your sampler, too,"
her mother said, to help her out. "I put
it by in the drawer upstairs."
Emily opened the brown door in the wall
and there was silence while her loud
step mounted, paused, and came down
again. She held out the folded work
dumbly to her mother.
"Show it to Miss Burton, while I set the
tea."
Approaching Bridget, Emily laid it on
the table and, still wordless, stood by her,
first on one foot, then on the other.
* ' I wish I could mark like that, it would
be nice for one's things. Wasn't it a
long job?"
"No," said Emily stolidly.
"It 's all done by thread, of course."
"Yes." The same dull, raw voice.
Bridget's eyes glanced up at her.
124 Bedesman 4
David's sister! This rough, sandy-
headed girl.
"Thee better fill the kettle," said Es-
ther Bold with a grave mildness.
As Emily disappeared: "You '11 ex-
cuse her, my dear. She 's one o' the shy
ones. Misses our Dave something dread-
ful, she do, just after he 's gone: makes
her like that. Yes, put her on, Em'ly.
Won't you come out while she 's boiling,
and look at my flowers?"
Tea was still in progress when a large
cream-colored figure darkened the door.
"We Ve begun a bit early, Father, hav-
ing a visitor." Mrs. Bold repeated her
explanation, and Bridget, rising, held out
her hand. Father, handsome as he was,
went further to mystify her thoughts on
David. His large palm left white dust on
her fingers, which he dropped exactly as
Emily, and he nodded mutely to his wife
and went out by the back door: from a
Denial 125
further region came sounds of pumping
and splashing, and Esther bade Emily
fetch Father's shoes. When he returned,
cleaner but less picturesque, Bridget es-
sayed conversation on the weather, which
met with agreement, though "you don't
know much about it when you be under-
ground." A certain check fell on the
former feminine chat, and Father, occu-
pied with deep draughts of tea, did nothing
to fill the gap. Glancing at the clock,
Bridget took her leave. Esther followed
her to the gate with cordial good-byes
' ' and come again, do ee, my dear. ' ' Look-
ing after her, she smiled and sighed.
"Sweetheartin' a 'ready!" said Esther
Bold.
Bridget, riding home in the soft evening,
tried to re-adjust her thoughts and see the
David of Nicholas' in this new milieu.
She found it well-nigh as hard as realizing
a departed friend in heaven. Her heart
126 Bedesman 4
sank a little and her eyes grew grave. The
more did he need all that Nicholas' and the
new life could give him. She sat upright
at the top of the long hill, and put on her
brake firmly. Friendship is a serious
responsibility. Then her thought called
back Esther Bold: the country voice, the
unconscious dignity, the serious eyes that
were like home. A motherless girl, swal-
lowing deep in her throat, sped past the
white violet bank with unseeing eyes.
"Who was that come to tea?" Father
said, between the puffs of his pipe.
"She r s one that goes to the other part
o' Dave's school; come over to thank me
for some bits of plants I give him for her
garden."
"Uncommon fine girl: taller 'n you,
Em'ly."
"She 's older," said Emily quickly.
She rose to fetch a reel of cotton from
Denial 127
the table. As though after reflection, she
added: "I reckon she 's pretty wasteful,
wearing her best hat of anyday."
"I went to thank your mother," Brid-
get said, ''the same day you were here."
David, halfway up the library steps,
looked quickly from between two dusty
covers. "Was she at home?"
"Yes, and gave me tea; and your sister
and your father."
David sat down on the top step, his fin-
ger between the pages: he met her eyes
with a sort of detached thoughtful-
ness.
"You 'd find it a queer little place after
here," he said, with an odd simplicity,
"just about an old house, ours is."
"Your mother 's lovely."
His eyes changed, till they were almost
like Esther's own.
"Emily was shy, was n't she?"
128 Bedesman 4
"Yes. I don't think she fancied me."
"She don't know," said David with a
touch of eager apology.
Bridget smiled.
' * David you must get your mother here
for Margaret's Day. All the parents
come. ' '
His look brightened. "So I should. I
never thought upon it."
She taught him everything, he said to
himself. To know her was a liberal educa-
tion.
T
vin
HEE new bonnet 's awful pretty,
Mother."
"Don't seem as I knows myself in it,"
Esther Bold said. She turned to the lit-
tle square of looking-glass to draw the
new adornment forward on her head.
"There, we're as the Lord made us,
Emily, when all 's said and done."
"He made thee awful nice, then," said
her daughter valiantly, "and thee did
ought to have what sets ee. Open out thee
pocket-handkercher, for luck."
"Tut!" said Esther, but her lips smiled.
"You run on, now, child, else Granny '11
be waiting for her dinner. The cart
won't come this ten minutes."
She followed Emily downstairs : and the
130 Bedesman 4
cart delayed. Presently she stood at the
gate watching for it. The twentieth of
July was a true gala day. The wide view,
all rich blues and soft grays, was crossed
by no cloud-shadows; the clove-carnations
in the border scented the warm air.
Along the road where the cart should
come, a man in white clothes appeared,
running. As he neared, his pace slack-
ened. He lifted a hand.
An odd shock startled Esther Bold.
She unlatched the gate and went to meet
him.
Every window of the hall was open.
The long room was full. On the platform,
one small lady's pale gray costume, and
the dashes of red upon a Bedesman *s gown
relieved the flat blacks of the group of
masters.
1 'English Essay, Bold," Frank Fletch-
er said; and resumed his seat.
Denial 131
The room rustled lightly: the ladies in
bright summer gowns and men in frock-
coats, slightly bored, settled themselves
with commendable patience to be quiet
through another prize exercise. At least
this one was in the vernacular.
A boyish voice, pitched nervously a
trifle high, with an unconscious cadence in
it, began to speak. After half a dozen sen-
tences, the silence had ceased to be a
forced and guarded thing. The tall boy
was not reading. He was telling a story;
which began:
"Towards the latter end of the 15th Cen-
tury, a learned and kindly gentleman "
A girl in a dainty white frock and poppy-
trimmed hat, on one of the raised benches
at the Hall's end, cast a searching, slowly
despairing glance over the company and
settled herself to listen.
The silence lasted. At the close of the
story, a burst of clapping rose.
132 Bedesman 4
On the platform, the lady in gray leaned
over and spoke to the Master.
"Who helped him with that?"
Frank Fletcher turned.
"Books. No one else."
"Are yon sure?"
The Master smiled. "I know the boy."
There was a movement in the Hall. The
Master rose and requested Miss Nicholas
to give away the prizes, displayed in rows
before her on the table. When Bedesman
4 came up, amid applause, the little
gray lady leaned across the table, almost
as her stature had compelled her to do when
the smallest boy came up.
"Thank you," she said, handing over
the bound volumes.
The boy was evidently confused. His
hand went instinctively to where his cap
should have been and dropped disap-
pointed. He blushed furiously.
A few minutes later, the audience,
Denial 133
streaming out of the heated hall, clustered
about white-clad tea-tables on the bowling-
green, amid a buzz of talk.
"Bold! This way. Miss Nicholas
wants you introduced."
The Master led David towards a bench
where Miss Fletcher and the gray lady
were accepting cream and cakes from a
strikingly handsome elderly gentleman.
Bridget, eagerly watching their approach,
sat next Miss Nicholas, who shook hands
with David and looked at him straight.
* ' I hope you will come and see me at the
Hall some Saturday. I will show you the
other portrait of the Founder and some
possessions of his. Will you get me some
more tea?"
David did not know afterwards what he
had said, in his effort not to fall back on
the " Thank you kindly" of his childhood.
When he returned with the tea-cup, the
gray lady was in conversation, and thanked
134 Bedesman 4
Mm with a nod; and Bridget said: "She
isn't here!"
"I know. I Ve looked for her every-
where. Something 's happened to stop
her. I say, could I be heard?"
' ' To the very end. It went grandly. ' '
A new group approaching, they were
parted. In the movement David felt a
touch on his shoulder.
"I want to take a look at your buildings.
Couldn't we slip away from all this?"
David knew not why the wise and whim-
sical countenance of Miss Nicholas' elderly
friend recalled an hour in Bloody Lane,
that lay three summers behind him.
Something was swelling in him, jubilant
but very shy. He was glad to get away.
"You Ve not rightly seen hall, sir.
Come this way, please."
Their progress became a continuous joy.
The old gentleman, it appeared, was by
nature argumentative, and held diametric-
Denial 135
ally opposite views on antiquarian mat-
ters to those in vogue at Nicholas. It was
impossible to hear such sentiments and
not unloose one 's tongue. By the time the
Bedesmen's rooms were reached, their at-
titude was one of unembarrassed sparring.
David offered his armchair. The guest
sat down with evident satisfaction.
"You enjoyed writing that essay," he
remarked. "Where did you hunt up all
that knowledge of the time!"
"Part of it was Froude: part old books
Mr. Burton lent me."
"One of the masters?"
"No, sir: he 's an architect, but he has
a sight of odd things on his shelves, school
statutes, old church accounts and things
in Spetterton, and Cathedral records.
You get soaked with a period that way.
Then you " he stopped suddenly.
"Yes, you?"
"I studded on it," the boy said slowly;
136 Bedesman 4
"that 's like to seeing it, after a bit. I
met a Professor once, told me that was the
way/'
"Ah!" said the elderly gentleman. He
seemed to meditate. "You '11 be a writer
in a few years," he remarked. "When
you have something done, come up and
show it to me. Barabbas was not of my
firm, though they say he was a publisher."
On the card offered him, David read
with amazement a name hitherto associated
only with the backs of revered books.
Without waiting an answer, the old gen-
tleman put his head out of the window,
asked some one below if a train was not
due, and then ran downstairs without fur-
ther parley. David stood still in the midst
of the floor, then slowly went down too.
The throng was beginning to thin, and
the boy, avoiding it, doubled down a back
passage, made a quick circuit and pres-
ently swung himself over Miss Fletcher's
Denial 137
garden railings. He wanted silence,
alone-ness, "the sweet smell of the fields."
In the open meadows, under a hedge fra-
grant with honeysuckle, he lay still, on his
back, for a long while. His eyes followed
the moving cloudlets. His soul within him
spoke with strange new things. Before
he was aware, the fathomless blue swam
before his sight. The world grew bigger
and bigger. The beginning! ah, the be-
ginning ! How good is the beginning !
The golden mists of Life's morning
parted round David Bold. For this fair,
intense moment, the thing he was to do,
to be, was with him, was his own. As
though already he were the man to come,
it was there, quick, newborn, his life, him-
self. That joy within him swelled into one
great sob, that, breaking, shook and star-
tled him, and left wetness on his cheek.
Ah ! the long days, the weeks, the years,
for work work!
138 Bedesman 4
The marvel that had brought a peasant-
boy to this home, where his soul dwelt at
ease! And all Oxford to come!
Great words, remembered from a
Browning reading in Bridget's garden,
leaped to his lips:
I go to prove my soul !
I see my way as birds their trackless way.
I shall arrive !
After a long while, the voice of a bell
warned him. He rose slowly. To keep
rules was always less trouble to David than
to break them: though the thought of tea
was odiously material.
The bowling-green was empty now, save
for a pair of waiters lifting the last tres-
tles and picking small litter from trampled
turf. All wore its familiar air. With
reverence to all visions, thick bread and
butter is good. David had finished his
third slice, when a hand touched him.
"You 're wanted in the lodge," the por-
ter's voice said.
Denial 139
" Me ? " said David, turning. Something
in the man's face startled him: he got up
at once, aware of a deep and formless
fear.
In the little square room, his mother
rose from a chair. She looked very white
and tired, and wore a bonnet he did not
know. When she had kissed him, she
moistened her lips as if to let words pass
through. But none came. Something un-
known took hold on David's heart. It said
he was a man : she, for all else she was to
him, a woman.
1 'Come along to my room," the boy said.
Going up the stairs, he watched her steps
as though she might fall.
The wooden chair stood where the
publisher had left it. David put her in
it and sat on the edge of the table, wait-
ing.
Esther Bold lifted her head. For a long
moment she looked at him mutely.
140 Bedesman 4
"Dave thee Father 's hurted, terr'-
ble bad, up to quar' this mom-
ing"
She looked round, like one realizing. "I
were just ready, coming off here."
"Is he alive?" the boy said hoarsely.
She nodded.
"They 've took him to the 'firmary.
But they don't know not yet. The right
leg. That 's broke. And his arm. And
maybe there 's more. A piece o' roof come
down. I Ve just come away. They was
awful kind."
The boy gave a queer little nod. His
lips grew white, but he kept hold on him-
self.
"When '11 they know?"
"They can't tell that. They Ve set the
leg ; 't is a awful bad break. But he ain 't
come to. Maybe "
"He never will?" David said. She
nodded.
Denial 141
"'Twere the Lord's mercy he weren't
clean killed."
Something in the well-known pious
phrase was more than her son could bear.
Tears smarted in his eyes. He gripped
one arm with the other hand till he could
have cried out with pain. He spoke
quickly. It was the old speech.
"How are thee going home? I sha*
come with ee."
"I 'm stoppin' the night here, wi' Eliza
Simms as was ; going back to the 'firmary
to-morrow, nine o'clock. Emily 's down
to Granny's."
"Does she know!"
"Yes. I stopped there to tell 'em.
They took him right off from quar', so
soon as they got him out, in Mr. Richards'
carriage; and John Drew he run down to
tell me."
"I shall go to the Infirmary with ee.
Master '11 let me off second hour. You
142 Bedesman 4
bide here quiet, and I '11 see him. Have
thee had any tea?"
1 ' The nurse give me a cup, but I could n '
drink none. I 'd like very well for thee to
be wi' me a bit."
"Thee can bide with me here," he said,
and went away. His mother drew a long
sigh. Looking round, she seemed to see
the room as in a dream: her boy's little
place, with its open window, that she pic-
tured to herself at home. The climbing
rose thrust in soft pale heads. A couple
of books, a gentleman's card, were on the
table : a bunch of wild flowers on the man-
tel. She wondered, dreamily, where Dave
got the little blue jug. It was pretty
Why was she like this? The shock, most
likely. She had been herself all right, till
now: just as if she had no feeling.
Below stairs, David followed his knock
into the study. The Master, addressing
a letter for the post, looked up.
Denial 143
"What 's wrong, Bold?" he said quickly.
Upstairs, he drew up the other chair and
sat quietly by Esther, as they spoke to-
gether.
' * David, your mother would be the better
for a glass of port wine. Go and ask Biggs
to bring me some up here."
