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Woch««t«i. Nca York 14609 USA
(71«) 402 - 0300 - PhoM
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THE HOUSE OF THE
WEEPING WOMAN
' BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE WORKER AND
OTHER POEMS
THE MACMILLAN CO., NEW YORK
THE HOUSE OF THE
WEEPING WOMAN
■r
CONINGSBY WILLIAM DAWSON
TORONTO
THE WESTMINSTER COMPANY LIMITED
LONDON: HODDER AND STOUGHTON
P5 3 5'05'
Of- a
not
Ct^i/rigkt 190!
880124
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I '*•■
AT TBI UOll Of TBI WIIPIIO WOMAI .... 1
CHAPTER II
TBI UraiSI OF ABBITIOM jiy
CHAPTER III
lAllTT AID TBI BORIIKO 32
CHAPTER IV
A FUOBT TO TBI FOBUT 37
CHAPTER V
IITH A THUTB-TIIXIB gn
CHAPTER VI
TWO 00 11 SIABOB AFTIB BAPPINI88 .... 68
CHAPTER VII
BABPAIT UOM LAlfl gg
CHAPTER VIII
A IIOBT OF ILLCSIOIf oq
CHAPTER IX
THI B0U8I OF TBI DRIAMBR8 OF DREABS ... 86
CHAPTER X
WHIN TOUKO BEN SEE VISIONS 9^
CHAPTER XI
SEEING TBI WOBLD A8 WBITI gg
V
if
yi CONTENTS
CHAPTER XII
TBI MAW in m raADOWI.AirD 109
CHAPTER XIII
A HARMOMT AMD MHI DUOORM 131
CHAPTER XIV
BOUHD FOB TBI rORMT 0» LMAWWM .189
CHAPTER XV
PAVrOBAU ABD A PBAIABT IQQ
CHAPTER XVI
FOLLT AOBB FABM ]90
CHAPTER XVII
'■^« . 174
CHAPTER XVIII
BOW TBB BUB SBOBI OBRUniAB DAT*". .186
CHAPTER XIX
WBIM BBABTI ABB TOUKO 2C1
CHAPTER XX
A PIBITBBY APOBTLB .213
CHAPTER XXI
HB 80U0BT OUT BU 80UL 221
CHAPTER XXII
A SOUBD 0» A OOIBO IN THK TOPS OF THE TREKS 238
CHAPTER XXIII
WHEB MADAM EMOTION HELD SWAY .251
CHAPTER XXIV
LIOHTINO A FIRE 268
CHAPTER XXV
THE APPARITION 278
CONTENTS
vii
CHAPTER XXVI
FUniJiO Bit HAKD TO TBI FLOUOB
rMa
. 384
CHAPTER XXVII
TBI BBBTUro M ITABJIOW HOLLOW
. 399
CHAPTER XXVIII
JIPBTHAB'l OADOBTIB .
• • •
. 312
CHAPTER XXIX
TBI TBMOM BT BIOBT
. 318
CHAPTER XXX
TBI OOmiro OF TBB UJIWILiaUTKltD
. 338
CHAPTER XXXI
■BBABIHO THB wohlo .
• • • .
. 337
CHAPTER XXXII
Losnro TBI baitlb
• • • .
. 360
Men fight and lose the tattle, and the thing that
they fought fsr conui about in sfite of their
defeat, and when it comes turns out not to be
what they meant, and other nun have to fight for
what they mea$tt under another name,
WILLIAM MORRIS
In ♦' A Dream of John Bcdl."
U
CHAPTER I
AT THE SIGN OF THE WEEPING WOMAN
TuBNPiKE Thobougttfaee is a broad and busy street lying
just outside the Umits of the City of London— about a
mile to the north-east of the Mansion House.
Never having been at any time in history a fiuhionaUe
quarter, it still retains its plebeian character, and is for
the most part occupied by decayed working-men's dwell-
ings, factories, and large wholesale houses. Its attitude
toward the City proper is that of a poor relation— thrust
out of sight, never introduced to company, and expected
to do with humble gratitude the menial task unthanked.
Yet here and there among the ugly and more modem
architecture is some of much earlier date, belonging to
a period when what are now stri^ts were open fields,
whither the 'prentices and joumt^ymen of the Cheap
I brought their sweethearts and wives on the long summer
evenings to watch them at their contasts of bow and ball.
I As landmarks of this happier age stand many ancient
Ihostelries bearing quaint signs: ''The Fisher's Folly"
|«The Tankard,'; "The Friend of Ease." Some of thL
still pursue their aforetime commeroj; some have been
'M)nverted into shops. In the number of the latter must
ranked "The Weeping Woman," which lies to the
aorthem extremity of The Turnpike, standing back some
iozen paces from the line of pavement, almost facing the
Tiediaeval church of St. Lawrence the Just.
" 1
THE WEEPING WOMAN
Tlie sign of <*Tbe Weeping Woman,"* bearing the
weather-beaten semblance of one robed in scarlet, carrying
a child in her arms with down-bowed head, still swings
above the doorway ; but the jovial hospitality whidi it
once betokened for the incoming traveller who arrived
over-late at the CMty Gate has vanished with departing
years. The tavern was converted into a mixed book and
stationery hhop fifty years ago by Giles Lancaster, a strong
temperance advocate arrived before his time, who had
hoped to elevate the moral tone of the community in
wUch he dwelt by the sale of classic bodes at reduced
prices.
At this time John, grandson of the pioneer, was in
possession. A man of no fixed creed, certainly c^ no
temperance bias, he was beset, behind and before, by the
hoeditary chastener of the Lancasters, an overwhehning
ami tormenting conscience. He had grown up in the
belief that family honour forbade the abandonment of
this quixotic adventure.
This evening he sat at the open window of his attic
study, with a large seventeenth-century volume of Ralei{^*s
Htttory of the World upon his knees.
The room faced towards the east, and the burning red
of an August sunset smote firom behind upon the sombre-
coloured roofs of the leagues of houses opposite with a
sudden and unaccustomed glory ; drifting across the street,
it lit up the grey, monotonous sea of slate and chimney-
pot with flashings of copper and of gold. From below
came up the unceasing ejaculations of a tirelesti dty, the
roar of traffic, and cries of costers vending their wares.
Lancaster was a tall man, six-foot-two at least, but
narrow of shoulder and chest. His hair was long, lank,
and black ; his forehead high and wrinkled ; his eyes gr^
and somewhat stem; his mouth large and thin of lip,
inclined to droop at the corners, betokening despmidenqr,
SIGN OF THE WEEPING WOMAN 8
^ *T Tl^ to wnUe. and kindly; the chin firm,
pointed, and clean^ihaven ; the nose delicate and arched^
hif age about thirty, though he looked older. Theentiw'
conation of his face was intellectual, and produced in
^stranger, by reason of its mingled power and melan-
dioly, a singular sense of reverence tinged with pity ; for
It bj»e the inevitable shadow of one Zlas beendi;nS
by Lircumstance not to succeed.
A. he sat in the darkening room his long, thin finoers
toned page after page with the lisUess frequency of^
who takes no mterest in that which he reads. Every now
and again he would pause to listen, half rise fiom hit
chafr, and then, findmg himself mistaken, remime his
profitless task. At last there came the jangling of a belL
With a look of infinite relief he jum^i V-nd^ to
himself, and left the room. Soon there was thewuS of
a door opened and closed, and of footsteps ascending the
stars. When he re-entered he was accompanied by a^man
who, crossing the dusky attic, approached the window and
leant fiu- out, so that the reflected light of the world below
smote up into his face.
vl^ T- \^^^"« W of not more than twenty-two
years. His hair, which was worn longer than is customary
among men of to-day, was of a shining golden col^
toudied with bronze. His forehead waT ^ and ex-
tremely white, traveled by curls which feU away at the
temples. His nose was straight and prominent ; his eyes
full, deep-set, and of a shadowy grey. The lips, slightly
pouting, and of a rich red, seemed to be for ever p«led
as If eager for speech. His brows were heavy, reJdarlv
I curved, and of a darker shade than his hair; whilst the
hds were thickly fnnged with lashes so long that at times
they almost screened his eyes. He was emphatically one
bom with a large destiny, which, however, the sensitive
hnes of the fece half hinted he was too tender to fulfil
THE WEEPING WOMAN
There wmt a startling parity in his bearing whidb left
others wondering how any one, who had lived for even so
shcnrt a space as he, could have kept his body so undefiled,
and his eyta so truthful. He bore the mariis of one
bound upon a quest which called forth only the noblest
dements in his being— one who not only possessed to the
fbll the capacity to dream, but who could restore the
power of vision to others, from whom it had departed.
When he spoke, there was a certain lyric quality in his
voice which stirred the imagination, bdlding up pictures
in his hearer''s mind which outdid in splendour the mere
meaning of his words.
"London! London!** he exclaimed, unconsciously
stretdung out his hands. **I can well understand what
Charles Lamb felt when he said that Fleet Street and the
Strand are better pla^^3 to live among than Skiddaw ;
and that though he coi'tj spend contentedly two or three
years in the mountains, he should mope and pine away
had he not the prospect of seeing London at the end of
that time. Think of the men who have lived here, and
the ways in which they have died.*'
** Yes," answered Lancaster, going over to the window,
and standing at his side, " some of their lives are very
interesting for us to look back upon, but for them they
were far too actual to be pleasant. Very few of us would
relive the past, I fancy, had we the chance ; we know too
well what it caused us to suffer. Why, the things which
delight us in other men*8 biographies are those whidi
were dreariest to them — accounts of their griefs and strifes.
The past is a good picture to gaze back upon, Gabrid ;
it ought to be — ^it is a curio which was purchased at an
extravagant price. In the meantime we have our present
to mould in such fashion that it may grow into a desirable
past ; which proves for many of us a weariful undertaking.**
Grabrid turned sharply round, looking keenly into his
SIGN OF THE WEEPING WOMAN &
TTiinkrf^ the scope ftw adventure that it ailbrd^ Aw
man with ten yean of the future to hit credit can to um
hu pre«nt a. to make himself jurt whatever he like^
What wouM not Chri.1^ or Juliu. Ca»ar,or C«»ar Bo»ia,
«rJohn Keats have accomplished in ten more yeS!?
They would have re-made the world. I don^ fii the
ST ""T^L ''^' grand to be alive. ITiere are a
^on, miUion heroes in the Dead World who would
^^f their earthly triumphs for only this oppor-
•Rer-world. They would soon repent of their bannin.
of this sordid Babylon of ours. We have all the sTS
the ancients, minus their magnificence."
opi^s?/'*''' "^^^^"'^ '"P"^» ^^*^' « I remain an
«rn!*^tLSS^""** "* *"*" ""^"^^^ pessimists who have
gtoym terrified,'' returned the older mimT^
The attic in its remotest cnmnies was now in darkness,
l^e raj^of smiset, which had burnished the city's squalor
CZ"T" .'P^*^^""^ "^ '^^' ^ retreaMwii^
t>^t^T^ V'^r^ "^'^ eyes; so that to tS?
™^t-up &ncy the clangour of the streets resolved
itsdf mto the ring of mail-clad feet upon the roof-tons,
nashn^ w^^anls. In the ^om itself'Siere w^^o^^
I W K t ?"™"^ °^ Lancaster's pipe as he gathered
lo^ breaths of smoke through its black^ed stem
Th«e IS truth in what you say," Gabriel answered,
h«^dowly; «of late I, certainly, have been ^
n^afoud. Perhaps, after all, I am merely a terrifi^
e THE WEBPING WOMAN
"And that wm why 7011 oune to me f Tell me about
it** A tenderer tone crept into Lancaster*! voice ; all his
UttemesB had left him.
** Ves,** said Gabriel, turning sharply about so that he
freed the darkness of the room, ** that was why I came.
You know how, for myself at least, I hold stem views of
the purposes of life; I believe that I am in the worid to
lave nuuikind.** ^
** That is what we are all here for.**
"Yes, but we don't all know it, and those of us who
know it dont do it; we stickle at the price. I intend
to be original in this, that, knowing my possibilities, I
accept my fete.**
** Unfortunately, any departure from the conventional
usually meaxk that we impose our fate upon others ; we
cannot act singly.**
"I know that; Tve been learning it during the past
few days — ^that the accomplishment of any individual
ambition must be bought with other people*s sacrifice.
Good heavens ! what a scoundrel of a world ours is.**
** No, say rather what a wayward c^ild. But what has
happened to make you speak Uke this f "*
** The thing which I have most dreaded ; I have had to
make my choice. Tm not at home in the world, and never
have been — it is all so furious and strange ; I was made to
fed yet more of an outsider last night. That is alL**
There followed a long pause, during which the two men
hindered one another's gaze, lest by look or spoken word
they should perturb the atmosphere of confession. "I
dare say you noticed that the telegram which I sent you
was addressed from Marlow?" Gabriel observed slowly.
"We've been stopping there with our house-boat, 7%«
Paruyy drawn up beside that of the Thurms*. Tve given
my people plenty of opportunity of late for witnessing my
fondness for Helen. Because of this, my fether spdce to
SIGN OF THE WEEPING WOMAN 7
«• l«t night, wh«n the othen had gone to bed, and
He begw, by |M^ how he counted upon my /bture, and
•jer I AouM undertake. He had qwed notwU on my
^"^ Y:^^ "' *** Ham.w^to O^XZ
Si ZT^ ^li*^ "'"" •* *" ^^' ^« ~»»ide«d it only
jurt that I AouM pay some attention to hi. wishes He
SSL^TJTJl^^* ''" *^ alway. been much mom than
fej^ «id Km to one another, and that, saving nmelf, he
had had no intimate friend in aU his veaM. S^oJ
^e to think that this might ^^'j::;, ^l ^^f
^-m^e man, and had never had an eariy opportunity
tor cidtom ; whatev^ he had acquired in ^i^^^^
been kte at night, after business houw; buthehad «u3v
detemmed that such should not be the c«e ^A me. M J
o^rtomties w^ commencing at just about the point
^ his own, after fifty years of toil, were leaving^-
what was I gomg to do?"* ^
avdd?** " ^^^ ^""^'"^ ""^"^ ^°" ^^^ ^° *0^n*^ to
V JJ^r*" ^"T"^ ^^^"^ *°^ *»» i"*J«« how vasUy at
miwoe they "^ from my father's. I haidly know how to
WeuT J5*K- ^''^^^^ir'^o^^ doing him^ a disrespect
Z-u • i ™ everything,- Gabriel continued dreamUy,
™ahzing the scene and recounting it in detail, as if he w^
STttT"; "«-'^*^^*^-<i»-dalways'feir;i;n
^ rt m me to give expression to myself in some great
2^ literary way, perhaps. At this my father^^
^t for a moment, and then said, «! don't object to
ttat You can wnte aU you wish, and you know that,
^ould you succeed, no one will be more pleased than I
eveiy day to business; and business will give you an
THE WEEPING WOMAN
income, making yoa independent I know that you have
cratrived to accumulate a valuable art-knowledge on the
theoietical tide, but in a large house, such at oure, if a
man is ever to become an expert, it is necessary that he
shmild come fitce to fkce with practical issues, anid that as
soon as possible.' What was I to say ? I fed that in the
mere menticm I am acting disloyally to one who has
always been goodness itself to me. You understand, from
what I have said in previous conversations, that I cannot
approve of all the methods sanctioned in the art-dealer's
trade.**
** I understand.**
"It seems shameftil to me that men should stoop to
haggle and) cheat one another, to set a money value and
make a profit upon testaments in canvas, and in sculpture
to our world's greatest ideals. The men who painted half
the pictures which pass through my father's hands died in
garrets of hunger and disgrace ; we are content to make
gain by their loss.
**This traffic in rare and beautiful articles, which is
carried on under the name of art-dealing, is too often a
body-snatching of a dead man's secret affections — at best
it is degrading. It thri\ ) on the purchase of fragments
of the world's most precious hearts at the lowest figure,
followed by an indiscriminate sale to the world's highest,
and therefore most vulgar, bidder — ^pricing that which is
priceless. If my &ther, like Keats' father, had been bom
a keeper of stables, no matter how menial his employ,
provided it was honest, I would have stood by him ;' but
his employment is not honest, and never can be."
" I hope you did not say all this tc your father ! "
** No, not so strongly, and I v/ish I hadn't said it to
you, but I fed that I must speak. He was very generous
and patient with me. He might have asked me how I
was content to get an education with money so earned ;
SIGN OP THE WEEPING WOMAN 0
or how I oouM wew dothei bought with inch money ; or
where did I get the money which I carried in my pocket
at that veiy moment He didn't Lwtead of this, he
said that he had never regarded his business as anything
other than honourable, nor had his clients, if their social
standing counted for anything. He thought I would
soon grow out of such notions, and come to see matters
in a more practical light
** Then came a worse humiliation ; in the face of my
shabby treatment of him he confided in me. If he had
fired up and called me an ungrateful scamp, threatened to
disinherit, ordered me off his house-boat, it would have
been so much easier to bear; instead, he listened quite
patiently— never uttered an angry word ; in foct, showed
himself by far the greater gentleman.
** Everything had become vay quiet now, all the lights
had been extinguished in the other house-boiits ; we two
were quite alone. He laid his hand upon mine, and drew
his chair nearer, saying, * Gabriel, I don't think you have
evCT realized what kind of a life your mother and I have
hfiil to lead. I should never have told you had not this
oawred. A young man's agony is that he has too many
ambitions; an old man's, that he has none left I had
ahnost forgotten until to-night that I had ever dreamed
laige and impossible promises ; you have recalled all that
to me. Once was the time when I would have spoken in
very much the same way as you have spoken; and, on
some future day, you will speak in very much the same
way as I am now going to speak. When I was a very
young man, it seemed to me more than likely that I
should soon become the century's greatest painter. I
knew that I had the pictures in me, if I could but put
them on canvas. The canvas I couldn't always buy. My
faAer was a labouring-man. He could not have helped me,
I had he had the will ; he hadn't, and couldnt comprehend
W THE WEEPING WOMAN
tlMMnbition. No doubt he thought me nwd. IniMuiged
to tnunp it up to London, and there found that I wm
«»e of a million, all of whom had at aome time miflbrad
under a rimilar delusion. I starved, worked at odd jobs,
■hovelled mow, hawked my paintings from door to door—
lived as best I could. Then one day I drifted down an
old street off Piccadilly, up a blind turning, known as
IVejudice Alley. All this time, despite my privations, I
had Mver lost faith in my own genius. In a owner of
IVejudioe Alley stood a little shop, stacked with canvases
of all kinds ; some good, many bad. The man who kept
the shop was named Justin Redoubt Having stnne of my
productions, with me, the idea struck me that he might be
persuaded to buy ; so I entered.
*** Redoubt was old and dishevelled ; he had onoe been
a gentleman, but was now far gone in drink. When I
entered, he was sitting at the far end of the room by an
iron stove; this, when times were hard, he kept going
with splinters of frames — ^many of them Froidi and
Flinrentine ; the kind I sell to-day for hundreds of pounds.
He had upon his knees an Italian landscape which he was
frictioning with his fingers to remove the outer crust of
yellow varnish. At first, he didn't want to have anything
to do with me ; wouldn't even so much as raise his head,
but went on with his cleaning. At last, angered because
I still stopped, he looked up, and seeing me, became
interested. He examined what I had brought; seemed
rather impressed, but put them down again, saying that
he dealt only in antiques. He questional me about
myself ; what I did, where I lived. After a good deal of
beating about the bush, he said that he could give me em-
ployment, provided I was content to livp as he lived. In
the end, it turned out that this consisted in touching up, or,
if you prefer the bold truth, feking original copies of die
admired schools in part or whole. When a damaged
SIGN OP THE WEEPING WOMAN 11
jpietiire euM into hit handi he wooU dctn ofT Um dirt,
I until he got down to the nirface-|Mint ; then hand it oftr
to one of the various poor artirte whom he Itept in hii
pay, to have that which had been rubbed or ftded flUed
fajae near aa ponible in the marter*! style. Then it was
rstumed to him, toned to a subdued colour, oommcnsoiate
with iU suppowd age, and floated upon the maricet ae a
Baebum, Reynolds, or Rembrandt
"•When a man is destitute and starving, neither of
which you have ever been, his artistic scruples are apt to
give way when food is in sight. I took Redoubt^s oifer,
and agreed to do any woric that he might set before mt.
I did not commit myself to the profession for ever; I
considered it only as a means to an end— the ultimate
•diievement of myself.
<** As time went on I began to see the possible scope of
this way of living, and at the same time, being always
imitating the great schools, grew more expert with my
brush. Where the pictures stored in IVejudice Alley all
came from, I have never quite discovered ; that many of
them were the results of theft, I am now convinced.
*♦ * Ix>ndon is the clearing-house of the world's ill-gained
artistic treasures. There are, probably, this night stowed
away in various baclc-streets and hovels of London more
great masterpieces than are conUined in the Phuio or
the Hermitage. If you could follow up the hidden history
of the master-canvases of Italy and Spain which have dis-
appeared, and come to lig^t again years later when their
loss was nearly forgotten, you would ahnost invariably
find that at some period in their wanderings they have
come to London. If they have not done so yet, they
l«oon will. ^
"*What Mecca is to the Mohammedan, that London
18 to the art-treasure; there is an unexplained fatality
m these matters. Some few broken men, living in the
It THB WSBPING WOMAN
■hum o# tht Italian quarter anNind Soho, haw mbtd
upon this piaoe of informatioo, and watch all cfaanotb of
•ntiy night and daj. Such an one was Redoubt
***After a ihort reddence with him, I oommeiMed to
apprehend the inunenae importance of the knowledge
which I wae acquiring. I set royielf to wonderii^ in
what way I might make use of it All this must sound
▼ery sordid to jour ears, fresh as you are from the dtj of
romance; yet there has never attached to Oxford one-tenth
part of the romance which there was packed away in that
one dusty room, disorderly with frames and tatteied cantae,
down Ptajudioe Alley. Why, every picture had a legend,
and many had been purchased with Uood.
*"At the end of four years I decided to set up ibr
myself. Your mother was Justin Redoubt's daughter,
and, having been brought up in the shop, was not only
a splendid judge of schools, periods, and artists' styles, but
also one of the most delicate restorers in the profession.
I determined to keep the entire undertaking in my own
hands, your mother and I working together. I purchased
for my«elf, restored for myself, and was ray own runner.
Then, when I discovered that pki ires bought from me for
twenty pounds were sold by the dealers for hundreds and
thousands, I made up my mind to become a West-End
dealer, and saved up money to that end. By dint of hard
work and pinched living, I opened a studio in Piccadilly.
IVom that time I prospered.
"I During my early struggles, I still retained my first
ambition, to express myself to the world— to paint But
when I met so many men of kindred illusion, and saw how
they had failed, by slow degrees I abandoned myself to
the fortune which came to me unbidden, and forsook the
fortune which I had only coveted.
" * Then you came to us, and aU was changed. I deter-
mined that no child of mine should ever undergo the
SIGN OF THE WEEPING WOMAN 18
MDm of povwtj to which I had bMn Mli^wted. What
had previoudjr been a neMiih tolK wlely tor my own enda,
BOW grww into a woric of love for ymxn.
***I have read in aonie stray book, which I onn chanced
to pick up, woidf which run Mmething like thia: **Man
ilght and low the battle, and the thing they fought for
cornea about in tpita of their defeat, and when it cornea
tuma out not to be what they meant, and other men have
to fight for what they meant under another name.**
** * I am one of thoie who have fought and loat the battle.
Without being in any way a cynic, that is, I believe, what
overy man ii doing. No man ever attaint that which he
■eti out to attain; he attains something, never that
FHends, who encourage a young man in the belief that he
will attain, are but false Mends, goading him on to a hell
of his own making. The unkindest Uiing that a father
can do for his boy is to shout him forward in the pursuit
of his early will^^.the-wisps. I believe that every life has
its own peculiar victory in store— it is never the victory
which the possessor of that life has most desired. Dis-
illusion is man*s greatest triumph, aiid conquest in the
unsou|^t skirmish a greater test of courage than the
brutal winning of a long and cunningly thouf^t-out
campaign. Every foremost man has experienced this ; at
the bade of every peace there is some hidden desolation.
Tliere is no environed genius of to-day who does not
regret a visionary and lost battlefield of yesterday.
Tennyson succeeds as a poet, but is miserable because he
cannot write a staging play. Some applauded playwri^t
is wretched because he cannot make his scribbled verses
scan.
***I speak to you out of my Book of Life— the only
trustworthy guide-book to which a father can refer his
woo. I set out to be a Raphael — I am only a millionaire ;
and I say to you with idl kindness that, if you persist
14 THE WEEPING WOMAN
in your prewnt fkncj, it will be without my aid. I
believe that you are one of the men who will succeed, and
that greatl' jut it is not in the way which now you
most desire.
While listening to this story of revolt against the things
that be, Lancaster had been reading it through with the
etifled yearnings of his own early life. His experience of
battles bitterly corroborated that of Gabriel's &cher— that
fights are fought to be lost It had always been so in his
own case. Nevertheless, to-night, in the presence of this
incarnation of youth, he crushed down experience, and
hoped against hope.
** And then,"* asked Lancaster, " and after that what did
you say ?**
*»WI b could I say? I could not tell him that this
account of his methods had made my partaking in the
business all the more repellent ; that the very handling of
money so gained was in itself contamination. So I simply
said, * Well, father, we shall see. For the present I am
determined, at every cost, to follow my own bent, and to
attempt that which I feel myself most capable to attain.'
*« This sounded very lame and very obstinate, Fm afraid ;
but I dared not tell him my deeper reason. I don't
think he had expected me ^:o take matters so seriously.
His eyes filled, and he said, * My boy, you know best, but
I had hoped that it might have been otherwise. You are
my only child ; I and your mother are growing old. You
will have to come at wisdom in yotur own way, and I pray
God it may not cost you as much as it has already cost
me.'
" He said this with a sob in his voice. The morning was
breaking when we rose to go. Somehow, in that grey
light, he looked older than I had ever seen him, and his
shoulders seemed to have fallen forward. I fwl that I
behaved badly in speaking as I did, and even though it
SIGN OP THE WEEPING WOMAN U
w« the troth, I am half-indined to go back to him and
give mywlf the lie.
"To^y we talked over other matte»-Helen amongtt
othen, and then I said that I should Uke to ran up
and see you. I think that is all. Now, what have you
to say?" ^
The world outside had been for some time quite dark.
TTie noise of traffic had subsided ; everything was very
Mlent, with that intensest quiet which can only be found
m a great aty, when, for the short hour or two which
^TJTu?\* ?T"! ^ ™^"'''y °^ ""^^ ^ el>bed away.
I think, Gabnel, that you have acted in a way which,
far most m<m, would be reckoned unwise-a way, however,
which was the only one possible to you. I neither pnuse
nor condemn the step which you have taken ; but I love
you because of it While you have been speaking, I have
beai thinking out how you are to support youwelf for the
firrt .ew mouths. Your action with regard to your father
and the stand which he has taken, will, if I know anythimj
of your resources, place you in a very embarrassing positi^
for the n«rt year or so. You are my friend, therefore you
need not fed sorry to accept from me. I am not rich, but
I am quite comfortably off, and I want to say that vou
Me not only welcome to stay with me for a year or two,
but p«.itively must I have failed myself, you must
remember, and I do not intend to see you fail.
"About your literary projects we wiU talk more to-
morrow; you are fogged out with the excitements of the
day and must go to bed now. Get off as quickly as you
can, and try to forget your troubles for a while. So now
good-night" '
Gabriel went softly over to where Lancaster sat At
this hour, when so many affections threatened to vanish
out of bfe, he had met with utter comprehension ; a wave
of tenderness swept over him. Placing his hands upon
19
THE WEEPING WOMAN
hit duMiIden, he stood above him, looking down into hii
hce. ** You are a brave fellow,^ he said, ** and have given
me courage ; I don^ think that you have really failed.**
Long after Gabriel had departed, Lancaster stayed on
fitting by the open window, thinking, thinking. A
bedraggled rooster, in some neighbouring Turnpike slum,
lifted up his voice on stilts out of the blackness, heralding
the approach of light.
^ Be careful, my fine fellow," Lancaster muttered ; ** even
thouf^ you are somewhat of a prophet and have dis-
covered the dawn to ^iiich men as yet are blind, th^ll
wring your neck for you to-morrow if you make too much
noise."
He smiled bitterly, &tic3ring that he found a parallel
between this and another, no very distant, case.
The footsteps of new day had commenced to sound
befcne he rose to go to rest
?
1
CHAPTER n
f
1
THE EXFEN8E OP AMBITION
Thkt rose late next morning. The bcj who looked
after the shop had already taken down the shuttere, and
the woman who came to tidy and arrange the rooms had
already gone before they sat down to breakfast Gabriel,
except for a slight pallor, looked fresh and moderately
happy; but Lancaster's eyes were heavy and ringed.
After a display of emotion between two men, especially
if they happen to be Englishmen, there is usually a certain
awkwardness. Of nothing are we more afraid, either in
ourselvai or others, than the revelation of that true self
which lies hidden beneath the actor's guise.
After a few minutes of embarrassed silence, Gabriel
nervously, and with a forced hilarity, began, "Fm afiaid
I was rather overstrung last night, and overmuch m
earnest I dotf t believe any one is capable of giving an
accurate judgment on a situation afl»r the sun has gone
down. With sunset vitality decreases, and men are apt
to become coward»— to see only dreary probabilities in a
crisis. I must beg your pardon for upsettuig you in the
way I did."
Dmcaster raised his eyes very slowly. « My dear boy,
I don't see that there is any need for apology or explana-
tion. You were only loyal to yourself; the cowardice
consists in being ashamed of having been loyal."
There was a pause, during which Gabriel flushed, and
a 17
18
THE WEEPING WOMAN
then said impulsively, **What a fellow you are, John!
You always seem to know what it is that a man really
wants to say, even though he belies himself in the saying
of it There's no good in di^^se. My affairs are in a
very delicate state. I have either to be fidse to ray fatho:
or to myself; and it seems to me that if a man parleys
with his environment at twenty-two, by the time he has
reached forty his environment will be piloting his destiny.
A man's first duty is at all costs to attain himself. Most
tragedies arise from an early omission of this step.''
** And it is because of this, and more especially when I
look back into my own past and see the lack of tiiat early
step, that I am so emphatic in my advice to you to follow
up your present inclination. No man can serve two
masters ; he must either submit to his own fate, or inherit
some one else's. I did the latter at your age in adopting
my father's business ; my father's business has now adopted
me. I have been trying to repair the damage ever since.
I have found that the most expensive thing to repurchase
is your past. I should be sorry to see you understudying
for my catastrophe. But there — we don't want to be
tragic. You are trying a novel experiment, one which
few men have tried — ^the experiment of being yourself —
and I believe you'll win in the end. What we've got to
do is to plan for the clearing of a way. In the first place,
there's Helen Thurm."
** I think Fve to!(- you nearly everything about mysdf
except that. One doesn't like to talk about the woman he
loves — at least, I dont. It seems a sort of sacril^e. You
have met both Helen and her brother ; but I have never
liked to discuss either of them, and you have always
seemed to understand and respect my reserve. Rupert
and I have been close friends all through college. I met
his sister in my first year, when she was up for Eights'
week, and have been meeting her off and on ever since.
THE EXPENSE OF AMBITION lo
"Her aodal sUtiv, as such things an reckoned, is, of
coum, vastly superior to my own, and at first I thought
ttat this would stand in my way. I used to fancy that
Je rather despised our family occupation— not so mudi
from what she actually said as from the way in whidi she
kept silent, treating me on and off with a flippant disdain.
It was not until we took theParuy to iMarlow this summer
that I had any hope. But after she had got to know my
father and mother, she seemed to change. You know how
ample and lovaUe they both are, for all their money, and
how timid mother stiU is amongst strangers-ahnost as
though she was always harkiii^ back with longing to the
struggling days, when no one ^tood between us and herself,
and she had to work hard and do everything for us with
her own two hands. I think Helen expected to meet some
newly-rich and vulgar folk, who had nothing to boast of
or live for save their wealth. Instead, she found two quiet
old people who cared nothing about anything or anybody
except for loving one another and their son."
**0f course, you must see, Gabriel, that in making
yourself penniless, it would not be just to handicap the
fortunes of a brilliant young girl. Literature is a very
precarious adventure, and, even when it proves successful,
is not a prosperous financial investment."
« I see that only too clearly, and intend to let her know,
before I go any further, the reasons for my step, also that
I condder her entirely free. Fm afraid shell despise me
very much; but I can't help that. I would rather be
despised by the person I love most than live to despise
myself. I have been thinking the matter out, and have
decided to run down to Marlow this afternoon and stop
the night with Rupert, so as to let him know the exact
n- 3n for what I am doing. I shall also see father, and
; xsuade him not to take me too seriously. I should be
miserable if he were to understand my going away as
to
THE WEEPING WOMAN
tanUnoaiit to a fkmily rapture. I begin to fed that we
hare all regarded this small affair as far too epoch-making.
It ii, after all, onlj a little wanderjakr into a virtuous hx
ooontiy, whidi is not so distant but what a penny "bos-fiwe
will bring me back any day. Carlyle has been there, and
Cderidge, and even the pompous Dr. Johnson ; so I shall
be fai respectable company, even though there is nothing
but huriu to feed upon.**
That evening Gabriel found himself again in Marlow.
He had thought his way, at least partially, through his
difficulties, and was now rather inclined to imile upon the
strained perplexity of mind which had driven him so
suddenly up to town.
The long stretch of silver river seemed to reflect his
mood, recalling him from perfervid effort and speaking of
the ultimate happiness of quietude. A boatman informed
him that his father''s house-boat had moved up-stream
early that mommg, but that that of the Thurms^ was still
in the old place. After walking a mile or so towards it,
he cast himself upon the bank in the golden evening light,
and abandoned himself to dreaming those long, vague
dreams of which only veiy yoimg men are capable. As
he lay there he did not notice how a long, slim punt,
whidi had edged its way out from a back-water upon the
further side, came drifting towards him, pushing through
the rushes, keeping close to the shore. His eyes were in a
more distant land. He was now far enough removed from
the brutal realities of London to find attainment of any kind
easy. He pictured himself as a youth who has walked all
his years across a monotony of prairie, who comes at last
to a hi^ precipice, and, looking down, descries rivers and
towers and golden cities, things unheard of and unimagined,
any one of which may be his for the asking.
'That's just the trouble with me," he said, speaking
U'
THE EXPENSE OF AMBITION SI
•load "There are so manj of them that I don't know
which to choocie, they are all so lovely ; but since Pre
already clambered part way down the cliff, soon I shall
have to make my decision.**
" Gabriel f* exclaimed a rich contralto voice. «*I
thought that it must be you."*
Turning round suddenly and rising to his feet, he saw a
tall, handsome girl, hatless, with a mass of chestnut hair
coiled above a smiling, sunburnt face. She was dressed in
white, and stood upon the stem of a punt, steadying her-
self with the pole which was in her hands. ♦* I knew that
I could not be mistaken ; I thought that it must be you,**
she said again.
"Why, Helen, what instinct made you come to meet
me ? " he replied. « Fve just returned from London, and
was coming to visit you and Hupert. I had hoped to see
my fiither at the same time. He went up-stream in the
Pofury early this morning, so Tm told.**
"Yes. Mr. Garrod grow tired of Marlow after your
departure. He didn't know that you intended to come
back again ; so he took his house-boat up-river. Yester-
day Rupert was summoned to * The Castles ' to look after
a sale of land. I am expecting him back by the 6.80
train. I thought that he would walk fit)m the station
along the river-bank, so I puntea up to meet him half-way.
I suppose he must have driven by the road ; for if he had
walked, he would have been here by now. You had better
get in the punt and come back with me. He'll be waiting
dinner for us."
Gabriel stepped in and took the pole, while she lay
down upon the cushions, looking towards him. When he
had pudied out from the bank and they were under way,
he asked her shyly, turning his face aside, "Have you
heard anything of what took place between my father and
myself? Yes? Then that saves a lot of explanation. I
It THE WEEPING WOMAN
V
wwit to do ■omething that wiUwdly avail Father.wben
he wai young, thou^^t to do aomething of the same kind,
but he was never given hia chance; ao he has come to
think that no man ever gets the chance he is in search of,
and that the cruelest thing that he could do would be to
encourage me in my quest What it all amounts to is this,
ttat without having in any way quarrelled, we have decided
that it is best— at least, for a time— that he should go
his way and I mine— which means that I am penniless.**
** You dont look very unhappy about it"
« No, I am not unhappy. I am uncomfortable, because
I feel upon my life the pressure of other men's lives. I
long to remain free. I dread giving hostages to <Atf^.Hi#-
thegf-are. I don't approve of t1wngs^.they-are, and intend
to say so to the world— not that I suppose for a minute
that the careless world will mind. Nevertheless, at the
outset, I want to be honest, and therefore reftise to be
gigged. If I obeyed my father's wishes, I should be
bound and gagged and blinded from now till the end of
time. I long to be able to fulfil myself in those ways
which I know to be best Every man has it in himself to
become a god if he wiU only maintain his soul unfettered.
To do this, even for the sake of others, means that others
have to pay a part of the price; for instance, my father
and my mother. That is my problem. Am I justified in
imposing the sacrifice ? and, after it has been suffered by
others, shall I find myself strong enough to do those deeds
which will make their suffering worth while ? However,
when you found me just now I had been thinking how
fooUsh it is to fret and worry over the coming days.
Every next step and new decision is a step into the dark-
ness. We shan't make night any less black by groaninir
and crying about it"
" That is practically what Epicurus says : * A foolish life
is resUess and disagreeable; it is whoUy engrossed with
THB EXPENSE OF AMBITION iS
tht fbtun. He who b I«art in need of the niorraw wm
meet the morrow moit pleeaently/**
**Wh7,thifisadiM»vei7! I never knew that yoa took
intcteet in auch philoaophiee.**
"No, I dare aay not Unfortunately, the wiM man is
for ever inclined \o endow his neighbour with suipassing
folly. Because few words are uttered, it does not always
follow that nothing is thought When you discover jome
one who appears to you to be dumb, first doubt your own
power of hearing— only after a long lapse of time his
power of speech."*
He allowed the punt to drift, and regarded her intently.
**I have always envied you your assurance in confronting
the world,'* he said. « You give the impression of possew-
ing eveiybody and everything with which you come in
contact Suiely you are not unhappy?**
She raised herself up from the cushions and answered
him slowly. « I suppose if you were . .jcussing me with a
man you would sit down and count up the list of blessings
wherefore I should be truly thankftd ? < She has plenty
of money,* you would say ; * She*s rather good-looking* (I
know tiiat I am not ugly ; Tm quite frank with myself in
ocmfessing that); ♦She's an orphan, and is not troubled
with female relatives ;* *She*8 well connected, and owns a
thousand acres ; * « She can sing a little, paint a little, play
a little.* And so you would go on. You would never see
that all these recommenda; ons with which you had been
crediting me are either borrowed from outside myself or
mediocre. Do you think that because I am a girll also
have no impossible fantastic dreams and wild, uncurbed
desires ? I envy you your freedom of choice, I wonder
what people would say of me wer? I to pluck the reins of
my life from out the hands of convention, as you are
doing, and gaUop away and away in the direction which
my soul thinks best?**
•* THE WEEPING WOMAN
She bent forwwd, mtiiig her hot within her hndi,
looldng fkr op the windings of the river, ■• if to lee Mine
image of the thin^i of which the spoke. ** Don^ joo tee,
Oefariel, how humiliating it if to be a rich, well-eonneeted,
good-looidng girl ? Peq>le ere no contented with all that
jroa aie that they never take the trouble to think of the
gnetneii that you might become. You envy me my
•Munnoe t That is a part of my inheritance, and not
of my own begetting. And ymi presuppose that I am
happy— you, who are so wrapped up in your own emotions
that sometimes you have not even credited other people
with ftselings." '^'^
Then, perceiving that she had spoken more forcibly than
she had intended, "Why, Gabriel, a man of your taste
oug^t to know that it is no longer fashionable to be
happy. Rossetti altered all that when he painted his
*BeaU Beatrix* and penned 'Ihe Blessed DamoieL*'* She
looked up at him sideways, trying to smile ; but a tear,
which had Uunched forth unawares, had shipwrecked in
the long lashes of her eyes, bespeaking misery.
He drew in the pole and sat down in tl^ storn, waiting
for her to speak again. The sun had set and the knd had
grown quiet At last he said, "Helen, I think I have
never known you until this moment We have been
very mudi together of late, yet you have never uttered
yoiuvdf.**
"Have you not heard of the heart's key, Gabriel?
Men and women Kve together, and love together, and
grow tired of one another together, yet never recognise
their essential selves, because they have mislaid the key."
As at times hearts are broken because few words are
spoken, so there are seasons when they are desecrated by
over-speech. In silence they floated down the shadowy
stream, sitting fiice to face, watching the mystery which
looked out from one another's eyes. Rounding a braid in
THB EXPENSE OF AMBITION tS
tiM rivw, the hoon-biMt omm in tight. Unwillii^j
QaMd won uid brought the punt alongdde. On
•tapping out, Helen inquired for her brother, and kamt,
to her lurpriie, that he had not arrived. Hmtb waa atill
another train which he might come by, but dnoi it waa
not due Ibr an hour, thej determined to commence dinner
without him.
Following Helen into the cabin, he iislt to the ftill all
tha comfort which he waa about to fonake. Eveiything
beipolie luxury and a woman'i presence ; from the old
Staflbrdahire <^na upon the table to the pinlc-and-white
curtains at the window, and the careAil array of geraniums
and ferns upon the silk
She dismissed the waiter, telling him that he would not
be required ; and so they two were left quite alone. Tlie
subtle sense of proprietorship in a woavm bqpui to take
possession of him, so that, in the long, nbroken silenoe
whidi followed, 1m noted her every cha.m ; the delicate
curve of her wrist when she raised it; eadi Icmg and
slender finger with its pink climax ; the golden glint in
her hair, where the sun's rays had gathered and left their
stain ; the rustle of her dress, and the slow rise and fkll
oi her breast— all of which were so intensely feminine, and
yet so ill-appreciated in times past
£Qie looked up and met his gaae, blushing. ** It isn't
very often that two people are really quite alone tt^^ethor,
do you think ? IVe often thought how strange it is that
I spend hours and hours in Rupert's company, and yet
never seem to know him any bett^. When we were little
children and had nothing to say, we told one another
everything ; now that we are older, and would give years
of our life to speak out our hearts, the power of speech
is gone from us. Have you ever felt like that ? "
** Yes, all this summer. Every time I have been with
you, except this time.""
11
5i
M THE WEEPING WOMAN
••Whj thit drntr I think it is hmmm 70a «t in
traabl^ and hw ■omttliing to tdl mt ; htemm I urn
nnhiipiij, and fcd tht need of yooT
** Ym, life hM bem too hmpjpy. I knew that it ooaU
not htft ; but if thia it unhappinMi, I an oontant**
••Andt"
Hm mt of the dinner took place without ipeech at
A digfat wind had blown ap, ruffling the water, and
pufflng out the curtaini like laik Except for thii, thera
wai no eound. Hmj pudied back their chain.
** I ahall always remember you, when you are gona^" die
laid softly.
"When I am gone? Why, I shant be for away, and,
if you will let me, I shall soon come back to you— when
I have succeeded.**
**No» I think not,** she replied. <«This is our laat
night together. You will find many other interests when
you are gone out into the great world of your own
making; and one day, when you are famous, you will
look back and smile at this night, thinking how foolish it
was. But I shall always ranemb^.**
•*I came to tell you something quite different ttom
that I came to tell you ^**
She raised her hand. « Yes, dear, I know what you
came to tell me, but that could never be. In oidinaiy
men faithfukiess is a virtue; in the artist it is a vice. Tlje
hij^iest fidelity is to grow with your ideal, and of this
artists alone are fully capable ; but it is bitterly severe on
the women they have loved. You will outgrow me, and
remember only my feults. How I was haughty, and
reserved, and quick-tempered, and gave myself away quite
unbecomingly once long ago on a summer's night*'
" No, Helen, I swear to you that nothing of what yon
say shall ever come true. I would willingly give up the
THE EXPENSE OF AMBITION t7
littb art which now I think that I hafv, mthv thui Iom
tht bo|M ct winning you.**
<* Yoa my to now, and I admire and love you for Miying
it ; bat, ahould I »ld you to the woid which you have
■poken, the day would come when you wouki raview your
abandoned career. Then you wodd blame me, and yet
mora grievoudy younelf, for the Muiriflce of a lifetime ; a
lacriikse which had been made in an hour of bo^
•nthueiann.**
** But everything is not final I ahaU come back.**
** No man ever comet back. Women do aometimee ;
men never.
Outdde the wind ti^gMA through the traes and tome
few drope of rain were heard to patter amongst the leaves.
Ahwady there was a foreboding of autumn abroad. The
moon tottered a^ rnio alreedy tired; small dissevered
ckxids were drifting down the sky, as petals which fall in
a garden whoi flowers begin to fade.
•* You have told me of your fbture hopes, let me tell
you of mine which are past You know how it was with
mother? She was a professional singer, and fether, in
making her his wife, was supposed to have married beneath
him. Shortly after the marriage, he tried to make amends
for his social error by strictly forbidding her ever to sing
again. He had fallen in love at the first not with her,
but with her voice— at that time he had not seen her fkce.
He used to wait at night outside the high-walled gaiden
of the house in which she lived, in older that he might
listen to her singing.
** When at his bidding she ceased to sing, he gave up
caring for her. You can imagine how pitiful her position
was! She loved him passionately, and knew that she
could win him back to her any day, if she should sing
<mly one of those old songs which he had first heaid her
dng. But she was too honourably and hated her voice
\
« THE WEEPING WOMAN
M the agent which had brought about his family disirraoe.
Sometimes, when I wan a htUe girl, she would sendme to
deep with snatches of lullabies ; and on nights when
eveiy one was abed, and papa was away from home, I
wmdd wake m my cot, and hear her . inging one wailing
refrain over and over. Once, I crept out of bed and do^
to the room, and found her at the piano, crying in the
dark as she sang. That was just before she died.
"As a child I always hoped to bo something greater and
tetter timn the average woman of my class, and, in excess
of aU other desires, coveted thn power of song. One can
say so much more, and come so much closer to the hearts
of others, when one sings the meaning. Words are such
a clumsy contrivance for expressing thought, they leave so
much room for misunderstanding; music speaks nothinir
that IS not true. When I grew older and became a youM
girl, I would often kneel, praying M'ith an agony rf
intensity far into the night that I might sing/tiU the
co^d ate into my bones, and almost paralyzed my lips,
^e day came when I discovered that I had dreamed true
Herr Emile, who was at that time the greatest tenor in
Europe, having heard me sing, promised that, should he
have the training of me, I should become a great contralta
llay m «id day out I practised ; going irom Germany io
^c^from France to Italy, and last of aU to Vienna.
Whikt there I had diphtheria, and, when I im»vered.
found Aatorfy a little portion of aU my talent remained
--ttat I should never be a great singer after aU, only a
tnfling drawing-room amateur. I made up my mind
never to sing again, and forbade any one to make mention
of what I^ gone before. I became embittered and
cynical, and feU back for comfort upon my social position
and wealth, although I despised them botii. About this
time there came to me a certain poet who was old and
broken m body, though in years he still was young. He
THE EXPENSE OF AMBITION S9
also had spent his powers m the search after something
which he had never realised. He said that he found
m me that for which he had sought For him it may
have been true ; but for me he had come too late. He
had lost aU his beauty and health and idealism along the
road towards his goal ; when he arrived, I could only be
sorry for hiuK I broke his heart with my pity. Isn't it
strange, Gabriel, that a good woman can work as much
ruin with her pity as a bad woman with her hate ?
"After these things I met with you. Then I struggled
against my change of heart, and grew jealous of your
courage and ambition. I was misc-ably lonely. All that
is now over ; for this one night I am content to say that
I love you."
While she had been speaking, Gabriel had risen from
his chair and knelt beside her. Now that she was silent,
he placed his arms around her neck and, drawing her face
towards his own, kissed her upon the lips.
Outside the storm had gathered, and the rain drove
across the countryside like an invading and victorious
host ; but they were unconscious of the storm. The light
of the moon was obscured, and the room in darkness. He
felt a hot tear splash upon his hand, and found that her
cheeks were wet with crying.
She rose and sat herself at the piano, saying, « This is the
■ong which mother used to sing, when I was a little child.**
In a low, sweet voice, which trembled with emotion, she
sang—
"When my love was nigh me.
Naught had I to say.
Then I feigned a Mae love,
And turned my lips away.
W- m my love lay dying,
6onovUa I said,
* Soon ehail I wear scarlet
Beeanae my love is dead.'
•0 THE WEEPING WOMAN
WJen my love had vanished,
Tnen was nothing said :
I roi^got the scarlet
For tears— and bowed my head."
The wind blowing into the room bore with it a crumpled
W of geranium which lighted in her bosom. Picking up
the reddened petal, she tried to smile, whispering, « ScSleL
see. It IS scarlet!" * ««*ri«,
. "Darling" said Gabriel, in a choking voice, «I shaU
~mTbi^k " ""''' "^' '° ^* *^°«« ^- y^^ -d
« w^l "*" T' "^""^ **^'''" «^« reiterated, sighing.
We have spoken to one another face to face, aT it is
pven to few men and women to speak. To-moirow we
might meet, and, being less noble, repent of that which
we have done and said to-night. The penalty of all
^^V\^u' "^ "^ *° '^^ too much of one
another. Should we meet again in the blatant daylight
commonplace, we should earnestly search after thoi two
people who were here to-night, and should search in vain."
He would not deny her, for he knew too weU that at
such a time denid would be vain; moreover, he felt
Sfh.^\r'.*l'* *^'" "'^ '^"^ '- what she said.
But he took her m his aims, pressing her close, so that at
^t he could feel the panting of her bosom, and the touch
of her hair upon his face.
"You wiU go away and forget me," shf cried. « But I
want you to be great, and strong, and good. Success is
^^ unless it helps others tolc^rfshanX;
remember and pray for you."
She broke from him suddenly ; ai:d he, running to the
dcK,r to recapture her, heard the swish of her dL, and
tte hastening of her retreating footsteps in the palsa^
and the clang of a closed door.
Covering his face with his hands, he stole out from the
THE EXPENSE OP AMBITION 81
house-boat 4nd fled into the night Running along the
river-side, frightened and unnerved, he flung himself down
in the wet, fragrant grass, whispering brokenly, «« What
have I done ? Oh, what have I done ? *•
How long he lay there he never could tell. When he
came to himself, staggering to his feet, he stumbled his
way toward the high-road. A farmer's wagon, which was
thundering on its way to the Saturday market at the
town of Windsor, halted as he tottered through the hedge.
The driver flashed his lantern into Gabriel's fiice, audi
seeing that he was a gentleman in distress, with that
superior and undiscriminating compassion which those
who are honourably denominated « the working-dasses "
invariably show to the wretched of whatsoever walk of
life, told him whither he was bound, and offered him a
lift.
With a scarcely audible « Thank you," Gabriel clambered
into the wagon, and was soon asleep, snuggled in a bed of
new-mown hay. The farmer, perceiving that his passenger
was wet, stripped off" his coat, threw it over him, and went
whistling on his way.
When Gabriel awoke, the sun was shining in, and the
clocks of Windsor were striking six. The driver was
stooping over him, shaking him by the shoulder, trying to
arouse him.
Tumbling out of the wagon, stiff and dizzy, he found
his way to the railway station, and took a ticket on the
early train to London.
CHAPTER III
SANITY AND THE MOSNINO
By the time that the train rolled into ftiddington
Gabriel had recovered his calm of mind. The deep sleep
of utter weariness which had overtaken him in the wagon
had restored his sanity, and the brisk, early morning air,
washed pure by rain, acted like a tonic.
Irving the station, he walked down Westboume Terrace
into the Uxbridge Road, and took an outside seat upon a
'bus go-ng eastward to the Turnpike.
The panorama of London was abeady in fiiU swing :
Hyde Park, with its ceaseless processional of tidy and
slatternly nursemaids, its top-hatted and black-coated
masquerade of well-groomed men out for an aimless eon-
atituJonal; Oxford Street, with its arrogant dispky of
wealth on the pavement and impotent poverty on the
kerb-stone. Here he caught sight, in passing, of one of
his father's sumptuous branch establishments, and a
recently-purchased Turner in the window, which had cost
sufficient to maintain a family in luxury for a lifetime.
It filled him with dull anger. At Regent Circus a
tattered ragamuffin of a news-boy, climbing on to the 'bus,
flashed before his eyes the announcement, « Garrod pays
fabulous price for old tapestry." This served to prove to
him how fa he had drifted from his accustomed bearings.
He saw the headlines without interest, save for a certain
sense of shame, and indolently returned his regard to the
street.
32
SANITY AND THE MOANING 88
• J'^^^ PJ»*» -nd Newgate, whew, he had been
mt<«To^hy^dTivtr,-Ahlckewuto be W far «
iTJ^T?^'* '^»«^<'nHoa«w«amdbed.«,d.
hrt of .U^ thy swung into the Turnpike. Here, whai
the patient and uncl«uily poor are soomged and crucified
d~tyu, aU Aeir nobility, he thanked STood that the
Wert was left beWnd. Here were poems of transition
to be «ptured, and tragedies of decay to be portrayed;
out of hw own misfortune the true dignity of poverty was
symbohc of his hfe ; from rich to poor, from the artificial
to the real ; and yet he felt happy.
At tiie far end of the street he saw the old wooden sign,
which huiy before Lancaster's door, swinging to and fro in
weather, but still defiantly bearing the effigy of a woman.
To his stadned fimcy the rude outline resembled Helen.
He snatched his gaze away convulsively, determined not to
•Be; and yet was increasingly conscious of its presence.
Now and tiien, as he approached, he was oonrtrained to
glance rtealthily from under his drooping lids, and each
tame thought he caught the woman regarding him with
Hdra s ey«| ; but, when he turned savagely toward it, he
found nothing save the crude daub of a woman with a
mantled head.
« Nerves,- he said, and, descending from the Ims, alighted
before ttie door. Lancaster, who had evidently been on the
watch, hartened to meet him as he crossed the threshold
with welcommg hands.
"There is a letter up-stairs for you," he said ; «I fancy
it*s from your father." ^
On ascending to the sitting-room, he eagerly possessed
himsetf of his letter, which he found to be7brief Jmmnary
84
THE WEEPING WOMAN
of what had gone before, stating that hit &ther in no way
blamed him for his choice, although he might be grieved.
He had akeady given his reasons as to why he could not
give his son an allowance during his experiment, but he
enclosed a cheque for fifty pounds, to cover immediate
expenses. He Uiought it best for both their sakes that no
meeting between them should take place for a twelvemonth,
in order that Gabriel might have opportunity to prove the
value of his decision. He wished him clearly to under-
stand that, should he feel inclined to revoke and come
back to the old mode of life at any time within the year,
he would be welcomed, and no mention would be made of
what had occurred. Finally, he wished him God-speed, and
would pray continually for his happit.ess.
Enclosed was a little tearful note from his mother,
brimming over with love, attempting loyally at one and
the same time to explain away any apparent harshness in
her husband's conduct, and to make it evident that she in
no way censured her son. Then foUowed a page of tender
mother-advice to a son who was supposed to be more
ignorant than she of the wickedness of the world — a
pathetic superstition common to most mothers. Then a
brief reminiscence or two of his childish sayings ; a prayer
for his speedy return ; and a row of straggUng kisses — the
last desperate endeavour of bruised and separated hearts
to make their meaning plain.
Lancaster, who had been watching Gabriers face while
he read, now courteously t uned his back and commenced
to rummage with unnecefary energy among a pile of
papers. Gabriel raised th two letters to his lips. Then,
going toward Lancaster, / ^ked him for a matdi, and was
about to set fire to the cheque.
"What are you doing?" asked Lancaster, swinging
sharply around at the soirnd of the ignition.
" Tm going to bum this,"
SANITY AND THE MORNING 85
"Whatwit?''
** A cheque for fifty pounds from my father."
** How much money have you got of your own ?"
"Twenty or so."
** Then youll make a great mistake if you destroy that."
"Why?"
** Because you never know when it may come in handy.
Suppose you were taken ill ?"
** There are plenty of free hospitals."
**Don''t be foolish, Gabriel. Ideals, like everything
else, must be paid for. There is nothing which has not
to be purchased in our day. Youth, which is the despiser
of wealth, can only afford to be young so long as it has
the run of a fistther^s banking-account."
** As for my ideaK I paid for them last night. And as
for my youth, if available capital is the basis of reckoning,
I must be about a himdred, for I haven't any."
Lancaster came over to him, took his banc' between his
own, and looked into his eyes, saying, " You know very
well that whatever I have is yours, and that you ore free to
live in my house just so long as you like ; but you never
know what may happen. You must keep that cheque.
You may not cash it at present, perhaps, but you must
keep it. If you bum it, you will insult your father's
kindness."
** I was thinking that he had insulted me by sending it,"
Gabriel began weakly ; and then, seeing the look of pain
on his friend's face, added, "No, you are right, John.
You always are. I am acting like a petulant, iU-bred,
little boy. You must forgive me. I feel as though I
ought to write and beg my father's pardon for what I have
just said."
" I wouldn't do that. He wasn't present and wouldn't
imderstand. I generally find that silence is the best policy,
the most sincere, and the most acceptable. You must
36 THE WEEPING WOMAN
make wnends by doing ■omething. Speech it the I O U
of the spendthrift; deed, are the bullion of honourable
men. If you wiA to repay your fkther*. kindnet^ you
murt approve your choice and get to work. Have you
got any ftirther with your phuw?"
"Yes, I want to tell you all about them."
«I aU have plans which I wirf, to talk over with you.
-things which I couldn't confide before because they w^
not my exclusive property.**
" Can't you knock off business for to^y, a„d come out
into the country ? After aU, it is Satuiday."
." ^®"! ?*"' *** commemorate your new departure and
mine (which you don't yet know about), I wilL"
CHAPTER IV
A FU6HT TO TBI VOKKST
If it be true that all good Americans go to Paris when
they die, it is equally certain that the Elysian Fields of
the pious Londoner stretch Epping-wards. Perhaps there
is DO one place in England where class distinctions and
aristocratic snobbery fiule so utterly out of sight, where
ridi and poor are free to walk and mingle in such good
comradeship, and, in fact, where all those brotherly and
unconventional virtues, which we are wont to admire and
banish to a better world, come so near to earth, as in the
catholic glades of Epping Forest. It is as though an
Englishman, on altering the greenwood, recaught the jolly
echo of the far-off days when Robin Hood (whose sacred
memory is preserved in the name of many a neighbouring
roadside inn), surrounded by his bowmen, stole between
the huge-boled trees, preaching in secret places, in his own
peculiar way, that fond and never-to-be-foigotten dream
of down-trodden men, the Equality of Man. Robin Hood,
and John BaD, and Jack Straw, and Wat Tyler, have long
since mouldered into nothingness upon the barricades of a
lost cause, but a whisper of their generous gospel still
lingers in the royal domain which they once trespassed,
making glad the heart of the cockn^, whether coster or
noble, whensoever he enters its preserves.
Here it was, after the usual elaborate discussion, which
may be heard in almost any London thoroughfare upon
•• THE WEEPING WOMAN
go, and with a bke mult, that they ultimately came-
to the Forett ^
AJight|ng at Chingford, thqr let off at a i»mhUi«
in the direction of Queen Eli«beth't Hunting U«£ej
tib«^ turning ^ly to the left, .truck out through ft^k
Wood toward High Beech.
A hundred yard, from the roadway mlitude wa. reached.
wl!^^'^' ^^"^^ ^^ excur«oni.t, cyclirt, the
Harry and Hamet, whether from fear of the foiert or out
of preference for that to which they have become mort
accurtomed, never foruke the macadam track. Within
twdve mile, of the Man.ion Hou.e the moil and toU of a
tortured city may be foigotten, and a quiet, a. primal a.
•ny of that first Garden, is attained. »!'"«""
Lancarter wa. the first to .peak. « Whenever I come
here I feel a. light-hearted a. if I had never known the
''°"7 of^V^thfogf^ng Uttle one-hor» rfiow in the Turn-
pike. When the sun i. fining and the bird, are .inirinir.
It wem. impossible that any man ever believed that Ui^
were such things as sorrow and death in the world.''
"No man ever does reaUy believe in death until he
himself rorae. to die; or in wrrow, until he him«lf be-
com^ a derelict. MercifuUy every man is so much of an
egoiBt that he can discover nothing in the world around
him but miniature edition, of hi. own pro.perou. .elf-he
hemg the Edition de Luxer r r«
"I don't see where the mercy comes in when that
piuiwular man happens himself to be a misSrabler
For him there is a fresh grace prepared-that man i.
an irrational animal and adapt, his logic to hi. condition,
inerefore God is good."
"Not so good as we make Him, yet much better than
He seems." ^^
"How do you make that out?" Gabriel had never
A FLIGHT TO THE FOREST 80
cunvenod with LAnawter upon religioiu topics and wm
therefore intcroited.
** When I lay that Grod ii not so good ai we make Him,
I mean ae the profeMional flatteren of Divhiitj malie Him,
who stand up every first day to fawn, and cringe, and
extend their hands, with ftilsome praises, phmned upon the
oriental pattern, whilst abject fear dominates their entire
mental attitude, to One whom they are pleased to call the
All-wise and the All-good. Why, there isn't a single man,
woman, or child in their audience who would be hood-
winked by such insincerity, if it were addressed to them I
The first question they would ask would be, ' What does
he want?*
**I often think that God must be very glad of the
atheists ; they at least are frank in teUiug Him that they
are not sure as to whether He exists. Personally, I know
that, if I were Grod, I should get very tired of attending
public worship. For the sake of my own self-respect, I
should try to forget that there was a Sabbath."*
**But what do you mean when you say that God is
better than He seems ? **
** When I say that He is much better than He seems, I
mean that when you come down to men as they are, and
look for God in tiie lowest haunts of a great city, you are
astonished at how splendid He can be.**
**I didn*t know that you took much interest in the
gone-Wider."^
** No one can live for so long as I have in the East End
of London without either submerging his soul in a degrad-
ing apathy, or trying to do something positive, so fieur as in
him lies, to relieve the suffering.**
" Have you done anything ? **
** Much less than I ought, but yet a little.**
** In what direction ?**
**That is the subject I want to speak to you about.
40
THE WEEPING WOMAN
uuaugn uw pen. tIm litavy amUtion k. 1 &>». i-iv!
""^^ «» * WW octave, for of all my trilk and tnm.»l^w^
" How things feU out with me at mv father** ri«.f k ^
"d foU.«»g my direct cJl. I j»t Stled LTt S
A FLIGHT TO THE FOREST 41
Ttinipikt, and have basn there ever linoe. At flr»t I
jpmtmdtd mjwdl that thaie dtiirM were only poftponed,
that I ihoakl be able to gratify them of eveningi; like
iiiM>tenthe of Bfaii*i oapittSatiom with his mniI, the tnioe
baeane a treaty, and the treaty a peace. I grew embittered
and tadtnm ; linoe that time you are the only man who
ha* been given the latdi-key to my mind.