The boy's lips smiled, mechanically, as
his mother answered: "I couldn't, sir,
'turn you many thanks, bein r abstainer
pledged."
"Then a sandwich, a cup of tea. You
had dinner early."
David was despatched this time.
"He shall go with you to-night, for as
long as you want him: and to-morrow to
the Infirmary. You '11 have him home, you
know, next week. He 's had a great suc-
cess, to-day, Mrs. Bold. I wish you had
been there. His essay struck people
much."
She looked back wordlessly: her lips
144 Bedesman 4
quivered. The Master took leave of her
kindly. 'Back in the study he stood still.
"Of all the maddening events !" said
Frank Fletcher aloud to the silence.
David, setting the tea on the table, picked
up the visiting-card, thrusting it into his
pocket. Sitting beside her, he helped his
mother, seeing her eyes revive gradually
and become themselves.
"What '11 thee do," he said, abruptly,
"if he 's in there long?"
"He '11 be on club. I sh' have nine shil-
ling a week for eight weeks, six after. I
must go up to Rectory when I get back
home. They was wanting some one for
their washing."
David flushed. "Thee Ve never took
in no work," he said with a touch of of-
fense.
"I Ve never needed, thank the Lord.
But I 'm good at it. My mother were
laundress, thee knows. Nine shilling ain't
Denial 145
like twenty-four: and he '11 want a lot o'
things when he comes out."
She sat silent for a space, and ceased to
eat. " Maybe," she said, slowly, "he '11
never go back to quar'. 'T ain't work for
a man as has been all broke up. ' '
David watched her with wide eyes.
Then he filled up her cup; she stirred.
"We just got to wait on the Lord. May-
be he won't "
She stopped suddenly.
' * Thee got me, ' ' the boy said, in a hurry.
His mother looked at him wordlessly.
Then she drew him nearer. They were
locked in a long kiss.
When David turned back through the
streets from the house of the kindly Eliza
nee Simms, the warm summer dusk was
deepening towards night and the lamps
shone yellow. Before the closed window
of a large stationer's the boy stopped. A
146 Bedesman 4
white notice was fastened to the window
with wafers. He read it through three
times.
" David!" a surprised voice said.
He turned. Bridget's face, under the
poppy- trimmed hat, changed as she saw
him. "Something 's the matter."
He nodded. The sight of her seemed to
rob him of speech. She was so dainty, so
pretty, so utterly part of the gay scene
that had been his triumph.
"Come home with me," the girl said,
grasping a situation she knew not. "I Ve
been at the Hall all this while with my god-
mother." She glanced up and down the
silent street as he turned mechanically
by her side and spoke slowly.
"Mother came," he said with a miser-
able smile; "my father was nearly killed
in the quarry this morning. She 'd been
with him to the Infirmary. I Ve just left
her."
Denial 147
"Oh, David!" the girl breathed.
She went on swiftly beside him into
Church Square round the corner, and
opened the door with a latch-key.
"Father 's dining out," she said.
In the long old schoolroom the windows
stood open to the soft air-swept twilight.
They sat down together; and he told her
bare details in detached sentences.
"Most likely," came the last, "he '11
die." The boy dropped his chin on his
palms. He sat staring before him, com-
posed, tearless. But his eyes had that in
them that made her afraid.
"I '11 have to leave school," he said.
Then suddenly he sat up and turned on
her. "A pretty thing to be thinking of
that," he cried harshly, "when my father 's
a broken man, at the best. But I do."
"Hush, David! You must think of
that. It 's your life. I should myself;
and I 'm a girl."
148 Bedesman 4
"Mother 's going to take in washing,"
he said, between his teeth. "I 'd have
thought nothing of that three years ago.
Now I can't stand it. Bridget what 's
been done to me?"
"You Ve been educated, that 's all," said
Bridget simply. She was not sure she had
uttered the fundamental reason; but she
realized a deep calm within her that could
be leaned on like a quick-set hedge, and
that had to mean help. Her mind went
on working. She had fallen in love with
Esther Bold, but found it quite possible
to visualize her at the wash-tub. Not so
David behind the plow.
"You 're older, too. But David, you
sha'n't leave. There are ways "
The boy's eyes dwelt on her, large,
and with a dreary wildness in them. He
stretched out his hands with a dramatic
gesture and took hold of her wrist.
"Feel! They're strong. If I'd been
Denial 149
left there, they 'd have been at hard work
this three years, beginning with five and
then eight or nine shillings a week. I
shan't make that now; but my mother
needn't slave for me."
"You 're talking wild," said Bridget
steadily. "No reasonable being would put
you to field work now."
"What would you put me to? It will
be five years with the biggest luck before
my education brings in anything. I 've to
be earning now: how doesn't matter since
it can't be by "
He got up. Turning his back he thrust
his hands fiercely down into his pockets,
fighting for self-command. Suddenly he
turned, and flung something into her lap.
"Look at that. He said to me: 'You '11
be a writer. When you 've something
ready, bring it to me.' "
There was light enough by the fading
window to read a name.
150 Bedesman 4
"David!'* the girl said. There was a
long, dead silence. Then Bridget sprang
up from the window-seat. Taking him
gently by the shoulders, she turned him
towards her.
"David, look at me."
As their eyes met, he knew, despite the
dusk, that hers were shining like stars. In
his there was no confiding, only a wide and
dreary misery. The girl gave him a quick
little shake.
"Don't be tragic till you must! There
are things to be done. Only they '11 take
a little time."
He shook his head. Gently he slipped
from between her hands.
"Don't you see," he said, very quietly,
"it has got to be, or else I 've got to be a
cur! Which would you choose?"
"Don't go and do something precipi-
tate"
She stopped, unable to finish.
Denial 151
"What would the Founder say?" asked
David almost fiercely.
William Bold was conscious, when wife
and son sat beside his bed next morning.
The stricken face, the slow speech, the
great, prostrate, motionless figure were as
nothing to Esther, when once his eyes knew
hers again. To David's young conscious-
ness, they were a shock and a horror that
he could not contemplate. He sat, hands
clasped between his knees, staring at the
white, scrubbed boards under his feet.
Strong, sound, sufficient one moment; the
next, broken in pieces. Was life like
that?
The nurse drew near and spoke. Esther
rose to go. As she turned from the bed,
the sick man's eyes dwelt on the tall, boy-
ish figure in the long red-bordered gar-
ment. There was a sort of hardness in
them.
152 Bedesman 4
' ' Thee '11 have to give up the book-learn-
ing now," the weak voice said.
The boy's eyes met his, aware, steady.
"I know, Father," said David Bold.
He put his mother into the cart that was
picking her up, and turned to go back to
school. At the street's end he paused a
moment. Then, turning to the left, he
reached the shop by which he had met
Bridget. It bore over the door the legend
"Spetterton Chronicle Office"; and the
white notice was in the window still.
David went in.
" Can I see Mr. Biles?"
"What name?"
"Bold. It 's about the notice in the win-
dow."
The young man opened a door behind
the counter and took him through.
A small alert-looking man at a desk, at
work on a long sheaf of galley-proof, looked
up.
Denial 153
"Want to see me, eh?" He surveyed
David critically, and Ms thin lips stirred
at the corners. " Scarcely old enough for
our staff, I 'm afraid."
"You said a man that could write, and
had evenings free," said David desper-
ately. "I got the English Essay at Nich-
olas ' and "
The editor smiled. "No reporting ex-
perience, I expect!" he observed, looking
at his watch.
"I 'd do anything you set me to."
"So would half a dozen men twice your
age, and want no teaching. I 'm afraid
it 's no go."
The boy went back through the shop and
out into the street. Some time after
twelve he sought Mr. Fletcher. Standing
by the writing-table, he spoke carefully
prepared words.
"My father 's come to himself, sir: but
they think very badly of him. I Ve come
154 Bedesman 4
to say I 'm afraid I '11 have to leave. My
mother '11 need me, if he does n't get well:
and if he does, most likely we shall have to
keep him."
The Master looked at him gravely.
"The Council may have something to say
about that, Bold. You came in on a Trus-
tee's nomination."
"I know, sir you don't suppose I 'm
" he gripped himself there, by ceasing
to speak. "When I get home I shall know
more about it," he said lamely, and turned
to go. The Master glanced at him and
saw much.
"Come down and see me when you do.
I shall be here for the first ten days. Stop
a minute, I '11 give you those books I
promised you for the holidays."
He turned to the book-shelf.
The boy looked up quickly an odd
surprise in his face. The thing loomed so
vast to him that books for the holidays
Denial 155
seemed a painful irrelevance. He took
them and went.
It did not take very long to pack Granny
Fielder's trunk; nor to bump it down the
broad staircase to the gateway to await
the cart which would take it home.
The old buildings were empty and quiet
before ten o'clock that Thursday morning,
with that dead hush of opening holiday
that only school-folk know. From the
hall's doorway the porter and the boot-boy,
as David passed, were carrying out worn
oak benches to be scrubbed and dried in the
broad sunshine.
At the corner of the quadrangle he stood
still, looking back, his eyes seeking the
open window of his room. Deep in his
soul lay that pessimism of youth, that sees
not beyond a poignant moment. He would
never come back.
Lifting a hand with an unconscious
156 Bedesman 4
gesture, he blessed the place in his heart.
Then he went slowly on into the fields,
and took a turn away from his road home-
ward. He had yet one thing to do. It
led him through pleasant woodland ways
to a green and shady meadow.
St. Margaret's Chapel was open. In
the midday silence his footfall on the flags
and the little wicket falling to behind him
echoed loud. In the space behind the al-
tar Sir Humphrey and fair Dame Margaret
lay solemn and peaceful in their sleep.
The boy knelt down on the pavement, rest-
ing his forehead against the chill marble
of the tomb. A strange and tender still-
ness came over him, body and spirit. He
slowly ceased to think.
But within he spoke, wordlessly, as to
some one quite near.
The conflict and distress within him, the
pain of being torn away, began to die
down, softening slowly to a deep hush.
Denial 157
Something unknown and solemn grew in
him, a thing that the child he still was
never yet had known. He no longer
fought for his deep desire nor against it.
He seemed to have laid it down on the step
of the tomb, to be looking at it dispas-
sionately, yet understanding it more deeply
than ever he had.
The mists that blind pain raises lifted
from his soul. In the clear light he knew
for the first time that life's greater deed
is always to give, not to receive. He
knelt there a long time, understanding
slowly.
IX
ALONG and rambling housefront in
gray and lichen-grown stone lay
warm in the sunshine under the brow of
the hill. The place wore a still and almost
an empty air, as Bridget set her bicycle
against the low wall of the upper garden
terrace and approached the front door.
"I know she was coming back yester-
day," the girl said to herself.
Till St. Margaret's Day she and her
godmother had not met since Bridget was
a small, bright-eyed person of seven.
They were friends, but a personal talk was
the only means for Bridget's present ends.
"Is Miss Nicholas in?" she asked
eagerly of the leisurely and serious man-
servant.
Denial 159
"Miss Nicholas is gone abroad, miss.
We had a letter this morning."
* ' Thank you, ' ' said Bridget slowly. She
stood reflecting. "Can I have her ad-
dress?"
"We haven't one yet, miss. It 's to be
sent."
Esther Bold's son stopped before the
gray farm-house two fields' length from
his home. As luck would have it, the
farmer was crossing the garden to his din-
ner. David unlatched the gate and went
in.
"Please, sir, would you be able to give
me a job?"
The thick-set, gray-headed man looked
with critical eyes at the applicant, who did
not seem to fit his inquiry.
"Eh? Let 's see. You 're young Bold,
aren't you?"
"Yes, sir. My father 's in the hospi-
160 Bedesman 4
tal; I Ve come home to help my mother."
"Your father 's a quarryman."
"Yes, sir. But I Ve no experience
there. I 'm strong, and I 'm not stupid,
and you won't find me a lazy one." He
seemed to look at himself from outside,
quite freshly and suddenly.
"Well, I 'm cutting barley to-morrow.
Be in the five-acre at half -past five and
we '11 see what you can do there, and pay
you according."
David thanked him and went on.
It was past dinner-time. Emily stood at
the gate. Cords would not have bound her
to Granny's at this hour.
' * Well, Sis, ' ' the boy said, lifting up his
heart to the level of a smile. " I 'm late, I
expect. I had to go out of my way."
"Dinner 's ready," she answered, her
eyes dwelling on him. "Thee box ain't
come yet, though."
His mother met him in the doorway.
Denial 161
She was pale still, but the mere look of her
seemed to rest him.
"I went in yesterday, ' ' David said, ' i and
nurse says they 're going to try and save
the leg."
"Come to thee dinner," she answered,
fondly, " 't is a long step. ' '
The scent of the well-known stew, the
sight of his father's chair brought some-
thing stinging into his eyes.
"I 've got a job of work, Mother,"
he said quickly, "down to Mr. Han-
cock's."
"That *s my good boy," said Esther
simply.
At the meal, presently, she said : "I did
ought to go up to quar' and see the master.
He's there to-day and we haven't said
nothing about giving up the crane. ' *
"I can do that," said David.
"So thee could. Thee must take
Father's book." The quarry-master
162 Bedesman 4
might as well see the boy they had, Esther
thought with a quick pride.
"Come along, Sis," said David. As the
two went soberly side by side, Emily's eyes
sought his face.
' ' Dave do ee think Father '11 get well ? ' '
"I expect so. It r s a week to-morrow."
"Yes. Dave" A pause. "Will he
be cripple?"
"I don't know, Em. Nor they either.
Bad injuries, the doctor said, and they
were afraid for his back; but they don't
tell one anything."
"Dave what 'd Mother do then? And
us?"
The boy looked across at the blue hills.
"Keep Father," he said, steadily.
"I Ve left school. I shall speak to the
quarry-master. Hancock isn't worth
much. Has Mother been after that wash-
ing?"
"Yes, she '11 have it, when Sykeses goes.
Denial 163
Dave aren't thee going back not
never?"
"Not if it 's so," he answered, drearily.
The words seemed to thrust at his heart.
He glanced furtively at his Emily. Do
gradual years divide confidantes from
babyhood? He saw a light that she could
not help grow over her broad face. She
would not let it be a smile. Then swift
compunction came.
"Oh, Dave thee be sorry!"
"Never mind that," he said. If a man
had to stand alone, he did not need a girl
to prop him up.
"Dave"
"Yes?"
"Did n't I ought to go to place now?"
"Why, yes, we 've got to save her all we
can. How do you come by a place?"
"You goes to Registry, or you asks
folks. There 's Sally Bence is leaving
from Rectory. Her mother were in to
164 Bedesman 4
Granny's this morning, a-telling up. She
don't like the cooking."
1 'Sally was always a silly. Mother 'd
like that for thee. We '11 go on up to Rec-
tory after we 've been to quar'. Then
you '11 be in before another one."
* * Mother don 't know ! Oh, can us I "
"We 've got our own sense, child." He
was immeasurably the elder now.
The quarry-master was in the little
wooden office at the head of the white road
running down into the ground. He looked
at David seriously.
"This is a bad job, my lad, and a long
one, I 'm afraid!"
David spoke fully. This was an old em-
ployer, who looked at ^you kindly, con-
cerned for a valued hand. He paid over
the full money and a trifle more. The boy
was encouraged to ask : ' * Should I be any
good to you, please, sir?"
"Let 's see, how old are you? Never
Denial 165
been underground? Where does your
schooling come in?"
"Nowhere, I 'm afraid, sir," said the
boy dejectedly.
"Come! Cyphering? Book-keeping?
I 'm not wanting any one now, though.
Think of you, if I should. ' '
The two went on their way to the Rec-
tory back door, boldly asking for Mrs.
Eichards. That lady, vigorous, but a trifle
stumpy, in a short skirt and an apron, was
busy with a spud on the lawn, where she
interviewed them. David's fatherly air
amused her; she smiled, rubbing the end
of her nose with a mould-stained finger
protruding from an ancient glove. Yes,
Emily might do. She had better ask
Mother to come and see Mrs. Richards.
The round face beamed with broadening
smiles, as they crossed the stile home-
wards.
"Nine pounds a year!"
166 Bedesman 4
"Well done, Sis!"
David swallowed a sigh. Who would
rate him at nine pounds a year! When
Emily became the better man, it seemed
that humiliation could no farther go.
Mother's eyes swam and her lips
twitched when she heard.
"It 's good to have good children."
Emily came for a kiss, and trotted off to
Granny's tea, but David went outside and
took a long while bringing in wood. Sit-
ting down to feed the fire, he remained
staring at the leaping flames. His mother,
coming near, rested a hand on him: the
boy looked up quickly with a strained, sen-
sitive face.
"Don't ee fret thee, child," Esther Bold
said, quietly.
"I bain't any good to thee," he an-
swered under his breath.
"Nay. Thee be comfort all the time. I
looks to my son."
Denial 167
His eyes searched her face.
"He don't bring in anything." Deep
peasant instincts were making him
ashamed.
"He Ve give up a lot," she answered,
gravely.
He leaned his head against her. In his
eyes tears smarted, but the feel of her
brown gown, her stillness, her quiet touch
brought him the fathomless comfort that
is in unreasoned, primal things. That she
understood was balm to him: but her
motherhood was like some deep conscious-
ness of God not to be told, tender, mighty.
After silent moments, he murmured:
"You gave up me."
She smiled, above his dark head.
"And were glad to. Now, thee didn't
ought to have to go to field work, when
there 's been time to look around."
He answered not, but, reaching out for
her hand, laid his cheek against it.
i68 Bedesman 4
Emily, on returning, was full of the fu-
ture.
"Look ee, Mother, Granny Ve give me a
piece of calico, what she had by her, and
her blue-print frock as is pretty near new,
and Mrs. Bence she come in and she look
just about sour."
"She '11 be main disappointed with
Sally," said Mother, gravely. "You mid
get the scissors, my dear, and be unripping
this, while I 'm gone up to Mrs. Richards.
Your Granny 's good to ee. ' '
Emily would have chattered on over her
task. But David's eyes were on a book,
beside the hearth. The look of him op-
pressed her vaguely.
The three years for her had meant nine
periods of holiday passed with an oracle
and a wonder, a little more grown-up each
time. Of his real development she had
known nothing nor guessed she knew not,
for at home he was still part of the old life ;
Denial 169
the other, dear and precious as it was,
dropped from him here like the Bedes-
man's gown he left behind: save for books
brought back and read almost as he
breathed, perpetually and unconsciously.
With a part of him she was still one : and
though bereaved between whiles, had
scarcely known jealousy, save when the
other girl crossed the path. Now, keep-
ing silence, she slowly sobered in the midst
of her own joy.
Turning a page, he heaved a long sigh.
Emily dropped the scissors. Getting up
she crossed, and took his head in her arms.
"Dave I weren't right to ee. I be
sorry, really "
He sat more upright and smiled.
"All right, child," was all he said.
Esther Bold came in smiling.
"It 's all right, my dear. You 're to go
Tuesday."
The boy rose and with a finger between
170 Bedesman 4
the leaves, went out. His mother looked
after him.
"He 's takin' on bitter," she said;
' ' don 't take no notice, Em'ly. You and me
can't understand. The learnin 's a lot to
David."
The morning was clear and dewy in the
wide five-acre field. The long swathes of
the barley fell rustling before the gleam-
ing knives of the patent reaper, which
George Marton, on the high gray-painted
metal seat, drove steadily. David, follow-
ing in the line of binders, learned his job
gradually and silently from his next neigh-
bor. The air was cool and sweet with
early savors, under long tree shadows : the
world, all pure and fresh, was bathed still
in the deep gravities of night. The boy's
young, anxious soul drew in great breaths
of refreshment and poetry. Cold tea and
bread and bacon under the hedge found
Denial 171
him ravenous for breakfast. Exercise and
early morning belonged to youth ; and this
was the world of his childhood. One could
get on, if things were no worse than this.
By "elevens," he was realizing that it
was harder work than football. Over
"fourses," after long fierce drinks of tea,
he fell dead asleep along the ground, to be
roused by shaking and loud raillery, that
brought the blood stinging to his cheeks.
But they were all old friends, and the other
world was far away. He laughed with
them. At home he fell asleep over supper
and climbed the stairs to bed in a dream.
He looked to find all things easier as the
days passed, and his spirits rose. All
country instincts, for rich brown earth,
and all green things and wholesome scents,
were strong and pleasant in him. But, as
the first week went on, he began to live in
a deepening, ever-increasing, aching weari-
ness. "He 's over-old to begin," his
172 Bedesman 4
mother thought, anxiously. Barley-har-
vest lasted till the wheat was cut: the
farmer kept him on and he had no other
course: but Saturday's shillings seemed a
poor price for the straining and spending
and benumbing of one's whole being. The
second week he ached less. His body was
growing more accustomed, but there was
no mind. He seemed to travel on without
one, never thinking, never touching a book ;
always, somewhere, weary, with that tired-
ness that weighs down the soul.
Then it happened to him, that as he sat
in church on the second Sunday, long-
known poetries of the Old Testament
awoke him suddenly as from a deep sleep.
He sat upright on the narrow seat beside
his mother: his eyes brightened. Mr.
Eichards was a fine reader. The rugged,
massive figure of Elijah the mountain
prophet stood alive before David's eyes.
Suddenly, once more, he was Bedesman
Denial 173
4, thinker, historian to come. He sat
with parted lips, aware intensely of each
majestic period.
All through life, David Bold never for-
got that hour. It was as though he were
alive from the dead. Things around him
sprang into vivid relief. He saw the gray
low quire-arch with its deep, strange chis-
elings, framing the quiet chancel beyond,
so that it seemed some remote chapel of
the mysteries. As if for the first time he
knew that St. Ambrose, Broughton Priors,
was a fine and an ancient church. His
soul stirred to the sublime rhythm of the
Te Deum. He knew his mother's face be-
side him, beautiful with the light that is
devotion: his heart lifted; standing, he
sang with all the rest, praising God word-
lessly that these things were so.
And then he knew that the dumb sleep
he had awaked from was the life he lived
to-day ; the life he had to live, unless those
174 Bedesman 4
rapt and lovely eyes were to look to a son
in vain.
Late that afternoon, David came into the
empty open church, and sat down in the
same place. He had to square accounts
with himself, and to be alone to do it.
Besting his elbows on the narrow book-
desk, his chin on his palms, he stared away
from him up into the dim chancel. He
was trying to call back an hour in St. Mar-
garet's Chapel, whose grasp held him still.
Was it true, the thing he had heard there ?
To give all that made the world worth
having: to be the gift; never again to be
himself; always the gift, the man denied
his life.
Was this the Deed? this "the trackless
way"? He saw it all, in a drear, yet pa-
tient vision : the cottage dwelling, the coun-
try speech, no mind for books, Oxford not
even a dream; life shared with the simple,
not the wise, the taught; outward things,
Denial 175
fields, cattle, growing crops these the real
facts that mattered ; Emily the prosperous
maid-servant, with a "young man"
David smiled drearily, Father, the
broken man growing aged in the chimney-
corner, Mother no, he could not stand
that! He got up quickly. Stepping into
the aisle, he walked with rapid steps up
the church. Under the chancel-arch he
stood, pressing his nails into his palms.
For her he could do this anything.
But if she were gone / Some day your
Mother died. If you needed her most of
all, then she would go first. And then
the thing would have been done. There
would be no going back: only the rest of
life to live.
The boy stood quite still, setting his
teeth. His vivid mind saw that which he
saw. And, staring out between youth's
blinkers, he saw it colored and itself, and
saw it whole.
176 Bedesman 4
After a long pause, he drew a deep
breath. No further light had dawned.
He turned and went away out of the
church.
It was all true, that dark vision. And
there was nothing before him save to go
on. Or to "be a cur."
As he walked, for one bitter instant his
whole being waked up and raged, crying
out against the futility, the silly waste of
him. Then silently, relentlessly, he set his
foot upon himself. David Bold was a
man. He began to know it; for a man's
burden lay on him, that burden that is all
the weak of the earth : the weak and those
who, since ever he had begun, had suffered
and strained and labored and loved that
he might be.
* * * #
"Yes, child. I 've come home. This
time for good. I 've hoped for it often :
now I 'm going to do it. ' '
Denial 177
"I 'm so glad, godmother!" Bridget
leaned across the tea-table. "If you 'd
waited a year or two longer, I should have
been gone."
Miss Nicholas looked her over. "I sup-
pose you would. Yes, I am glad. You 're
like your mother, Bridget, though you 're
a differently shaped woman. Now, if
you Ve finished, my dear, we '11 go into
that library. I believe the servants are
right. Tenants are one's natural ene-
mies."
The long room looked west, with a north
window also. The tall bookcases kept
their treasures behind brass lattice-work.
A little pile of folded dusters lay on the
corner of a dark old table. Miss Nicholas
picked one up.
"Bates thinks we shall want plenty of
these," she said grimly, opening a book-
case door; "have you brought an apron,
Bridget!"
178 Bedesman 4
It was the third of the August Satur-
days. Hot afternoon sunshine lay over
the broad land. . Cycling was warm work,
but Bridget got over the road quickly, and
sprang off eagerly at the cottage gate.
"Mrs. Bold," she said in the doorway,
"are you at home? Can I see David?"
Esther came from the door, pushing
aside a long flapping sheet drying on the
new line set up down the garden.
"Oh, come in, Miss Burton." Stepping
to the gate she looked up the road.
"They 're just comin'. I can see John
Francis. They was to finish carrying the
Sidelings about now. Yes, there he is a-
comin' along." Turning back, she glanced
over her guest. "You '11 have to give the
poor boy a minute or two. He don't look
very fit to talk to the likes of you. ' '
Bridget's answer was to come to the
gate.
The boy who came in sight wore a pair
Denial 179
of fustian trousers and a white linen jacket
of his father's over his blue shirt, open
at the neck. At sight of Bridget, his eyes
woke up. The instant's vision of his
changed face seemed to strike at the girl.
She had never before seen David look half-
asleep. His fingers buttoned the shirt at
his throat. He had colored. She had
come none too soon.
" I 'm not fit to shake hands, ' ' he said.
"I wanted to see you. I have a message
for you."
He glanced at her quickly. His lips
shook.
"Mother," he said, "I 'm about ready
for some tea."
"Yes, my dear. Go in and clean your-
self. Miss Burton '11 have a cup wi' us.
There 's plenty o' wood."
Bridget went inside with a sense of hav-
ing reached the middle of a situation be-
fore the beginning.
180 Bedesman 4
"My Em'ly she 's got a good place,"
Esther Bold said, as she reached the cups ;
"gone to the Rectory, between-maid, last
Monday. 'T is just a special blessin'.
And Father 's getting on a bit now. We
saw him Saturday."
"You and David?" Had he come into
Spetterton, and not to Church Square?
"No, Emily. Dave 's that tired when
Saturday comes, he don't want long walks.
The field-work 's pretty hard on him, for
all he gets on with it. ' '
Bridget said nothing for a moment.
"I suppose it makes good money,
though, ' ' she said with an air of innocence.
"Ten and six a week he gets. That 's
harvest money, though. He 's slow at it,
never doin' it till now. I hope, though, as
Farmer '11 keep him on. Here he is com-
ing."
The David who entered now seemed to
his friend more like the real boy. He wore
Denial 181
a collar and the suit she knew, and he set
a chair for her with the smile of a grave
face. It was older. The mouth had
grown firm ; the eyes were steady, but less
bright ; the long, brown hands were rough-
ened and their nails broken, but they had
been well scrubbed. He cut the home-
made cake, and lifted his mother's kettle.,
doing the host's small duties with a ma-
turer air than Bridget had known in him,
though he left the talk to the others, as
though tea mattered most.
Esther rose. Heaping the things on a
tray, she went "out back'* to wash them,
closing the door rather carefully after
her.
David moved to his father's chair. He
began to pull the half -burnt sticks out of
the fire, laying them on the wide hob to
cool against next time.
"What message is it, then?" he said,
without preamble.
182 Bedesman 4
Bridget leaned forward, an arm on the
table.
"The message is from Miss Nicholas.
She 's settling down, bless her, to live at
the Manor, and I 'm staying with her for
my holiday, while Dad and Ned are gone
fishing. She is very anxious and busy
over the library. She and I have been
sorting and dusting and clearing for a
week, but the more we do, the more there
is, and the more she worships it. Her
father and grandfather just let it be, but
her great-grandfather was a bookworm,
and his accumulations are marvelous.
Yesterday she had a man down from Lon-
don to advise. She could n't abide him and
said he looked greedy at the books : and she
would n 't leave him alone a minute ! But
he let in lots of light and showed us how to
sort, and to bring the catalogue to date, so
that we can get on. But it will take
months, and we want a helper with nothing
Denial 183
else to think about, who can work all day.