** During the laet year, however, a change hai come, which
you may lutve noticed ?**
**Yea, I have often wondered what may have been its
cauie. You were alwap generous to me, but now you are
kinder to everybody, and ^together more gentle.**
** WeU, Gabriel, it was like this. When I had realiied
that I should probably be cooped up within the narrow
Umiti of my occupation all my life, I not only grew sullen,
but began to regard my mother ami sistoi as agents in
my misfortune. I was always prompt in sending them
their moneys ; sometimes, when things were slack, I stinted
mjfself that I might do so, but I was conscious of a growing
refnignanoe towards them. Last Christmas I refused to
visit them, and determined to spend the day alone in
my snuggery, with plenty of books and a roaring fire.
All day I grumped, and grixsled, and felt uncomfortable,
trying iK»t to own what a brute Fd been, and how unjust.
Yet I could not keep myself from picturing all the happy
Christmases which had gone before, when my father and
mother schemed to make us happy. They always made
the same excuse for their efforts, saying that no one could
ever foresee what the future held in store. That on some
distant Christmas, when we were scattered and lonely, and
some of us dead, the memory of the childish dayn might
help to make us better men and women. AU this came
back to me as I sat by myself brooding. I thought of
how good and patient my fiither had been; of what a
quantity of gladness he managed to pack into a short
«
THE WEEPING WOMAN
memories. ^ ™* "Kht wu replete with
plinth of the ponA -^t Vf. ^""^ "P "W"™! the
""^ea It to tumble inwanb. I kiAtA ittiT^i^
OMk, and, in so doine, felt mv f~^ . •, . ** *° P™*" '*
"lid. Bendiiurdo^T*^ .3^''' '«»'"'* "»»«*«
bUck h«P of?woZ' if ^7°^ *•" """^ fi«» «nd toS
but b««r«1 JS'T tl''1"ir2:'*'" '^"^
delay of my plan, , took her inl^™? ""."^ "* *^
her. I had not looked J I f "'^ '°°'' ^vived
di^usted. Sh^i«„otthe\l^/'=^'=''«t''-"*"
make mention to thefr »Uto ^.TT °'.'''""" ■»"
ve^ low, for dthouit^dol^* S^ '"^»% «»k
-»«..edplnmn^-----^-t^^.^.
A FLIGHT TO THE FOREST 48
shoes, with crumpled buckles attached, which had once
contained some sort of flashy imitation gems.
***A nice Christmas gift," you will say, and so I
thought.
**When she raised her head, the face seemed dimly
fiuniliar to me ; but more especially the eyes. There is
something very strange about the eyes of a woman. The
memory of them remains long after you have lost every
record of the fisux. All her character, and affection, and
pity, have looked out from them ; in fact, whatever she
has possessed of what we, for want of a better word, caU' a
soul. Gaboriau has noted this same thing. He makes
Gevrors great claim to distinction centre around his
masterly faculty for recognizing eyes. That which he
remembered, to aid him in tracing criminals, was the
peculiarities of the shape, size, colour, and expression of
their eyes ; at these alone he looked, to the exclusion of
every other feature.
" So it was with me : I remembered the eyes, but could not
recall the face to which they had belonged. It had become
such a terrible face, so lined and drawn ; like a piece of
old paper one finds in a cupboard after many years, brittle
as tinder, yellowed at the edges, fly-blown and covered
with cobwebs.
"I don't think she saw me at first, for she was
blinded by the firelight and giddy from exposure. She
leered round the room and uttered a vile gutter word,
saying, * Here's luck.'"
** After a while she caught sight of mc and looked
intently imtil, becoming accustomed to the light, she saw
my face. Then, with a shrill cry, she laid her hands
before her eyes and tried to rise to go, but was too weak,
and sttunbled headlong across the rug, sobbing.
**The man who can look upon a woman crying, and
remain unmoved, has never had a mother. In a moment
44
THE WEEPING WOMAN
i Z^^.X Its J^^ -- t^ in.
She w« . ^ns^z„Tti:'"'','T«'* " "-^
girl I had ever Io,ri A ™ '^ <J«yi the fi«t
thing, hi. «». hirc:^^ Z'.z'cS\T^'
-ever g„.w. „y bigger tl^JhiXtX^" 1 ^* "^
never know, the inteMity of lovriunL^ "^T
IX."^ no ™„ aL. unlArhetiLTv?;
-S; t^l^^^„*t "- P^^ to ^
S'x'^ss^arrt;::^,^^^^"'^
Pi«e.«^ Hety.rdo^Z'tSj^-^^^'-e.and
he^^rte'^^tTtrjlr ' '«•- ™ to .peak „
PitiftL It u .^n^ " .™ "-y "»*<i but very
even in her hevdav A^T^,^ *° '"^ "ej that.
<>own .t time, S tte 1^t^T*°"'.1 *" **«
>t«nd .boot before mv hou» • "^ ™«''t*^ ««'
Ae told meZ, I «memS X^ *' """^ ^»
»t«Kling,t.tio™;.y wSSd^o^n **" ' '"»""'
more e.peciaUy when the »t^ j f ** '"'"*' »PP«ite,
".d how iCrto ^^ r ^r^ ^^ ""-^
One i, .pt to g„,w Z^wJt' .r"*"", """^^ »«'•
h<»«ofLioJ^„tZr*',°^''^f ne '» - °W
f ". X uaa Degun to associate her
A FLIGHT TO THE FOREST 45
diadow with the sign which hangs before my door, and to
think of her as a reincarnation of the Weeping Woman
who first gave her name to the tavern.
** Now that I discovered to whom that shadow belonged,
the accident seemed more than a coincidence, and I was
troubled. I thought of how selfish I had been, living
here all those years with that poor woman, whom I mig^t
have saved, slinking down the sodden road to shame,
watching nightly within a stone's throw of my door,
whilst I had not even had the curiosity to inquire her
name
" Well, I let her run on with her half-truths and bitter
accusations against persons and things in general — &te,
circumstance, and all the other noma-de-phime of God.
At last, when she had spent her anger, I sent her to bed,
and sat down to think.
*♦ The upshot of the whole matter is this : I sent her into
the country to get her moral and physical strength restored,
and now die is coming back to my house to help me in
the business. It will not be safe to leave a woman of her
excitable nature to her own devices for a long time to
come ; she's got no one who will take her in, so I must.
I thought I ought to teU you this, seeing that you are
going to join me ; but you must not pretend that you
know anything of her past. Her name is Kate.''
They had abready passed by High Beech on the right, and
now, breaking out from the woods, came upon a side-track
which they followed until, at a bend in the road, the
Quiver Inn was reached — a decayed hostelry of old coach-
ing days. In the garden, at the back of the house, were
arbours, white with convolvulus, and a row of straw-
thatched hives with the bees at work, pollen-smirched and
humming. Far out below their feet the long, undulating
stretch of mysterious woodland lay.
Choosing the arbour farthest from the road, they ordered
*»
THE WEEPING WOMAN
J^ w„ the iim to «„„e the inte^pM «„.
*."t^r Th!^: ^JT »v"^f " '™'>™ «P-« to
tW women. SZZ do^'if bTto^*" 7^ "«>
airt. Dec.,,n„tu™.i,t^Se.X,^ftt?^^'^y
time it i. umurtunJ ««1 „h«Uv ' r ^ ^ " "rP"**-
zr.rj"^ pii. T, . Jot:, i-?r x'.s^
»d nothing ^""«ti'isr',riL?L'f-'"'^
An unimproved Tirtne i. m^ j7. o' 'osmg his purity.
•»t.m«t of usC^tLfS uZ:^^"\-^*y'
f«aye M the erove I m.!j ~ P^"^«> that virtue ia
happened .t my'd^r til 1^A""»**^^ ""tU Kate
whiAI had not "mSS "If* *° ""y^^fo' the an,
honou»bIem«n^^ TZ'f ^„ K ~*°"""^ "■?«» «
you, Gabriel, to I ZiiSTf'J^'" ^'"" P*"" ""y >«>
I ».y, that ni m«, Xtlnnl '', °'^ ^P^«»« »i»n
You yo„„eIf acknoXt^^"^.^' «&mrgoo4
have the reason I i„f3 . j \ ■ "*«"«e<l-now you
helping j^^ ^Xt ^'Z t ' ^ °'L"'^ "^ to
chance." '^^ "*^ ""itogivingthemanew
"d people, wh JVra^de^^^ ^f ?, «'• ^^
•^Houseofthe Weeping ^ZT"',^^,:^^
A FLIGHT TO THE FOREST 47
the name of your order ready to hand — *Tbie Brother-
hood of the Weeping Woman/ It sounds fine. But I
wish I was more like you, and could feel life more
seriously.^
** Yes, it is life, Gabriel ; the great, tragic sum total of
insignificant sufiering,that we ought to feel more seriously.
Not our own lives, Grod forbid; we take them seriously
enough already ; with most of us one degree more would
spell madness.^
" But, John, I must confess that I have rather shunned
philanthropy ; it has always seemed to me to be yo»e-fellow
to old age and decrepitude. The final, frenzied effort of
the bankrupt to balance his ledger.'"
**The morels the shame. Youth is like the sea; it
sucks in all the rivers, but makes no new ones.^
** And what is old age ? ^
"The rivers — always contributing to the sea."
"And death?''
" The river-bed — run dry."
"That is very hard on Youth. Yet it is in some ways
true. Nevertheless, you cannot accoimt for Christ by such
reasonings. He died at thirty-three."
"Ah, with Christ it was different. He was like the
rain, and came from above."
" Now I know why He is eternal ; because, being neither
young nor old. He must have been divine. I have always
been conscious of the timelessness in His life, even when
reading of His childhood."
" Good men never grow old ; they are all divine."
" Then," said Gabriel, « I will become good."
" Are you so easily persuaded, Gabriel, by the pretty
manying of a few phrases in the presence of a happy
illustettion?"
" No, I am not so light as that ; but laat night some one
used similar words to me. They should be prophetic"
48
'-^ WEEPING WOMAN
aent that he wmetime,^^ Ju- ^ ^ «■»*«»>-
]. the u„,„g.^ «,^«TL"t'^rx" *^
love scenes of life are pn«/^^ • ^emity. n^ great
«»Kth.i«, ..rf cdl it Life. We^K^^"^'
Ite 2^" r "^-^^ « ^.^^!
"■S-r ^,«^'^^* "*'' --
Havi,^ finished their meal, they turned tlwU, ^
toward Loughton, on the homUjj^f. *^ "^^
like to tell you, aCwtS yo^l^^Lt"* "°~ ' f*^™^^
know myself." ^ ^^ '™°'^ ™« newty •» I
"And what is that?"
« In undertaking any work of *his kind amon«.f .^
you had you wLr^tir„"'z;™''u'r ' ''
woman for the task Om^ «« o *• t " ^ <»»«
S'r;:^^^r:iJ^„tr'^,4o»e:^'
r "^«u M, ai.se wiuun me as to the expediency
A PLIGHT TO THE FOREST 49
of OTudn. marrying. I went into the question at ftiUer
tejgth, ai^ found that the more I invertigated, the more
certain did I become that in such unions the physical and
mentel health of the children is mortgaged for the selfish
gratification of the parents. I tried to parley with my
ooMcience, and, at last, went to Hilda, and told her my
doubts— by agreement we parted
"After the incident of Christmas night I saw that, if I
was to rescue Kate, it must be through the help and
example of a pure woman. I thought matters out, and
wrote to^ Hilda, asking her to come. She has consented,
and may arrive at any time. In tiiis way, altiiough we
«n never marry, we shaU at least be near one anoUier.
So for as I can judge, tiiis arrangement between us wiU be
pamanent. Hilda has no fatiier or mother; she is
absolutely alone in the world, so that, although I dare not
be her husband, it is quite plain to me tiiat I ought to be
her guardian."" ^
"Won't her very nearness be a danger, making you
unresigned?" asked Gabriel. *^
** No ; I think I would rather have it this way. When
you are married to a woman the binding tie of love
becomes unnecessary, the handcufls of law take its place.
There 18 littie occasion for love where two people are so
«»cure of one anotiier. With us it wiU be different; we
must be lovers throughout life, which is far better."
3ut Gabriel was thinking of Helen, and of tiie song
which ^e had sung, and only replied, « Life is a long road
wfe^h has many turnings. You wiU need to love her
CHAPTER V
«Wn« A TBDTH-TXLLXft
o(^ tJrZt^"^ *r I««ht<» they did «rt
^^^r ^t" '•^ «» "gain W J*" "^
PabriT """^ "'•'«»»»» your oou«.?- ^rf
<S:SSIS\S?^ f cover up thei, t^u to
be ""u^SclS,^ «- action, he, <Hendd.i« .™t
"I tlunlt not We Jl know » „„d. about ound™^
one.mdAeU. few fa^ 1^ »<* been . h^
P;;^.e -e ftightenJottr ^on'^' .""^T;;^
it exirt, fort^^o^'^-S^-- '^'^.-
1w.y. goes n-other-naked. JTi^'t^ »' ""^
-t^^:^sr^tbiL„«tS."S:j.--
ENTER A TRUTH-TELLER 51
the niMwa; for that very rcMon truthftil fiction is
frequently m lie.**
« Uiually, or what ii worw, it boret.**
•'ITiat iwi't very kind of you, Gabriel, if you apply it
to my cousin.** '^'^ ^
** Oh, I don*t ; but, for all that, I should hate to have
any one tell me the appalling truth about myself just at
present**
"If that is so, I shall have to warn Hilda.**
It was past eight o'clock, and the shop was already
doeed, when they arrived. Lancaster had his key in the
latch when the door was opened from within by a young
woman. She was of delicate proportions, being very small
•nd slightly built; so much so, that at first sight she
■eemed not more than eighteen, though a closer inspection
made her out to be anywhere between twenty and thirty.
Her hair was dark and luxuriant ; her fisu« pale ; her lips
rose red ; her eyes large and luminous. The impression
she created was that of a healthy, open-hearted boy, or
of one who had ceased to grow at the age when others
were getting their first lessons in worldly wisdom. Her
innocence was conspicuous and spontaneous ; it had never
hardened into habit There was a quiet contentment
about her person which made it impossible to believe that
her knowledge could encompass such distresses as those
which had been discussed that day. It was manifest that
any over-emphasis of truthfulness which she might make,
arose not out of cruelty, but from the innate veracity of
her nature. This was Lancaster's cousin.
On going up-stairs, they found that something had
already been done to rectify the slovenliness of a bachelor's
housekeeping. The evidences of a woman's hands were
bespoken in the recently-acquired transparency of the
windows, the brightness of the grate, and the orderly little
meal which had been prepared.
« THE WEEPING WOMAN
by way of expUm.tion. " I arrived jurt •fter^^^St
to ri^U. what with dgar-ad^ and old pipe^^
1^ sweetnem and comfort of a woman*, pnwnoe ai«
KEve had be«, more remote at the out^t, Adam would
have appreaated her better in the end. He would halS
been more chivalrou. about the theft of the apple, and
would have covoied up her indi««tion with wme tender
«• ; which, I think, God would have «niled at in «^
and have openly pardoned. ^^
The cagtingKiut began in Man. when he deserted hi.
We ; not m Eve, when die rtretched up her hand for the
fruit which was forbidden. « ««>
Man lovM too little. Woman too much; and thu. we
lo«. our Eden.. ITii. i. the begimiing and the endTf
every human garden.
Something of this pa«ed through Lancarter'. mind a.
S^Kr^tf^u" cousin predding over hi. table a. if l«
nght. AU these years he had been wretched and morbid^
now he knew the reason; he had shut him^lf off from
communion with his Eve tiU life h«l grown onfsid^
l«5king m sympathy, incomplete. The woids of i*e
pleaj^re^king Greek, often read, never quite appre-
hended, returned to him reproachfully: «We ouirht to
look round for peojJe with whom to eat and drinl^fore
Tf "^J*' something to eat and drink. To feed with-
out a friend is the hfe of a lion and a wolf." This he had
^ hfa Ife"^ ^" **"^ ** ""^"^"^ *° oversight had arisen
Bitterness is not indigenous to Woman; it is the
ENTER A TRUTH-TELLER 58
horrible perquiaite of Man. No woman htm eirer been
■ucctwftil M • cyrdc, only ridiculou»— like a ooduey
touiiit among the pjnramids. If he had aModated leai with
men and more with womoi (this woman in particularX
the past ten yean mi^t have been kinder.
Gabriel was possessed by similar thoughts, but they
brou^t him no happiness; he was still sorry fcnr that
which he had lost, a loss which the present occasion only
served to em[duwiie.
At first there was little conversation. For these two
men, made lonely by choice and fate, pleasure was com*
plete in the sense of a woman^s nearness, and the quiet
attentiiHiB of her serving hands. Like the arrogant English
in a foreign land, she had walked in unexpectedly and
possessed herself of all that was best in both Uieir natures.
She was too wise to speak at once. For all her boyish
frankness, she was sufficiently conventional to appreciate
the rarefiuTtion of atmosphere whidi her advent had ooca*
sicmed ; also she was so much a woman as to be flattered
and amused thereby. Keeping her eyes on the level, she
watdied them unabashed, and steadily encountered each
ftirtive glance of theirs. She was pleased by their sudden
shyness, thou^^ a trifle anxious because of it, and smiled
quaintly to herself while she waited for one of them to
break the silence. At last, because the muteness of their
homage threatened to make them permanently dumb, she
had compassion on them. There was an expression so
odd in the solemnity of tf'eir faces that she could not
refrain from laughing outright. **You haven''t mudi to
say to me,^ she said, by way of apology ; ** yet just now,
when r saw you coming up the street, you looked as if all
the roar of London could not hush the torrent of your
words.**
** I was taken up with thinking how pleasant it was to
have you with us,** John explained, with laconic sincerity.
«4
THE WEEPING WOMAN
behind our h^lT^rt^ '"''^ •^ mcoungin.
holdi of il-ir ,1,^ "W nomst in the opinion which it
•bout .poiling "mell lU-""" J™" ""d b.v, m, fe,„
.bo™Xthi4.t Ir^^rji";'.:! ' -t
found the t«* diJIcult You^M„ ^™"*'
"«» tin». relieve younelveTbTrt.!?^? »« "f rt the
"That i. one of ^^^ 1 '"'""« ''°^'
-hid, Hild. T. Ir^oZn!' «1B««ted hJf.t™th.
«iom which gC^jT^'T-^^''^ rfp««rt«l
down into the di«rfnfL\^* '^*''*^^ '«^«^ «» aU
we m.y .pproxiWte i . ^t^^S t™"^^*
when «y one i. We enough to wZ.h^ J^^;
ENTER A TRUTH-TELLER 55
pwpk know not onlj their good qualiticiH but alio thdr
h^oimf In the Utter OMe, to He b to be kind.**
**That may very well be; but the Uct remain* tha*
what find made Galilee a name to be lovtd waa the briel
Mjoum there of One who never deceived. Thii is what I
mean— that nearly all our wretchednew takes its genesb
from the craving after ungratified affection. Our moet
■ofdid vioea result from desperate attempts on the part
of men and women to steal, borrow, or beg the loves
which they cannot command. That was how Kate came
to sin. Wickedness grows out of hardening of heart,
whidi oomea of enftmrced isolation. If people would only
^Mak the gentle truth, most of our miseries would vanish.
Our modem economic system is based upon competition,
whidi reserves no place for diarity. Love is treated as a
luxury of the well-to-do, with which they are at liberty,
if so they condescend, to occupy their leisure time : it is
no longer a ncc^owity of life. If it were, in twelve months
it would revolutionize society. We know that ; therefore
we are afraid. The trouble with us is that we are all
liars, mere triflers with words. Over-civiliiation has made
OB so rotten with artificiality that, should a man meet his
own soul walking through a fashionaUe street, he would
cut it dead, lest it should be recognized as his. The
tendency of all this shrouding and hedging in of our
hearts is seen in the case of St Augustine, when he says,
* And what was there wherein I took delight, save to love
and be loved.' That is the explanation which he gives for
all his squalid sinnings. In his utter loneliness he did not
care how far he wandered or how low he sank, provided
only he might attain love. When he had discovered the
mystic lover proffia«d him by the Roman Church, he
abandoned his lovers of the highways; his heart was
satisfied, and his journeys were at an end. The desire
of the men and women of to-day is to love and be loved.
M
THE WEEPING WOMAN
•nd at my price. You cm «« in- n. •
'«*^' g».trt »ed *f JT*''''! '° "» Wind to on.
when we might be friend.— .nVi*^,*! "^® " »trangBr»
indifference to emod^^t^.*? ^''^ '''^^' ^
wicked." wasteful ; it m outrageous and
-elves clever feUows, wWli all f £ « **""^'°« «"■
who, g»dng fato our C^^ ° I °~ ?"»" <«•*<«•
d«»ve.I«.^&i;f "°" often. I &n<7. tb.
«ther UuSuTpiX «?• "»««»icrte thenueln.
-It would mT™ C- «pS7HaiT^-
"like . »vel in . p5>IirSl^'S'^»'^' "'**
"y one, for our leeve^ tTte toSL? ^^^ *"* ^
the-orH-^td?^"^' ■»»»'y-tobelo«dl>y.U
-7«^^^t.t-:srrt.rran ^
"gbt, and vanidiei ** *"^ good-
I h-dly Icn..,- „pBrf e.^„.^ "e^Tlt I h.,.
ENTER A TRUTH-TELLER 57
been convicted of being an habitual liar, and feel very
ashamed of myself.**
**That*s the way most people feel when Hilda has done
with them.**
** I suppose so. The fimny thing is that I have always
held that woman is less trutiiful than man— except when
she is angry. Now, here have I been convicted of my own
untruth by Ibe voice of the defendant.**
**That is the dire penalty which may overtake any man
who sets himself up as a judge; he is always liable to
correction from the dock,** answered Lancaster, lau^^ng.
And then they also betook themselves to bed.
CHAPTER VI
TWO oo IS .IAMB AFTM HAPniIlM
and vaniT«iT'^- ^*^**^ *^*'' tabernacles of deliiAt
M»y thing, whieh OMde the Turapike whrt it wa.. »th
■t. reclcle™ poverty «,d .trenuou. toil" h«l Zrtrf^ ^
Street was unlike ihuAf a^«..l j - , "^^P"^*"* Ine
w.ythebTofsfwTll'''''^ ^■=™"»»
"me. Sat^^ 1^"""« """PP™ "•» «v.r
^d he^teiU .0, iUday of,e,,,^h'l^^-
Sunday in W. ^°« «•». «d q«.t the bulk of
I-ncter had battled de^tely for . while again* thi.
IN SBLARCH AFTER HAPPINESS 59
decadoit practice of the land wherein he dwelt ; latterly he
had succumbed like the rest. This morning, however, was
an exception, or rather the beginning of many such. With
the coming of his cousin, he abandoned bachelor vices.
After an early breakfast it was decided that Gabriel should
spend the morning in the study, formulating his plans, for
he said, **To laugh in the fSaoe of the world is easy;
so much as to smile in the face of one's family requires
thought^ Therefore he was going to think. After so
long an absence, Lancaster was eager to be alone with
his cousin, and proposed to her a walk through the city.
When two people love very dearly it is difficult to speak,
and, moreover, language is imnecessary. On through the
Turnpike they went, past the Mansion House, along Victoria
Street, and so to the Embankment. Something of his old
youthful buoyancy came back to him as he strolled through
the deserted gullies of the great metropolis, heanng naught
save the gliding of her feet at his side, and the swish of her
woman's dress, remindful, even amid the cobblestones of
Ixmdon, of tall grasses and country lanes. From Monday
to Saturday his life seemed insignificant and of no account,
because of the giant turmoil of millions. What was he
among so many ? Who would note his absence, were he to
die? How few would mourn? But on Simday, when
bruised hands find ease from toil, and men have occasion to
forget that they have ever laboured, his existence became
an important factor. The echo of his tread, which for the
past six days had been drowned by travelling wheels, to-
day reverberated and startled the silence, filling the street
with warnings of his approach. To-day he was an
individual ; yesterday, the mere thread in the tiny screw of
a vast machine.
The Embankment was deserted. On on«j side of the way
flowers were blowing, recalling meadow memories with their
fragrance. On the other lay the river, grey and slightly
M
THE WEEPING WOMAN
to the right . b^ZXjT^ •"* "^ *•«
^"""^ only by yhmZ^^. S^ •"*«■ ""^I «»
^« UU^ ™thlg Z:^ ^ ^ «- it jou™^
rtnfe. ' """^ '^M tnere any sound of
" Y* "*" *»'■»»> to hare urt-i i„ ,i
"""Ljncarter: then after. LSr^w H"*"^ ^*<«.-
""■^de, ^ don't you mT ^^ "^ --le good
m^jj^j,, 7"u ininn, although we are not
"low ia better than _
''^^^'"ther he i. an.^^° " *~ """"ted to «„
""^tlT'in'w^ "* "^ <'i»Ppointed, and not
"DiMppointment is love', heirt «» •» .
■nen love better. We AmUtT ? ' '^ ""^ ^«Vaid
« SurelT ; but it fa A^ u . , '"'"™ that" *^
when the'h;^ -."b;:*?!^* *" ^- »ything ^^^w,
"v^tJrui'TL'^r-PPythen?-.
out A"S^,ir,^«'J. J^ '"t yon h«, gnn.
w1^n.Lh'f/'rr'hi''Slr,'- ""•O
now I hesitate at mv «^fi-r • ^^ ^°^' Even
the penalties of n,;^^«*"-J^ with y^
juusucoess. Meagre environments have
<»^
IN SEABCH AFTER HAPPINESS 61
iMcted upon my mind. I have grown bitter and entice],
10 that it is difficult for me to love manldnd. I era
always see &ults long before I become aware of virtues ;
fay the time I have finished reviewing folk^s ikilings, I fear,
too often I have tired my eyes. You see, I am discon-
tented, and want to be other than I am. I am su£Bciently
conceited to believe that I could once have been a genius,
had I been given my dianoe. That chance will never
come now, and, if it does, it will arrive too late ; for my
impulse is gone. However I regard myself, I am forced^
to admit myself a feilure, one who has disi^pointed both
himself and his Maker."
<* Disappointment is love*s best gift; you yourself have
said it Our defeats should make us strong. If life was
not a battle, it wouldn''t be worth the living. I can see
already what the struggle has done for you in making you
true and brave.'"
** Ihen you doa^ know me, for that is what it ou^t to
have done for me — ^what I wish it had done — not what
I am."
** Whatever a man desires with all his heart to become,
that he is. Grod judges us by that which we want to be,
not l^ what we are. That is what makes Him so much
kinder than men. When e woman loves, she judges as
Grod judges — ^which make .a love divine."
** But you judge me as you would have me to be-— which
is a very different question."
** Where is the good of talking? You are a poor man,
and yet you have offered Grabriel a home witiiout ever
letting him know how you will have to pinch fm his
support You are going to take Kate in, and she won^
be one atmn of use to you in your business, and will
probably cause you a lot of worry. You have very little
to ipaie, but have kept your mother and sisters ever since
yata firther's death. You have sacrificed your career for
62
THE WEEPING WOMAN
^^r nkea, and an> ««—
•nly "eejoundf u .™^ ^^ motiw* If you oouU
" I were to «gue ^ vou I T ?5 *" K""" -Hnen.
JJou couldn't At 1«.., ^ ,0^ ^„ ^^^^^
fbundance of money, and for tW ^ *^''*^ ^ «
hiB own true worth^' He W n^* 1^" °^°* «rti»ate
why he finds the^vinf un!ff nfr. ^ ^'> "^ ««* i»
" m of faulJ TnTfu P?^*" *^* he has 8o easy. He
through sorrow someSTo ^* ,^*^ ^" '^'~^' «««
Wn«elf, the^fo^t^l*:,^'^^^ «« »-«eves in
than faulty, so I «haU uCm^ a " "°'* ^°^»"«
to ask?** -""Ui nice him. Any more questions
"No, not about Gabriel t fk: i
who thinks that he uLl ZL ^""f""^ Uttle boy
^tr.;lt ^hf rr-^'«^--- ' -
IN SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS 68
will grow into a stitmg man ; Imt those other people will
Mvcr grow at all ; they will be dead. He has nothing
worth laying at present, but, wl^n he has grown older, he
will talk very beautifully of the griefs which he has shared
and inflicted ; and people will come to listen, and may be
hdped. How do you like that ? I cant tell you what is
fiJse.**
**I d(m\ see that it is much better than what you
have already said. You speak of him as fickle and
slight"*
** No. DonM; I say that he is very lovable P To make
other people love you is next best to loving other people —
which is best of all. Up to the present he has been loved.
When he has sufiered, he will learn to love ; then he will
be magnificent.^
** That is all very well, but you make him out to be so
selfish, and he really isn't."*
'*In every martyrdom there are two crucifixions: the
first appears to be selfish — when the man abandons his
mother, his &ther, his brethren, and his friends for his
dream's sake ; the second is magnanimous and justifies the
first — ^when he himself hangs upon a cross. Many dreamers
accomplish only the first I have confidence to believe
that Gabriel wUl complete the second. To-day I see him
in his rose garden while his mother and father stand with-
out weeping, and I say that he is selfish. He has left
them and gone where they can never follow. The time
will come when, with all the long line of visionaries, he
will enter his Grethsemanc. When that happens, I, for
one, shall be prepared to worship. Now do you under-
stand?"*
** You speak like an oracle. I hope that the shadow
wiU not bring the presence to pass.**
" If it does not, Gktbriel Garrod wiU have failed.**
** We all fo'l,** he sighed, thinking of his own life.
64
THE WEEPING WOMAN
<Bg«ity of th. wdpta,^^ "»t^ •»! the terriHc
** I am the fMi»^: j !rT •"*<*"« distant columm.
« JT^"" «kJ the life : he th.t de^^M. LS
turned and fled. Once out«f1« t -» -I ^^ ™^ *^
IN SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS W
\mtk M tenor or bui-«tm hm wbetlier it wffl ntain its
ringiiigquiajty; the hoy himwlf lout of aU,"* Alt to the
fbll the tragedy '^ hii random speech.
*<Do you believe it ?^ Hilda asked eagerly.
"What?" '
** Why* the words they sang ?"*
<|Thae is only one thing which I have ever been aUe to
believe without reserve— my unbelief,'' he replied sadly.
•* Doubt is my only creed.''
•♦Every man is greater than his creed, thank Ood, uA
you are more faithful than your doubt."
"I wish that I might think so. It is the nii«wiy of
intellectual bickering that has driven me to the task which
I now purpose— that of going to the gone-under. If I
cannot believe in Christ, I can at least tiy to do what He
did."
** Nothing else matters much, I think. The orthodoxy
(tf to-day is the soiled linen of a bygone heresy. Belief
varies from age to age ; doing is always the same. Doubts
are imposed from without, deeds arise from within. If the
heart is rif^t, we shall live ; perhaps, we shall see God.
What are rewards, in any case, if we only do well ?"
CHAPTER VII
lAMPAMT UOV LANK
^^Decanbo- , . touch of winter w« fa the «r, plomt nt
P~»t. hut pHyhe.jri„g h«a,««. to c^ome. aS» rt
th.'IWnpikeh«it«»eUldn4„dly. JCtehndteTSJ.
"»*fe her redemption. She wm irtuble«d™lte for
*^9»^t^ fi»t «m1 loo« of hor former life „ envidJe
Jh»P-nev« for .moment exhibiting «««t for her
t^M. f ^•' ^ •'"*"^ w« that rf . coqoetto,
ma«nce o«r her, «rf even that w« not of .^3^
2»n >">port.ng mto her pre«nt «l.tionrfup. Herentii.
lack «f «moBK ,«. oriy to be ™t»««I by her SSf
^;^««l»d I«r lip. , they we,* dl talcen „ . ^t„ ^
OM p«nted. the raOued &ct was that of a stmy doe.
o«ungnoaUeg«»», ""kinguoeofastmngerVdielt^fZ
•rtonn.p«p.rrtorytotaJu.|the«»d.^„. fc^JS^
RAMPANT LION LANE
m
•ma^pomkU for her reception, LencMter had been em-
phetk that ihe ihould be made to feel a« f»w of theuMlvee,
and ihouU be treated ae though nothing diacraditable had
happened. She was to help in the running of the houn
and aieiet in the shop, aerving cuitomen and typing hie
oorreipondenoe. Everything had been done upon her advent
to make her at home. Lancarter held the theoiy that, in
traatiqg her record ae non-eziatent, she would be enabled
to foiget ; and that, in using her as a pure woman, she
would become one.