The man offered us one of his expert
youths at two guineas a week and board:
and she thanked him very kindly, and sent
him off with his fee. So now I 've come
over to say she wants you. ' '
The boy's mouth grew straight and he
sat upright. "Me?"
"You. She '11 give you fifteen shillings
a week and your meals, and she keeps a
bicycle for the groom, that you can come
and go on night and morning. She and I
can show you the job; part of the day
we 're working too."
"But I I 'm not worth that money.
What do I know!"
"Lots more than Tony Smart, who 'd
come for sixteen, being the book-seller's
son. At least the Master says so; and
Dad."
"Did they recommend me? Was it all
you?"
184 Bedesman 4
"She asked them of course, you loonie!
Do you think she 'd trust a girl, about the
books I She thinks every one either covets
or would destroy them. But she likes you,
because of your essay ; and, since the Mas-
ter trusts you, you 're all right. Do you
"Ye-s. I 'm better than Tony. But
I don't know "
" Don't know what!"
The boy took up one of the cooling sticks
and hit it hard against the hob: the last
sparks flew up.
' ' Look here, ' ' he said, speaking very low,
1 'you know I 'd give my ears to come.
But I couldn't, and come back again to
the field-work. It 's a dog's life, but very
likely it 's got to be mine, for for her
sake." He nodded towards the door.
"My education 's of no money use. It *s
not gone far enough. And, if I 've got to
choose then I 'd better turn my back on it
Denial 185
now. Only a fool does a beastly thing at
twice.'* He spoke with a repressed vehe-
mence, that she had never seen. His lips
shook. He hit the stick hard against the
hob again, so that it snapped in two.
The girl looked at him, with eyes that
dimmed, finding a poor male thing in pain
a pathetic sight. She stretched a hand
and laid it on his arm.
"See here, dear man," she said, simply,
"we '11 ask your mother. Why, David
after this, you could get into a second-hand
bookshop, and work right up ! "
The tall north window looked obliquely
over the green valley. The long, airy
room, lay in calm, cool shadow and silence.
Busy people do not talk.
The small elderly lady stood looking
over David's shoulder. She was a person
of an exquisite neatness and still very
pretty. Her deep blue cashmere gown had
i86 Bedesman 4
fine lace at throat and wrists: her small
ringed hands touched the old table with
firm finger-tips.
11 Begin exactly below the last entry:
under the P of Pepys. Yes, I like your
hand, David Bold. But be careful not to
straggle."
Bridget, seated on the top step of the
book-ladder, in a large print apron, looked
down on the pair and smiled.
Thus, morning after morning, they
worked together. In the afternoon David
was here alone. He had grown quite used
to the neat, absorbing employment; to the
beloved scent of old books and the clear
light from the high window; to the fine
outlines of old furniture and fittings, and
the quiet gaze of Sir Humphrey over the
mantel in the gown of a Doctor of Laws,
seated in his high-backed chair beside the
table with the parchment and the ink-horn ;
used, too, though not so quickly, to lunch-
Denial 187
eon in the paneled dining-room with the
two ladies, the serious Bates handing
grave, well-seasoned dishes: and to a
dainty breakfast tray when he reached the
library at seven-thirty each morning. The
boy half adored, half dreaded the simple,
dignified detail of this ordered life. It
was almost too much for him. He was re-
fining every day; the broken nails grow-
ing, the brown fingers firm and capable
upon the long quill pen, the young head
handsomer. At moments he almost knew
it: which thrilled him with a shock of
fear. For he was William Bold's son
still.
"Do you think of taking Orders, David
Bold?" said Miss Nicholas, one morning,
looking up from the neat fixing of a num-
ber ticket. Bridget had returned home
yesterday.
David was a trifle startled.
"I hadn't, Madam," he said lamely.
i88 Bedesman 4
(In the matter of address you could
scarcely go wrong with Bates.)
"What do you wish for?"
"I should like to be a student," said
David, instantly ; adding at once, * ' but I 'm
not able to afford it."
"It doesn't pay," said Miss Nicholas,
thoughtfully, "neither does the Church,
for that matter. In that case, what have
you thought of? You 're going back to
school, I hope?"
"I 'm afraid not, Madam. I thought of
trying my chance at a book-shop. My
mother needs what I can make."
"I don't like that," said Miss Nicholas,
with a touch of severity. "You 're a
Bedesman. You should go to Oxford.
It 's your Founder's money, remember."
A quick glance went as in appeal to
the portrait. David flushed to the roots
of his hair.
"He 'd rather you acted straight than
Denial 189
went to Oxford," he said quickly, without
any "Madam."
The Founder's heiress looked quietly
at him. After a moment's silence, she
damped, and pressed a handkerchief upon,
another neat ticket.
"You are right, David Bold," she re-
plied gravely, and silence fell.
After half an hour's work, he rose to
put a batch of books in their shelf for her.
"Some of those," she remarked quietly,
"bear directly on his period. Some day
I want a Memoir written of him. I have
quantities of papers. Will you do it for
me, David Bold?"
The tall boy turned round. His hands
still full of the books, he gripped them
tight lest, in his excitement, one should fall.
He stood silent, deprived of speech. But
her eyes dwelt on him. "Well?" she said.
Then David stirred.
"Madam," he answered, steadily and
190 Bedesman 4
clearly, "I will do it, if I never do any-
thing else in this world."
Through the golden October days,
David Bold still worked in the Manor li-
brary, and the benches of Nicholas ' School
knew him no more.
A month ago a stooping man on
crutches had come home from the Infirm-
ary. At the end of the long fight, he had
lost the leg. There was no question of
sparing David's fifteen shillings. As Nov-
ember came in, the crutches were dis-
carded for two sticks, then for one; the
doctor at the hospital discharged the pa-
tient.
"I 'm goin' up quar' to-morrow," the
big man said to Esther Bold ; " maybe there
might be a little job as I could do."
There was a dumb, great yearning in
his tired eyes. Each day he had walked
a little further, till now the wooden leg
Denial 191
went far; but who would employ it? The
days went slowly. Esther's face grew
thinner. Her heart was full of fears for
her husband, the strong man stricken in
his strength.
The short day was fading when he came
stumping back again. Esther at the table
was ironing a shirt by candle-light, while
David came and went, fetching and break-
ing up sticks for the fire. He came home
at dusk, Madam permitting no lights in
the library.
"Missus," said William Bold's voice in
the doorway, "I got a bit o' news for
ee."
"What is it then, Father?" she an-
swered, quietly: but David, going "out
back," stood still.
"I found the master up there. Wilcox
is taking on Barley Down Quar'; and
Fletcher 's put up for our new foreman :
and under-foreman's place is to fill.
192 Bedesman 4
'Could you do it, Bold?' the Master says,
' 't is mainly up ground, see, loading up
carts an' the weighings.' 'I 'd be main
glad to try, sir,' I says, 'but a wooden leg
ain't a man, as ever I heered of.'
'Might do, if he 's a straight 'un, like
you,' he says, 'as it pays a man to take
on.' "
"Praise the Lord, my dear!" cried Es-
ther Bold, her iron suspended in the air.
Setting it down, she saw her boy in the
shadow and turned quickly.
"Thee can go back to school, now,
child," she said instantly.
There was a moment's silence. Then,
with dry lips, David answered,
"Better wait a week or two, and see how
Father gets on."
David stood by the library table, wiping
his quill pen with a little wad of blotting-
paper. Miss Nicholas, inspecting the last
Denial 193
written pages of the catalogue, nodded.
"Your hand has improved, David Bold.
Well, I am very glad you are returning to
school. ' '
"I shall be up on Saturday, Madam, by
two o'clock. It r s light under that win-
dow well till half -past four. When Christ-
mas holidays come, I can be here every
day."
"Your studies must not suffer. Other-
wise I shall be glad to see you."
David smiled quietly. He had a word
more to say.
"The task you set me, Madam, " he
glanced towards the mantel. "I am be-
ginning to see my way. I r m afraid it 's
a long way, if the thing is to be rightly
done."
Miss Nicholas raised her eyes. ' ' Surely,
David Bold, you have not imagined a
school-boy could do it?"
' ' Of course not, Madam. But he can be
1Q4 Bedesman 4
contemplating it, and preparing. So
long as you know that lie is."
"I have every confidence in you, David
Bold," said the small old lady calmly.
"Thank you, Madam," he answered with
his mother's own seriousness.
"Good-by, then, for the present. I
wish you very well."
Together they left the long room.
David took his cap from a peg and went
out by a side door into the garden. Miss
Nicholas turned the key in the library
door.
The boy ran down the terraces with a
light step, emerging close to the London
road. Once more, pausing on the hilltop,
he looked down on the home of his spirit.
Once more its windows twinkled to the rosy
farewell of the sun, the long roofs, the
bell-turret, bathed in the mellow quiet of
an autumn evening. Once more, a son of
learning went down the hill, with a swell-
Denial 195
ing heart ; lie knew himself much more than
three years older.
The Master, who happened to be talking
to the porter, greeted him warmly; and he
took up Granny Fielder's trunk and
dragged it upstairs.
The little square room was very quiet,
the inkstand on the table, the armchair in
its place, as though no one had touched
them since this day four months, when St.
Margaret's sun shone in. On the door a
Bedesman's gown hung, his cap above
it.
1 'You 're a sight for sair e'en," Bridget
said, the next afternoon, as she turned
homewards from Miss Fletcher's door and
met David coming through the meadow.
' i Good luck and many of them ! You look
as if you liked yourself."
* * I feel a bit younger, ' ' he answered with
a laugh.
196 Bedesman 4
"I daresay. You Ve had a bad time.
But it 's over."
David seemed to reflect.
"I wouldn't have gone without it," he
said; "it 's beastly good for one to hate
things for a bit."
After this somewhat cryptic utterance
he began to pull a stick out of the hedge.
"I r m two men, after all," he remarked,
searching for his knife: "I suppose I al-
ways shall be. I say, Bridget, I want to
come and have a talk about that library.
I Ve a thing ahead of me."
Book IV
Gwen
PROFESSOR BROWNLOW'S room
in College was on the first floor. It
looked out on the Chapel quad, towards
the north. A projecting gargoyle a devil
with prominent teeth and an engaging as-
pect looked obliquely in at the oriel win-
dow, which was approached by two steps
from the long, high room. Large book-
desks, bearing each its open folio, stood in
two corners; the long writing-table was
piled with leather-bound books and neat
stacks of written and printed matter; on
the wall behind it hung a beautiful and elab-
orate pipe-rack, in carved cherrywood.
The high and spacious chamber's furniture
was mainly old and curious: much of it
beautiful, some of it rather ramshackle.
199
2OO Bedesman 4
The Professor sat at the table in a well-
worn revolving-chair. His gown, faded by
long use to a fine green, lay over the chair-
back. His M. A. hood, in yet worse repair,
hung upon a door-peg. The tidiest of men
will fail to regard academicals as really
part of his clothing. There was about
Professor Brownlow's appearance, mind,
and habits a kind of crazy neatness, on
which, however, as neatness, no dependence
could be placed. His Professorship rep-
resented a remote corner of the field of
historical research.
In a row of old Chippendale chairs
against the opposite wall sat nine young
men. The Professor was discoursing, an
elbow on the table, his fingers buried in
his thick gray hair.
"Yes you '11 find your work cut out, >r
he was saying, with some feeling.
The man on the chair nearest the door,
though he was attending, let his eyes
Gwen 201
wander over the room and out of the win-
dow. The gargoyle's expression, fore-
shortened, brought a smile to his lips.
Then his look came back to the Profes-
sor and he became absorbed in the matter
of his future studies.
When the talk was finished, the men went
away one by one, each after a moment or
two given to his personal concerns. A red-
headed youth, the last but one, spoke rather
volubly for some minutes, in an accent un-
known to the other. When, the door hav-
ing closed upon him, the last man and the
Professor were left alone, their conversa-
tion was short and technical, till the Pro-
fessor, pressing certain advice, happened
to glance up. His look changed : he seemed
for a moment puzzled, and about to lose
his thread. Glancing at a filled-in form,
which the pupil had handed over, he
seemed to see light.
"Why," he said, reflectively contem-
202 Bedesman 4
plating him, "the last time I saw you "
"I wore a white smock-frock," said the
young man, and smiled.
The Professor experienced a slight
shock, distinctly pleasurable.
"To be sure. Cut- throat Lane, wasn't
it?"
"Bloody Lane."
"Ah, yes, and Pike's Piece. I 'm al-
ways glad to see a Nicholas Scholar.
Went in on my nomination, didn't you?
How 's Fletcher? I believe I had a note
from him "
"He 's well and vigorous, like the school.
He desired his kind regards to you, sir,
and hoped you might be going down."
' ' One of these days, perhaps. Why, yes,
he said you 'd been helping to straighten
that library. He took me to see it once;
when there were tenants in the house.
There are good things hidden away there.
Long may they stay!"
Gwen 203
"Miss Nicholas will see to that," the
pupil said.
When he was gone, the Professor hung
up his gown. He was smiling. ' 1 1 wonder
if he '11 stay like that. Hope so. I shall
keep that tale dark : not that it would hurt
him. Might do him too much good, with
some people."
In the street, before the College gate-
way, his pupil paused to consult a slip of
paper from his waistcoat pocket : glancing
up, he saw his red-headed neighbor on the
opposite pavement, and crossed.
"Could you tell me my way?"
"That '11 depend," said the Scot, with
portentous gravity, "on where you '11 be
wanting to go. Eh? is that it? I 'm go-
ing myself in that direction."
The lane they presently reached seemed
to be all turnings. It went under a long
wall over which looked yellowing trees,
then past an ancient church, with a square,
204 Bedesman 4
oddly-narrowing tower, in its graveyard.
' ' They sent me a wrong address. When
I went the people were full," said David;
"they wanted a pot of money too."
"If ye 're seeking something reason-
able," said the Scot, "there 's a set at
the top where I am, not a smart set, but
ye have the air, and quiet. I came up three
days back. For the people," he added
thoughtfully, "I would not say I 'd any-
thing against them this far."
"Many thanks. Along this way?"
"Number 14. The yellow house. I Ve
business in here," said the other and
nodded as he left him.
The yellow house was tall and had stone
mullions and casements. In the passage,
where the bell jangled, a girl of fifteen put
a tousled head out of a door, behind which
something savory frizzled loudly.
"They 're upstairs," she observed
vaguely and withdrew. After waiting a
Gwen 205
few moments, David thought he had better
go after them.
Halfway up, an open door showed a
Gladstone bag inscribed "D. Cameron."
He went on, arriving at a tiny landing,
which seemed all window and a prospect
of waving trees.
Through another open door he saw a
low room with a sloping attic-like ceiling
and two windows. An old worn carpet
covered somewhat uneven boards : beyond
a table with drawers and a red table-cloth
were an old cushioned wooden armchair,
and a glazed cupboard showing teacups.
But he did not look at these things. Be-
fore the fireplace, with her back to him,
stood a small elderly woman in an old
black dress; she had raised herself on
what would have been tiptoe but for the
four-inch sole and heel of one boot: and
her fingers were traveling slowly, inti-
mately, over the cheap ornaments, the dyed
206 Bedesman 4
grasses, the Bee clock which adorned the
mantelshelf.
"The china shepherdess," she was mut-
tering, "her crook 's got chipped. These
fluffy things fair smell of dust "
David, waiting for her to turn round,
became aware that she would not. He
spoke.
"They sent me upstairs to find you."
The small woman started round, the
lame foot slipping on the loose hearthrug.
She would have fallen, and caught wildly
at the first thing that touched her, David's
outstretched arm, to which she clung as
for dear life.
"Here 's the chair," he said, and low-
ered her into it, where she sat panting, a
hand on her side, shaken and silent, David
standing by.
"Thank you very much, I 'm sure," she
said at length, slowly, "and pray, who is
it? I can't see you a bit. It 's cataract,
Gwen 207
both eyes. I do tumble about so bad "
"My name 's Bold. Mr. Cameron ad-
vised me to come and see your rooms.
This is the set, I suppose."
Her face began to beam irrepressibly.
"Yes, the bedroom 's through that door,
if you would n't mind looking. What Col-
lege, please?"
David, after investigating the tiny but
spotless place indicated, came back to en-
quire prices.
"I '11 let you have them at that, ' ' she said
thoughtfully. "I think you 're a kind
man, saving me a fall like that. Men are
so different. And, being as I am, I 'd
rather have one that was considerate than
a little more money. Oh, yes, I Ve a
helper or shall have, now I Ve let both
sets. It was little Annie you saw down-
stairs, my niece. Then will you come in
to-night, sir?"
"Yes, please, I '11 bring my box round."
2o8 Bedesman 4
He was looking over the pathetic little fig-
ure, with an understanding of her disabil-
ities born of village days. "Now, if
you're going down, hadn't you better
have my arm? You 're very clever to
have got up."
"Oh, I can climb," she answered, with
a touch of scorn; "going down is different.
I sit on the top step and let myself down
one by one. I must come up, you see, when
term begins, to see it 's all clean. I can't
abide dirt and dust! You can sweep, if
you are poor."
He piloted her safely to a tiny back room
on the ground floor, where she appeared
to live, learning on the way yet further de-
tails. At the stairf oot they parted friends.
When, that evening, his effects unpacked,
he sat beside a bright little lamp review-
ing the work before him, he felt strangely
at home. Through the further open win-
dow, came in a great daddy long-legs, bent
Gwen 209
on self-destruction. David, expelling him,
received in full face a deep breath of au-
tumnal savors from the great College gar-
den opposite, where ampelopsis began to
redden over an ancient brick wall.
Then, solemn and treble, near and dis-
tant, the voices of Oxford bells rang and
spoke the hour: and he knew that all day
long, around all the new ideas, amid all
preoccupation, their music had been there,
clear or deep. He went back to his chair
and thought he had begun to read again,
when one deep tone spoke, thrilling through
the little room, as though close at hand,
grave, reverberant, alone.
As the solemn century of strokes passed,
David sat spellbound. When they ceased,
he knew deep within him that he was
gathered in. The age-long glamor of
Oxford held him once and forever, her-
alded by the great voice of Tom.
Mrs. Randall continued to approve of
21O Bedesman 4
her lodger, who astonished her next mid-
day by rapping at her door with the in-
formation that he was going upstairs and
could take his coal-box with him. When
f
she asked, "Hadn't Annie?" he opined
seriously that it was n 't work for a girl : he
would carry the thing each day, if she 'd
tell him where to find it.
The hours and the days filled themselves
as by magic, in a life become wholly new.
In the third week, a chance word suddenly
waked David to the thought of Bridget. It
was some months since he had seen her.
She had come up a year ago with a scholar-
ship. His last two absorbing terms at
school had been empty of her company. At
first he had missed her badly : and his mind
turned to her now with keen satisfaction.
He wondered how to proceed, then decided
to go and call on her, as soon as he had
time.
The University year opened with a few
Gwen 211
golden weeks of "mists and mellow fruit-
fulness," full of Oxford's purest hours of
beauty. On a calm Sunday afternoon
David, Ms country soul avoiding the too
populous Parks, turned between two black
posts heading a narrow roadway. It was
on the first of "Mesopotamia's" friendly
benches that a couple of girls attracted his
eye. One, rising, was saying good-by to
the other. He recognized the figure she
had left, and quickened his pace.
"Bridget!" he said. "This is a piece
of luck!"
He sat down eagerly beside her. The
girl, trim and dainty in a pearl-gray Sun-
day frock and hat, met him as he came.
He saw that her eyes were older, her out-
lines more pronounced and womanly, that
she was a person definitely in her own pos-
session: but behind and beyond stood Brid-
get, his friend. He waked up into keen
interest.
212 Bedesman 4
"I am glad I met you. I was coming
to call. I Ve seen your abode, from a dis-
tance. ' '
Her eyes filled with laughter.
''Were you?" she said. "Where are
you? in College, I suppose!"
"In digs, till Easter, I expect. I '11 give
you the address. I say," as a cheerful
family party, the junior members in a go-
cart, passed, rubbing his knees "is there
any place where we could be quiet? I Ve
lots to say, and hear." >
Bridget's eyes considered: again that
demure and mocking smile. "There 's
Marston Ferry just round the corner.
We can get into the fields that way if you
like to."
"To be sure I do."
A pair of small children took much joy
in sending the ferry-boat back for them,
on its rattling wheel; and a few minutes
took them into meadows not all unlike those
Gwen 213
at home. David went on, talking eagerly:
but slowly there gathered round him some-
thing strange, a little chill, that puzzled
him. It seemed to be making him not him-
self. Yet Bridget seemed younger here
in the fields. He knew her again with the
delicious stimulus that comes of picking
up old stitches. And yet that odd feeling
kept him from being at ease. It seemed
somehow to associate itself with Bridget's
little smile.
At length she turned.
"I must get back. I had six calls to
make! And I 'm engaged for tea."
"When can we meet again? I want to
show you "
That smile came again.
"I should love to see it. I must. But
my dear man, you have yet to understand.
"We are hedged round with regulations.
You see, you 're an undergraduate. ' '
"Well?" David was ashamed of the
214 Bedesman 4
sudden discomfort that came over him.
"I 'm not supposed to meet you, you see,
without I can ask you to tea, but I must
ask some one else too."
"Why on earth?"
"To make propriety. It 's absurd,
every one knows it is never mind, I can
get Miss Willis : you '11 like her. When
can you come!"
"But, I say shan't we have any
talk?"
Bridget looked at him ruefully, her head
on one side. "I don't know. We '11 try
for it. I '11 think and let you know. I
must go now, David."
David, far from recovered, shook hands.
"Good-by. I shall be reduced to writ-
ing to you."
She went back across the fields. He was
aware in himself with an intense annoy-
ance that she would prefer his not follow-
ing her. He sat down under the hedge,
Gwen 215
embracing his knees and staring angrily
in front of him. Why should he be de-
prived of his Bridget, any more than if
she were a man? What did the the old
cats think he would do to her? Bridget;
neither sister nor sweetheart, simply con-
fidante and sound, peace-bringing friend.
A young pair, strolling past, with hands
and arms intertwined, answered him. A
sudden, consuming anger, such as only
stupidity can wake, smote him.
Then a veil seemed to lift. This dear
new world with its regulations, its un-
spoken laws, moving kind and stately on
its time-old and unconscious way he was
scarcely at the beginning of understand-
ing it. With the thought came a sharp
moment of new knowledge. There was
another, a coming world of youth and
maiden, of which so far he knew, and meant
to know, still less. Apart altogether from
its rules, silly or wise, its concerns were
216 Bedesman 4
for no poor scholar as yet, thank heaven.
No ! he and Bridget had nothing to do with
that!
Then rather suddenly he remembered
that he had been asked to tea "some Sun-
day" by his tutor's wife; finding her ad-
dress in his pocket-book, he recrossed the
ferry, and found his way towards Nor-
ham Eoad, where for a somewhat crowded,
but quite pleasant hour, he handed cups
to bright-eyed girls and pleasant ladies,
and mixed, chatting, with a friendly group
of his own kind. He had lost his boyish
shyness, and more and more found society
an attractive thing.
# * * *
The window-seat was cushioned in a
deep blue ; and unlined curtains of the same
serge filled and stirred in the mild Octo-
ber air. The room, not large, seemed full
of fresh air and space, the result of the
considerate furnishing and fine taste of
Gwen 217
one person, not stinted for money : a quiet
place, workmanlike, dainty, and full of a
definite character, hung with a few water-
colors full of suggestion, and all by one
hand. One, a tall, narrow picture of an
Italian landscape, over the mantel, seemed
to gather up and hold the room's meaning.
A girl sat, with her feet up, on the win-
dow-seat, balancing a cup of tea on the
fingers of one hand.
"My dear Gwen," she observed, as an-
other maiden brought her food, "where do
you go for chocolate biscuits? Take it
away! I 'm greedy."
"So am I," said a slim creature, in an
exquisite lilac frock, reaching a hand from
a deep chair. "Did you say Bridget was
coming? There '11 be none left for her.
Phyllis, you 're real nice doing all the
handing. ' '
"You T re tired, Lucy, leave the cake-
stand alone."
218 Bedesman 4
"I guess it 's a sleepy afternoon," said
Lucy, sinking back, "and this is a sleepy
chair. ' '
The girl on the window-seat, looking out
across a green and ordered lawn at slowly-
changing poplars and a softly gorgeous
beech, here announced, "There 's Brid-
get coming where I can just squint round
the corner. Please may I have some more
tea?"
A tall young woman in white serge
turned from the low table to receive the
cup. There are faces that, turning round,
seem to alter all the values of a scene.
This was low-browed, soft masses of chest-
nut-brown hair sweeping up and back on
the broad temples. The eyes, gray, wide,
candid, under white, arched lids, were the
eyes of an Englishwoman built on broad,
calm lines. The finely-molded lips met
gravely. The beautiful head, which had
the little droop forward given to certain
Gwen 219
Burne-Jones angels, seemed always to be
seeking something to be kind to.
' ' That little old woman at the corner by
Sargent's made the biscuits, and the
cakes," she answered, a little late, "Mrs.
Franks. Her daughter 's my aunt's maid.
She '11 be glad of orders."
"That 's Bridget on the stairs," said
Phyllis, "hear the co-educational whistle !"
A chorus of laughter greeted the new-
comer, who dropped into a chair near the
tea-maker, and drew off her long gloves.
"No sugar, dear angel. Co-education,
indeed ! Sorry I 'm late, but I fell in with
the nicest school-friend I ever had, and
had to tell him he must not come and see
me ! Lord, what fools these rules do be !
Thanks, my hat will go here. Just a tinge
more milk, beloved. How cool and sweet
your room is!"
"What 's his name?" from the girl in
the window.
220 Bedesman 4
"David Bold, I mean. He 's just come
up to Cuthbert's. Professor Brownlow
thinks the world of him. Phyllis, how did
you like 'Varsity sermon? I almost
laughed once."
It appeared that all but every one had at
least criticized. For a minute, they all
spoke together. When this ceased, they
seemed to have descended into the depths
of things. The talk grew eagerly, excit-
ingly serious. Cups gradually emptied or
were forgotten. Phyllis, the cake-stand
put aside, defended the doctrine of Free-
Will fervently, from the arm of Gwen's
low chair : on the ground that ( l only a cow-
like person wants to be run." Bridget
held she would only be thankful; the
trouble was that you were usually driven.
" Speak, dearie," she said in a pause,
two fingers on Gwen's knee. The wide
smile that answered her was all but
motherly.
Gwen 221
"Things are mostly all right," said
Gwen, in her deep, low voice. * ' Of course,
you must have patience. It 's a sad pity
to lose all the lovely detail by the
way. ' '
"I wonder," said Bridget, still sitting
there, when talk had died and the rest had
all slipped away, "why you are such a
rest, Gwen? You 're scarcely older than
me, as real oldness goes. It must be that
you 're bigger."
"You shouldn't go living as fast as
Lucy does. It is n't English ; and we can't
stand it. Besides, you haven't yet taken
time to possess your soul in peace
no, I 'm right, never since you came up.
And just now you 're worried, child
mine. ' '
"Perhaps I am. It was rather hateful
meeting David like that. He did n't under-
stand. ' '
"Was it only a minute's talk!"
222 Bedesman 4
"Dear, no! I walked him into the fields
over Marston Ferry, just as though we 'd
been an Oxford maidservant and her "fel-
low"! Think how pleased some people
would be! And at home he has had the
run of the house. We 've been friends
since he first went to school with Ned.
I Ve seen him through all his troubles and
been his critic these six years: he has
brought up things he has been writing to
show me. And we can't meet! Gwen
what would you do?"
Gwen looked out of the window: then
cast a quick glance at her friend and
smiled.
"I suppose I shouldn't do anything;
Solvitur ambulando. But I believe more
in sitting still. Of course it 's unlucky for
us, and rather silly, that first rules can't
be altered, till the new world has come in
and re-made all rules to fit itself. But
that happens in every generation. Of
Gwen 223
course, there 's no earthly harm in Mars-
ton Ferry, your father knowing all about
you. But"
"I know. One must be straight for the
sake of the place, even if every authority
privately thought as we do. It 's tire-
some, though. David has all but finished
a memoir of our Founder. He has been
working at it three years in the family
library in holiday time."
"A freshman ?"
"Yes. He 's a quite big person, they
say. The School 's done everything for
him. If he had a statue of the Founder,
he 'd burn incense to it. His people are
poor."
Bridget's mouth closed suddenly. She
was thinking of the look of the strong
dark-eyed man she had seen. "Who would
notice any difference from other fresh-
men ? Till she knew David had spoken of
home, his friend would say no word. Men
224 Bedesman 4
come and go from the University in silence
on their most vital matters.
"That 's rather beautiful," said Gwen
quietly. "I should like to know him."