His welcome was misunderstood from the firrt. CourtesieB
were taken for compliments ; for being other than she
was she had no desire. To foi|^t appeared to be the bst
thingin her thoughts. Her altered social status and new-
found comfort had in noway duuiged the essential woman.
Her manners were an insult, and her presence a pain.
When Lancaster informed her that she was to work in
his business she pouted, and subsequently proved herself
worn than useless, turning away customers on many
occasions either by her over-familiarity, or her studied
rudeness. In the house itself she was willing to see any
one work but herself. In the innumerable petty duties ot
housekeeping she never raised a finger unless after repeated
requests had been made, and then, with a surly Hi>fiMtMiy^
wUch hindered rather than helped.
Wherever she came she brought discord either by her
excess or lack of affection.
In spite of disappointment Lancaster persevered, keeping
his b^viour uniformly kind, never losing his temper,
always respectful and diivalrouB.
Hilda, who sulTered most from the tyranny of her de-
portment, was loyal in her seconding of Lancaster's efforts.
She never retorted, never appeared grieved, and strove by
her cheerfulness to make up for the deficiencies of this
eztnordinary guest How much abuse she suffered at
• THB WKBPING WOMAN
^th. Mdml epung. to «««, out duma, mS tS
2iX*s:t':il'*'"'^^'«"~' "-"-^
.isr^ ta "^ >»-.. that ,^:s:;.r„^,:
todtog -BrthlBg outdd. th, did. of hi. ^ ,«t
W*»J»uj»ofh«M«nent In .hmdoning «„fcrt
far MnhMon, b. lud forM« prf^tion throuA ,^ZS
h«5_but not thi. kind of ««, WUtion.^^ "^
During the tort ftw wmIu of hi, erifc h, lad h— ,
fcnqr Md ala^gri hi. emotion* Now th.t hi.Tntom
*«»» or d»rity h«l n>.teriali«d into . d^SsSTjS^
of den, »am«K» egdnrt . dwirikd «rf^«S^iritod
•Wy «pidanted bjr bed. hi. h«irt dckened «>d ge«»X
g»ve wsy before diigurt. generoiiqr
« nrt to be «fom,ed by: lcind„««, but by cruelty. IZ
^tl^TT" T,** f" »« » to ffing hi out hooel«;
on the rtreet, «Hl let her redi« who d» i* IVn, who
RAMPANT LION LANE
■he omwls hmk. If ever At dots, yoa nwy bt ablt to nakt
■omething of her — but not till tlitti.'*
But Hilda and John would ihake their heads wiwly
making allowances and manufiicturing cxcumm fbr a crooked
temperament, mying that they ntill hoped that the change
would come.
Then he would grow angry, and go away to brood,
llieir conduct iieemed to him quite unnaeonable, and,
moreover, aelfiah towards himwlf. How oould a man
adiieve genuine greatnem when Mirrounded by nidi M|ualid
contentions ? Tliey should think m<ne of him and less of
the woman. They were sacrificing the intellectual repose,
whidi was essential to his trium[^ to the battling
jealousies of a woman off the streets. The next twdve
months, he told himself, would be the moftt crucial in his
eareer ; in them he muvt i4>prove himself, and from them
take the measure of his actual height
If this sort of tense misery were to drag on for mudi
longer his aspirations and ideals would cease to thriTe,
and dwindle away into a listless, lackadaisical desire to
write.
He would fain have deserted the Weeping Woman, and
have gone elsewhere, had it not been for his scarcity of
ftmds. At the Turnpike, with the little money he had,
he mi^t manage to survive, but nowhere else. Here he
was entertained ; anywhere else he would have to pay for
his lodging. So fiur he had earned nothing; tberefcnre
removal was impossible.
Mingled with his resentment was a sense of injured
purity. The sight of this wonuui was contaminating.
The cousins interpreted his thoughts from his conduct,
and did their best to make matters less difficult, smooth-
ing over differences and taking laborious journeys to
hedge in his peace. Kate perceived his meaning at an
eariy stage, and, strange to say, did not seem to resrat it.
W THE WEEPING WOMAN
2't!^Ts* trd.'t"; 'J!!-*-'"' ••• «» "«•
it was OAkn'Ai - Au« »»nen it wac not Lancaaft«r
'or him to «hieve tjT ' "^ "°* """^"y W
!»• piwnt existence. He S ™H . '' *^ "^
•nd dction, but never hud !nIT- ""**• P^*- «"».
of the perfect. Thj^w '"^f • * "^""T gli»l»e
eve.y nCtSther'^™ ttS^V" '"■'™^^
thought, rtood Kate the ™i ;^ j ^'' °' •" W"
bet^yed „d '^^^Jtie^'^'f^J^. T'T"*- *"
•• ahe oudit to have h-T/ ' ' "f™"? •>• «nd womanly
of . «ething. lepnJZS'*,^i" nr"*. ^ 'Won
hou,'a ple«ra« and a moiMnt'. • .u . ',"" ""ke of «,
power to live wdl "^T"*" j"'' ^ n>bbed her ofher
day Ae touched hirwiftT^ "1.,°""^ "^t- By
walked with him uluTh ,"T"'''" ■»»*■ ""d di
gettaiJe ho^rtoTT^i^J^Pby night, -^e „„&,.
"■ "*"" '■<»• !«» wa. that die alone
RAMPANT LION LANE 71
nemed unaware of it Ab completion to his anguidi, waa
his own remorse that, though he pitied her utterly in the
abstract as a type, he was cruelly impatient of her as an
individual, in realiied form.
Since this was the atmosphere which pervaded all his
work, there is little room for surprise that nothing of his
creation was bou^^t. The world, like the individual,
prefers flattery to scorn, and does not often reward its
harsh-tongued prophets for pointing out its faults.
He attributed his failure, not unjustly, to his environ-
ment. He tended more and more to seek his relaxations
out of doors, and to keep them to himself. In doing this
he was conscious of a sneaking sense of shame; it looked
as though he were making a mere use of Lancaster's
hospitality, as indeed he was. When he returned from a
happy oasis of pleasure to the dreary drab of the Turn-
pike, and the flagrant odour of fried fish and pickled
mussels which prevail along this mile of poverty, and,
climbing the grimy staircase to the study, discovered
Lancaster still hard at work, his self-reproach became
bitter. Latterly Lancaster had risen earlier and retired
later, often toiling for twelve and fourteen hours a day, in
order to keep the household running. Gabriel was unaware
of the reason ; if he had been, he might have been more
accommodating.
Unfortunately, we usually discover our saints long after
their sacrifice has forgotten its pain, when gratitude is
purposeless, and has lost its power to console.
Hilda he could not imderstand. She was so quiet,
thorough, and painstaking. She was one of those women
who speak most bitterly when they say least. When he
had lost his temper and had said something particularly
foolish, she would simply raise her eyes and look at him
once with a neutral gaze ; her silence was more reproving
than many words.
7!i
™« WEEPING WOMAN
♦«»y «• .bout the right rf Z!; . ™™ "- «omething
i^-ter often n^^^ IT"^**^ "^ t-t
Jith h« rfbetion, d,e i. ,»t ^^^.,'"' **«'« <My
oauwhenelf. """P^™" •» to how d»
•*"""« <we|i-noted in hi. n,f_j ""™"- ^loe ides
?»?» ««lue U»n ftittT ".*"' ^""^ «»t work. we« „f
Wie«d in «Iigio„Zrtt^,eTj"'"*"' ""»««-
^^to'^Te^t-^ --^e^-e^ioroj-hnr
^^^ ^'.X'Zrj-^ '"^ He
"» dutrict. «rf hi, 4ble " TJ •»««"« « by-worf in
>»«»t»n.te of the «cW Zi. "^ "*"^«' ^ «»»
."»«• "imply c«„e toTZf^ "^^ "*"* ■"•P^to^
"^d"™- ftequentlv sunh ^ . ^'^' ""U" ^ mifcrm
««ht; they 7e« "^a'' T^" »«^ to ,tay Z
dwover and bring home A^'»i *5""'' ^ "ouU
when the hou«wiJ'Sytri? T** "'S^t-"*"™?
RAMPANT LION LANE
78
his iWkrknUyf and, as is usual under radi cireninstaBoes,
resented the duvitj of oth«M m magnifying his own lack
ci the same, it efid not seem to him expedient that he
should lose his nigkCs rest at this juncture ; he required
to conserve his feneti for brain work, and did. There was
notfaiiig unreasonable in his attittide, bat it made him
Ibd awkward when others were so spendthrift in their
giving.
He discovered a refiige from this constraint in an
uaezpected quarter.
In his rambles it had been his habit, in more prosperous
d«fi, to seek out the less known by-ways of London, and
to haunt the various old curio-shops which they contain.
Amongst these is one called Runpant Lion Lane, an
andcnt place, with overhanging gaUed houses of early
Tudor period, lying at the back of New Oxford Street.
In it stood a seocHid^iand book shop, kept by one, Louis
Lanier. Unlike most men of his cUm, he was possessed
of a genuine culture, valuing money not at all, but book
knowledge to excess. Often, when a customer inclined to
purchase some old volume, he would state his price, and
then implore him not to buy, because he loved that book
too welL Lanier was a man of about sixty years, ill-kempt
and shabby in appearance, but unmistakably a gentleman.
He was one of those evident failures of London life, the
more pathetic because he was so contented to &il.
Hie lane in which he lived was poor and of unsavoury
reputation. Barred at either aid to prevent wheel-traffic,
paved in sudiwise that it encouraged the accumulation of
puddles, it harboured a goodly portion of the back-wash
of the city^s refuse. His trade was of no exalted character,
but consisted, for the most part, in quick sales and small
returns on auction remainders. These he displayed on a
stall outside his dingy door, and guarded so slackly that
as many were stolen as paid fcHr.
74
THE tVEEPING WOMAN
^™««, ««, to rtudy whatever of intewt rtiolled ««»,
Y^ "rf "topped .t the &n,aii» ^ „ "miiwit
h« nodded curtly, md mo«^ wjl^ ^^ ^*'^
O-bM tarried, 'dirinffl^L"'* •"■ "^
n4»U,diminidungbe«, H^i^-.?^. P*e of the
Ii«ly ftuitle- that ^ ^t^^ h«l l«n pw-
«w»o«cetoX XhW,.^. """^^rf hi. tired rtep.
W found him foot«,r«Kl b^^, It T'*"* *5
his (bnner prosperity. '»™«« upon the aeene tt
All thL tatterj ZlZ^ZT^ 5 "IT ' ""'•
in «thusi«m, ; .J^^^i^ P^*^ ""I P»W«>.d
• »i« fiom a riSriTl^ • ■"'"«»-to be MiU for
o'-the-wiM, in the miW !!Z^ .ambition was a wifl-
Loodon driftS rL ^1n- '"^ "' «'»' -
•tandi-g; women wlSfj^: ^Z^J^ *^r "" ""
hood had sped. A cnwm^Ur • l. ^ ***** **^ *»«-
.trife. ^ *° ** «""^ "Mt Mow, ftwn
RAMPANT LION LANE
75
A nuui of moods, he pictured himadf at one of than
olF-aoouringB of civilisation, and shuddered. It was the
darkest hour of his despair ; the flashing flame of his Yiape
had sunk very low.
FVcmi these moumM meditations he was aroused hy
Lanier, who, unbeknown to him, had been siloitly regard-
ii^ him for some minutes.
** If you have nothing else to do, jrou are welcome to
step insidf,** he said.
With the medumical tread of one only half-awakened«
he accepted the ofler.
The interior of the shop was similar in appearance to a
hundred others of its kind ; the ceiling low and smoke-
faqprimed, the floor littered with books, the shelves dusty
and laden with leather-bound editions, one, two, and three
hundred years <Ad,
Hare indeed was ihe metropolis of all literary endeavoiv,
and the inferno. Hobbes and Hawthorne, Smollet and
Mrs. Browning, Swinburne and Isaac Watts, stretched side
l^ side, every diflb(<roee of ideal, or lack of it, utterly
figiiptten in the soiry calamky wlMcii had overtaken them
1^ Hoe also was verified that old warning of every
qnest, that many nhall be called but few Aaien. Presenta-
tion cf^ies of meritorious, thm^ mdcnown, works strewed
^ counter, bulged over into ^e doorway, and soaked in
^ rain. Here were pages containing words of amvictitm
wUdi had not convicted, and optimums of life uttered by
^ps which should know distress. In some of them were
insrrihrrl messages of aflection frmn the autiior to his
iiend ; but the pages were uncut, proving the receiver''8
aaMuong indtffierMice. It is a Intter trial for the {nY>phet
whoa be is not honoured in his own country, how much
more so when he is rejected in every otho- ! — such had been
their fiite. All this came home to Gabriel as he halted in
the entrance, surveying the dreary scene.
■-'■' — '"^^ ..,-^...
n
THE WEEPING WOMAN
C" of »„,« ™„', 7^* !.". ^ ™^"« hod occupW .
th. l«rth, wJ^iioZl, i^"^.""' »' the "on. ftdng
ui»n Thich tH^ LTe. z::'\'';:r i' ^"^ *«»
gold «.d P<«rl.X .uX o/Tm^.'^u "■"■ '«»7 "d
«»«d to few. PferhaM. Hv~l k T j ""d long Bnoe
"evertoretara. YeUow'Lked.'trV"? "" *«
moiutttic handiwork mdBT- "^"""'"und volume, of
•'U' "Hie windomCJ ''"P "*«-« o' the
I«ier.fterw«r:^J.:^..~»X'°^«« •* "
thing. ouWde.- It ^„ed to rtT- i !>. .'"""°'7 °' the
b«k to Spe„.eri«, dl!^ 1 lu!^ ""* ^ ^ drifted
•omindedj™ of fe';:.^^^""^^.^''^^"'^
•mpme he gazed around, onlTW^belfc^^ .w ?' "^
22- »^^ite .a. u ;o «t*:;Xit;:,S'^s:
srsutt^t"„t "an'^ rr^ r""« ■"^''^«
-^whatXartrd^-r;^.-t-^
RAMPANT LION LANE
77
Hare, then, was one who had created his own Eldorado
in defiwee of circunutance ; having sought, he had not
utterly fkiled.
** But it is so luilike anything that I had expected,** said
OabrieL
•• Of course it is," Lanier replied ; ** its oppositeness con-
stitutes its charm. How do you suppose that I could
contrive to exist, if it were not unlike?**
Gabriel sat hinraelf down by the fire, and with lazy
satisfiMstion watched Lanier preparing their meal. Supper
consisted of vin ordinaire^ cheese and brown bread ; a simple
substitute for the more elaborate article.
**So you have adopted the lost cause as a profession ?**
queried Lanier, glaoring at the bunch of manuscript which
Gabriel carried.
•• Yes— «nd joined the holy army of martyn, I fear,"
answered Gabriel, with a laugh.
Gradually his tongue unloosed. Here, at any rate, was
a man who had gone upon a kincked quest, with a like
ranilt. The desire for confessimi came upon him, and he
poured out to the dealer in second-hand books his
troubles.
The little man heard him patiently to an end, and then
said briefly —
" Show me what you have done."
Nervously fumbling with the knots, Gabriel untied his
creations, and handed them over. The man accepted them
in the casual nuuiner of one who expects disappointment,
merely remarking —
** Oh, verses ! They never seH."
As he read on more interest was made manifest in
his face, until at last he paused, in turning a sheet,
exclaiming —
"Why, this is great I''
When he had finkhed, he returned them and was silent
n
"« WBBWNO WOMAN
"*. but tut fa Jl V^ "*" •**«« iMw Hid.
He had riaen while anmli..
t»»«rd the rtreetdoor ^TT*.'™' """ W the ...
RAMPANT LION LANE
T»
bf tlw itall, M yoQ did this tvening. If I mj nothing,
jpa am go away agidn, and Ibrget all about it If
I nod to you, jou muit &1U0W me in. lliatitaU. Good-
B%bt"
Tlie door dattend to, and tbe bolt ihot into place.
Gabriel was left, itanding alone in the deierted lane.
CHAPTER VIII
A won OF luuuoir
d^ — «p«iit UaoLmwutoo roddm ,
o'hfe »«. Uottod out V—?^^'* *^ EvwTiim
•«5 — eh«ig«l ^™^**' *»'«•• few d»S^'
rrt, for J, u^ lo^i^
wtb the pnlation of wiio.. ,w!T '*• •"" »" mm
"vend to-night?-'^' *^° I™"" but the w«M
ao
A NIGHT OF ILLUSION
"And wfafttifit-ioMf^heMkadakNid. «I,feroM,
ihftll not mind. Life ia too myrterioui; it hM wiwiad
mt. We are aU Uied. God gnuit that the world nay
end to-ni^t**
Emy barrier '^f the reaMmaUe brake down befen this
eataetnqihie p. .nomenon of Nature ; an Maa wai no
■ooner conceived than hie imagination mw it materialiaed.
The world would end that night! Thew were the hut
few houn of hit life. What did the convuUive ihatterii^
of hie poor fortunes matter when the hope of the world Uy
a^ying!
He grew out of himself with the thought ; he became
the last thing living, the pcnmnification of Life. Griefe,
and fears, and doubts, which had well-nigh subroeiged
him when ho had struggled to keep hiN head on high, now
beat didtantly about his feet, so toll wbk he grown.
He laughed aloud in thew last hours of his giant
activity: he had surely gathered up into himself the
vitality of nations, and stood next in order unto God.
" Who knows but the world may end to-night ? It must
end I It is going to end.^
He stretched out his arms in his imagined might, strain-
ing up through the fog towards the clouds ; but trembled
as he did so, feeling his hand upon a cold, damp face.
The face passed on, and be heard the report of three
sharp raps with the naked knuckles upon wood, followed
by the rattle of the handle of a door. A fagot of light
flared up into the night. The face went in. The door
swung to. All was dark again. Ten separate times he
saw this operation repeated— the three raps, the handle
turned, and the streak of light The house was Lanier's ;
Gabriel instinctively knew that these proceedings stood in
some way related to himself. Who were they ? Where
did they come from ?
"They are my old sins," he told himself, "who are
6
MKXOCOrY IBOUITION TBT CHAIT
(ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2)
A -APPLIED IN/MGE
^r^ 16S3 Eost Main SIrwt
B'.g noch«t«r. Ntw York 14609 USA
^B (716) 482 - 0300 - Phon.
^S (716) 288 - S9B9 - Fa>
THE WEEPING WOMAN
X^ti^*r. r^ ""^ •* *^^ ^''"^ -»»>«h I have
orly^ wntten, and have not wrought into the fabric of mj
opS!' * ^"""^ ''"' **' "^"^^ *^"* *^« d°o' <«d not ns
He tmtied and groped his passage to the top of the
iane, and so out into the main street.
back ^L^^?. ^^^^ *^T ^°"" *° «*"«»«« his way
oack to the Turnpike; when, after many mistalces. »,«
at^ Ij^reached I^easter's house, he foLTt^^I
Throughout his journey his fanciful illusion had nursued
to find the Weeping Woman stiU standiiT^IrTZ^^
as his search irrew tedionQ o«,i ;* i • - Proportion
Doned ftnW-f • i • ^ ^^ conclusion further post-
poned, an hystenc desine rose up within him to see ^n
received from him so little thanks
knowing tiiat he was^e '^ ^''^^^^ '«*^°'
A NIGHT OF ILLUSION
88
The house was very quiet. With terrible foreboding,
be leapt up the stairs, and flung himself into the room
where they were used to sit together.
As he did so, a woman rose from a kneeling posture
beside the window, leaving the panes clear of mist where
I her face had been pressed.
She ran toward him with arms outstretched, crying,
«*0h, it is you at last ! I was so afiwid." •
For a moment Gabriel said nothing, but stood still,
clasping her close to himself, kissing the face which he
could not see. His heart was racked with the craving
for love ; nothing mattered much, if only that were grati-
fied. He could not see the face, nor did he desire. Here
was a human creature famished for love, like himself; that
knowledge sufficed.
Bending lower, he kissed the lips, and whispered, " Who
knows, the world may end to-night.""
When he spoke, a tremor travelled through her body,
and she slipped from his embrace, still holding his hands.
"Oh, Gabriel, Gabriel, what mistake is this ?""
The voice was Hilda's; but the longing for love was
upon him, vague and directionless. There was no space
for reasoning; he kissed her hands many times and she
did not resist.
Content with the comfort of the present, her lips ceased
from complaining, and she lay very still.
Sitting down by her side, he rested her head upon his
shoulder gently, as she had been a tired child in need of
sleep. He recognized from their touch how hard the
fragQe hands had worked. He reproached himself with
bitter words for his past carelessness of her needs ; but she
said nothing.
Her silence brought to him calm, till he also, exhausted
with contentions which he could not explain, refrained
from speech. All remembrance of yesterday and to-
W THE WEEPING WOMAN
morrow vaniahed ; for the mere pleasure of repo«j he was
happy to rest. As mariners escaped from a sunken vessel
who, having attained the shore, stretch their length upon
^sand wjthm sound of the waves, pleased ^ S"
scant security which they have won, foi^etful of aU else
"n k""/"" ""T^ """^ ^" thTdarkened room!*
kJLL"l'Pr?u*^'y. '""""«* ^^ ^»»^n « second
Gabnel and Hilda, without moving, awaited their
approach recognizing the trailing tread of the weary
leet as that of Lancaster. ^
He came to the open doorway, halted, and seemed to
ga« m. If he saw anything, he did not speak ; but, after
a momen^ of suspense, renewed his journey ; with the closing
of his bedroom door, quiet returned. ^
Then with a stifled sob Hilda stood up, and laying her
wX^h'^f '^""' "^^^^P^"^' " Gabriel, leVus
forget that this has occurred. I don't know how it
^pened. I had been waiting for John, and did not
^gnize you at first I was very frightened, and hardty
knew what I was doing-^d, I had bin very lonelyT^^
" And I am still lonely," he said. ^
The fog had now lifted, and the interrupted energy of
life was heard to swirl and eddy down the street afresf
CHAPTER IX
THE HOUSE OF THE DREAMEK8 OF DBEAM8
With the passage of that night the old order was
resumed. None of the occupants of the Weeping Woman
manifested by word or sign that anything out of the
ordinary had happened. Lancaster was gentle and self-
effacing as ever. Hilda, sedate and tender, with just a
strange, protecting touch of the maternal in her attitude
toward Gabriel. Gabriel himself was hilarious and moody
by turns. Despite this outer covering of harmony, he
oidured the exquisite torments of self-acknowledged and
convicted hypocrisy. When Lancaster was sociable he
was unhappy, recalling his disloyalty of an hour. When
Lancaster was silent, he was haunted by the fear of a
further knowledge, which his friend did not choose to
make plain. Beyond all else, there was the humiliating
shame that he should be beholden to one whom he had
secretly betrayed.
By nature Gabriel was spontaneous and frank, even to
the point of recklessness ; to be compelled to deceive was
for him the worst penalty that could have befallen. If he
had only had himself to consider, he would willingly have
gone to Lancaster and clean-breasted the whole matter
like a man ; as it was, he had Hilda to safeguard, and was
forced to keep silent. When he walked in the open, amid
the good-humoured rattle of the streets, he would smile
»d »y. "A mUtake on a^dark night-what does it
86
THE WEEPING WOMAN
Amount to ? " WkAit k A
.pp«J«d in v«a He «H,n^vrf ^t t^T "i*™"'"''
nnce he wu debwr..) A-,-. ""*"."* ">« conclmior that.
left to him ^TJ^ZT^^ ""« — "othixg
lock«l heart. Si ty.MeT^T^ "'KhV *" ''" """ •
'™.t^Xd'^d°"!fxtT *° "? '" ■"■' '«™'*°"«J.
«»»hoId,/he woJS have C.C'"" i "'?«* "1»» *'
"d Gabriel lay cnuhri ^a ^P*!^; "f ""^ "<* come.
dung to th« last trestle ofT^KT'^'^'' '"*" "«'« I*
i»g how he had b^ Ll.f ' ^^ •"'^ge. «n.ember-
•cquaintance. contemolatin,, l,"^. ,*' """^^ »' •"'»
eonvenient. LxleT Ti • . " "'"'y "» »"= of thoK
^ » k.n^trt^dlZtrldT""'"'" ^'■'"» «««
Aort month, are „„t «,« 'L?. .?" '"^~- '^ fe"
p-io™, ^u ie::h:^"thrL"d:t/r r""« •■"-
•» young and the impressions rtl i /? '"?'*"' *=>
eherished a mild discffZ r *^f'"*'''^ ^^- He sliU
"Ok for help fe,„ „^;°;^. -» /"^J-e "uld
for despising ; he despised hiW^; **P'*^ """"elf
whom he u^ghteoX des; n^"^ '^J "^P"^ ««» one
hiking back to Se TT^ ' ."!?• "** " «ri»tocmtic
hirn^lf for acce;ting »vt1^rf ^?' '"^^ ^P^^^
So the interv^i *d^f rg/"»' I^ier at all.
«g»in found hirasd7sS;„! ^'*7 l-^S^ V, until he
The barren poverty omtX^:.'^; ^»''*"'''^ "Wl.
do™ shop.'^S.e wUngiTufrP'*' *"■"'''-
P»^ge«, and abused re W 1 f ""i, '."if '"^'^ «»*-
" forloraly presMc that he w^ mTfJr^ ^^"^ '°°''«'
"»^e his escap. ^Tr^ZlXt^^^^
THE HOUSE OF THE DREAMERS 87
minds, Lanier came out and nodded; beckoning at the
same time with his hand, he disappeared into the darkness
within. Gabriel followed with a beating heart.
"You have been elected,"" exclaimed Lanier excitedly.
" I knew you would be. I was certain of it directly I saw
your writings."
" Been elected to what ? " asked Gabriel, enthusing at
his fervour.
"Why, to «The Dreamers of Dreams.' Ah, but I
foii^t, you don't know who they are; I shall have to
explain. Walk into the Sanctiiaiy, and wait there a
minute. Fll go and close up the shop."
Gabriel entered the quaint old room which had so
fascinated him on the last occasion, and sat himself
down by the fire, where he was soon joined by Lanier.
"And now, who are *The Dreamers of Dree-ms'?"
asked Gabriel.
"You must give me time to explain," replied Lanier,
" and you must listen closely, if you wish to understand
the honour which they have conferred upon you. * The
Dreamers of Dreams' form an anonymous club which
meets in this house iwice every week. It is secret in
natiu%. Its existence is unknown to any, save its own
members. The members themselves are not supposed to
be known to one another by their real names, nor are they
allowed to recognize one another should they meet outside
these walls, unless the introduction be obtained from
without. They are also supposed to be quite unaware of
all save one another's emotional past and present, so that
they may be lefl unconstrained to utter their dreams
without fear of misunderstanding or contradiction by
reason of that past. To this general rule one exception is
allowed, when we find ourselves capable of being helpful
to one of our members in the brutal world outside.
" In this way the few hoiurs we spend together week by
88
THE WEEPING WOMAN
-op" and live i^!^air7 lu*' *" *"'* "« —y
i*«l. which other Sr^' ""^ ''*"°"'' -^""y
■n^ « two wl™ „,°tS "?' r*"'8 •« of o„e«I?
«en«,ou, gratification iSti^! "*'«"«' "l^rewithj. f,i
'h. world, .nd finding U^ ^n^ ^f T"""^ '"' ^"^"^
Pl«»ure in them«lve, -n^Tl ^ """• » ™«"ent
•«^"d the poo^ „*:;. ,,^ «^^ •«>«- wedth ; of the
Here we have establishnrTli, * i
•elve. ««I ignoS^ce of Sthatr .T'"^ "^ •"" own
f« "ot 1.^ enough toiler r^^'' '" °*''^ ^'
mcesMnt fcult,, nor to dSlL^ iIT'" "^ °">"-'"
"e only .nibition,, and tS 'w K ^"T" "'*'"' "«*
"You ™.y thin'k it rc-^firti*^''""^"-
fome together for such « „™5f J^?' *** ""n *ouId
I«m, to undcBtand '^^^' '"'* ^'^ ""'" 8>a<ii»lly
"For some men their secn-f j. : »
fi"mo« lofty th«, thdr^L '^'^ "'^ l»rf«rtion are
'Poken profeiio^ l^ihTZJ'f'^T'' '^^ »»'»
normal pi^^ice than ^"1;"^^ fi"^'*,' ""'t "■«■'»
closest friends To *1, «*'^te held of them by their
bitter griefT;„J;''^.X''™'*^' ""''*<'"''' Cs.
that, ^t of sh«r"S\'rrr-" *«i»"tly hap^,
"fundings and theSves ,h •' ■"'P°^«'«ity ofTeir
foss in P^portion rfcSl"''"?"' ^"^ "o"
the;"r^l::Her;^tit: ?'-r^'>'»™ng „n
»C brother-men a. Z. ^SUleT^ "^l^Its'l^'
THE HOUSE OF THE DREAMERS 80
problem is often solved by relegating the hi^er self to a
phantom world, populated by dream-people, fashioned
from the best of Heart's Desire; while, in the world of
standards and facts, only their baser self is realized. Such
men are very unhappy ; from this cause many a prophet
has died profligate.
*' It seemed posHible to some ft >v of us to found here in
the throng of i London a Land of Heart's Desire, where
dreamers might dream in sympathy, with none to challenge.
That this might be, every earthly axiom of what is
plausible, religious, or respectable, had to be left behind.
The door had to be fast-locked against every straggler of
things as they exists in order that those within might
fabricate their visions of things cu they should be. Hence
the rules which I have communicated to you.
"No opinion is dealt with unkindly or as impossible.
With us everything is possible, therefore we can afford to
be generous. Among our members are some who are
leaders in the world of art, and music, and literature ; and
some who never will be, but who share in the Desire — like
myself.
" Some of us are quite poor, and some quite rich ; some
are quite famous, and some utterly unknown. These
things do not count with us, for we dream in a land where
money and fame are inexpensive. We have no sooner to
think, than we have; to mention, than we visualize; to
visualize, than we discover existent. All this is very
simple when once the world has been forsaken. Now do
you tmderstand ? ""
While Lanier had been speaking, Gabriel had listened
intently, his eyes sparkling and his cheeks flushed, as one
who stands accused of hu most hidden secrets.
" Yes, yes, I see," he panted. " You judge a poet by
what he says in his supremest utterance ; not by what he
does in his direst temptation. Me, by what I have
<i
I
90
THE WISEPING WOMAN
*titimt not b. ,k,, , . J.
to I've before y„„ i„ ^yJJ? ""' " y^' !»•»». I u.
*»l!i««t p«.ii ^7f IT'S? "'•';"":"■'>'' '•°» in "V
ace. ""pea, but never hoped to
•W"*! the unattainable w«, .i,^ *« f«4«l out fi,»„
rfJW. Thi. wa. the W^^f^ "« "»«»1 W been
•from henceforwanL" »iU t ,"""^"*'
"""g"! all I am allowed 1 I '^^.'"^ *« know many
»ved«l in your .omenta of J^, ''^"« *" "«* i'
"•«f ». I will Wo yTt ;LS J"-'«''t the club
Having thrown a W uponT^ i" ™™'»8-"
>!'- »«»k. C«,dle. wereThM^t Z^-. he «t about
"Ive. ^luud, of curiou. wortln^"'", '™»8«'' ««"
long, W table. ""'"nuuWnp placed upon the
up^ato^;: tr!S'2feSof r ^'".'- •"»^
poked up hi. Unfc.„ «Hl weToat , ^'^ ^^
Gabnel w«t«l i„ trepidatir '"«*»" ^i. g„ert.