"You would mix, for all your differ-
ences. What 's that striking? Gwen,
shall we read something? Shall I fetch
Peer Gynt?" She went, while Gwen
moved in the room, shaking cushions and
straightening a table-cloth.
"Yes," she reflected, "he wants her,
very likely, now, but she '11 soon leave off
wanting him. The child 's growing, bless
her, and it will take all sorts to make
Bridget's world. Besides she has a
home." Gwen stood still, looking from
the window. "I wish" two large tears
stood suddenly on her cheeks. "Yes, I
wish Dad had waited a little longer down
here. "What am I thinking about? How
he might have suffered ! And the dear old
aunt and uncle "
Gwen 225
She sighed and shut the window. Left
alone, she had come here of her own
choice to read history, and "to learn
what the real world was like, for a girl
with her own money," as the others put
it. Home or none, Gwen dwelt in her
friends' hearts, tho' her own was too big
not to be a little lonesome. The restful,
white-painted room heard many confi-
dences, and more "good talks."
"Come in, Bridget, child," she said,
turning. "We Ve nearly an hour."
XI
THE long and stately Hall of Cuth-
bert's, between nine and ten one
spring night, was alive with, a loud noise of
talking: brilliant with electric light, and!
with the bold, yet dainty colors in vogue
that year. The crowd was increasing; the
demand for coffee-cups lessening. The
great foreigner, in whose honor the College
opened her gates, had done his speaking;
and, conspicuous in his broad ribbon,
moved round the great room with a small,
bright-eyed, be-diamonded woman on his
arm.
David Bold was relieved from active
politenesses. His tall head glancing over
the throng, he saw, not far from him, in a
corner veiled from the room's blaze by a
226
Gwen 227
heavy, drooping curtain, a little living pic-
ture. A girl in a curiously graceful dress
of dull white satin heavily furnished with
gold embroidery sat in conversation with
Professor Brownlow, hirsute and shaggy
as of old. The girPs long-gloved hands
lay in her lap ; she sat very still, as people
sit with whom stillness is less a habit, or a
conscious courtesy, than part of a charac-
ter. Her head was raised : David saw it
in profile. As he looked, the rest of the
thronged room became a kind of dream.
His eyes were on a face, in outline, pose,
detail, very beautiful; but it was less
beauty that held him than the grace of a
certain turn of expression, half spiritual,
half graciously protecting, that went to
his heart. This lovely stranger seemed
to him a thing known, almost belonging
to him. For that look, combined with that
calm stillness of pose, belonged to an-
other woman
228 Bedesman 4
An amused voice spoke near him:
"How do you do, David. You 're look-
ing 1 at my friend, Gwen. Isn't she
lovely?"
"Do you see any likeness to my
mother?" said David, as one in a dream.
The Professor beckoned to him, and he
moved.
Bridget watched him, her lips twitching.
"Why, David, good lad," was her in-
ward comment, "don't they say that 's
the biggest compliment a man can pay a
woman ? ' '
The Professor was rising.
"Bold, Miss Brydon wishes you intro-
duced to her. She is Founder's kin, and
you must show her the portrait. A copy,
Miss Brydon, no more. The original is
better known to you than to me, eh, Bold?"
"That 's true," said David, as one in a
dream ; then as the Professor shook hands,
taking his leave, he turned, and found her
Gwen 229
wide and lovely eyes, warm with interest,
upon him.
"The picture is on the south wall," he
said; "you will see it best if you will come
this way." Beyond a long refreshment-
table, he set a chair for her. * ' There he is.
The original Holbein hangs in my old
school, but this is quite good."
"It is reproduced in your book, of
course." David's color flamed and she
smiled. "A friend at my College lent it
me, Bridget Burton you were speaking
to her just now."
He smiled now too, embarrassment pass-
ing away.
"Bridget knew me first when I wore a
facsimile of that all day, as one of his
'Bedesmen.' She had much to do with
that book, for she 's a stern critic. You
will know Miss Nicholas too, his present
representative. It was she who set me to
write it."
230 Bedesman 4
"Alas, no! I suppose I must confess
the truth. There has been a sort of
family feud, from my great grandfather's
time, who took the name of Brydon for
some property. The Nicholases didn't
forgive him nor his son. But I hope by
now she would shake hands if we met. Or
her successor. Bridget tells me the suc-
cession is doubtful."
He sighed. "It depends on her will.
The entail was broken some time back, and
now there is no male heir. She seems
equally friends with all her known
cousins."
"Or with none," said Gwen, smiling.
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Bold there is
a chair and may I ask you something?"
He drew the chair up, waiting. Still
the sense of unknown things, of a dream,
was upon him. This simple talk was un-
like any other in his life. Her deep, gentle
tone thrilled him like the sound of Tom.
Gwen 231
He could have listened to her for ever,
even had she spoken an unknown lan-
guage.
"I want to know how, given all possible
musty documents, you managed to make
that simple little book a work of art, a
series of pictures? It is quite amazingly
convincing. ' '
He showed no touch of shyness now,
but answered after an instant's thought.
"I 'm afraid that is just what is the mat-
ter with the book. I Ve thought about
him ever since I went to school; then
came the library and the papers;
you wouldn't call them musty if you had
read them. At length the whole thing
was so alive that, when I came to write
a book about it, it almost got in my way.
It would be all the same if it were all
utterly wrong. I couldn't alter it. It
has convinced me: and now I 'm helpless.
That is how I come at things. "
232 Bedesman 4
She was looking at him, her eyes full
of smiles.
"That must be," she said calmly, "why
Professor Brownlow talked about new de-
partures and the power of the eye and his-
tory-writing in the future."
"He talks a power of flattery to other
people; but he fell upon me solidly, when
I told him what I 'd done. Then he ac-
tually read it, in manuscript and in the
middle of term ! and sent me off with it to
the publisher the next week."
"So apparently it is not all wrong, but
very right."
David's eyes roamed to the Holbein.
"Who can tell that?" he said with a
deep change in his voice, "when they are
'departed as if they had never been'?"
He felt her look on him and met it.
Then the eyes of this new-met maiden
spoke back to him a deep thing that none
knew, save he himself. An awe fell on
Gwen 233
Ms soul. What was this that held him?
At length, he knew not how long after,
he answered her as if she had spoken.
' * You are right. One can touch them ' *
"They can touch you," said Gwen Bry-
don quietly. "That is why you could
write that book."
About four o'clock the next morning,
David stood at his sitting-room window,
drinking in the fresh breath of the dawn.
He had not slept, and his bedroom seemed
an unendurable and stuffy place.
He had much to think of, but he thought
of none of it; only of one great Fact.
Deep in what his grandmother would have
called "his own dear self," he knew what
had happened to him. That maiden pres-
ence that his own had met to-night met in
that strange and sudden intimacy under
the painted eyes of Sir Humphrey Nich-
olas even that dear and exquisite pres-
234 Bedesman 4
ence, known as it seemed to him forever,
yet a new and precious thing, would go
on beside him always through life, what-
ever happened to either or to both of them.
But what would happen?
David made no effort to answer the
question.
The hour of answer was not yet. It
would arrive and not be hastened. He,
too, and she would travel on, as it
would have them. These facts seemed in-
herent in the very nature of things.
A cool fragrance of new-growing grass
came up to him from the fine green turf of
the quad. Beyond its further angle of
kind old College walls, a long church-roof,
barely visible, lifted upon a gray and silent
sky the broad and soaring lines of her
great spire. Slowly a softly rosy light
touched the edges of the stone, and grew
and grew. Detail waked in crocket and
pinnacle and carven saint. A solemn and
Gwen 235
tapering shadow fell and grew upon the
morning air and sky.
To the man who watched, the Ox-
ford dawn seemed a picture of his own
fate.
Then there waked in him something that
was of life, and cast out fear. His heart
cried out to the Maker of youth and of the
morning for that brave and joy-born gift,
a man's good chance.
"How did you get on with my friend
David?" Bridget asked.
A person knowing it well has described
the Oxford fly as "a kind of vault." The
ancient city can certainly boast an undue
proportion of ramshackle and faded vehi-
cles. A fusty smell, as of damp and worn-
out hay, always clung, for Gwen, about cer-
tain exquisite memories of her own: for
she and Bridget went home in an old
* ' four-wheeler. ' '
236 Bedesman 4
"I found him interesting," Gwen said
slowly. "We talked about his book."
In the dark Bridget smiled. "I hope
his next won't be a big step down. He has
been soaked with the Founder, since he
was about thirteen."
"He says all that stood in his way. I
could trust his gift. One can't tell where
it will go next, but somewhere."
"You sound pretty sleepy."
"Oh, I 'm not. I 'm very much awake.
I was only thinking "
Here with a lurch and a rattle the cab
drew up. The girls alighted and paid.
Under the light on the landing, Bridget
cast a quick, keen look at her friend.
"Good-night, beloved. It was a lovely
party, wasn't it?"
"Lovely," said Gwen, in the same tone*,
as Bridget turned away.
In her peaceful room, whose white bed
Gwen 237
stood uncovered, Gwen slowly drew off her
draperies of white and gold. She was
glad to have no one to speak to : she seemed
still to be in the lit hall under the friendly
eyes of that square-bearded man in the flat
hat.
"Kin and kind both," she said to her-
self, "when next I feel alone in the world,
I '11 go and get another look at him."
As the thought came, she stood still:
then, rather suddenly, sat down on the bed
with fixed and wondering eyes.
Alone! Could you ever be that again,
while the world held another, who could
think your thought and answer it before
it was spoken ?
* * * *
"That'll do, Phyllis. Bun her in
under that willow. It 's heavenly of sum-
mer term to begin like this."
Bridget cleared a light wrap and, with
some rattle, a tea-basket off the other cush-
238 Bedesman 4
ion. ' ' Now let 's go ahead, ' ' she observed,
reaching her book; "we '11 have tea let 's
see in an hour, eh?"
Silence reigned. The light shadows of
the willow-leaves played over the "Water-
hen" and her burden, dancing on the girls'
light frocks and on the open page. Other
river craft went by with quiet splashings
and scraps of passing talk. But neither
moved.
It was after the hour before Phyllis
looked at her watch; and, sitting up,
pushed her hair back, and began prepara-
tions for tea. Bridget shut her book.
"It 's pretty lovely here," she re-
marked, leaning back. "We '11 miss the
river when we go down. I wish Grwen
would have come too."
There was an instant's pause, before
Phyllis said, rather deliberately, "Brid-
get what 's the matter with Gwen?"
A quick look, half amused and wholly
Gwen 239
keen, crossed Bridget's face. "The mat-
ter with her?" she said to Phyllis' shoul-
der, "as howl"
Phyllis accomplished lighting the spirit-
lamp.
"You 're not going to talk about it,
then?" she observed. "All right, if you
don't want."
"By no means. Go on."
"You must see what I see, unless I 'm
crazy. And I 'm not the only one. Lucy
"Lucy's comments are interesting; she
is of a different civilization. But I 'd
rather know what you see."
Phyllis bent her face over the teapot.
"Gwen 's not herself." A little emotional
sound was in her voice. "She forgets
the oddest things, when she 's promised
to help you, even. And she looks "
"Perfectly lovely. It 's said people
often do, in her case. Yes, Phyllis
240 Bedesman 4
something has happened to Gwen. We Ve
just got not to see it."
She sat up in the punt. The other girl
still leaned forward, her face not visible.
"Cheer up, child," Bridget said, "there *s
enough of your Gwen to go round, even
if"
Phyllis turned on her eyes that swam;
the springlike face of a fresh, clear-witted,
eager maid, out of a country Rectory, and
still young all over.
"I I don't know anything whatever
about those things/' she said deliber-
ately. Her cheeks were rosy.
Bridget pulled her down, kissed her, and
laughed.
"No," she said, "as for me, well, I Ve
seen my brother through about three ab-
surdities. But Gwen is somehow too big
not to be visible. She moves all of a
piece. Very likely she 's still unconscious.
See, Phyllis, we 've got to protect her. If
Gwen 241
Lucy, or any of them especially Lucy
begins to talk, just choke them off.
'Those things' shouldn't be discussed.
They 're one person's business (I believe
I mean two!) and no one else's. It's
not for us to touch the thing. See?"
Phyllis nodded, looking into the willow-
tree.
''It would be beastly irreverent," she
murmured, as a canoe went by them
swiftly.
"That tea will be stewed," said Bridget.
When she began to sip her cup, she spoke
again.
"I 've got a word more to say: but it is
not ever to go beyond us two. You can
hold your tongue, Phyllis. I 've a special
reason for wanting silence round Gwen.
I happen to know that there are things
about the other, that Gwen will have to
hear. Only one person ought to tell her
himself. I 'm taking perhaps a big re-
242 Bedesman 4
sponsibility, but I don't mean even to hint
them to her. And she won't hear them
from any one else unless there were gos-
sip. ' '
Phyllis nodded. She would as soon have
sought to know who "himself" might be,
as demanded an immediate interview with
an archangel.
"All right. I promise. Is it going to
be for long, Bridget?"
"All this term, I should expect," said
Bridget. She paused and smiled. "To
think I should come to be a mother to
Gwen!"
* * * *
"We got to think over them two letters,
my dear. One of 'em 's just as good as
t'other. Yet you may be sure there 's a
lot to choose, if you could on'y get at it."
Esther Bold sat in the chimney-corner,
in a soft white shawl. "The weather," or
some other obscure cause, had brought her
Gwen 243
a slight return of last year's illness.
Emily had come home to nurse her and
sat sewing, in a neat print, opposite.
"I likes that first one the best," she ob-
served, biting her thread, " 't is a titled
lady; and I 'd be sure to get on with that
upper. Swayne, she never taught you a
thing, only druv you just to get the work
done. Else I should n' ha' been so ready
to leave. This one 's proper second house-
maid with a 'between,' so as you can
get on up. I ain't goin' single-handed
again. 'Twas a mistake takin' Symes's
place. ' '
Her mother stretched a hand for the let-
ters. The quiet face had a certain air of
frailness, and a curiously deepened calm;
but no suggestion of the old woman yet.
She sat very still and perused the letters
carefully before handing them back.
" 'T is true, my dear, about th' upper:
and the money and all. I don't know how
244 Bedesman 4
't is somehow I 'd sooner thee took the
t'other, but"
"Here 's somebody coming down the
path," said Emily, rising. " 'T is well,
I never! Dave!"
With a scream, she ran to hug and kiss
him in the entry. The mother did not
move. He would not keep her waiting:
and a moment's quiet after that sudden big
leap of the heart was best for her. Fold-
ing the letters, she bestowed them quietly
under the lid of her work-basket, which
stood close by on a three-legged stool.
He came in, and stooped to put an arm
round her, and let her hold him. He
seemed very tall and strong beside her,
and she knew at once that something lay
behind his grave look. He would tell her
in time. A perfect confidence dwelt be-
tween these two. When last spring
Esther lay ill, ' 'facing death," the coun-
trywoman's matter-of-course she had
Gwen 245
known, with a lifting of the heart, that
nothing would ever come between them
now. That which was there was a thing
not to be disturbed.
"I had a day free, so I ran down," he
said; "I Ve news to tell you, Mother."
He paused, watching her. Emily from
the background jumped to a seat on the
table. "Oh, I say, Dave"
"Hush, dear," Esther Bold lifted a
hand. "What is it, my son?"
"My College have made me one of their
Fellows. I only knew late last night. I
came off to tell you, Mother. The post
wouldn't quite do."
Esther Bold took her son's hand quietly.
Emily leaped off the table.
"Dave, Dave, oh, Dave! I be that
glad."
Her brother caught her to him and gave
her a kiss. "Those were the words you
said, Sis, when we danced up and down this
246 Bedesman 4
floor together, on a night when I knew I
was going to a certain free grammar
school. ' '
The two laughed together, holding each
other's shoulders, Emily full of chat-
ter.
Esther Bold sat by the fire, a still look
on her face. "The Lord have been very
good to ee, my son, ' ' she said, when silence
had fallen and lasted long.
When Emily ran down to shop for a
rasher for supper, he sat on holding her
hand for a long while.
"Have ee any more to say, my son?"
she asked presently.
"How did you know? Yes I Ve more
to say. In a week or two, Mother, I 'm
not sure when, I am going to stay with
some Oxford friends at their country
house. There I shall meet some one
whom I love. I am going to tell her all
my story. Very likely she will say me
Gwen 247
'Nay,' but, yet I think I have my chance.
I Ve known her some time, but not seen
much of her. It seemed a thing hardly
right to seek her, till after my degree. But
somehow, when we meet, as we did last
week and again yesterday, I seem to know
her quite well. Why is it, Mother?"
"I take it, my son," said Esther Bold
calmly, " 't is 'cause you be the two. I 've
knowed some while, my dear," she added
after a pause, "as there was someone,
and as 'twas n't my Miss Bridget. The
Lord give thee joy of the maid, my son,
and send thee thy heart's desire."
There fell a hush that he would not
break. He looked at her furtively. He
did not like these little illnesses.
"My dear," said Esther Bold, and
then paused, "she '11 be a lady, I take it,
and we 're but poor folks. Thee be come
up a gentleman, like we always said, and
't is so she '11 know thee. Thee won't think
248 Bedesman 4
as thee must be constant coming here. She
David Bold made a quick movement,
grasping his mother's hand so tight that
he all but hurt her.
"Mother no. She T s too big for all
that. If she should care, all would work
out of itself. If not, I I could not
marry her. I have the right to speak to
her. Oxford makes a man belong to his
future, not his past. He is himself, and
what he can do of himself, after that.
Who gave me Oxford, Mother?"
She pressed his hand, not speaking.
"I should like you/' he said thought-
fully, "to know her name, Gwendolen
Brydon. You won't name it again, un-
less She *s a lovely woman, Mother.
The first time ever I saw her, I saw she
was like you."
"Gwendolen Brydon," said Esther Bold
slowly.
Gwen 249
Emily and the rashers immediately ar-
rived, then Father, stumping in, to have
the Oxford news explained to him over the
meal. When Esther had gone up to bed
the two men sat there, the father smoking
a long clay, and David joining him.
When he knocked the ashes from it, his
son got up.
''Father,'* he said, "I haven't thanked
you for what you Ve given me for what
has brought me to this day."
William Bold looked up. He surveyed
the tall man in his sound tweeds, whose
head had a curious dignity that he under-
stood not. And deep in his soul, he knew
they were strangers. When he spoke, his
voice had a touch of harshness in it, yet
a hint of satisfaction.
"When you Ve a-putt down a pot of
money," he said, "you do like to see some-
thing for it. Your mother's uncommon
pleased. ' '
XII
," said Glover, the butler, with 'a
look in his eye,' "the gentleman 's
comin' down, this time, eh? When '11
the wedding-day be, Mrs. Sykes, I won-
der?"
' ' She '11 make a lovely bride, ' ' said Mrs.
Sykes, breaking an egg with an air of sen-
timent.
"Here, Jane," said the butler grandly,
"you can put this letter on the spare-room
mantelpiece. ' r
.......
The childlike gentleness of Lady Susan's
aged face was overcast. Her blue eyes
were troubled. Her Honiton cap had even
tilted a little on one side.
250
Gwen 251
"I don't see how I can let her go," Lady
Susan murmured.
"Of course you can't. Darling dear,
your cap! Let me. If Jane wants to go
home, she should make a clean breast of
it,"
4 'How can I, Gwen, with Watson so
far from well? And yet I can't bear be-
ing hard on a servant. I wonder, could
one put him off? But it 's only for two
nights, and so good for your uncle. He
wanted him asked ; Mr. Bold 's so nice with
him. It 's not sickness, she said "
"Surely, dear, then, it can wait?"
Gwen's breath had caught a little. "See,
auntie, shall I speak to her? We 're
rather friends. I won't have you worried
into a headache."
"Oh, no, dear. It 's settled now. But
I 'm not comfortable. Suppose her par-
ents really want her. Such dreadful
things do happen to the poor! They 're
252 Bedesman 4
such very respectable people, "Watson says.
The father 's a quarryman. And she y s
such a nice girl, only here a month and
Watson can leave her to anything. Just
what I want. I wonder what it is. Per-
haps some brother 's run away to sea, or
they 're in debt, or the father drinks "
Gwen burst out laughing.
1 ' Oh, dear, poor things ! What a tender-
hearted auntie it is ! "
The Times here arrived opportunely,
under the big cedar-tree.
When Lady Susan had entered upon a
leader, Gwen got up and went in. She had
seen a duster flutter out of her bedroom
window, in the midst of reading out the
paragraphs.
"Ah! Jane, has my lilac gingham come
home from the wash?"
Jane set down the pail she was carrying
away.
"No, miss. But I Ve sent round."
Gwen 253
"Oh, thanks! Jane, I 'm sorry to hear
you 're in trouble."
Jane stood upon one foot, flushing to the
roots of her sandy hair. She reached after
the handle of the pail.
"Oh, it 's it 's not anything, miss."
Another woman's eye saw it was very
much indeed. "I 'm sorry I troubled her
Ladyship, miss."
"But what is it, child?" Gwen thrust
the door to, over the girl's shoulder.
"You 're really in trouble, or you would n't
have spoken. And I might help. Tell
me. It won't go any further, I prom-
ise."
The sense of common girlhood was in
the tone. Lady Susan's housemaid stood
flushed and awkward. Then she gave a
quick, hot glance upwards, (why can't
one say 'uttered a glance T that is the
truth) just one look, but it covered the
whole, from head to dapper slipper-toe, of
254 Bedesman 4
Gwen's fair, dainty, summer-morning per-
son. Then she dropped her eyes.
"Oh, no, miss ! Not if 't was ever so !"
Gwen was startled. She felt as if she
had been scorched. And she had no idea
why. It was as if there was something
hostile, almost tragic in the glance.
Tragic! Jane! solid, steady-going maid-
servant 1
"But, if it 's so serious " Gwen found
herself saying.
"Oh, 't is n't, miss. 'Tis nothing. I
only wanted for to see Mother."
"Well, I 'm sure, next week, when the
house is empty, my aunt will spare you
gladly. Mrs. Watson will be better, and
"Oh, yes, miss. Please, miss, don't you
trouble. 'Tis just nothing." And Jane,
the color of a hot coal, seized her pail and
was gone. Gwen shrugged her graceful
shoulders. Well, you can't help some peo-
Gwen 255
pie. But what on earth had made the
girl look at her like that?
The girl went away, as in a desperate
hurry, the pail clanging noisily down the
passage. When she got into the roomy
housemaid's cupboard, where the sink was,
she thrust the door to behind her, set-
ting down the pail with a quick rattle, with
no attempt to empty it. She stood breath-
ing quick, big drops of agitation and stress
breaking out on her forehead. "Oh,
dear!" she said in little gasps. "Oh,
dear!" Persons of her condition do not
soliloquize, save in such interjections, the
natural vent of woman till that queer thing
called culture has made her ashamed. If
they did, she would have gasped out, ' l Her !
her, of all people! Tell her!" She be-
came quieter, leaning against the wall, her
eyes fixed and troubled. Was ever poor
girl put in such a corner before? Who
ever heard of such a thing? Oh, what a
256 Bedesman 4
Heaven-sent blessing they called her
"Jane"! 'T would n't never strike him
to remember her second name, Granny's.
If only she 'd written to him since she came
here a fortnight ago! Mother wouldn't
have given her address yet, thinking she
wrote herself.
The helping wait dinner! Oh, there
would be the trouble ! What a mercy they
used red-shaded candles! Perhaps he
would never look up, nor catch her face.
If he did good heavens ! what would they
both do?
All at once sobs burst up into her throat.
Oh, it was hard! She hadn't seen him so
long, except for that one night. But stand
in his way! ruin his chance
' ' Jane ! Jane ! ' ' came in Mrs. Watson 's
vigorous tones, from the further land-
ing.
The girl dashed her apron up into her
eyes, and emptied the pail with a resound-
Gwen 257
ing splash. There was no help for it.
The thing had got to be faced.
It was tea-time when the guest arrived.
From the bedroom window, when Miss
Gwen's lilac gingham came home to be
carried up, one could see the little group
under the cedar, the white table with the
pretty tray, all dainty china and silver;
Lady Susan, old and elegant, in the wicker
arm-chair; the Doctor with his big white
hat; Miss Gwen's gracious figure in that
pretty blue cotton, bending over the tea-
pot, drawing up a chair; -Miss Gwen!
why, if that happened! oh, goodness, such
things could n't be ! And, clear to be seen,
but with his back to her, that other figure,
in dark brown tweeds, the black head,
the shoulders. Oh, come, one mustn't
get to crying again! How nice he did
look!
Yes, David Bold, for a peasant boy, made
outwardly a remarkably successful "gen-
258 Bedesman 4
tleman. ' ' When one has been taught from
babyhood to fear God and respect one's
elders, to hate a lie, and consider one's
neighbor, one 's root-principles are not fun-
damentally different from those regulating
' * the gentle life, ' ' socially so called. There
was at moments a shy and rather need-
less modesty about him. That was all.
For the peasant, pure and simple, is not a
"vulgar" person. That means entirely
something else. Small wonder none of
the family had wondered whence he came,
though Dr. Morcott thought he knew him
well.
And there, upstairs, furtive and fright-
ened, peering between the light summer
curtains, in her tidy black frock and white
apron and her neat little housemaid's cap,
his own born sister, that had shared his
baby plays and eaten hot toast off the same
plate with him, stood and gazed at him with
hungry eyes.
Gwen 259
"You 're fond of the country," Gwen
said, as they strolled down the long path
to the paddock.
David had come straight from three
weeks' reading at the British Museum.
The summer days in town, airless and
dust-defiled, made all gardens more fair.
He glanced round him, drawing a deep
breath.
"I was born and bred in the country,"
he answered. As he said it, suddenly, a
thing happened. The garden prospect,
the overhanging beeches, the tangled bed of
poppies mingled with white pinks, that ran
beside the path, aye, even the girl so close
to him were there no more. He was
on a rough paved pathway, outside a gray
thatched cottage in its neat garden, where,
too, the pinks grew. To go in, to where
the low-roofed, tidy kitchen glowed with
firelight, and one in black gown and neat
apron sat and sewed, he must step down,
260 Bedesman 4
through the brown doorway, must stoop
his head a good deal.
The moment was very intense. It could
scarcely have happened if he had not been
vividly in love. He had come down here,
eager, shaken with the seeing her again.
In the broad, silent museum's matted
spaces, amid the deep joys that came to
him from dusty decipherments in solemn
aged tomes, she had been never absent from
him.
His life at Oxford had been always quiet,
but never narrow. Every one knew he was
poor, and had come up from a country
grammar school. His gifts, combined
with a certain simple directness of char-
acter, due partly to youthful sincerity,
partly to his peasant instincts and up-
bringing, had saved him awkwardnesses.
He had learned unconsciously, to adapt
himself, as academic life teaches, to people,
to circumstances. He had many friends.
Gwen 261
That sudden acute memory smote him
like a blow in the face.
All at once, now, he realized the gulf.
It was as if he never had seen it yawn be-
fore. It was true that he no longer be-
longed to that life where his mother dwelt.
A light puff of wind fluttered a blue cot-
ton skirt towards him. Gwen, his gra-
cious lady, to whose world he did belong,
for good and all, who knew nothing about
the other
All at once one of those strange voices,
as out of the Invisible, that, at weighty
hours of life speak suddenly to shake, to
inspire us, came to David Bold.
"Tell her now," It said; "you have
to tell her. Say 'I am a quarryman's
son.' "
As It came, the two turned up the path
again. When they reached the head of it,
David stepped aside and gathered some-
thing from the border.
262 Bedesman 4
"Do you like pinks?" lie said. His
voice was not quite steady.
He had not spoken. He did not mean
to speak. He did not know her well
enough. He was not ready.
Yet at the bottom of his heart fool-
ishly, unreasonably though it might be
he was ashamed.
As they passed over the lawn, a muslin
curtain, caught by the warm breeze, sud-
denly billowed out of a first floor window.
They both looked up. Then Gwen looked
swiftly at him. Behind the billow she
had seen, in a quick vision, something.
Had he seen it tool
It was a furtive, eager face the face
of Jane the housemaid.
The red-shaded candles shone softly
upon dark roses laid upon the white cloth.
The soup had gone round. It was salmon
now. There was an entree to come next.
Gwen 263
Glover was distinctly worried. He
could not think what was the matter with
the girl. As a rule, she waited capitally,
was all he wanted. To-night she seemed to
have lost her head, had missed out
the guest ! From the sideboard he did his
best to telegraph to her ; then he beckoned
and thrust the plate into her hand. Merci-
fully no one saw him.