Ine fint arrival wan » l™„ i
»P-«rd. Hi, f«« :^' 2' '^ J"" of sixty yea„ „d
his hair g«y ^d .p,«^^'"'j^'^'«*'' '[-d <-lea„-*aven,
'y^ bright and HdyWuf H ""' "'«'"'••''"' his
he-ng warmly clad i„^a rich fi """ '"''"'% ""riving,
^rupulou. Jd expendvtnttni 1^^ '"'' ''«'«^ -"> «
Gabnel recognized him «7lS,w ","'''' »Pl«»«d.
•nd successful man of letted ^ ""'''" "^ «>» day.
THE HOUSE OF THE DREAMERS 91
Hftving removed his outer garment, he lat down without
■peech, on the farther iiiflo of the fire-place, opponite to
Gabriel, and having lit his pipe, utanxl vaouitly into the
glowing coaln.
Following, in rapid RUcceMion upon his ac'-' -t, came
man after man ; young, and old, and middle-agr- ; pros-
perous and painfully poor; well-drcsdcd and shabby,
until at last the room was comfortably filled to the
number of perhaps a dozen.
One, beyond all others, interested Gabriel. A man,
small and slender, with a face half timid, half defiant, but
of a singular and wistful sweetness. A possible saviour ;
an only too obvious rake. One of whom many things
might once have been predicted, no one of which would
have been entirely fulfilled. His was the coi atenonce of a
disillusioned man who still clung desperately to his
illusion ; who had striven to forsake the world, but had
returned to abuse it ; one who revived his visions only
to find them utterly vain. He hml the face of a seeker
who has lost something which he is for ever agonizing to
regain. He taught others in his silence the ho|K!lessncss of
all effort ; when he spoke, his enthusiasm revealed the joy
of the enterprise. You recognized at once in looking
upon him that he was one to whom laurels do not come in
a lifetime, though they may come after death. All that
men hope for, all that they journey after, the unful-
filment of love, the contrition for misspent years, the
horror which follows a too accurate knowledge of self, and
torture of on endless desire, were pencilled there by the
brutal hand of physical retribution. This was the Poet,
the lover of Verlaine, who, some few years since, so startled
the cultured world by the melancholy of the fragmentary
songs which were published after his death. At this time
he was far gone upon the downward road.
Until they were all assembled nothing was said ; but, as
h
0t
THE WEKpi;^G WOMAN
tli0 |^g| arriva) A «
^PPy group* "" ' ''*• ^*^y **^« up Into varioui
•*« went out to the^ «»»«iict«d w,j, th,t hi.
"^ 'T'J: i:r "ttti-f -""- -^
•ven ,h«, mriit,,i„„^\7'. ."»■'''•»»<« *«d to u«,
fe^"". in th«ir eonvoLtT™, JritL?". T* «'**••"'
«« or coi.ti„«„y. Th„ ™^r "**"* '"'' of Wtter.
«»«■> m™ t:.c,; S J :"t"l'' r^'P*"!- Bctwe™
"mpclled Jmrmony. "^ "' «ymp«tl,y which
"^tji.iX'trrtrh''"!^ "^•«- «-
one mind * ^"'"" "" "»y ^'gned the «,:ort of
P"'i^^of"tjL'' p:::"'"" '''"'*' ««»<' '"".-If the com-
^JliL^X'^^fhera^Tj"" :;-«-•"••<>»•■•'> ■n-.W.
unfortu^ite, « myilTV^;^,"f^ *" «»' "«*
. Gabriel loolced up wJS. '""^ '" '!"" *" «"«.-
«Wthaty.„,ho„^;tr«,r^-J/".«J. "I«.
« ->i^f;;;:h^et±eT;?"?^''»P««''•'"«
h«ve corrected it in thcmJ^ ' •"*"'^ ' *"'» "-o* "ho
'» the fitting ™»„ for :^;:J:S°'!' «° ««?» y„„th
«"Py hope, iV»„ the* u^rl't •"".''""'•'*' *'"' »»
P°*^ Dn»n, Iongd,^„ "Z"*/';:!"''""' «■« greatest
you i thither lie, the^ J '''fouragement deter
fir't, perhap,. will yZ ^ ^T ■» P"".?- Not at
•"ve e^penen^ ti »rf'orrh7u"^,.t".C
THE HOUSE OF THE DREAMERS 08
ThAt is the terrible thing about bdng a poet Aa a boy,
you itiiig of itgcmivN wliicli you Imvc only iinngiiii<(i ; when
you an? olil, and have furgtitten your nong, you cntUirc them.
Poetry l» prophetic ; it aJI comeii true in the end. BleMed
are they who, having framed the Hong, are content to Ring
it with their livcN. Thervfon.', there in reaiion to be careAil
in wluit you HUig. My mngH were mowtly of the wrong
M>rt ; I am now living them— now that I am old.*"
This laiit was naid with a regretful itadnetw, which lingered
rccallingly, like the huit faint throb of the violin. Ijang
after he had ceased to Mpcak, Gabriel was painfully
conflciouM of the presence of his words.
** You s|ieak sadly," ho said. ** I wish I could help you.**
" No one can help the weak man but himself. I am
capable of dreaming, but not of doing; of striving, but not
of achieving ; of accomplishing everything, save only my-
self. Having told others how to be brave, I am cowanlly ;
a coward I have lived, and a cowunl I shall die. I have
mode the fatal mistake of being afraid of life. Tell your-
self that you are what you are not ; let it be high, and
that you will surely become. ITiat is the great secret.''
" And yet you can dream ?"
" Yes, a little, but even that is going from me. Under
the influence of drink I can dream — not without it. If I
told what I then saw, no one oubide these walls would
believe me."
»* What do you sec ? " asked Gabriel. « I, at least, will
believe you."
The Poet turned upon him inquiring eyes, already^misty
with the fumes of drink.
** I see myself young," he said.
" Young ! " echoed Gabriel.
" Yes, young again," he replied. " No one will believe
that I have ever been young ; yet I have, and shall be so
again. Death may end many things ; it cannot end life.
I
94
THE WEEPING WOMAN
»ith death i it ends with 1„L j . '" ''"« "»» a>d
perfect won,» ZSot™, 'r""?5' " '"" '» <»»
brought her the d«g, of my Me She"" T***'"" '
too ooBMiou^ too scrSpulouTi if!; .1 J " *" P"""*-
?i^ the ««* i, Cht " t^tS""""™*- *■ «"■'
*«th, and I d»n find her" ' '*' "°* *"<■ "th
«^^?°" «:«• «en h« ?" asked Gabriel
^ "^Sr:„^\''^:i:'--/Aiteamtle
She came to me whenT w^ ^'^\^'>e the .umet.
with her. When itld IZT^"^ ^^' "^ ^ ?%«»
unde^tand. How .h^u tte^ 21^'' S'^ u*-* »<"
to me more ftequentlv- X^l , ^ ""^^ *' <=»"«
watched the .m«t r frl' K ^ '"" «''»'« ""d had
tried to detai™e*^blt '±' "T ^^ *™« ^^I
» leaving me. BuTlXu fiTd T ™"^ '*"'' »»" *e
:r^shecomel,'^„ttp"""'"'"^»-''ere.- .
" What doe^ ahe ClS^"*"**"™ ** «»°<*"
itL"^trer*::rh^ri''"'ri''r«"'™»"«.
hope it wiU he soon/f^ ft '* ," T'lf ,!'"'' ' *^ **• ^
and I dmU find her." *"" '*«'"" ^oung again,
"HowdojoultnowaUthis?"
Becauae there is quiet in the grave <?h. 1
to me when I wa., quiet Latelf? L ^ T^ "^
about many things-aLont ZT^ ^™ "^^ disturbed
•W-k; but^when'nf q"u'rq™f st' "if '^'"«> '"'^
and staj." ^ ^^^^ ^he will come to me
THE HOUSE OF THE DREAMERS 95
** And afterwards ? "
** Who knows but that even I may be happy ?"
** Is this the only way in which to win poetic fame ?"
"The only way for me. I have sung about her, and
prayed about her, and still dream of her. When I am
dead, men will read the words which I have uttered, and
some will say that she is Virtue, and some will call her the
Spirit of Life, and some Love ; but they will never know
her, for she wiU be with me.""
"And that will suffice?"
" That wiU be sufficient."
As he spolia, he rose to go, and Gabriel with him.
The moon rode high in the heavens, and showed white
between the slanting chimney-tops, looking down disdainful
and remote upon these two dreamers.
When they had reached the top of the lane, the Poet
held out his hand at parting, repeating, " I shall find her
sometime — somewhere."
"God is just, you will certainly find her," whispered
Gabriel, as he watched the retreating figure die out in the
level of the long, unlovely street.
CHAPTER X
WHEN YOUNG MEN SEE VISIONS
upon which his window ™^ fetolJ T^ f ""**
I«nd of white "It i, .„*^ TZ ,•'^"•8. fantastic
will be well If one 1m T"' ^ *°"8'"' ""«" «"
of ugliness, ^^y:^Z''ir:^"j'2y'^''^'^
Dr^ms exploring only tl^^SVUt' ^"T- °'
I shall ultimately come to finri fl.of i* . ^ ^ ^''^"^
thing is beautifij, and is g<^',^';L ZJ^rl ^"Z,"
yet another secret." '^na^spure. I have learned
96
WHEN YOUNG MEN SEE VISIONS 07
Down-staiw the family was assembled when he arrived
and in addition an out-of-work clerk and a day-labourer—
Lancaster's gamerings of the previous night.
Gabriel was in high spirits, and determined upon
putting his new philosophy— the moulding of the world-
without by the imagery-within— to the test.
He talked much and kindly, addressing himself re-
peatedly to the two strangers, until their reticence
melted away, and they laughed, and bared themselves
as to an old friend.
When we say that any one is uninteresting, we really
condemn ourselves, and mean that we have been too
shallow or unsympathetic to encourage and caU forth the
essential man who hides behind the mask. Either sorrow
or sudden happiness can teach us this lesson. In Gabriel's
instance it was happiness. Every one that morning, under
his influence, laid aside disguise and became, for the time
being, genuine.
The day-labourer told about his old mother in the
distant village, and described the country festivals. The
out-of-work clerk spoke of how he had hoped to become
a merchant prince, and still hoped; also of the wife and
children whom he had left at a friend's house, together
with his few poor savings, tiU he should come into earnings
again ; also of the splendid amends he intended to make
them when that day should arrive.
Kate, whose case had seemed so desperate, and whose
artificiality so dense that every trace of sincerity seemed to
have vanished, now woke up and astonished her friends by
the gentleness of her buried life. Her whole manner was
altered ; she treated these two waifs with such considerate
pity that at times they seemed to be aware of her alone.
While they were talking she performed small acts of
kindness to disembarrass their awkwardness, and make
them less restrained.
7
98
THE WEEPING WOMAN
««"ou, conveiMtion at tUl. ^™™"«^ "hI not ovo.
j"'^^teS!;g^t''c:ir' "'■''?'«<•.->'»«-.
«m.tfor?-.A«lG^ri^
,^^ •» you tl»nk„,g „, f„f. ^^^ g^^
When **-— ' ' -
said, **1
incapable,, _„,^„^^
WMt to thank you for it" — o— *
pn^r^sno^tfBcdWht^^^^^^ ^'^^^ — ^
Jiappy." *"•"* "^^^n one w determined to be
After he had lofl- *.u
"•d « TOice whispered «K™, Ta ^ "^ "•*" *"•» «nii,
which you .re S Zfl^ ,K™^ 1«» to u. that
happened" ^' ""' "*''" thing wouU not haw
.uSf^wSJt^ ™^^»f "^ t^» .I»ck, he
what Aeteiir""^"'^" *» rfghed, and he knew
CHAPTER XI
SEEING THE WOELD AS WHITE
It was two o'clock in the afternoon, and a shriU, bleak
wmdw« Wowing. 8in«thedepartu«.oftheday.labo^r
•nd the out^f-work clerk, Gabriel had employed his
nlZllf ir^^^.r^ -tting down in^veTtU
^t irfulosophy, which the whiteness of the snow had
»Uffi«ted to bm, concerning the fashioning of the world-
inttout by the imagery-within-the impressing of his
wbjertive mood upon the objective world. He w« pleased
with himsdf, for he knew that he had accomplished^
ws^r ?'!? ""^ :°*- «»^°«-~PP«JWnLfinhis
wam«jt^clothing, he sat off at a brisk pace down the
to the test, and see whether I have not been mistaken in
«W<«ng that men are unhappy, and that London is a
dr^ land of grey. To me they seemed so fonnerly
b«»use I myself was wretched; now that I am cheerfid
On'f «^°» otherwise. The world is what we make it"
On his left hand, drawn up beside the pavement, stood
cofiteis barrows. Their owners were evidently divided in
mmd as to whether it were more expedient to vend their
w«^ or to keep their bodies warm. Some paced up and
^L!^P'°^v ***"'' ^^^^ ^^"K ^^^ «^en hands,
ami letting out hoarse cries. " Brices ! Brices ! Gen'lman's
bnces ! All o one price. Choose where yer likes. Buy 'em,
V9
i
■ mssvr-m.
100
THE WEEPING WOMAN
««tiped to the leewAnl ^f *k • x « ^ *®*' ™*^«» had
«««> home to G.S Ct fotttl^ '1 "^ "•"*«* «
wj..t„v«yi£:,tBt:„rs"fi't'
of their voices thev offerer! f Ko J^ j l '^^ "*® *op
phc*.-, which th/:Sf .s%r" ^^'"-?^ -^
modat tone, he offered iZtT 'J^.J^^'X'yi m more
them. He* were fi^ur^/Snored both bin. ^
•cknowledge. « lle^rM i t J""^' ^ ""^ "<*
-bongimagmaal fi,!^l T^P'""*" "hite required .
'-i^«veKe™,^'te':^^t7h:^<»<«C':"f
UtteredLd^.^'^fX^liS'' f ^^l^^y '•»''«»
«» life redly . defeat Xr .11^ «!.'"* *«•■*■ ^nd
»d stepped out moTbri^ ^K .^' * "*" "P "» ''«^
matter, litUe chapP-X wked ^^5!^ . ™»*'' «"*
trained in the school »f . ?* *' ""'^ ^ I*™
-de. divrftntr'th^'b^^^P" °' -- ' •"« ■»
"The world i, what we ^,^ "^ ""^^^
voice within hia brain "!v .. ^ "hispered a jeerii«
o^ people don-t'rA told I 'r.^,^:^^^^
«luch you wrote this morning. UitZjt P°""
SEEING THE WORLD AS WHITE 101
imagery-within. Impress your glorious subjective mood
upon the Turnpike. The world is what we make it ; you
ou^t to know that"*
** Who can dream dreams in the Turipike ? ** he growled,
angry because he knew that already, at the first contact
with facts, he was losing his new-found peace of mind.
**ni go to LanierV he said, «• where ideals are not
shattered." When he entered Rampant Lion Lane and
approached the bookshop, his spirits rose, for he was
encouraged by memories of the previous night. Lanier
sat behind his counter, far away in a vanished land, chuck-
ling over an original copy of Fuller's Worthies qf England.
When Gabriel halted in the doorway, shutting out the
scanty light, he looked up.
« Ah, so it's you !" he said. « I had been hoping that
I might see you to-day. Perhaps unconsciously I drew
you to me by my desire.*' Then he told him that the Poet
had been there, anxiously inquiring for him that morning.
He had left a message for Gabriel that, should he turn up
at the Rampant Lion, he should come straight on to his
house.
" What does he want with me ?" he asked.
*< Don't know," Lanier replied; "I should advise you,
however, to go to him as quickly as you are able. He's a
valuable friend to have."
So Gabriel, having no other engagement, agreed to visit
him that afternoon. He felt a little nervous when he
looked at the address which Lanier had handed to him.
It was somewhere near Hyde Park. A short time ago he
had been at home in all neighbourhoods of wealth and
fashion; since then he had become a denizen of the
Turnpike, one who rapped upon the closed doors of
publishers' houses, and had unconsciously acquired that
angry attitude of grudged respect toward the well clothed
and folly fed which is the brand of the man who has
IM THE WEEPING WOMAN
in mr »i««^ that I n», «. the Cld ^wht^ "^
A young girl, iU-fed uid «„m,c .tLZin. j
b««J«> ar too he.™ for her3^ rt 'ZT"' "?*" '
""v^1eT^'^i;«!^^*e^owT' "■»•
^:?ng^?^tL''«3.'^ou^,et*S^,^
<»n7"««Kh.Wl,Iet™ehei;C- ^'"'" "*
"It's ^ right,- he said, interpreting her fear • « t i
want to help vou. T*.ll m*» * *'«'""» ner fear ; « I only
cip you. ielJ me, for where are vou boiinH ? "
She mentioned the name of r «.,« «* ^ .
B«gent Street They^off t^J^T *»^ r^tl^-tnaken. in
through the fashionlhWK ^^'^ *'^*^^"« ^^^ ^^7
package, misdoubtr^ ' kTrirrwh^ one ^d upon the
interest. Gabriel ei.v Jf ^^'^ ^^ "° "^^rior
with the tnZ^.dl^li.rfirr'^.."^*^ ^''^ ^"^^ ^l«t
&r; hesoo^^rupt^Pf^^^^^^
to the shop, ^e seiLd her r^^ I ^T ** ^ ^^^'^ "^^
word of £X ^ , f!?** "^"^ *J«P»rted without a
what ktdTt iifetr^tl^h^" r*"' *"' "°"^-^
obviously over*wo^ed «T^ 1 «^e was so foul and so
C«>ator,«\e tholf. and ^'1 °? "^"""'"'
« Poor world." vSr sudden^? ZJ ^<>^-^^ sigh,
uncomfortaie senSon t^f ^ ^"^^ '°'^°"« °^«»«
He wheeled ro^ 2!^* ^'""T."^^^""''^
alacritylndeeT^f ?^^ ^^"^ ^' ^^^'^ ^«» «uch
««»cmy, indeed, that he came mto collision with a saunter-
SEEING THE WORLD AS WHITE 108
ing dubman, who strai^tway commenced to glare and
expostulate. But Gabriel had picked out instinctively
firom the torrait of faces the scrutinising eyes which had
touched him. A temporary stoppage had occurred
in the traffic. Directly opposite stood a lnt>ugham, in
which sat three girls, one of whom was gating at him.
He instantly recognized the carriage as that of the Thurmu\
and the girl as Helen. Even as he espied her she bent
forward with heightened colour and said something to the
coachman, who, evidently obeying her command, circled
his horses to the outside, thus filling up a gap in the halt,
and hiding her from view. She must have seen his recent
companion and his shabby load.
** I suppose she was afraid I would recognise her,^ he
said bitterly. " She might have spared herself that trouble ;
I had already learnt my lesson.^ And yet, his heart was
sore, and, though he would not own it even to himself, the
agony of an old desire was upon him. The extravagance
of her furs, the repose of her figure, together with the
radiant beauty of her face, gave to her an air of remoteness
which contrasted strangely with his own present condition
and past memories of that last night, spent in her company,
by the silent Thames. They seemed so utterly apart,
these two women who passed for one and the same ; from
the one whom he had loved, the estrangement seemed so
forlornly complete. He, the poor pedestrian, companion
of a dr«»smaker''s employ^ ; she, the symbol of caste, and
of Parnassian patrician ease.
"But she does not know life," he muttered; "how
should she ? She has not suffered."" Better by far to be
the friend of a seamstress, he thought, if, by so doing, he
might bring joy into the world, than to be the comrade
of beautifril women, and live only to admire. How selfish
he had been, spending his days idly for his pleasures, while
such weak children as this one, whom he had lately helped,
ii
104 THE WEEPING WOMAN
«» the feMniiTorJ* r^ •" *• Aijr. of hi. life
Poet', house, the yeUow iJTrf^!^*, *°*^ *°''*^ *h«
»nto gloiy, like mSg:iJfwhTd,1^ tr r^ST""*^
cool evening of the dm>^n «L S ''• ''^^ *" **»«
that aching^melan4o7wK S^^^ ?* ""- ?^«^ by
mood.. i.^bert ableTir^^t^^^
reali«d that he wa. only oHf 2,1,- 'T^' "«
unit of which had it. Ti.^?! i""" ""'"^^ ««*
though th^ iXh^ed'^tr^^^ ^'
how much had thev ~J1,^ ,Th f"*" "trength,
what p„^t wodd'ardTyT'S^,:^ "'^ u"' '
«vehiind«dye«r.h«l pwid? Of JL ^ '".''""
own life, hoTOoever^^rf^ x . "•""* *•»" hii
rp3";j°rrhe" t" r ""^ ^^^ °"
.4j.i. p^; r.^^t r^rj::-^^^
SEEING THE WORLD AS WHITE lOA
eztinguinhod all hU itanF Gabriel was oppramd with
the immeniiity of Creation as compand with the paltiy
items of which it is made np-^f which he was only one
item. He was made fretftU by the remembnuice of his
own insignificance, which London had forced upon him.
He recogniaed himself as a mere unit, which, so far as he
knew, would occur but once in the rank and flle of the
myriad march of Time. London had humiliated him and
robbed him of his confidence. This was his frame of
mind when he arrived at the Poet's house. Its windows
were gloomy and shuttered; it seemed deserted. He
mounted the steps and rang.
CHAPTER XII
™ MAM fK THK tHAlfewLAKO
•treet lamp, for the HrIIw-^ •*[• *V "»• •id of Ui«
.building uninUbited imd unftmiXd ?fc «^'"« '"
rt«rw.y, were unc«pet.d, uTTT; J^' *f" r"^
them in hi. pi««ge, were nXl , JT**" "" "*«*«»
ing. i the «r CrCSeT^ "'.P"*"'*' " of h«,g.
He bqpn to repe^ rf iT"*^ "" " «» ""rithoX
the fiS^f hi.^^ t'':;^""* . " he l»d not «„
the tepmort .t«r, the bov ta^-TSl .""J"* •^'*' •'
«kI knocked at a d™., »k; t •""•«» pmed on
'•-We. The boy toJc^ ^b^„Z^ *T "»
^ii.r:her:prf£"«"--"-^^
o^hothou^ao^-— rttr,:t:nsi
THE MAN IN THE SHADOWLAND 107
wtrt lilitt, fomrn, and oarnatiom of every thade and
kind. Caating hi* vyt* around the room, he aaw that its
walls were tapestried from floor to ceiling, covering up
every window, if any there were. The nihject of the
tapertry was the hopeless loves of the world { that of
Launcelot for Guinevere, of PIm>1o for Fhuicesca, and of
Merlin for Vivienne. Its ftumishing had in it nothing of
the present ; all had been made three hundred years gone
by, when men wrought not only with their hands but with
their souls putting immortal pride into their work, no
that, though they were long since dead, it was still possible
to witness the finen«M of their every tool mark. Growing
more accuntomed to the light, he raised his head and saw
above him the open sky with all its anchored stars, like
a great harbour wherein the many ships of diverse ports
have come to rest ; the ceiling was one pane of polished
glass. His companion, leaving him to his own devices,
went toward the fire and rearranged the logs. Gafari#(l
watched him as he stooped above the flames, and again
wondered at his beauty nnd his silence. As he was stand-
ing thus, he heard a sound behind him, and turning about
found the Poet at his side.
**8o you have come,"* he said, gaiing on him fixedly, as
be would impress each feature on his mind.
** Yes, I have come."*
** I knew that you would come ; I have wished for you
all day." The Poet still looked upon him intently, neither
offering him his hand, nor stirring from his place. Some-
how, to Galniel^B eyes, he appeared changed from the
decrepid, prematurely aged man of the previous night
His face was lit up with a new emotion and looked no
loager apologetic and afraid ; he seemed rather like one
who was inspired and had been made bold by some
hidden message. The boy, having completed his task,
shifted from his stooping position and stood upright
108 THE WEEPING WOMAN
This recalled the Poet to himself <j~. l-
*Iino8t in a whisper as onJ wf ^P^ing eagerly and
he said, "Do vou^lT^fl? T ~'"°»"n'«»te8 a secret,
"«"» xjo you recall those lines whiVlt a k^*l j»
once wrote ? * brother of ours
'Stand ttm, true poet that yon an!
Yo^L'"Si^/"i::" ^^ ^ '' -"enX'
iCnl^' "Mnember one man mw you
Knew you, and named a star ! * ^ *
felt tut th«e worf. werew^f .v*"* *"■ ^"^ ^
1 looked upon yorfeT V^! • ^°" ""^ """"""t «»'
p^phet to a.ri,t;e nor:zs^sf» "^ '^
hearken. Thev will O0^^^ * «=«rKenea. But they will
when you h.7«ZtZd'cf?r'' "'" P'^-'W
««ht \i that tiS'yot JnoT eSThet """ 'r^
you hunger for it nowf and bJlteTt .. i^- ■*™* ' •"*
^ard^td^-HSJTn tri!a^':,'"'«^
ohecure grave, M,d you are succelw !„ """
voi«. one^*i™g°Sg ei"e;:riM™'"V"*° "^
■nent , hi, habituidi-S^Shf '^ '"*'' °' """'^
the moment hi, prayS^Z i'^^T «""*• *"<»
-t«in hin^elf <„„. hysteric ^4^ wL:hf 3
THE MAN IN THE SHADOWLAND 109
the meannctw of the troubleH which dogged his daily walk
in life, and contrasted them with the preposterous genero-
sity and magnificent sincerity of this sudden recognition of
that which he himself, in his insaner moments, had fancied
that he was. He looked down at his shabby clothes,
and frayed cuffs, and worn shoes, and smiled almost
incredulously.
**Ah, but promise me,"^ the Poet insisted. ** Believe
me that I am not mistaken.^
**lt what you prophesy should ever come to pass,^
Gabriel answered, "I will forget neither you nor this
night. And though you should be mistaken, I will always
remember."
" But you yourself know that what I say is true."
" Yes, I know ; but the world does not recognize."
" Then we must compel the world."
" And have you found that so easy a task P Even John
Keats could not compel the world in his own lifetime,
neither did Shelley."
** But no one said to them that which I have said to
you. No one unreservedly owned to them the starlight
that was in their eyes."
** Poor Keats ! If you could have spoken these words
to him, what a difference they might have made ! "
** And what a difference they stiU may make ! Perhaps
he did not need them so much as you. Perhaps I was
bom only for this, that I might tell you that you are one
of those men for whom the ages halt."
" If I could only believe that this were true," said Gabriel,
" I could be brave beneath the rods of any fate."
" Fate," the Poet said sadly, " is the generic name which
cowards give to the penalties of their crimes. I myself
have sought to avoid my conscience by taking refuge in
that doctrine of fate. I am grown wiser. Now I am
assured that, whatever went on in the hinder-world, we
no THE WEEPING WOMAN
TOte oundveB in thi.. We become the creatures of our
^oice. Dreams and desires take substance in our flesh,
l^jiemstent dreamer of nobilities may always dream
♦k**T!!? *^ "® ^'''' ' °»*y '«»1»» »n »ny«lf that
thwarted prophecy which you have recognized?''
JI can best do that," said the Poet, « by speaking to
you of my own life." ^
As he said this the old bewildered look crept out across
his &ce ; his figure seemed to shrink and his should^irs to
Jtoop ; the years, which his eagerness had thrown off, roUed
back on him i^n. He moved slowly over to the fire-
place and seated himself, stlretching out his hands to the
'^. X? «*^^' crouching at his feet, rested his head
against the Poet's knees. Gabriel sat himself down upon
tiie opposite side of the hearth, watching them, and w^-
denng what fantastic bond of sympathy had drawn these
two together into the shuttered house with the one
«qmsitely furnished room. Presently his companion
withdrew his hands, and lying back in his chair, redded
him curiously. ^~»««
"In tWs hidden exotic room," he said, «at the top of
a deserted house, you have the portrait-pamble of my
5f f ' ^^'t u °°* "*"** *° ^ ^° ^^ ^»y of f^ and
dates, for I have spent my years in drifting aimlessly
Uiroi^h a tanglement of moods. I was bom into a rii
household, among people whose great ambition was to do
^•ZJ% ^f^ ^-'^^"^ *" ^ ^*^* "««t the
^ning of social recogmtion and the holding of offices.
My ancestors had set me an example in this direction, for
they had aU b^n soldiers and statesmen-men of energy.
TJeir hves and ideals were external. To me the m«t
wtual things, and those of greatest worth, have ever been
the visions and moods, and exquisite elations of the secret
heart, which no man can appraise nor money buy. I am
THE MAN IN THE SHADOWLAND 111
the last of ray worn-out race; in my dreamy tempera-
ment I represent an under-eneigized revolt against the
materialistic, garish projects of our modem age. It would
■eem that the dynamic ecstasies of the soul, which three
generations of my kinsfolk had cowed and crushed under
in themselves, gathering power in captivity, erupted at
last and found expression in myself.
"Perhaps that is the process by which most poets are
created ; they are furious reassertions of the embryo God
who was strangled in their fathers' lives ; they are songs
made articulate through exile, which return with chanting
from Babylon. From the outset my parents' hopes for
me were of their own making. Living under the same
roof with them, meeting them continually at all the
habitual rendezvous of family life, I dwelt apart in spirit,
and was solitary. Very early in my career I discovered
that between them and me there was a great gulf fixed,
across which no one of us could pass. As a child, when
in my presence they discussed my future, I kept silent.
They mistook my silence for acquiescence. It was nothing
of the sort, for in secret I rebelled. When I spoke with
you the other night, I said that my great error had been
cowardice— that I had been afraid of life. It was this
cowardice that made me keep silent. I allowed my people
to train me up for a career of outward parade because I
dreaded t'>/i^<leceive them. In proportion as this world
went wb/ QT^th me, I withdrew yet more distantly into
my unrrory^d — more real to me.
" So,p«/,^ my education was over, I was sent out to do
things; Afi^l was bom to dream things. Being set to a
task fo"e^J</Aich I was by nature unfitted, I calamitously
failed. le family honour felt itself tamished, and I was
disgra<)' f. If a man is too unbrave to make a necessary
crisis for Jimself, sooner or later that very crisis which he
has been driving to avoid will be forced upon him from the
/
112 THE WEEPING WOMAN
Jt^hf-T^ '"J'^*^"^ «fe to the ruling of othSTSh^
n^- ^"^'.^T "^ "^"« as to nwke each moment a
?lX^i^%*^L'" *^" ^^*"""* °' "y *»«^«* soul. Now
tnat I had failed, no one cared what I did with myself. I
"^^ w 11 *° '^'^ "^^ ^" whatsoever way I willed.
Well, as you know, there are commonly supposed to
be two potential ways in which a man may fulfil wTsoul
1^7^^ °"! ^l riotously-expending his health, purity,
and Ideals, and then regretting their loss; the^ther, by
regMdmg himself with humble reverence as a thing mort
^ "the mouth of deity, speaking to living men of
inn*!?*" l*^"- portion Of my life had been spent in this
^w2 *u u^ ^r '^^''«' In it I had sought
refuge from the bnital reality of facts. You wiU notice
I always discovered my consolations in flight. Midmost
in my hidden land there lived that woman of whom I
made mention to you last night. She had lived there
always since I was a child. I cannot remember the day
when I did not know and love her. Wi^ her are bound
up aU my earhest memories. I think she only began to
exist when I began. ^ ^ ^^
Jl^^^rZ ^! ' «^ "^^^^^ °^ ™y own'career, I deter-
w 1 ""^ *" "^ ^""'«^^ to the Cux^iog of my
I ^^"tr ""* ^"1 T^^l^ '^' ^'^^"^ iniwSted life!