Whether it was her nervousness, or the
fear of getting no fish, that disturbed the
even tenor of his mind, David Bold became
suddenly aware of he knew not what in the
air. He glanced up. Suddenly he ceased
to speak. That hot, strange vision of
home leapt up once more. He had met
full a frightened, deprecating, distressed
pair of blue eyes. Bending to hand cu-
cumber to the Professor, he saw his sis-
ter Emily.
David never knew clearly what he
thought or did in that instant. An im-
264 Bedesman 4
pulse to spring up from his chair, to
speak, came first, for one warm, natural
moment. Then Emily's eyes, and an ac-
quired instinct, that in that strange crisis
half of him hated, the other half respected,
kept him seated, silent. He was forbidden
by all laws of good breeding, to make a
scene. He bent his eyes on his plate and
helped himself to salt.
Some one else had seen, some one sit-
ting opposite him. A pair of quick girl's
eyes had intercepted that speechless mes-
sage.
The color flooded Gwen's cheek and
neck. But he saw nothing but his plate.
"Are you drinking claret, Bold?" said
Dr. Morcott, into the pause.
At the end of the interminable meal, and
the Doctor's learned questions over the
port, David Bold, wondering what he had
done and said all that time, turned and
went upstairs to his room. There was only
Gwen 265
one thing lie could do and he blushed in the
dark as he did it. He walked across the
room and rang the bell.
As he stood waiting in that first unoc-
cupied moment, it seemed to him that
he knew not who he was or what he was.
He was less ''in a strait betwixt two" than
adhering to both, fighting fiercely for his
rights in both. His mother Emily meant
his mother! Gwen, the new, insistent, ex-
quisite love, that while the life beat in him,
must come first of all things! The thing
went so much deeper than the surface ex-
citements, the question of tact, the hideous
embarrassment, that, acute as they were,
they seemed only to prick him like pins,
amid the strong half-comprehended stabs
of the deep instincts in struggle within.
Yet they hurt acutely. In a moment Emily
would be here.
But Mr. Bold was as yet but inade-
quately initiated into the due routine of a
266 Bedesman 4
careful household. As he stood in the
dark, catching his breath, a dignified creak
approached along the passage. In the
twilit dusk came a decorous knock at the
open door, and the offended but patient
voice of Glover disturbed at his supper.
"You rang, sir?"
David could have leapt at Glover's
throat. "I I want some hot water,"
came from his lips lamely. For Emily's
sake, he could not ask for the housemaid.
Gwen sat by the lamp, drawing threads
from a square of coarse linen. She did
not look at David Bold as he came in.
What did the thing mean? What had the
housemaid to do with him, that their eyes
met like that?
The girl was young, and there was
pride in her, the hot pride of birth and
breeding, the fierce, tenderer, tremulous
pride of first love. She knew she cared for
Gwen 267
this man. What had he to do with the
housemaid?
David Bold took a seat in the shadow,
not going near her, picking up a magazine.
But he saw nothing else but Gwen. The
bent head, the little fair tendrils of hair
on the nape of the neck, the gracious slope
of the shoulders, the noble brow. The
sight of her took hold of him, as never till
this moment.
A fierce question waked and burned. If
she knew?
The workman's son knew himself all
at once ignorant of her standpoint. The
idea of a mean thought as hers would not
realize itself within him. Yet how did
she look at things? If she knew, what
would she say? She, the orphan maid with
money, who, as he knew well enough, would
dispose of herself.
Gwen Lady Susan's high-bred niece,
sister-in-law to the housemaid!
268 Bedesman 4
The idea was too bizarre to be taken in.
It was inevitable that the inherent temp-
tation should be visible to David Bold.
How could it not be ?
To see Emily furtively, tell her to be
silent, not to know him here. What harm
in that? What so natural
To acknowledge her, in the midst of this
peaceful refinement, with all its delicacies
of consideration each for other, to speak
and tell Lady Susan, Dr. Morcott, that his
pupil and guest, to whom they had shown
exquisite kindness, and the girl whom they
paid to empty the slops and make the beds
were of one blood would it not be like
an affront?
Instantly, all through, he hated himself.
The suggestion could have come to Esther
Bold's son only from outside himself.
She would have called it "a thought from
the devil." He hated it. Yet there was
honest perplexity in him. The situation
Gwen 269
was an unheard-of thing. How could he
do that!
Gwen swept down the passage with a
rustle of silk skirts. She had shaken hands
with the guest at the stair-head. As she
entered her bedroom, Jane came out. She
had just deposited a hot water can, and
she carried another.
The guest had just entered his room op-
posite, towards which the girl crossed.
Then she stopped and turned to go down
the passage. She had seen him. But a
voice said, "I want to speak to you."
Gwen, invisible herself, saw the instant of
hesitation. Then Jane had crossed the
other threshold, and the door was shut.
"Oh, Dave! I didn't never mean!
Dave"
The sentence was cut short. The gen-
tleman in dress clothes caught and kissed
270 Bedesman 4
the girl in cap and apron. Then he
looked at her for an instant, his face un-
steady.
"Bless the maid! she 's as red as the
roses. Why didn't you tell me you were
here?"
"I never knowed as you was comin',
Dave. Not till Mr. Glover give me a let-
ter for to put on your chimney-piece.
Dave, I 'm that sorry! But I shan't say
nothinV
The well-known tones with the burr of
home in them brought a queer sensation
into David's throat. The eyes, with their
wistful love, their anxiety, did not help.
He suddenly took her by the shoulders.
' t Look here, sister Emily, what time are
you free to-morrow? In the afternoon?
After tea? We '11 go out together."
"Oh, Dave, I couldn't. They 'd all be
talkin'. 'T would come to Miss Gwen
Oh, Dave, I 'oodn't stand in your way."
Gwen 27 1
The dark face flushed hotly.
"What time are you free?"
"Well, ha'-past five But, Dave"
"We '11 have a chat then. Well, now,
good night, Sis. I 'm afraid you 'd better
not stop here."
Gwen lay awake a long time. Thoughts
unknown to her life visited her that night.
Then she tossed through dreams for a
short three hours, and woke in full summer
sunshine, about six. She was weary and
restless. The summer garden invited.
She rose and went out.
Her heart was troubled. Nature was
kind, under the dewy trees.
Yesterday she had thought him her own.
Now she was proudly aware that she re-
linquished him. They were not engaged;
she held no rights in him. There were
many details in a man's life, also many
women, who took what they called a
272 Bedesman 4
1 ' broad-minded view" of them. They
had a right to their view, if they liked it.
But it was not Gwendolen Brydon's. Old
Nicholas blood, and withal certain things
inherent in herself, said that in his rela-
tions with a woman, be she heiress or be
she housemaid, a man either acted honor-
ably, or he did not.
Going home to breakfast, through the
woodland ways, some half mile off, she
caught sight of a black and red uni-
form.
"Good morning, postman," said Gwen,
ever good-natured, "can't I save you a
walk?"
He pulled up, thanked her, shifted his
bag from his back, and gave her the house-
hold letters. Gwen went on towards the
house, turning over the little bundle idly
to find her own.
All at once in the middle of the coach-
way, she stopped.
Gwen 273
Whose address was that!
"Miss Emily Jane Bold,"
Bold? The only Bold was That was
a servant's letter, obviously. The envel-
ope, the handwriting, said so.
' ' His people are poor. ' '
As with a growing light, something
slowly unfolded itself before Gwen. A hot
spot burned in her left cheek.
She went through the open study win-
dow, where a girl was sweeping. ' ' Here 's
a letter for you, Jane, I think. I met the
postman."
Upstairs in her room Gwen stood still.
Her heart yearned over what she loved.
She had misjudged him.
Yes. But this was a new test. Would
he stand it!
The girl's lips parted in an anxious
smile.
Heavens! What a moment for a man!
To speak out, to confess!
274 Bedesman 4
Or else to risk for that other girl, who
belonged to him, the gossip of the servants *
hall, of all her neighbors in her own
sphere. And more than that. What
would David Bold be worth, if he were
silent?
"Yesterday," Gwen said to herself, de-
liberately, "I meant to marry him. To-
day I don't care two straws how he is
born. He is himself. But the man I
marry must be a gentleman ! ' '
Uplifted and tremulous her heart shook
within her; but by that test Gwen would
abide.
David Bold was shy, speaking less freely
than usual.
It might have been half -past ten, when
Lady Susan, armed with a large and seri-
ous book and a white parasol, took her
seat, as each morning, on the terrace, in
the shadow of the house. After a few
minutes a step approached her. "Lady
Gwen 275
Susan," said David Bold's voice, "may
I ask you for something?"
Lady Susan looked up. She had taken
a fancy to this young man and she smiled
upon him.
"Will you give me leave to take your
housemaid for a walk this afternoon?
She is my sister."
He stood quite still. It seemed to him,
in the next instant, that he had sacrificed
he knew not what.
Then, with a little quick movement, he
looked up. On the drawing-room window-
step, stood Gwen.
Esther Bold's son met his bride's beau-
tiful eyes full.
EPILOGUE
AQUAETEB of an hour before lunch,
after a morning that seemed a
dream, David Bold sought his room. He
believed he was going to write to his
mother.
Thrusting itself from beneath the pin-
cushion on his dressing-table, he caught
sight of the corner of a slate-gray envel-
ope : and drew it out. It was unaddressed,
but he opened it. His sister wrote to him
on paper of this depressing shade. Some
one had made her a present of a box of
"fancy stationery ": and Emily >s limited
correspondence took a long while to get
through it. Inside was a half sheet.
"Dear Dave, I heard you with her
ladyship, up at her bedroom window
277
278 Bedesman 4
sweeping. Dear Dave, don't say a word
for them to know downstairs. If you
wants me, come in the little wood out of
the white garden wicket quarter to six,
and I '11 be there. Your loving Emily. ' '
David turned the missive over in his
hands. His first impulse was to rebellion.
Since Gwen, stepping quietly, after that
encounter of eyes, down from the window-
step, had passed round the corner of the
house, and he had followed her, the world
was new-made. He was in no mood to put
up with any nonsense of the servants ' hall.
But he saw that Emily must know best
where her own shoe pinched. Her brother
must consent for once to slink out of the
house to meet her, as if they had some-
thing to be ashamed of. When the hour
came, he saw a white sailor hat among the
trees, as he approached.
"Come along this ways," she said,
Epilogue 279
eagerly, "there won't nobody see us. Oh,
Dave, why ever did 'ee go telling up to
her ladyship like that?"
He only smiled. To make her under-
stand why appeared to him an irrelevance.
"Never mind, Sis. That's all right.
I 've news to tell you, if you can't guess
it."
"To be sure I can," she answered, her
cheek flushing hotly; "whatever do her
ladyship say?"
"Her ladyship, kind woman well, Miss
Brydon has taken charge of her. It *s you
I 'm concerned with now, child. Explain
to me where downstairs comes in."
"Dave, if they was to know! I 'd run
right away home. I 'ouldn't have the
face to stop. I sha* give warning to-night,
now as you Ve told me. I sha' say as
Mother wants me home. Her ladyship
'11 let me go."
He pulled up in the midst of the path.
280 Bedesman 4
"I don't know that I can have that," he
said, slowly.
"Thee can't help it," said Emily stub-
bornly. "I tell 'ee there 's things as you
can't put up with, nor I won't."
(If a thing could be stupid, it was a man.
Did he think his sister was going to sit and
listen to that Glover's observations about
him?) "Thee got to prevent 'em know-
ing," she repeated.
David had met that "dunt" look in those
eyes, when they went together to school.
Counsels of perfection, too, are not to be
forced.
1 l You must have it your own way, I sup-
pose, Sis. I 'm sorry you '11 be out of a
good place."
"Bless 'ee, I can see to myself," said
Emily, coolly. She looked into the re-
cesses of the wood and smiled. "I mid be
off to Canada for what I knows," she ob-
served, looking at him obliquely. "No,
Epilogue 281
thee have n't heard nothing about that, nor
more haven't Mother. She been ill, and
I did n't mean leavin' of her. But I had a
letter from him this morning.'' She felt
in her pocket. "I must ha' lef it in the
drawer. ' '
1 ' Who is he, then?"
" Second gardener up to Darner's; John
Byman, you can mind of 'n. ' '
"Certainly. And does John Ryman
want my sister?" Something silent and
elemental stirred in David as he spoke.
She nodded. "Mother she don't think
bad of 'n. Nor Dad. But now he 's got
that far, as he means going out there in a
year or that, and will I come too?" She
paused.
"Will you?" her brother said gently,
fresh from his own romance.
"I don't hold with them chauffeurs,"
said Emily, with seeming irrelevance,
"else I might have had Captain Symes's.
282 Bedesman 4
Gives theirselves airs they does, wi' their
caps, never was ! Nor yet I don't wi' but-
tlers. Look at that Glover! They don't
know what 's in that pantry cupboard!
And as for coachmen! bless 'ee! well!"
Her lifted chin spoke Portia's resolve,
to "do anything ere she would be married
to a sponge."
"Be there any honest men left, Hal?"
David wondered.
"And second gardeners, eh?" he said
and smiled. Emily pursed her mouth.
"Do 'ee think Mother 'd have let him
over door-stone, if he hadn't been pledge?
They say as he '11 do well out there, when
he 's got his chance. I don't know all of
it"
They went on together silently under
the arching trees, till he found her looking
aslant at him, and met her eyes. There
was a dumbness in them as of old, and the
old appeal, of common blood, of home.
Epilogue 283
But there was something else, that was
new and a question.
1 'You 're fond of him, Sis," said David.
"Yes," she answered slowly, "I been
fond on him this two years." Silence
again. Then, suddenly, a quick little sob.
"But I be awful fond o' thee."
She had her arms about his neck. He
drew her to him, and they stood together
mutely, like lovers.
"I 'm rich," said David Bold, with a
catch in his voice.
The wooden-legged man glanced at the
carriage at the head of the lane. Two
young figures were turning in at his own
gate. One, tall and gracious, wore a
dainty white gown and a plumed hat. He
pulled up crossing the field. The thing
flabbergasted you a bit. Surveying his
right palm, he rubbed . it vehemently on
his white trouser-leg, having first well
284 Bedesman 4
licked it. Poor William Bold! His wild-
est dreams had not pictured a woman like
that.
His Esther sat darning in a low chair
outside the cottage door. She looked up
calmly as the gate fell to.
1 'Mother," her son said, "I Ve brought
my Gwen."
The maiden in white slipped quietly on
to her knees, to be on a level.
"Please kiss me," her deep tones said,
simply.
The two women looked into each other's
eyes. Their lips met.
THE END
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