I felt that, soon or late, she must be in the Vorld, I set
out m seareh of her. I travelled through C l«il
both ««t and west, watching for her fac^ K^
some day, almost by chance, I should turn a ^Idin tiie
road and find her waiting there. \
"At first I kept myself pure for that day, tha^i might
be worthy of her. But as the year, wen! by, and my
search proved vam, in sheer despair I hurled myself
THE MAN IN THE SHADOWLAND 118
into vanities and the round of riots which men call
pleasures. I said, *I will forget her fiM»/ But in the
midmost frenzy of debauch I would dream and see her
eyes, and feel mjrself constrained to set out, sullied with
lust and tortured with remorse, in quest of her again.
** In ten years of seeking I found no trace of her. I had
begun to grow old. I had accomplished no useful pur-
pose; for I postponed all plans of action till I should
have lured her into the world of flesh and joined her to^
myself. So the years went by.
** One evening towards sunset, I was travelling on foot
through the Cainic Alps, coming down into the Fruili,
when, rounding the shoulder of a mountain, I saw spread
below me the landscape of my imaginary world. I stood
still, uttering a choking cry. There could be no mistake ;
it COM my land. There, through the tangled garden of
the plain, ran the little river of which I had dreamt;
there was gathered the village, with its red church tower
thrust up against the sky, and the tall poplars with their
hooded heads and semblance of folded hands, and beyond
all, in a distant deft of the hills, the old grey castle, where
I knew that my lady led her days. All sounds of that
country (xrere &miliar to me as they drifted up through the
cool, still air. I recognized the vesper-chimes and the
pause in the lowing of the kine. The very shapes of
the clouds and the country's fragrance were known
utterly.
** when I came to the village it was night. I felt like
a man who, long years since, had gone forth into the
world, and, returning to the homeland, had suddenly
recaptured his past. I crouched beneath the walls of
the village street, listening to the peasants' dialect and
watching their lean, long shadows where they passed.
Everything that I saw and heard was like the retelling
of an oft-repeated tale. Very frequently I would halt,
8
114 THE W J5PING WOMAN
J«»Jling tfw -cene, and would «y, 'Ye., and I met Ur
her^ and here, and .he «ud thiB thing to me/
Cwifident that I would see her, though the niffht wa.
now advanced, I i«t out for the cartle Tthe MliZl
travelled I planned within myself how I would fulfil the
glonoj- promi^ of my life-nJ; that she wasfoldfh^
I would sing for men those songs which they ought to
^^ll i:;^' ^-^^ *^ ^'^ ''^''' *^* ' ^ -t
^i^r^^^V^'f ""u"^^°''^^^«'^°™- A slight
Id fKW '^". ^'^'^' " ™°""**^" «*««»» "hallow
were the only sounds of life. When I approached the
^way, I found that it was crumbled and^bSo^
r^^J PT^ "^*^^" *^« ^"^ 1 «^ that they w^
deserted. My hope had betrayed me. He«. w7a new
T^T "^ *¥,««^-l had been permitted to lu^ my
m^rr t^"*^ "^"^ "^^' ^"* *« ^^^ ^ power to
make this achievement of worth to me was not th^.
In the ruined castle, stretched upon the grass beneath
huS^ ? 1 "^ t^' "'^y ^'^^ ^ ™«ke me more
hungry for her. Again to escape my sorrow I resorted
to cowardice-to flight. Heretofore I had beemZdTf
Man-now I was terrified of God. He seemed tTme a
ZT f "J?"^ "^^ **"*^^«^ *»»« <^'^ whom His
that I might forget. Because she was withheld from me
I strove to ^tisfy my thirst with such loves as mTy l^'
purdiased; but always, older and more haggard, mr„th
by month, and year by year, I would retSihe c^t
m her search. In the north or south, east or west ^d
way in some sordid vie, I would hear' her voice M^
Fruih, caUing. In haste I would travel back, sometimes
THE MAN IN THE SHADOWLAND 115
through thouMUids of miles, acroM oontinents and oceans,
to the castle on the hill.
<* At last, three years ago, when I had become old and
broken, I returned and found her there. She was young,
as I had seen her in my visions — a mere slim girl. When
I looked upon her white maidenhood and contrasted it
with my sere old age, then I knew that for me she had
come too late. Had I kept myself pure for her sake, and
been more faithful to my soul, God would have sent her
earlier, while I still had strength and health. Perhaps I
could, by the sheer passionate force of my unwasted love,
have willed her into this life the sooner ; but now she had
come too late. All my life I had been silent for her sake,
waiting for her coming, that she might give me utterance.
Because I have played the coward and given rein to my
baser self, I must go down unuttered to tiie grave. She is
my creation. I dreamed her into this actual world, and
now I am not worthy of the thing which I have made.
Though she should will to accept me now, I dare not go to
her ; she is the memory of my spotless youth, and of all
that I have lost. Look at me ! Aye, look closely ! I am
old— old and defiled.''
He rose from his chair, with a tragic gesture, swaying
upon his feet. Going to a mirror, he struck a match and
held it above his head. " Ah," he said, pointing derisively
at his own reflected image, "you are old; knowledge of
evil is written on your face." Turning to Gabriel, speak-
ing slowly, he said, " And yet I was young once. There
was a time when those words which I have spoken to you to-
night might have been said to me, with equal truth, 'Stand
still, true poet that you are ! ' That day is passed. This
room is the parable of my life ; the deserted house with
its untravers^ stairways, which stretch between me and
the world of men ; this silent chamber beneath the roof,
with its hothouse flowers and exotic furnishings ; and the
n« THE WEEPING WOMAN
«rfll|«^ whid, i. of gl«.. thHHigh Which I watch
^^J^^^^^^i^AewBB, He i. rilent only
bec««e he^jmotyedc for he w«. born dumb and ^
defeated ; which courage i., periuip., only another «,rtof
flight However, It i« my one biaveact^
But Gabriel was otherwise impre«ed. What thouah
the man^« pu,juit of hi. ideal h«l been rtmgglinfe W.
paUen« and faith in waiting th«,ugh the Xm?i££
years for the coming of a woman, of whom he had only
dreamt, was magnificent Hiat. when at length she cam^
he was »uUied imd not aU worthy, was the%m,r ofuS
long delay. That she should then reject him s^m^
mons^u. Hepictu„.lherasavampiklovca%^;b
Iov^yoTfh!:?y^^"*att^ -^ ^<^ -^ -.
And when tiie Poet shook his head, he cried, "Ito
Ae IS cruel and untrue at heart, however fair she may^
infece. For her sake you have wasted all your years. aS
now you are slowly dying of her love."
"'iL*^l'^ "*" exception," said the Poet "Be-
memWJohnK«^ ^'^^ "^"^* ^ «ive life in excha^
But Gabriel was unconvinced "If you have fiuled''
he «ud. «it is not yours but the womanWault ; by SL
her hfe to yours she could at one stn,ke make yo*
failures successes and your life complete "
The Poet broke in upon his words, « No, no," he cried.
« I am my own creation. My foUies are L owT I
should not only have loved, but have followed tie highest
when I had seen it, without halting or turning asSi I
THE MAN IN THE SHADOWLAND 117
did not Miflldently reverence either my vision or mywlf.
gbe if not to blame. Her reftual of me is that lame
phydcal denial whidi my uncontaminated yoath has given
to this crippled, misused body which I now possesB."*
When Gabriel shook his head gloomily, unwilling to be
persuaded, ** I can prove it to you,"* the Poet said. He
lit a 1-mp, and beckoning Gabriel to follow, crossed the
room. Lifting aside the arras, he disclosed a door, which
he proceeded to unlock. The room which they entered
was of small dimensions and bare of ftimishings, save for
the ftill-length portrait of a woman which hung upon the
wall fiuthest from the door. As they passed over towards
it the Poet carried his light low along the floor; Gabriel
noticed how everywhere dust lay thick upon the boards,
save for the narrow track which led to and from the
picture. When they had come to where it was hanging
the Poet turned and said, "Now you will see that what
I have said of her is true, and that she has chosen
well"
He lifted up his lamp. The sudden Ming of the rays
athwart the canvas created the illusion of a living fiioe,
whidi sprang out towards them from the darkness. Gabriel
stepped back with a cry, thrusting out his hands as if to
keep something off. The portrait was that of a young
girl standing upon an Italian hillside, gazing quietly down
into some distant, faintly suggested vista of meadow and
woodland vallev. He recognized her face. As he looked
more intently he could not doubt that the original of
this portrait had been Helen Thurm.
" Ah, you may well cry out," his companion was saying.
" Is she not lovely ? Here is the face wuich has haunted
me through life. There has been much of pleasure in the
pain which I have borne. Did I not speak truly to you
in that which I said jf her ? "
When there was no answer to his questions he turned
H« THE WEEPING WOBUN
" You know her," he wUipenA When he h«l rim-J
AndGebrieloonfewdthetthfawMw. ThenthaPM
I«i not jeJou. of yo„ hec.u« of th.t which you have
toU me. I .n. ghd Now I know why I wiTd™^
to™« Un. .«„. wonuu,. ve the r«Wn.tirrf^
SS^oTSlt youth entering i„u, hf. for . ««J
llwi be que.tioncd Gabriel concerning hi. immecti
Xt^wX Whe„e.HHe.n.entleatrS
"You murt not temun there." he cried exdtedlv «it
w« tte TWnpike that kiUed poor Chattert,^7£ « J^
there to wittin three month, of hi. death. Whv he
may have .u«e„d in the «me ho«« a»l the y^^^Z
that you now occupy. 'To die in the Tumoike' wu
^ymouj, in the writing, of Diyden'. tiT^ i^g
lAe a pjoftgate. and having hag. to Aroud one'. «o™
"d to «Io« one-, eye It ha. alway. been a place w^
the de.per.te go to die. It wa. there th^Tk^
m«tr«p^ed in her old age of hmH^er. and J!lJ^
' JK^'i? ' ^y^^ °^ loathaome scent
Which camon dogs did much frequent*
There is a menace in the veiy name. If you would keeo
you«elf white, and otherwise you may not sJ3 ^a
THE MAN IN THE SHADOWLAND 119
poet, you miwt live in the country. When Mw» finned
UmMlf out of Eden, he entered into dtiee where God b
w»t. If you would keep your loul imm«culAte you mu»t
live in the open world, which wm nude by God, wid which
God itill make»r
When Gabriel pleaded poverty the Ptoet emiled wdly.
♦♦ Though you are my former weit come bacli to life, you
muit not repeat my hirtory," he said. •♦ I made excuMn ;
that was how I (ailed. With me it wa« conrideration for
my parents which kept me from being brave ; with you it
is lack of ftinda. Both plea* are equally mean and ftitile
a* juutiiicationji for thwarting the splendid purpows of
God. How modem an argument is that of yours, • That
you can only afford to live in a town ' ! In any case, if you
will allow me, I think I can make this possible. You need
not disrelish anything that I may do for you as done by a
stranger. We are the same, sharing a common experience
and a common quest H 'ping you is now my sole re-
maining way of realising » / own genius— throu^ your^
You must not disappoint me. I am an old man, and
have not long to live.''
So Gabriel promised that he would accept his help.
The room had grown darker, for the fire had burned
low and its logs were ashy and charred. For some minutes
they sat in silence. Gabriel gazed through the roof of
glass to where the stars unhurriedly sailed. How quietly
they went about their tasks ! They seemed to rebuke his
over-haste and frensey to grow famous. Clouds drove up
in fury and shut them out from sight ; but, when clouds
were passed or dispersed in rain, the stars were still there,
no whit less calm. They were constant ; the clouds were
fleeting ; that was the secret of their quiet Thus far he
had led a cloud's life, now he must lead a star's. After
all, if he were to sum it up in one phrase, the confession
which he had just listened to wat jne, not so much of
ftm
m THE WEEPING WOMAN
w«»«n3rtWngthein«tt«r?''he«Jced. "« ""' *•
** No» no ; I am well Mintiffti,** fk. pl^-a --,.., , , ,
Then, coming to himwlf, he ttood udl ** I «.«» i
V^'^nce in my eilbrt to escann mv a.^ t ■^' , Z"**'
pjomiae which now ia vmtM i* : ^ i«ii»iu au um
... Ak* ^7^ youn. It is not courteotia in bm> m
»«. I may never we you aimin.'' he aalrl m lu. t
no .trcmg in health. If tTZS^be^Jt-i i,^ iT
which I somehow dwad. I want von Z !Z ^*^"7^
I havii ..M -«j * ^T^ , y°" *** remember all that
«nd have no fear. Bevond nil ♦K.-«-l l ^*^ amoM,
d«e.vri,„ h„ judgment. Ita he bowed iTh^ S^
"TiTI™ .^«^tP«t' A great poet ! " he wbbed.
CHAPTER XIII
A HAlMOmr AND MMK D1IC0IM
Niomr b more dwritable than day ; with its beginning
thoM nir&oe imperfection*, which teued the eye under
the Mtrdiing gase of the sun, drift out from li^t — only
the crude nolnUtiee of the inherent rough design remain.
fifany things that seemed costly, and fashioned for desire,
dwindle and appear of Uttle worth when evening gathers.
Nif^t alters values.
Af !*( the shining of the streets and the mystery of the
shadows Limdon grew into a new splendour, so to Galmd s
fimey did the crowded thorou^fares of his own life.
Digni^ and a sense of peace clothed his imaginings ; a
lethargic generodty, inclining almost to indifference, made
his heart more gentle. Standing beneath the narrow strip
of starlit sky revealed between the chimn^-tops, the surge
<rf passing traffic in his ears, he questioned whether, after
all, sc^ struggles and yearnings as his were not in vain.
Again he wondered what would it all amount to in five
hundred years ? Who would be the wiser for his labours,
or the sackler for his crimes ? One reward awaited every
life. Somewhere or other, in village or in city, his body
would lie at rest ; whether it had moved famously or
infamously, it would be equally forgotten.
The Past is very tender toward lifers fragments ; gather-
ing them up, he covers them with the same oblivion,
apportioning an equal measure of forgetfiilness to all. He
I
128 THE WEEPING WOMAN
tiZ '^'^J"^^ "^ b«tow»of hi, „o™« without
6ta« of taunpel, Md undi«emi„gly. He ia tho friend of
W m h» phiknthjopie^ for hi, eye, are bhnd , but w^tt
^^^^^ that he neither help, nor Um..y^,u,^
Thi, being «,, Gabriel quegtioned, why Aould he not
b»e mwmeqaent^y a. do the bulk of m Jkind. ceadl to
fret and ihme, enj<y hi. little day, and, at the ap^fated
hour, dip out from right ? Of oie thiig alone S he
be aire, that he would inevitably die
ingly the ««er word, of the Poet, and the pledge which
m^naUon*^; I" annot be good." he cried with deter-
mination, ' I can at least refrain from evil I mU reiW
to c«n« pa,n knowingly, i „;„ fc, ,,.^ " ^
«I»ct,; and beyond aU el,e,gentle-the worldl<S Z
be unhappier for me." ^^
Charmed and flattered a, he had been by the sudden
tattle" S^^^M^-'*"^ "^ "■™ ^^ ««•>' t» >"* a»
™, J Ii 2. ^ *?" «<»gmtion of hi, possible greatness
rendered by one who had already failed been tC^^
hfe. and come too late ? ^ypiau oj
hadtknt^^*™^ "' *^' ^"^'^ '"P"-!"""! utterance
scorched holes m his memory. « Keep yourself white-it
« a.e oriy way to succeed as a poet"'^ "Keep yoTv^a
;*«^^for ttesake of your ar^' and for the'XVw*
ntS^T .if "*■" '" -"y '»*'• sdfl murt go down mi-
uttered to the grave." And he had Ustened ^ sitoceT,
these assumptions that hi, own «c„rf was bWe»
IC:^ I't™"-.'^* ? "■" ""»' Kri-ouslytitS:
Aftei all, the turpitude of any sin does not consist in t),«
su^le «=t itself, but in its reition to aU t^eX-l o?
•'
HARMONY AND SOME DISCORDS 128
life ; the proper test of its evil should be not of what has
it deprived the world, but of how much has it robbed the
criminal. To kiss a woman mistakenly on p. unrk i.ight
seems little or nothing as a single act ; to do so in tbt.
house of a friend, who was placed in Lancasi rV situatio!" ,
meant much. It meant the betrayal of loyciltys arid
Gabriel knew that he was soiled. The most terrible con-
sequence of sin in oneself is that, sooner or later, it reads
its way into the actions of others and, mirror-wise, makes
known its native ugliness. To the jaundiced eye life
becomes conspiracy, everything unclean, from the ignoblest
to the highest, nothing escapes the taint ; the eye is fixed
upon the mirror, and the mirror reflects the eye. Gabriel,
remembering this, thought that he could now explain his
failure that day to see the world as white — ^he had seen
reflected everywhere the disloyalty of himself.
Yet he had not had the heart to undeceive the Poet ;
moreover, he knew that to most men such scruples would
sound childish. Now that he was by himself, and could
think things over, he felt inclined to refuse his proffered
help ; the off*er had been made to a blameless man, which
he was not. To accept would be to lie. Besides, if one
act of hypocrisy had had power to poison the world for
him that day, might it not poison his whole life ? Every
thought and act of the idealist carries him nearer, or farther
away from, his ideal^s consummation. Some acts and
thoughts may be so divisive as to place the thing desired
quite out of sight. Gabriel fearfully wondered whether
his was such an act. The gift of a poet is so elusive and
so little under his control, deserting him causelessly for
months together and returning tyrannically at inopportune
ti des, that there is always room in its owner's mind for
terror V st it has really departed forever this time. Gabriel
smiled bitterly at the fancy. This would indeed be a fine
conclusion to the prophecy of that day.
amimmii^^iSsISMifS:.
1«* THB WEEPING WOMAN
P«r,^'u^J*" "» ^^ «^i*°»y - to b.
ftople ,e» flocki^ta in drove., he w« m,„e too
«»^^a««„gthePhm.e™de.„ bei»g bert ™itedfc^
nemng the house, he entend.
Jllie orchertra w« ««eiiibled, and the prelimiii«r»
ta«»P m progrew. Having nothing better to 7^
t^t^. !r •" "■' ^""^'"'- Vou^ men*°.nt oM
»«e^e« , «,„e niere boy^ <rthe« wrinkled bjr poverty
He notrf their foibles and mannerism,, those little
t^«d dufnotions of p^naUty which ZSe ' "p
^t, md enaMe even the faint-hearted to seem bn.vf
md«t.ngmshed gesture of one in combing his Z^
T^JZL i^° ?"" *"^ "iwpensive fopperies of drc
1T» ftequent display of long, lithe finge«. Tie m,n^
«^fi«smess over the ammgement ff sco^s. ^^
imtabng personal attentions of star performers w^ W
«produo«l by men who had, for the^ZT^^:^
Med. Conceit i, universaUy comlemned sTT^l
sx^bSoSr^-rCittt-t '"'* '-'^'^
«. Hilda had once 3. '"" ""^ ««™8«"" "rtue.
i^ S.'"^'' ^. "P"" *'^ t™"!* of marionette.
to^y garrets. Inrtead of repulsion he was fiUed with
■nier^ upon one canvas, was the game of living writ
J^its players, men of all ages, nationalities, and dIL
•de^st^ each holding a card, one or two of ^ich at^^
could win. Jfany had lost al«ady, but, with t Ite
HARMONY AND SOME DISCORDS 126
intoxiGation of the gamester, had returned to the table
to witness another throw. A game at which men grow
old, and whose gr^test prizes go invariably to the young
and inexperienced; at which, notwithstanding, all ages
The conductor entered, bowed, tapped with his baton,
and the dumb strings sighed into soimd. The weariness
in the musicians' faces, which had at first impressed
Gabriel as dejection and bafflement, suddenly vanished;
light leapt into their eyes ; the exhaustion of their limbs ^
changed into a rhythmic animation; affectations and
coquetries departed; the soul of the music surged and
throbbed through each separate nerve, and combined in
one melodious compelling voice. This plaintive ecst^asy of
harmony was the real expression of these men's lives ; an
hour without the instrument was for them misspent, and
of no account. To call forth exquisite singing was in
itself for them to achieve ; to be silent, to fiul.
The artist within him awoke and was glad. What was
material happiness or unhappiness, gain or loss, compared
with this — the joy of creating beautiful sensations whether
of sound or sight? Of how little real worth was the
approval of others when contrasted with the momentary
satisfaction of approving oneself? The wise, sweet words
of Galilee rang in his ears, with a novel intention : " What
shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose
his own soul?" And how greatly was a man profited
who lost the whole world that he might attain his soul ?
Attain his soul ! That was what he had been doing.
For the past three months that little poverty-stricken
world, which he had prized so highly, had been gradually
slipping out of his possession ; here was the explanation, it
was the necessary ordeal which preceded the possession of
a soul.
These men, who were torturing and enthralling him
126 THE WEEPING WOMAN
caught sight of three faces which he knew Al^^
™me<&tely above hi„ „t Hde„, Ru^, »Thi. t'S^
^ W already «en him, and we^^mw do™ fe
«c^.t,o„. Eve.ythi„g had «.„ed » ^ rflate
that he could h«dly believe hi, eye,. Wa, n^t Sfa
«lto «.me pageant of deep, ftom wLh he would awSe
«d floIS".™ t™"* '" "P°" "■« "W ««™tomed prinh
and (lowered wdl-paper, and arise to take up anewX
ramihar round of wort „y,A ~__ *• .'^ ""
ni,._i , . *"" recreation, wonderinir what
phantoms of form and voice had fashions! ^S S?
waved his hand and smiled back "i«r presence,
A, he hrtened, the old rtoiy of how the miracle was
rtL":^ of zt °' ""^ "° ""' "-• -''-^
wic meaning of that composition until one auMt,o«o^
^«.ov», and he repliedr-Tnu, Fate rnUst^^"^
aoor ot a man^s soul."
We are all egotists at heart. How should we be other
To x: T'^ "'^" ""**^^"^ '^ -^" save oSLtr;
To what else can we refer our emotions unless TbI to
the sounding-board of self? How shall we ZlurtZ
men and women whom we perceive and thTT *
^^ we app^hend exceptTtHe T1^^ Tit
selves ?_the only realities which we can ever hone To
understand, and even then but faintly. ^
HARMONY AND SOME DISCORDS 127
If a pleasure so subjective as music is to be fittingly
enjoyed it must be seMshly, with sole reference to one-
self.
So with Grabriel this ni^t, every tone and semitone had
a direct bearing upon his exclusive experience : as though
it had been written for him and for him alone.
Fate ! Fate ! He had mocked at Fate, jeered at it as
a vulgar dread; and yet how plavisible it seemed, nay,
how necessary while the rise and fall of those momentous
wailings were in his ears.
He could visualize the whole tragedy. A lonely horse-
man riding over a deserted moorland. The sudden
appearance upon the dull horizon of a second in pursuit.
The terrified tightening of the rein ; the mad hurry of
flight ; the clattering hoofs of the pursuer ; the haggard
face of the pursued, looking back, bent low over the
horse^s mane ; a voice, pleading with tremulous apprehen-
sion, on the far-blown cry of the wind. The space ever
narrowing ; the arrival at refuge ; the fast-locked door ;
the thankful prayer for safety. Then again, the horror
of immediate death ; the tapping at the door ; the threats;
the arguings; the parleyings for peace; and again the
tapping. At the end, the hurried havoc ; the crash of
splintered wood; the last pathetic complaint; and the
silence.
" Thus Fate knocks at the door of a man's soul." How
true it was ! We mock at Fate as a fallacy, deride it as a
superstition ; and yet it is always there, dogging our steps,
and forever gaining on us.
He, for one, would cease to try to understand life, and, for
that matter, to blame his fellow-men. ** I will take things
as they come bravely, and will strive to be charitable and
to do my best,'' he said.
The concert was at an end. A mist had gathered
before his eyes, through which he could dimly discern
»«• THE WEEPING WOMAN
"we three bctt miiKn. j
***<»ing of h^""*"* *^ »Pon him. mrf tt.
.Sleep w« out of the^„Sl~^'«,^'» *" ^^"^
::!■»' "-PP.; «d th. ^eSsroristtt
younotglad?" ^ * '^^^ *'«! to come to you. Aw
over her ahoulde^'A^^ «^/ ~be of fur, fli^ ,o^
till it tnuled in Z s^^aTht f^l"*' ^-^"^ *4
a ow^^t dress of silver shade, and «.J^' T'^ gowned in
fiill-blown rose of red. Hpr\ • ^?* ''* ^er breast a
neck in old Greek ^dl^vt' T ^"^^ ^^^^^ «>«
off her forehead, bSiw awi^v *1 "" f'^^'^ ^-
temples into a profusio^of rfL J^'^ '' ^^^ ^
tiny flakes of snow had lo^^l!^ '^t ^^ ''' ^hi<*
There she stood aHis^^ Tr ^^'^^
found trespassing and f^'V^X*"^^":*- ^^
her beauty was so unexpected th^^hn.?' "^"^ "^^
speechless in admimtion andwnn!? !" ^ '^'" «*™<*
Wken Parnassus, anSTht'S^Tt- f 't^^
looked out from her eyes. *^^* ^"««»«»
" I ouglitn't to have donp if " »!,» ^i
tion «I ,u,pose it is ^^^^^^ of""'' \«1^
you looked so miserable at th. kf^ • "^' ^ut then
that I cou dn't help i^ ^^^"'""^ °^ «»« evening
Men ar. the clumsi^t of creatures in fK • i .
with one another, but, when^JT^ ^^''' ^^^^"^
the women whom the; We SZnT'u*" ^^ ^^^
emotion they are often^ro^^a^tlaT^ "'
HARMONY AND SOME DISCORDS 199
*« But— but, where are Rupert and my father?" he
itammered.
She seemed not at all to notice his lack of taste in her
anxiety to justify her action. « I left them in order that
I might follow after you. They've gone together to the
dub. Rupert and I do pretty much as we like, you know ;
we don't criticize one another very often ; and there's no
one else to mind. I don't think your father liked my
running off, though," and here she caught her breath and
laughed, " but I was too quick for him to stop me."
Still Gabriel said nothing.
"If you don't want me, Gabriel, I can go," she
whispered.
"But I do want you, Helen. I want you more than
ever I did, only— I don't want to do anything that might
be nnkind to you. You know what I mean, compromise
you in the eyes of others."
"You needn't be afraid of *!iat," she replied, with a
toss of the head; "you can never behave half so bar-
barously to me as I have to myself. I'm always doing
things which people don't approve. I don't trouble about
the regard of others; my great anxiety is to regard
myself."
" Well, dear, in any case you mustn't stand here much
longer, or you'll be catching cold."
He called a hansom, and, not knowing where to drive,
told the man to go anywhere he pleased.
The cabman, thinking to show his discretion, and so
earn an extra tip, chose out the Park, now white, and
silent, and shadowy. All its roadwap were deserted ; it
wore an air of remoleness, which the throbbing circle of
the London lights only served to exaggerate. It seemed
a dream-garden, planted on an island in the midmost
turbulence of life. Across the stream was the world of
standards and proprieties, but where he was all things
9
IM THE WEEPING WOMAN
w» "nteno. «Sli fc^"S "" ««h«tnH,nt. «d
«ptive in the dlentlnSS „f . i!l, . •*«• " ""^ "»*
•««u«i the jt t"J'„ ^v zrjh'^ •"
nxwn of the Ptoet'. din»«Ii u '"V''^ "> "» "Mret
which h«l elic«d «^!1^ °V~- I" the three y«OT
g~>d idea which hii b^n^a^hT ''""^' *
"».«H.li» into the iSrto'l,'"' wTth^r?'" '"
«»» that other w,? ^ tm * ""^ ™"*^
nature » uncruel be «l^ .i, "olid die, who wa. by
=*rtt«"P'-"---
•r maid '
"I^rd Jesus pltjr your pool
*or in such wise they Urn me in"
Gate, of U&TJ^r^ l^'" *' '"t^-^" """"gh the
'rith her ™^1^' '^"""'^ to aUure and d^ „e„
erime.? .SnTthelvi "^^ ™T™ *'' "^th their
P«s.imr uXlh i- u -^''^ *»' 'hese thoughts were
whitenr^ Se S^H™"" '" ' "™8 *"''''' ""ith the
profile. ""trodden ,now a, background to her
HARMONY AND SOME DISCORDS 181
At length he laid, "*! met a friend of ycmn lart nij^t,
and have been with hin to-dny.**
**1 know hi» name," she answered. •• I iaw upon your
faee to-night, when you suddenly caught sight of mc, that
Mune look which his once had. It frightened mo; that
was why I came to you.^
«* What kind of look P "* he asked.
She pressed her lips tightly together and would not
answer him.
"Who was he?'' she asked, leaning forward eagerly,
nervously clasping and unclasping her hands.
" I did not ask his name, nor did he offer to tell me.
But he told me who I was ; he said that I was his former
self, sent back by God for a second trial, to accomplish
the work which he had not done. He is a poet who
should have become great, only ""
"I know, I know," she broke in. "But what had he
got to say to you, and how did you discover that he was
my friend?'"
Then Gabriel told her of the Poet's house and of how
the Poet had acclaimed him, and of how he had told him
of his own life in order that he might save him from the
same failure and the same mistakes.
Her face became very tender while he spoke, and tears
gathered in her eyes.
"♦He saved others,'" she said, «* Himself He cannot
save.' How bitterly true that is of all of us ! I wish it
might ha^'c been true of me in his particular case. But,
tell me, did he mention me to you by name ?"
« No ; but he showed me a portrait, hung in an empty
room, which I recognized."
"Gabriel," she said, looking him searchingly between
the eyes, " I wonder what you thought of me when you
first learnt this. You must have thought me hard and
cruel Ah, I can see you did. I believe you are even now
JM THE WEEPING WOMAN
•ft|W of m^ for j«ur own Mki^ YH tba, u, turn.
ftul WW not kind. When .t U-t I reBlimd ^hlt hh.
"He doe. not think «., Helen. When I. not knowina
who you were «e™ed you, he «Ud emphati^U^ ^^
'"Ah l^t "r* "^ J"'"' "•* your port.^t'^^L^.
y»u h«l hi. look-you were ,fi«d. I do not «p«»eh C
wiU. It i one poet hM been rained through hi. loreof ™
•nd, I agree with you. that one i, enough." ™'
She tried to turn him «,ide with . forced gwety.
•Do you know, Gabriel," rf^ ™d "y^ men «, «,
«mu..ng when you get to .pedcing of yl^ ^ZmJ^
You pW u. women on .uch lofty mo Jt«" Su.^
never for a moment remember th/t, by our ve^devatT
we «e emtbled to «e aU the for^her. Ra~rt h^^,^
l»»ther, d«. jurt the opposite, *t. me doSTiwn ftt
-oL"^r r:Ki^;:f "^ *"»• "» -"o «■" ^
HARMONY AND SOME DISCORDS 188
«Idoii*lthinkIihould trouble mjdi about rint of th«
nind, if I were you ; even the beat of m commit them
etery <Uy. To control one** hand*, ami lips, and feet, Uiat
b comparatively ewy ; to nwuiter one's thoughts—well, I
«ppo«we ought to try, but 1 should never bUme any one
who failed, becau* I am lo rarely «^^^-^
**But that ii to me the mo«t temble side of the itn,
Helen, that we hardly consider thought as a sin ; •^J^
it is the beginning of every wickedness. To think hard
and cruel things about friends in cold^ blood is far worw
than to carry them out in hasty action."
" You really are very perverse, Gabriel. If all that you
My is correct, I must be very bad. But why need you Ulk
of this just now ? If, however, you have set your nund on
teUing me, I suppose it is best to let you get it over
quickly. But, remember, Fm not going to believe any of
your morbid libels against yourself."
»* Sit forward a little, Helen, so that I may see your face
where the light falls ; and please look straight ahead, it will
be easier for me so. That's right."
Very slowly and hesitatingly, jerking out his sentences,
he began, searching diligently for the kindest words, and
with his eyes fixed on her— , _^ ^.
« I did John Lancaster an injury some short time ago
with reference to a woman he loves, but do not Jcnow even
now whether he has become aware of it. I did this while
I was stopping under his roof, and sharing his hospit^ity,
and he is the best man-friend that I have. \^^^
affonies lest he should discover, or had discovered, what I
had done. I would willingly have told him myself Jbut
was compelled to keep silent for the woman's sake. Don t
misunderstand me, the fault was all mine; she was not to
blame. My own sin led me to suspect the world ; I could
see in it only bitterness and folly. That was my second
crime. So, when the Poet told me of the woman who had
IM THE WEKPING WOMAN
though I J ^"^Tili^rziirr*^
•*«» of tamptotfon Ud n»d. ,oilL»r?«.^'
"yown w«lu«. which would fo^nTTb. S?
TiMwfer., wh«i I «w you to-nlBht l«. .«!!jTi .
roet, which codd not be torn down Fv« .aJT
" You undOTtand. tha« were my two crimar
Jh.^d.d not .»w„ .t o„», when d«, did. A. .pok.
fA™.d of the virtue. wh'iJt iThT Jl^tL' ':^
»h«h .n,plyhum,li.t«.«d doe. not nuAe menlZL
^ 1^ Trt ' '?'"'■• •'»" " «"»•«• ""^
women apart. And who of u. all it » Mt,„ j. J^
that we are quali(!«l to condemn P^r if wTw^!!
to o» fHend. our n,o.t hidden ful^ai ZlTw^^S^
suence » a virtue; this was one of them T w—* x
do^ju^ice to you^elf by making mtl plT^^m
no wiTof s t ?i^^:s>- «»' ^«- -^ »r
HARMONY AND SOME DISCORDS IM
SebSng her luimU %'*th a ■udden outbunt of pwiiUncc,
- ButTnelen, lay to me that thin has made no dlfrer-
enee to our love. I undcmtand now, and deq)i« mynclf.
I only told you thU becau-e I felt that I muirt be honent—
•o that no wiiplcion, even unuttered, might nsd between
ui. Pterhap. it wa» cowardly in me to have i«id it, but I
felt that until you knew all I could not begin to do well.
To^y ii a turning-point in my life; I could not iet out
upon the new road without you. That la«t night by the
Thamet made u» one for ever." . ,. . *
"Gabriel," nhe «aid, her voice trembling, "you muiit
«,ver mention that night again-it i. p«.t If you -hmdd
really love me at «>me future time, we -hall have to begin
all over again. Then it may be right for u. to remember,
but now it i> only just to you that we Aoidd forget.
♦* Ah, but tell me that you are not changed.
She amwered evasively, with a fine pretence at mem-
"''^Why, you poor boy, how absurd you are to ask sudi
questions! How should I know ? Of coune I am changed.
How can two people go on living and yet remain the
aame? We are changing all the day. From the moment
we live, we commence to die. Change is our^ great
eicitement-without it life would grow tir^me.
« That is all too true," he answered her ; « but does love
"^^oL and I are now testing that. We shall be able to
answer your question better a year from now.''
Now that the climax had been reached they relapsed
into silence. As they approached the Marble Arch a
dock was striking twelve ; they decided that it w^ time
to get homeward bound. Out from the snow-nteeped Park
they passed into the garish lamp-lit world. It looked
IM THE WEEPING WOMAN
in the haiMom, restimr hi. Tl ^u? .'""* *^ *»»»nl
"e exdiangeTSd bon^hf Jl',*^ "'°'"™' •»*'«• """idi
-««SiS^^^'n'l^'''?««'»^»i«l.t It
more unbeamblynoiVmant .l,!?i^ .'*' ""^ '* •«»
Mid lips, pale benMuTTi.. """.P"™" ' <«»cemed their
He «rutmized the men'^^T -^..T"" T **'' '^^^
claiming, a» with onT™! .u ^ ""™ ''««'»% Pn>-
from me I rti^toMti^^' ^"* *' "«" "*«*««
«»y be pu«hl^" "'"^ "y th"^ ««• -uch love a.
, ,^*" ^etWng terrible broke loMe within l,i •
™t"ng the secret olaces „f K! i " ''""' ""™-
•^ »>«»!» the re^r of l:r"' = ^r"'''«»«tW„
Without movinBTTlCi *"'""°'^. P'*y •««> bunt
n» down hi. 1^' »d J^JTt'"'**?'' »d the tea»
unconsciom of hiZif toT f",-^ He was too
though he was. ™rtL^ '"'""y ''*»™«=d. man
"Hi bent forw^d ."^i^Tr^K-r '«'*''■»•
genUy, when she had J^sfill'hi?^™"" *' "^ed
"he had <»„sed hi, ,2 H^w^'""?'"'' "'""''t, that
either ride towari tT^ P"'"*^ '^*^ ••« hands on
by- " Look .rS^m 'Cbw*f fth""^ •^«» ""^i'y
•nd now they are losI.-Cl^' "^ey were once happy
I^ten! "onotthinktlSr^Jtpl^'^r *" '''"•
f»<.; IbeUeve that you are his fe^'^^i^-l-^
HARMONY AND SOME DISCORDS 187
life. God has given him in you a second chance. I recog-
nised all this when first I met you. That was why I
avoided you, and that is why I stiU refuse to let you love
me ; because you are like to him, and I was the unwilling
ruiii of his life. I want you to go away from me, and to
do your work ; you must save the world. For the present
you must forget me, if you are to accomplish this. Should
you ever come back, you will find me waiting. I shall
wait in vain, I fear, as he has waited for me. But^ what
of that, if you can only contrive to save the world ? "
He would have answered her, but she silenced him with
her hand. « You are not impure," she said ; « it is your
purity which has made you imagine all that. But keep
yourself stainless for the sake of your work, and be kind
to such men and women as these, whoever and wherever
they are."
« Oh, Helen, it is hard to leave you," he said. « What
will you do when I am gone ? "
Before she could answer him, the horse drew up with a
jerk at her door. He helped her to alight, thrilling at
the contact of her hands and the touch of her dress as she
went by him. When the door had been opened, she held
out her hand and drew him gently towards her, saying,
« I wish you to understand that I will forget the con-
fession which you have made to me to-night. I want you,
when you are gone from me, to become more happy, and
this you can best do by keeping brave and good."
Without another word of parting she left him. As he
halted upon the steps, listening attentively that he might
catch the last sound of her feet ascending the stairs, he
saw a man creep past in the shadow, who turned his head
once or twice and watched the house. He descended the
steps and hurried after him, curious to discover who he
was. Coming level with him beneath a street-lamp, he
recognized his friend, the Poet, He was walking slowly,
188
THE WEEPING WOMAN
time-romewhere " *'*"»* wwll find her, some-
on . former oc<».ionX^« 0%^^ ' ^'°°«"'^ "
CHAPTER XIV
BOUKD FOE THE FOREST OF LEAVES
Gabriel's waking thoughts on the morning following
were of a mixed character ; so much so that they seemed
to him to necessitate immediate attention. The wild
gallop of the past twenty-four hours from pinnacle to
pinnacle of emotion had left him confused, with the
blurred impressions of a man recovering frt n illness. He
speedily made up his mind to set aside the ordinary
routine until the forenoon, in order that he mi§^t reason
out his position. Having locked the door, he refused to
go down to breakfast, kindled his pipe, and sat down to
disentangle the skein.
He was a man capable of applying a searching scrutiny
to his perfections and faults as just and impartial as that
of any outsider. Herein lay at once his strength and his
great weakness, for while it provided him with the safest
of all weapons— self-knowledge, it inclined him to dally
with the debilitating luxury of excessive introspection,
and made him the sport of his moods.
In reviewing his recent petulances and temptations, he
was thoroughly aware of his maltreatment of Lancaster,
and the folly of his attitude towards Hilda. After several
hours of reflection he took up his pen and wrote out the
final verdict which he passed upon himself. This had been
a secret habit of his from earliest boyhood : the keeping
of a private log of his soul ; the drafting of charts of his
139
»«» THE WEEPING WOMAN
P*Woa. conduct for hi. fiiture benefit Aft. ..
tte «,«„ce of event. whi<ri»7S „o .^K-~°^'«
"tuation. he wrote, « So for I h^, ™lJ L! ^' •"**"'
men for their wrong^oinft, tM i.^i'*'" T^ »'«'
learn to teU them hoi th^*,;.7S* rf Jf^ "»•«» ^ »»
know M vet: I Misneri tlT.* V I ., r'*'*"'I'««<*ly
-orrt thing that I ^d„ fa ^ T^\.?'^'^ '^
-ince that ^11 d«w dZ, mv l!! ,^ "* '**J' "^ "y*"'.
I mu.t leave theW^Z, W "" '^ '"^ •»*' «lf
the «Ae of John^PSf^J'Tj """I'' " ^ «»» '"
memory „f „y „•„ stSt^iZ^^ V,^'*'^ ^ *«
<J"don,yb^ttofo,getHd™"ort^r^*™- ^ ""»»
" I remember her I Si i-k i u *' P"**"' ' " W
I i»ve b^ht n^Ltb^ttlw' S^T r" = "»'
worthy of her, and ousht t„ i ^ I ''*"' '»'«. «m not
without «ei„g her «,d withlt^tTr W r^ ?° 7"^
I an gone. When I have no™ t^kf? ?* ""^
the thme past months fe!! ^"- ^ ""«* "ot out
instead of in. ^8 may nTll T,°' "^ ""<'•»'
it wUl be much bettTLlytS"'^ '" "^-^ ••■"
«« toH that it had^ i""'r,T* ' ""^ "''«'• He
nor add^ss, and^ ™^tin\ " J^?* ""*'' ''«»*'"«
It read as foUow^ " * ^'^"te pointed hand.
"A cottage has been p^^ ,t your disposal in tL«
BOUND FOR FOREST OF LEAVES Ul
Wert country, in the Whither VaUey, in the heart of the
Forert of Leaves ; on the back of this page you will find
the address. You can stop there so long as it suits your
purpose. It is already furnished, and will be prepared to
receive you within three days. If you require money, you
will find that an account has been opened in your name
at the Monbridge County Bank. There is a piece of
advice which you ought to have, which is this: get into
•our own mind, explore yourself, and write down nothing
which is not a part of your own sincerest self. When y<m
have finished, send your manuscript to the below-mentioned
publisher's address; he will accept it. Remember to
write slowly; do everything thoroughly ; bleed your own
experience into that which you write ; let it be your very
self."
All that day these words kept ringing in his ears, « Let
it be your very self." He did not doubt that the Poet
was his benefactor ; but, because the letter was luisigjied,
he did not attempt to see him that he might thank him.
At first he scrupled to accept of his kindness ; then he
remembered Chatterton's fate and that omin<>»«T«™;"«
of what it meant to " die in the Turnpike.'' The lilt of
the old doggerel ballad, which the Poet had quoted to
him, ran persistently through his mind—
" Within a ditch of loaOiMme scent,
Which carrion dogs did much frequent.
He no longer hesitated, but agreed to welcome his good
fortune without complaint. With the arrangement for
the publication of his book, when it should be completed,
he was much elated. . -i.
It seemed so strange and impossible that his opportunity
should have come to him at last. He had pictured this
occasion to himself so often that he doubted even now
that he might be dreaming. He went over the events
^ THE WEEPING WOMAN
^^th had led up to the hi.n«„ u
•«u« himaelf that Se« waT^^ll "" "^ ^ °»^ **>
eonvin^dhi^^lft^hat^wra?:^^^^^^ «-»«
o' « new fear. Who wa« he to uTt^r M^f P°"*^
"«nner ? It seemed such imp^en^ f *^' '" * P"*^^'*^
one could be interested fc thl'T ^.*° ""PP«* **»** *»/
And then agairTu^inf ^^^^ °^- yo""« « ™an^
th»t he had not aUowed hi de^J^". ? '^'^^^
eveiy garret of his beinir iT n„T^-i,. '"** *° **?'»«
one who paid the trifl n! I )^"'"« ^ P«^t any
hi» desiiw. SuMlv th^ ^ *' *"*"* mmaum of
•bout the p,Se ?: Zt^T*'"* "' '"^'^
«d «1»ke/,irim^i J" r^! ■''»"<*'" "h" moved,
deity i.t eart.it TZJirr '" """^ *« fi»ctio™rf
to tang God. for nr^ r? "" "*" " "«"'•• ™» "uM
danger of the Zo^t ^ "»"»««*•« of men. He
love, «,d hate. and&U^Sr^ "'"' ""^ «""« *»
beyond hi. conW on theXS?rbTri,°"7\° ""^ <^
be nor «„y other would We i^t^'.^ T*"""" ""*"
«• » ever the c««, «If inteL^*^.*" '''''y ' ^"^^
bin.,elf &«,„„, ^'X^^.'^B" to »peJc. He „»
dubbed great ThetZ rf 'a.S^"' '"."" P«P«" "d
for joy. ^^""''^bopedtobe.Midlau^Md
™«^evenin, of th^e'^^^^^.^OT^^^^^- -^
w.ir.to^l.;:^,^^- P-«» ^- departu™
of those «.n«=ie„tiZ^r „hl t^lf',1*™"''''' "»«<•»
eve^^tence^orethey'-u^I^r-il^-^r.J^^r-J
BOUND FOR FOREST OF LEAVES 148
that hi» opinion was prejudiced in fevonr of Gabriel's
staying, he had feared to advise.
Now that the step seemed irrevocable, everything having
been accomplished except the actual going away, Lancaster
trusted himself to speak. Gabriel had just returned from
laying farewell to the London streets. Now that he had
to leave them, they took on a glamour hitherto unknown.
All the shops were decorated for Christmas, all the windows
Burrounded by excited little children ; somehow every one
looked pleasant and contented. Time and again that day,
as he crossed a crowded bridge, or wandered along some
busy thoroughfare, he had caught the glimpse of a happy
passing face, so happy that his lips had involuntarily broken
into a smile, and the stranger face had smiled back. There
was a spirit of good- will in the air. Everybody and every-
thing seemed animated by kindness. Every 'bus-driver
was cracking a joke with a passenger, every policeman
helping some timid creature across the road ; underneath
the rattle and roar of the great metropolis, he fancied he
could hear a subdued, sighing of gladness. Why was it ?
he asked. What had brought about the change ? Had
it begun within himself, or had the world changed?
Yesterday it had all seemed so sad, and now, to-day, there
was nothing but gladness. Was it that he was looking
without rather than within, or was it just the old, old story
of everything seeming better when once it is lost ?
At the Turnpike, on his return, he found the fire crackling,
the blinds tight drawn, and the lights unlit. Lancaster
met him on his entry, saying, " Now, Gabriel, Fve planned
to make a night of it, just such a one as we used to have
in the good old days. Hilda has gone out to spend the
evening, so we shall be alone by our two selves.''
Before Gabriel had come to live at the Turnpike, it had
been one of his great delights to steal down to Lancaster's,
and to spend the evening in a darkened room by the fire-
»«• THE WEEPING WOMAN
I^cartert rooms had Donenfid .f ♦!. * *i
«h«» for hin, . .Haethinn?:::;^::;.""' *""• ' -">«•
•* Iwnd « cIoi<rtered haven ^ZT ^ "^•"""■'xwld
Arabian NighC^ "th aU the adventure of the
it.lLattti''^'»'r«econt„„t between
with thifc w vLT T^*" """^ •""« ""d ■»•«* to do
love of tLe tlotr"" '^' '^^ ""• "" «"« «»"'»
^. imaginative ^ J«.lSt'7:S:f.'""jr s-
•Kcanions. Lancaster in *!,. oi otter memorable
Gabriel'.pla„,?„^'ft'" "'*"":»"'''«=. "^nind into
cottage inT TOiS^ vSl» r*' """' P'"*""" "' "»
briS hope,, to™ tte^iiT^rf r*-* •"■" '■» «•
drew upthdrchaiB dL , ^u* ^^ ***" """""^ tW
their p,>^ ^^ "^ *°8'^ ly the «>«ide, «.d lit
".«le them » S hi^pi^""*'' '*«"« ' »'«»" !»«
in;LTrhr hTj^^TT'i-^. '^^■
SSm^,"-- •-» -pp "raiiXri/r^?
•^rinrthe'^ I.Xe'ti '^S,'"'^'. "»""«
.uaU^ng a,, m, Jo^ ^^X^o^lj:'^:^
BOUND FOR FOREST OF LEAVES 145
I Mn going to do it no more. Pre oome to the oondndoii
that men find exactly what they look for, and nothing ebe.
If you get accustomed to thinking that the world in bad,
youll soon find that not only the world is bad, but that
you yourself are also. It come» to this, that a man casts a
shadow which he calls the world ; he may complain against
orpraise it, but he rarely remembers that he has had the
mdcing of the shadow, and can alter it — ^that he is his
world."
** You are quaint, Gabriel ; you talk like an old man. Why,
all the time youVe been here youVe been delightfbL The
feet that you have such a giant purpose before you has
acted as a goad and a spur to the ambitions of othem. It*s
true you^ve played the cynic from time to time ; but Hilda
and I have understood you well enough to know that
nothing was meant""
**That is because you threw a shadow,** (Gabriel
responded, ** and your diadow was kindness.""
Lancaster was silent in thought for some few minutes,
and then said, " Yes, Gabriel ; I believe that what you say
of me is growing to be true. These things take place so
quietly that one is unconscious of their presence. The
revblution began the first time I met you. You were so
young and buoyant, and held such charitable views of
evei|jrthing and everybody in general. You are the man
of the tropic heart who has set my heart aflame. I owe
all that is best in mp to your influence. I was crabbed
and reticent, and you were generous and spontaneous. I
didn"t care a rap for other people and what th^ suffered,
but you seemed to feel their calamities as though they had
been your own. You awakened my sleeping affections ; the
coming of Kate taught me what to do with them.""
While Lancaster had been speaking, Gabriel had been
wrestling with himself. How could he sit still and listen
to all this torrent of undeserved praise without a word
lO
v.
»*• THE WEEPING WOMAN
Hjr*--' '^•"- "- I**- hi. hooou, ..
•»tli fa thought «vijL7/T" ' ■»»• »~nged von
«»<* knowledge. «&hi?-i,^. '"'«''* """hetokeiMd
^J-th^a.t.getherrj^J.to"*^'","- "^^
«d moment, of We md fatiZl ."'j* '"Pondered,
h^hcrt g,„„„g e^.tH^'^'^'f-tai Gabriel
«li our endeavoun. f Wh^liri "** "^""tMe an
t~ted with frienihipT'i'L*™ Z ■»»'«? "beTcot
^VPy to be poor JL^J'J'^J co-Id be
wa. only one man, ««J, u^^ "^ »■? <'«y if there
«« the uttenaort «rf by "bCl^ ^. * "^t k"-
Unc«rter went to tte C^**„S"^"^"
volume, begw, to re«l_! ^*'**' "^ tddng down a
And then .
^en a belovM hand u U.M •
"^eoj Jaded wi+i, ^u . ° "> onw.
BOUND FOR FOREST OF LEAVES 147
Whio ear wvtU-imhmA mt
b br Um toQW of • lortd voict cMrMMd—
A bolt is shot bock loinowhoro in the brMMt,
And • lort pulM of feoliiw itin agmin.
Tho ojo iinki inwM^ mmT tho k«rt Um pUin.
And what wo moon, wo mj, and what wo would, wo know.
A man boeomoa awaro of hia liCa'a flow,
And haara ita windinff murmur : and be aoaa
Tho maadowB wbora It glidoa, tho sun, the brooio."
** I wonder bow many men and women are feeling juat
that deaire noV aaid Lancaster thoughtftdly. **For my
part, I have experienced the longing all my life."*
" More than we thinks replied Gabriel " Every one,
more or leas, at some atage in hia existence, after great
wrong-doing or the loneliness of sorrow. Perhaps the
very boy who comes to nin your errands, and the woman
who comes to do your housework. In the course of a day
one must meet with very many people who are perishing
for just that touch of the discerning hand."*
Lancaster turned aside his head, sajring, "Yes; and
perhaps Hilda. This was what she meant when she said
that nearly all our wretdiedness takes its genesis from the
craving after ungratified affections, and most of our sins
from desperate attempts to steal, borrow, or beg the loves
which we cannot command. When a woman speaks so
hungrily, she translates her heart If it is so difficult to
live truly with those whom we are constrained to love, how
shall we accomplish anything with others whom we love
only with an effort ? ""
" By increasing the velocity of our love.'*
« But how is that possible, Gabriel ? The greatest lover
of his kind cannot but acknowledge that people in the
mam are intensely vulgar— in cities especially. For me
almost every sin is endurable, except that of vulgarity.
It is the worst of all the vices, for it builds impassable
barriers between man and nan. In the work which I have
undertaken of late I find this the most diflBcult offence to
»<• THB WBBPINO WOMAN
"You-F. right Nemthth-, th. in« who -*«
of ^IZr^"^" "" ,^^ " U»t lb. prim. .btak.
no hittKw thm, CM b. litU. chX?^ Whmthwl,
„, i!^'' •? "J^ng »««y comic .hoot Kata-k m-fcnrf
IHW «t h«wl Don Qui^ i. J.^^ ^ '",'«'
Tb««..<»»««» which ^ too xtrix
it w^ .«i t h^^. ^ ^,|-J »yF«rt „ though
wh J *^ fi"" 't «•? diflcult to W.W Ufe Iight.h<«tedlT
^^^ 'it u/s. tr^.'SiS't-^
over other people's lives." po«e»
»:x"totefo.'i.it-^ «^* - ^ lu
not have it otherwise." "»^d«» I am sure, would
BOUND FOR FOREST OF LBAVB8 14«
••Yft I wUh,* mW LMMMtor mSij, "that ywi cooM
•• Will yoiimi«iiiciov«fy much?*
••I hudly dan to lay how muofa. Alai, thi burlid
CHAPTER XV
rASTOBAU AND A PKASAMT
into *<!!ini^'*^ *" *^ 7'^"'' "^ -^ '«>«■« out
and ed(bed the winding river, now swollen bv k««». !5
'«7^^'""7- '^^""■''"Fo.e.toflL.^rS^'
«™y on aU «de^ white, somnolent, and DrimevJ «
ttough never „iled by the f«,t of m.,;. ibTl^J^
l.Td^ «f^*«'t-». tjT.i<»lly rurtic inclined VZ
!S Ck ITTT". "' ™ud».fed nothing, when
«ve that he had received his oriers from «,other maT^
r««hedthe outskirts of a village, known a, wS^i
Here, hewing dia^jy „«• ,„ t,,^^^ though Z^^
•» upU«d path, they had »me to% .mJl,T<^^;,^
aTow^ ll"" IT": *»««' ««de» i» front, whid.
allowed a view, above bnmches, of a lomr anil I™,.!.
l^ 1 *^. '^'^' "«*'»« ''» »iitl^w:;thS
woodland valley to the westwaid sea ^
160
PASTORALS AND A PEASANT 151
Hiig part of the country wm new to him ; he looked
down and wondered. like a nert, between creeper, of a
hiflh waU, the cottage hung amid trees, peeping out over
Sree great counties of the Wert, which loops of the nver
here divide. In the dim, wintry light, spires and roofi of
the ancient city of Monbridge could be just discerned.
Here and there, at frequent intervals along the gorge, a
flake of gold, ambushed in silver, gUstened where some
isolated cottager had kindled his lamp. Save for these
quiet and rare signs of life, no hint of habitetion disturbed
liC* most town-bred men, Gabriel was unused to
absolute solitude, finding it at once fw natmg and
terrific He felt much the same as he haa done as a
litUe boy, when put to bed in a strange ^^.^-^ o^^^J"
this case there were no bed-clothes beneath which to hide.
Every new and again a sigh would pass over the forest,
and the branches would let fall snow, making a mt^ed
somid Uke the tread of secret, naked feet. Shadows
would creep from out the skirts of the clearing, and ghde
across the valley to the opposite slope, and stealthily
Garinff down to Monbridge, where companionable lights
siimalled and blazed, he entertained a sneaking craving
for pavemente and the roar of wheels. It came to him
sudd^y, as a forlorn revelation, that m all tiiat many-
homed city he had no part nor parcel. He pictured
himself wandering through its gabkd ^^^^g^J^
peeping in at a window where the refiected glo-.v of the
fireUght flared and flickered, watching groups of faces all
unknown. , . ^ _j u: «««,
He shrugged his shoulders and went toward his own
hearth, wl^ one of the logs had tumbled and lay
smouldering; raising it up, he stirred it into flame
Nervous, by reason of hU imaginmgs, he returned to the
»M THB WEEPING WOMAN
'^'^'^^r^i;^ °"." ''"•''^ >» H!«J for
What . Jool he W bZ * ""^T^ °' "^ ™'*
•hcuM be he»r°-2u -""'* ^"'^ " y*" "WS^I
«.e^::s^rj:,*a^ nrsi^'""7?' -^
*cro88 the drawn W,-.T^ * Tt . ® flashing of lights
He flung wide ui di!,?^"""" ""* ™*^' ^e""
"-me be F«m^G.^and ^t^ .f™? '''''^> "y
like to welcome '^^^J:^^', " ^ «'d
poor toon^ bei,«il we Cw^^J^ "?« " ""* *"
- that bainei ,.;isst Z^j^'::^
PASTORALS AND A PEASANT 158
TlMUDM * (pointing to a buriy <mtUiie), « I «yi to Tl«^
*let*8 go and ring him aChrirtian hymn ; maybe itll make
him feel more homelike.' Sowecomefc*
While this explanation was m progreM, the htUe band
of minstrels had grown wider apart, man after man fcllmg
bMk mto the darkness and mysteriously feiUng to occur
again. .
« Now, fellers, let's ring the young maister another toon
to make him cheery-like,*' said Farmer Grew.
There was a prolonged rilenoe, during whidi no voice
repUed. Farmer Grew, dowly turning around, discovered
that all his comrades had fled. Setting down his lantan
very deUberatdy, and teking ofl' his cap, he rubbed his
head thoughtfully awhile.
« Well, rmdanged!" he growled. " What timid- arted
critturs they be. They wants to come, but they's «fe«wd ;
and when they comes, they runs away. We hain't used to
townsfolk," he added apologetically ; « we wood-folk be a
quiet people." • j • •
Gabriel pressed him to come in, but he refused, giving
as excuse that he must go back and look after the truants,
and give them a word of advice.
« Howbeit, young maister," he said, "we fellers be right
glad to see 'ee, and we meaned it kindly."
Gabriel watched his long shadow and the swinging of
his light, until they were lost among the trees; then,
dosing the door, he returned to his fire.
Somehow this clumsy act of rustic welcome caused hini
to feel glad ; for one thing, it had brought the thought of
Christmas home to him. In the rush of these latest days
he had forgotten the nearness of its approach. How
would his mother spend the day, he wondered. She had
always been one of those who had made it a festival of
memory; a day when she went courting with her nearest
and best, renewing old tendernesses. He took out her
1»4 THE WEEPING WOMAN
ouuien pay a laige pnx for the iiidenenrf«». -» .v^
«<»>»• I «m ftee for the fin* timT ^^T "^ *'^
I shaU raaUy like it.- ""* """e • • • I wonder whether
IWe are some Icindt of cmHynt, -i.! v
5<»i<liW«>.«Hi better than Ube^rT^Z^*? "S* "^
incompl,ieJL^jCr ^^TT' "d "Uterine-
of mud, of modem «nbitio„Ttot' u^ 't^
tinctured by thU aame desire 1,^5 .TT j^'"*''
p"««»« thkt he might uTlh'^/'T'T*. '^y
Q^^oiT 1. ?1 *° ^®^®" *n<J the rest"
to"i^'it^e':ir!.™ "ui"' '^ •*-■•* "^ '««^
.V ra " ^""" *'""•'■ •» ""-"gl"- "Come
letS; fZ, t'L^ -*'-« o- it- ""«- and
.^.^^o^C:^^u\'"^ '»'—«»«<>-»'-"'.»
It was a plea«mt musical voice, subdued «uj meny, like
PASTORALS AND A PEASANT 155
the tinkling of many iheep-bells upon a mountain lide,
wben the «un is shining. It had no trace whatsoever of
peasant dialect.
Gahriel jumped up and hurried to the threshold, saying,
«* I am sorry. I heg your pardon. I did not know that
it was a lady. Won't you come in while I light your
lamp?"
** Oh, you needn't be so sorry," she laughed back at him.
" I am not a lady, only a country girl. Yes, I will come
in, it's been rather cold waiting out here."
" Did I keep you long waiting ?" he asked innocently.
**Two or three minutes," she replied. "I think you
must have been asleep, or else thinking very hard."
« I was thinking," he answered.
Without further ado she stepped into the circle of the
firelight Her hair was long and loose, jet black in colour
and glistening with the frost. In contrast, her face was
pale and delicate, the eyes of a timid grey and very bright.
Her nose, hands, and mouth fine and slender. Her figure,
somewhat above the average htight for a woman, was
sUght Her age about ninetewi. Her general appearance
wild and beautiful Rusticity struggled with a strange
sense of hi»' 'y refinement. She was an Undine bom
out of time and place.
Gabriel, having stayed behmd to close the door, now
foUowed her across the room to the hearth, where she
knelt with her back towards him, warming her hands at
the blaze. She did not look up as he approached, so he
drew back his chair into the shadows and sat down to
watch, with a rare fascination, her easy grace.
"You are comfortable in here," she said, "but it is
bitter in the forest to-night. I feel wretched when I
think of the suffering which the cold is causing to the
dumb things and birds out there." She shivered as she
spoke, for all that she herself was so near a fire, as if for
J«« THB WEEPING WOMAN
y» LSsirt.*a itsir "•?•" r- ■»• «-'
onewhodid- ^ "" "*="!*<» <rf «ch • night ky
nk^ 1 19 ...
talking .b<«t-r';C rf u^fir" "vi? » •»« !«"
out to TOtter «,me 3w ^^"^ "^ '*> ~ I "me
«»Wnt pid, up Z X^r^^^ and to «e if I
" And h«»e you found any?"
Only one thi. time ; but I have often »..^
<u nz on a aingle night" " "^7
From the folds of her dm. .1,. j . .
«d-bre.8ti lookinKacro^hpTt l! ^t" *"* « "»•*>
Gabriel. He b^S'Ko^tttlt ^^^J' "P "
"-tol^Tlitt^-^--,^^-^^
PASTORALS AND A PEASANT 157
but ihe did not notioe H. Oftbriel, lest it ■bodd
get burnt, stooped down and picked it up. When he
kxJced again at bin visitor, be saw that her gaae was still
upirn him, and that a puzxled ezpressicni bad come into
her eyes.
**What u your name?^ she demanded breathlessly.
When be bad told her, she looked disappointed and sa^
**T1ien you are not Tony, and have never beard of the
Green Boy, I suppose ?^
He shook his head. ** It is very strange that you are
not Tony," she said. **Were you never in Wildwood
before, not even once?"
** No, not even once," he said.
Gabriel was much amused at her persistency in question-
ing him. **I come from London, and have only just
arrived. Why do you ask ? Do you think that you have
seen me somewhere before ?"
Purposely ignoring the lost part of his reply, ** From
London ! " she cried. ** And what made you leave London
to come to this place which is so mudi less pleasant ?"
** Because I thought that Wildwood was more beautiful,
and I wanted to be quiet."
She opened her eyes with astonishment. ''You came
here to be quiet ! Why, you must have made a mistake.
The woods are full of voices; I live in the woods, and
ought to know."
"But theyVe much more silent than the streets of a
great city," retorted Gabriel, bis eyes twinkling as he led
her on. " Tell me, what kind of a place do you imagine
London to be?"
** I hardly know how to put it into words ; I have never
tried to speak about it. It has been like a dream to me.
I have seen it as a very large place, where there is so much
noise that you don^t notice it, not like woods where you
hear and wait for every sound. And I have thought of it
^ -•'■
IM THB WEEPING WOMAN
Wntod with "?- And J^ Yr!?^"'' ' "«"-
who. you're ,«„^ ^ ^r^;? ""^ »«» to be know,
fore, don^ want to be known ah ™""**» f"«» "»«»-
unfortunate in ou? ^l^^"^' tolLSl^ft "^° ^^
come back; 80 I «ipdoSi^«* ♦r^'***"- ?»^ »«^
happine- there.- ^^^ ^* ^^'^^ ""^ ^^« found
"No, not all of them."
"Not Jwajn," he uuwend kindly.
^^y»y^^.tt:,'r..tSa"n."^- «
of your »ind We hu'Ln^'^k" Z^Zl^
have not learnt how to «a)fe „ ri,e„„, • „ Jl^.,^^
nnconifiirtable !»<» w. ^^"'*™*',"*«»»queniIout
"Is it dead?"
J^Quite de«l rn. .fiaid I hdd it too c.o.eiy in n,y
She took it b^ him, ruffling it, fe.the„ .<rectio«.tely
PASTORALS AND A PEASANT 109
Hdnft her fiwe ; then hid it onoe mora in her bvMwt 8ht
•looped for her lantern, and, picking a flaming twig from
the Hearth, rekindled the wide. 1^ was about to go, when
Gabriel ttopperl her, uying, ** ImH it aomewhat late for
you to be out alone ? Had I not better aocxmipany you?**
She ihook her head and smiled whimsically, as if he had
made a jest.
** Have you far to go ?** he adced.
**Oh no, only half-a-mile or so throu^ the woods to
the back of the hilL I live at Folly Acre, and my name
b Bfary Devon.^
** But your people may be anxious,^ he expostulated.
**My people won't be anxious. You need not worry
about that You must remember that I am only a country
gfarL"
fflie spoke with a tinge of bitterness ; then, with a low
curtsey, ran out into the night and vanished as suddenly
as she had appeared.
Whoi Galniel followed, he could nee nothing ; she was
gone.
** Adventure number one,"* said he. ** I wonder who she
is. TiM is a strange forest where little princesses go
gallivanting about done at all hours of the nij^t"
What had struck him most was the culture of her
speedi. llien, too, there was the evident narrowness of
ber upbringing, and consequent naive ignorance of life.
''She has original notions of cities," he lauf^ied, *'and
yet, in many ways, they are quite correct"
So saying, he lit his candle and went up to bed, there
to sleep and dream of a fiury girl with long, black hair,
and shadowy, alluring eyes, who carried a dead red-breasted
bird in her bosom which had perished in the heat of his
hand.
CHAPTER XVI
FOLLY 4C1S FAftM
For . «„ who l»d »«r k«m„ wh.t it tTtoHlT^
mt tnarfbmng it> moodn and heing aniimited br . n«r
gen-u- I w« like „ ir«.po™ible. lovely^? t^
•nd timront were tbe emotion, which wch Kenenr ^
*«dmhim. Hel»d«enit«»derjr«Sr^Z
S^ZL^t,"""^' ■»-'*'»««<> J-^^in^
^Mp«t. there „., „vi«e «rf robtle dW E«^
whUe .t TOiJed. the «»wl would pounce do,™^ ^Z
^J" *^*?" ftom tbe nitty AyUnToTuBW
•nd, yetjigun, before it b«l become «itfael» .ml^'
"». wouU d»wer down hi. huge- of^S^ZS'S:
ri^rtSf oT^-nt "^ *° wTwitht:!^
For hour, .t . rtretch he wa. content to nt .( I,!,
window, watching dreamily thi. newly ,Sov^b^„Jf
weanng away the hou« with™t knowWge JZw^
FOLLY ACRE FARM
161
(ki the fiur tide of the rtluj a nilroM) iwi for a ihort
dbUnoe around a bend in the river before again entering
tiie tunnel, which carried it under the hilk. Thia re-
minder of oommeroe and indurtiy rather added ti» than
detTMtod from his pleaMire ; it Icept him in memory of the
turmoil he had lort, and the peace which he had won.
** lliere they go,** he would nay to hinmelf, ** nuhing from
pillar to poet, from London to Birminf^iam, from Birming-
ham to Bristol, from city to town, and from town to dty,
at the tail-end of a polluting, panting little piece of steel.
I verily believe that men bandage their eyes when they
travel ; or else, once having seen such spots as this, how
can they ever come to leave them ? They have put all
their hearts and souls into cash accounts and ledgers, God
pity them ! I suppose, when the Recording Angel asks
for a thumb-nail sketch of their earthly life tl^ will
point him to a row of figures and a manufacturing
town."
Hius he would watch day after day, until he caught the
rumbling of the train in the mountains ; then he would
laugh quietly, saying, **Here come the hucksters, poor
devils! I wonder what is the market price of human
hearts to-day.**
While he was still looking, he would see a dun-coloured
boat with a fisherman go idly drifting down the stream,
slowly and sleepily, with no trace of hurry, anxious to
disguise the least thought of motion ; and he would say,
«• There goes my lord the peasant I can respect him."
In this way he began to build up his philosophy of life,
a Doctrine of Tranquillity whereby men might arrive at
rest The whole history of the place tended to merge man*s
foture into the giant march of the past, making foolish and
vain too much strenuosity. "To speak a few good words
and then die,** it seemed to say, " that is life."
When he looked out through the valley, fit)m the
let THB WEBPIKG WOMAN
jHndow wbm he lov«| to work, the flnt amy whidi
focu««l hi. .yii w«. ihe clturttrad nd. and gny of the
d^l, rtout old town, with iU crumbled •tronghokL
hcjne of kings* wo» end bJrthpUm of a klni--m«rof
valour, whoN namem having lort their ownvn, have baoome
• i^ ; towen which Uck inhabitants, and era tottering
The very pathi, which threaded the woods around his
house, had been marked out and trodtlen two thousand
y^ before bjr the naked feet of forast Britons,
fcveiy cottage in the district wa» of great age, bearing
cWsellings made by hands long since turned to dust The
■untHwding crests and uplands were studded for mile, with
«K1««, now in ruins, for whose entirety men had hOMurad
•nd in whose defence they had died. Such things as the
JTBOM »ce had cherished had everywhere succumbed to
Ik!?^!?!*"*"^"*'''^™^ All thU tended to prove
thefbtility of feverish effort. « What matters it wbether
♦II t!t ""*» **•" °"® ~^« ^«"^'' ^ «^d; "they
will aU be equaUy foigotten. Men come and men go, but
the seasons are the same. I, for one, will be content to
•pew my few good words, and then to die."
Several day. had now gone by, and he had seen nothing
of hjs maiden marauder. In the country, where inta«rts
are limited, smaU intrusions take on a mighty importance.
Crabriel waited eagerly to see her come, and at hwt, beinff
disappointed, set out in her seareh.
ft was a grey day and ah^y weU on in the afternoon
when he turned into the forest to follow over the hilL
He had walked, periiaps, a quarter of a mile, when he saw
a man approaching through the glade, reading as he came.
He was a big, gaunt feUow, wide of shoulder, dressed in
black, ofalmost any age. His countenance was long and
lean, covered toward the lower extremity with a grinled
growth of beard. He carried in his right hand a gnarled
FOLLY ACRE FARM
rtkk, on wMdi he kuit hMvily, and lUiniiMnd in his
itafH, htAng piUftiUy Uune at tht knM. Whm OahrM
draw kvtl with him h» noUosd that half of the kit hand,
whieh claeped the book, had been ihot away—probablj In
the tame gun accident which had done the other damage.
He won a tie of flaming red, and the book which ht
carried waa Bunyan^i Jiofy War, Hi« goierml appec^ance
was belligerent, lomewhere between that of a Methodic
prsacher and a prunperouii poacher. Hi* exproMion, at
6rrt gknce item and forbidding, beoamu almovt womaniith
in ita tendemeii*, u \n th« way with utrong men, when the
blue eyes commenced to itnap and twinkle. It waa the fiux
of a young man become Huddcniy old ; no that, though be
would be judged an old man by most, yet in year* he
might not have paiwed mid-life.
Irresiatibly, at sight of him, the memory came back to
Gabriel of Shelton's quaint translation of a passage re-
faring to Don Quixote : " And the other, beholding such
an Anticke to hover over him ... ** He felt inclined to
huighoutri^t
^^Oood-aftemoon,"* said the stranger, in a soft tenor
voice of unexpected sweetness, altogether out of keeping
with his looks. ** I think you are a newcomer to these
parts.**
** Yes,** replied Gabriel ; ** that is so. I have been here
less than a week.*^
" I shall hope to see you again. I conjecture that you
axe stopping at the cottage down there.**
Galviel nodded, and the stranger made as though he
would have passed on, again resuming his book.
** Fkrdon me," said Gabriel, « but could you direct me
to Folly Acre Farm ? I am not sure of the way."
At the mention of the fium the stnmger lodced up
shrewdly, and remained looking for some seconds, deci-
phering Gabriel*s character from his Csoe ; then, with an
I; ,
164 THB WEEPING WOMAN
ingenuow air of doubt which put aU impudence out of the
quettion by its simplicity—
** Doyou think that you ought to go there ?*
** I know of no reason why I should not Do you ?"
•• No; perhaps not You will find the farm alittle way
up this path, just under the lee of the hill.**
Following his directions, Gabriel shortly came to an
opming in the trees, some twenty acres in extent, in the
middle of which stood an ancient, grey-stone house. It
wore about it an air of desertion, all the shutten of the
windows exposed to his view being closed, the fimnyard
empty, and the fields apparently uncultivated. It looked
less of a fkrm than a castle, for it was stoutly constructed
with an eye to defence and had every opening gmted.
He walked up the moss-grown path to the front door,
and found it locked. He knocked and waited; but no
one answered. He was half-minded to turn away, think-
ing that he nad made a mistake. Before doing so it
occurred to him that it might be as weU to visit the back
parts of the building, since he might unearth some one
there who could redirect him. Here he found a high
waU, jutting out from the house itself, and forming a
rectangle about a well-kept flower and kitchen gaiden.
One of the rooms on this side was evidentiy in use, the
windows being hung with curtains, and the door ajar.
Through the bare brand ^ of the currant bushes, at the
far end of the enclosure, he espied a stooping figure which
rose up at sound of his voice, proving to be Maiy Devon
herself. ""
" So you live here, after aU ! " he cried. ♦* Pray, what
are you doing at woric all alone at this hour of the
day?**
« If you were a countryman you'd see at a glance," she
called back. « Vm pulling up parsnips."
Walking across the damp mould he came to where she
FOLLY ACRE FARM
165
flood, resting on her spade. She had a pair of wooden
dogs on her feet, and wore a dull green gown of a coarw
material, Hhaped round the neck and bound with gold
braid, hanging Ioohc to the ground except for where it waa
gathered in by a leatlicm girdle at the waist.
**Have you got no one to help you?*" he asked.
**Tha,t basket will be pretty heavy to carry by the time
you*ve done."
** Whom should I have ? I live alone.**
** Oh, I see,** he said vaguely. ** In that case Fd better
help you."
** You help me ! " she laughed, looking him down with a
pretty disdain. " What do you know about agriculture ?
I ^n*t believe you\c ever handled a spade in your
life."
" Then it's time I learnt." He took the spade from her,
and commenced to scatter the earth.
** Well, if you must," she sighed, with affected reluctance,
seating herself on the upturned basket ; and then, clapping
her hands, " Oh, I wish that the Green Boy might see
how beautifully you do it ! There won't be any garden
left presently ; it'll all be over in the next field."
"That's right," he said. "You do the talking. HI
do the work."
" What shall I talk about ? I know so few people that
I haidly know what to say. Ther.i are whole days together
when I never open my mouth to a living souL"
" But how is that P Fve seen plenty of cottagers near by
in the woods. You should have some kind of company."
And then severely, " It isn't proper for a young giri like
you to be living alone."
" That's just it," she replied good-naturedly, smiling at
his boyish seriousness ; " I expect that's one reason why
they leave me so much to myself. But I can't expect you
to understand, because you dcm't know."
IM THE WEEPmc WOMAN
y» mind telBn^t r "* ^'"'' •" "'*'• "^""
♦-.?i'^\"'''**' '* *"*• »*««t you,- die «nli«L
toWmng h fa, ^ „,„iferting no d«« to b5„^^
"Would you like me to ten nw rtorr? All W^f
J^A. upoj. whK* w« «ulptu«d the i^to, " S^J;
.^ *"'? »P/ We part of one dde. The w£L
were paneUed, imd eUbomtelv carved TK- « x
•l^ged „.„», the walU, i„te»pe»ed with ^1^.^
At the ftr CTd, feeing the entnmee, . ™i„,t«l grffe-,
ran from ade to «de-forlom reminder of meirier aZ
fa mje comer of the ™om rtood . bed, mlw "vS
thrt th„ was the «,le inhabited roomof the I^
conwT'T "" '^•"d a «rupulou, tidi„e», in rtriking
amtoart to the outside unkempt decay. ^
preS tT" "•""'°'^''' •- g-t, Ae set aW
ll:S"iZt:^ re^^kl '"' ""^ ""'* """ome by her ftee
When aU thinep were re«ly, and she h«l taken her
S!r 7^:-^^ «••-'" "^-O. " And how diS ^
" WeU, that's a part of my story, so if you want to he*
^IM^SZ'
FOLLY ACRE FARM
167
part joa muit listen to the whole. Fve never told
evffything to any one, except Mr. Meredith ; but
I like you, and should care to tell yoo, ^t is if
you dmi*t mind.""
**rin only too anxious,** Gabriel replied, **aiid Fm
secret as the grave.'"
It was for all the world as though his life had been
puslMd bade ten years, and he was a little lad again,
exchanging inviolaUe confidences with a child sweet-
heart
♦* Well, then, here is the story."
** But one minute,'' interrupted Gabriel ** Who is Mr.
Meredith?''
^ He is a gentleman who lives in the viUage, and does a
great deal of good. He has travelled quite a lot, and
hved here as a boy. There was some mistake, I don't
know what ; he left suddenly, but returned five years ago,
and has been here ever since. He is lame, and has had
some dreadful accident to his hand, and is the only persrni
whom I can call my friend."
** He must be the man I met on my way."
**Dk[ you speak to him or tell him where you were
going?" she aidced excitedly.
" Yes, and he didn't seem to like it"
^ He's always like that. He doesn't think I ou^^t to
live alone, and is always trying to persuade me to sdl the
eld farm and move down into the village to be near to
iHi»re he is ; but I always refuse. I try to avoid meeting
peof^ ; they never speak to me, so I don't see why I
should get any nearer to them. Besides, Fm vary happy
as I un, and can live my own life."
" What is your own life ? Living here by yourself from
year's end to year's end with no companion ? "
" Something like that. But if you'll only listen Fll tell
you."
!«• THE WEEPING WOMAN
-«J^ '¥**' ^ ** "*"y '^ *!«»«* no^. Iwon*ti«v.
word, 8o please begin." • * woni lay »
je«on for tellmgat all You «ee, Tve lived here ever Mnoi
I ^ remeniWr, ^ ««pt for Mr. Meredith, hlvr.^^
met any one from the big, outside world, «> I hardly k^
ofS^j!?^ r ^ "y"^*^ »^ *" «!»»*« ignorant of
otl^ people. Iwanttobeft«Jcwithyou,«,rir^i,«
to teU you how it was that I haomnorl f «^\.i* */*
davs ami iu„ 1 X Happened to visit you a few
oays ago My lantern never went out at aU : I blew it
out m order that I might have an excuse for ;iingToi
Are you angry with me?" « '^ seeing you.
* J*^**' 1 *^"^ ""*• ' ^'^f^* r^« d«ne things laie
^'J^'f^'r'"''- But what made you ^itt
- Mr. Meredith had told me that a stomger was comimr
from London to occupy his cottage ; 7l%„ curZto
see what you were like, «,d didn't know how toTil^
It; so invented that way. Fm sony I did it now It
seems so mean to commence a friendship witii a lie* "
Oh, you needn't be sorry about that. I q«ite under-
^your loneliness a«i then, frieadrfiips are* hZTo
get sorted anyw^, that it's quite lawful to set them «J
Me:^i t d<r^t^^^ ^ So my cottage belor^to^T
"Yes; he lets h out to artists and people who earn.
lj»e to stop in the su-nmer-time ; and. STS ^^
Jlow^ p«^ peopfe to live the,e who haven't got «iywC
onTX^!"'^'"'' "''^ ^'^ "««^'y- "I »."t be
FOLI^r ACRE FARM
im
<*Not a partide. If 70a hadnt done it I ahouldn^ bt
hcsre now, and you would have been just as Icmely as ever.
But what I can''t understand is why you should be left by
yourself. I wish yuu^d tell me.""
She folded her hands across ho* knees, and leant back
dreamily, lodiing into the fire. ** To tell you the truth,
I don^ quite know. No one has ever tfl4d me. Ever
since I can remember I have lived in this house in maob
the same way. Mother used to be with me, hoi die died
three years ago. She never spoke much about herself, bat
she would often tell me about our family, and how it was
one of the oldest in the county, and had lived on this turn
from generatifm to generation, for hundreds of years.
** In the winter-time, when we sat together at ni^st, she
would sometimes go on for hours together with the most
wonderful stories of how one of our people had fought fbr
Kii^ Charles and gone into exile with the prinees. And
of snother who had followed the Duke and had fallen at
Sedgemoor. And of others who had taken to the sea, and
sailed peivateers, and been captured and carried off to
Franee in the taw «f Napoleon. She rarely ever spoke
dbout her onm father and mother ; and, when she did, it
was <aif to cry faitteiiy smI say that she had been tbeir
death. Then she weidd be fvry kind to me, and hold me
in her anna till I fell asleep ; and next morning, when I
woke, and reminded her at it, dbe would pretend that she
bad forgotten all about it Have you got a mother ? ^
"Yes."
** Is she a good motho' ? ""
"The best in the world.''
** I vdah you could have known my mother. She was
^ sweetest, kindest sort of mother. When we hadn't
got much food in the hmue she would say that she wasn't
hungry. When I was a very little girl I believed her;
but, when I grew older, I knew what that meant, and
170 THE WEEPING WOBfAN
kwed her all the mofe. I suppon yoaSe never known
what it is like to be poor?"*
** No, Fm afraid I haven't; at leart, not quite lo poor at
-Of coune we needn't have been, I see that now, if
we*d only chown to work our fields. But Mother seemed
to be frightened of having people about her. She never
left the house, except by night; and towaids the end, not
even then. Whenever I came back from being away for a
few hours she would meet me at the door looking qtdte
worn with worry, and would say in a whisper, « Have you
■pokentoanyone, Mary? Oh, teU me, have you spoken
to any one ? ' And even nfhen I toM her that I hadnt,
she would still be troubled and question me again and
again. * Are you quite sure?' I soon discovered that the
easiest way to put her doubts to rest was to run and throw
my arms about her, and then 4je wouU sob and say, * It's
aU right; I can see it's aU right ; you are still ay own
httle girl.' And so in this way I grew up to think that I
should be doing something very wicked if I spoke to our
neighbours. I took to walking ii, the woods mther than
the roads or paths, because I couldn't bear to meet people ;
they used to look at me so hard. The peasants soon
took us for granted and left us alone ; so I have never
known any one except Mother, and Mr. Meredith, and
you."
Gabriel felt grateful for this latest inclusion.
"But why didn't your mother want you to know anr
one ? " '
"I have never been able to find out. She said that
every one was cruel, and that the world was cruel, and
that the only way in which to get peace was to live by
ourselves. I sometimes think that she didn't tell me all."
"Was she an old woman ?"
" Mother an old woman ! Oh no. She was the youngest
FOLLY ACRE FARM
171
mid nKMt bMuitiftil penon I have ever Men. She could
dag and play, and do many thingn that I canH do. I
think the had travelled too, for she used to wy thinp that
I ooold not understand in another tongue, anid ring them.
When I got older, I was always asking her to teach me to
read and to ring; kit riie never would. And when I
htggaA her again she would tell me that sudi things were
only a danger, and that she would be happier without
tbem.
<* How did she speak ? Like the rest of the people who
Uvehere?"*
** No, not one bit. I can't say what the difference was,
hot her vdce was softer, and somehow the words smindcd
not the same when she said them."
** You say she died three years ago ?^
** Yes, she seemed to get weaker and thinner ; and then
«ie morning I woke up, and she did not speak. I went
and told Mr. Meredith, and when he came, he said that
she was dead.**
**Y(m said just now that you had never spoken to
anybody. How was it then that you got to know Mr.
Meredith?''
"We didn't know any one imtil he returned to the
village ; and, at first. Mother was v«ry angry with him for
ecHning, and would shut the door, and petend she didn't
know that he was there ; but he used to say, * Very well,
ni just wait.' Fve known him to sit out in the garden
for three hours in the cold until at last Mother lost
patience, and let him in. At first he was always trying
to persuade her to worii the farm and send me to school
in Monlmdge; bat when he saw how it grieved her, he
gave it up."
"ftit didn't you want to meet people and to learn
about the world? You can't live here in this solitary
fitthMMi all your life."
in THE WEEPING WOMAN
« When Mr. Memiith Knt nentloMd it to MoilMr I
used to think that I would, .nd we u«d to ph«d wfth
her, end he would even offinr to pey ; but now I have nurfe
friend* of my own in the woodi, emong the biid. end the
t««. I bqrin to foel i« Ac fclt-frightened of the big
I^t*^^ J;.~* /•"**** ^^-^S^ I •» quite
oontwit to «ve and die M I MD. When I wm ft«tfbL M>d
oon,iJained.jnd «ud thiU I longed to have 1^ to
■eethinjj, Moth«r uied to point to the family motto up
thw^ and aay, 'If I had only obeyed that I •hould have
beoi happio- Uwlay ; aU my migfortunet have come thitmgh
tiying to change things Learn to be content with wSt
you've got, and youTl learn ^ live well'
"I didn't quite believe her then; but now, whenevw I
feel wretched and a. though I must qwUc to iome one. I
look up at the word., ag Mother u«!d to do, and «v
Always deUy/ I feel a. though something terrible wUl
hap^n to me if I don^ obey them ; and so I sUy on."
"But that's foolishness. You shouldn't be governed by
^ur «q,erstitions. If you were to seU up the ikrm S
rent it out, you would have quite enough to get educated
on ; and afterwards, if you liked, you could return,"
"But I dont want to be educated. Mother said that
leanui^ brought sadness, and I believe her. She und to
sp«Kl hours tryiiy to find out what I thought, and then
talkiiy with me about it She never laughed at anything
1 said, and never contradicted me. She said that ^
thoughts were in themselves right; and that it waa only
the way in which we said and. did them, that made them
tliat If I did that I should never be lonely."
"So that is how you come to speak so well ? " Afl this
while Gabriel had been wondering how it was that a iriri
who had bved so solitarily and was possessed of so little
learning, could express hereelf in such feduoa.
FOLLY ACRE FARM
178
«*Do joo iwUy think I ipeak w^r A» aakwl d-
Mj^itedlj. ** I am w gUu) I have pleaaed jou.**
**Hukl what b that?** he mtemipted, jumping up.
While ahe had been speaking, he had caught the crunch
of feotrteps on the path outside. Before she oouU answer,
the door opened, and Meredith stood upon the thrashokl,
huge and unnatural, framed in the grey of a winter*s sk j.
CHAPTER XVII
riAcs
The afternoon had worn away quickly aa they talked •
evening wai ab«ady tumbling down the Jiy, carting lom^
■J-dow. a. he fell TUt peculiar nocturnal quiet^
proper to a huid of tree-dad hiU*, wai abroad, Lying a
■ilendng hand on every ao^nd.
"Pteace be upon thi. hou*," Mid the man in the door-
answered, - Hiuh, I hear the peace of the Lonl in tli
tree-top., and the measure of Hi. might among the bilk''
Hi. voice thrilled a^ he .poke with the mupidon of a
^fi^:, *[* "^ ^*^ *»" ^^ ^'^ and bowed.Z
tmnda before hi« eyeis motionle« ; tiU, to GabrieF. bearimr.
the vaUey righed with content and the forest echoed at the
footfall of a majestic presence.
Having entered the room, he limped over to where she
•at, and taking her face between his hands, looked into it
r??i IfS . '*»^««J ^ery tenderly, saying. «»i«ry.
httle ^Ud, have you yet found Him ? Th^ * no p^
until He comes." *^^
« No, Dan, not yet Tm afraid I never shall ''
d-v?"?^'"*- ."^^T^"•'' "^"- He will come some
day. rhen, seeing Gabriel, " I beg paidon, Mr. Garrod,
174
PEACE
175
«• Ym, Dm," iIm brokt in Mfwiy, •• ht hM bmn hm all
tht aftmrnoon. I have bem telling him all aboat myMli;
and be ha* actuallj bean intentted.**
M-radith did not nply at onoe, but idectii^ a itool,
«t hinmlf down bttween tht two of thtm, a little way
back from th« blaw.
** 80 youVe been tailing him all about yoiinelfP When-
""W any one does that it it intemting. How much have
^ou told her, Mr. Oarrod ? ** turning towaid Gabriel
«* Nothing at all Fve Npent my time in lirtening and
giving good advice. I think ihe ought not to go on
■topping in a big house like thin all by henelf.**
** Perhaps she ought, and perhaps she ought not ; some-
times I think one thing and sometimes another. At all
events, so long as she is here, she is out of mischief and
keeps good***
*« Oh, Dan, are you still at the old tak ? I don*t think
rm very good, and I don*t expect to be much worse
wherever I may be. Is the world such a wicked
place?**
•* It's pretty bad. What do you say, Mr. Garrod ? **
** It isn't so much wicked as stupid. That's what makes
me love the country ; you can be just as foolish as you like
here, and there's no one to see you, so it doesn't much
matter."
** Fve not done much studying of late, sir, and I can't
say that I catch your meaning. If you mean that sin is
sin in one place, and that it is something else in another,
I don't agree with you. I came back to Wildwood, after
many years of wandering, in order that I might do some-
thing to patch up just one of those follies which you call
stupidities."
** Where did you go to all those years, you've never told
me anything about them ?" asked Mary.
« That's a long story, girlie, and I don't feel that I want
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176 THE WEEPING WOMAN
to tell it to-night, rd rather hear what brought Mr.
Garrod among us.''
"That's soon explained. I came because I wanted to
wnte ; and, by the way, I believe you're the owner of the
cottage I'm staying at. Can you tell me the name of the
man who engaged it ? "
" Fm afraid I can't. It isn't my secret. I received my
orders from London, and did as I was bid. First of all, I
had a telegram inquiring if the cottage was vacant, and,
afterwards, a letter and cheque to cover a six months' rental.
I^was requested to tell you nothing, should you question
" Hm ! " said Gabriel. « I wish I knew his name ; a
name does so much to clothe a personality."
« If I were you, Mr. Garrod, I shouldn't worry myself
to try and find out. What does it matter? It's just
one more step in the dark. I am never so happy as when
I can't see where I'm going ; it makes me more certain of
the Guiding Hand."
" Yes, yes," exclaimed Gabriel irritably, « I dare say you
are. I suppose that's just how you would feel. You
appear to have gained some sort of a belief. I have not •
that's why I'm here-to procure one, and there's the
dmerence."
"I'm an old man, sir, in age, if not in years. All my
days I've travelled in search of peace. From the Atlantic
to the Pacific I've journeyed. I've been rich and Fve been
poor. Through it aU, I was never at peace until I got
just that sort of a belief— the belief in the Guiding Hand."
" I can understand and sympathize with you in all that
you have said, Mr. Meredith. Nevertheless the one thing
which stands distinct in my own mind is that every man
comes at his own peace in his own way : you by religion
another through power, this man by reading books, that
man by wnting them."
PEACE lyy
own, but they M have to meet «t one point liforeZv
can run on together as one." ^
"You remind me," said Gabriel hastily, "of an old
woman who, having by «,me quaelt remedy *.no«drf™.
«.n.plai„t, thinks that it willlure eve^ ifnZ^r
I d.dnt mean to offend, I assure you, Mr Gamrf
been at the last minute saved, if he's anything of a man
way Zt-/" """"' ""^ 'I" "•"• '» »"«•«="■« in « "«.il^
yoL- ^ •^' ""■ ' *'''"^ «"> •»»»" « partly
hu"^"^!;^; ""'"' """ «'"'™' '-'* -'»">«' of his
"Look here, Mr. Meredith, I'm sorry. Tm sure you
Aye, laddie, your appreciation may be very well for
me, but jt can't do much for you. When I wlTa younJ
d.ap I did a lot of appreciating, but it wasn't u^Tl
believed something thTt I found pe^- "' ™*'' '
tellTlf";^'' "'"m'^ '*"'™ "^'"« '»»* yo" "^ to
tdUt, If you could guarantee that it would bring men
" And that I can, to any mn, who chooses to listen As
.young chap I did too much searehing and noTLu^h
listening ; now I Usten aU my days - ^
i-^^IZhL'^t T.!""*" »"derst«,d what you are say-
3 f..^.,- f, *' "^ "^ have been looking tot
just this thing. Go into any town or city, and yo^^U
^ men and women hurrying up and do™ the ™reS,
looking for this peace of which you sneak ^„ *
i^^Sk'' t rr-' *° '^^^ "'- "^t '"
12
going to buy peace. Every
3^1
4
1 -L.-
i>i i
r.i
6
i.
178 THE WEEPING WOMAN
boy and girl who fall in love think theyVe got it
Every suicide believes that he is going to secure it. What
do you suppose men live in towns for ? It isn't because
they like them ; it is in order that they may scrape up
enough money to purchase peace. What makes men so
hard and unscrupulous in basiness? It's because they
know that there's only a certain amount of money in the
world, and they think that money means peace. This is
what makes scholars grow old at poring over books ; they
want to discover the secret. And this is what leads fellows
like myself to torture themselves into writing a book —
they think that by getting their thoughts outside them-
selves they may arrive at peace. Most of our follies grow
out of this one desire. People steal and go to gaol for it.
Merchants work night and day, and die at fifty for it. If
a man can't get peace by fair means, he tries to by foul.
If he can't buy, he plans to steal. If he isn't strong
enough to take it from a live man, he kills him, and takes
it from a dead. Every misfortune results from this end-
less pursuing of peace. I wonder that we have the courage
to go on searching, where generations have failed."
" What you have said I believe to be true," answered
Meredith ; " yet it still remains that where one poor
fellow like myself has succeeded there is room for others to
do the same."
" We all have our stars which we are bom and bound to
follow," said Gabriel, " but where to, we never can tell.
So far I have followed myself."
While lliey had been speaking, instinctively they had
drawn nearer together around the hearth, and now remained
silent, no one looking at another. Mary spoke, her face
cushioned in her hands, her eyes fixed on the flame.
" And so your star led you from London to Wildwood ;
and Dan's led him all over the world, and brought him
back to the place from which he had started ; and mine
PEACE
179
■tands rtationaiy all my life, over Folly Acre. Now they
have brought us all three together— I wonder what for !
It is very wonderful. How ci i Huch things be explained ? ^
"I don't try to explain them; I simply follow," said
Gabriel.
" And I couldn't explain them if I tried ; so I delay,"
said Mary, looking up at the motto.
" And I know that it is the Lord," said Meredith.
"It must be grand to think that you know," said
Gabriel. « I wish that I had that sensation of certainty ;
it does away with all feverishness."
" It does. It took me many years to gain it ; but it
was all worth while, every step of the way."
" And what are you doing here in Wildwood ? if you
don't mind my asking," said Gabriel.
« Living quietly, sir, and preaching the Word."
"That's only a half-answer, Dan," interrupted Maiy,
and, turning to Gabriel— "I'll tell you what he does; he
goes round to all the markets and fairs and villages, and
preaches. Sometimes he's listened to, and sometimes he
isn't. He spends a good deal of his time on the main-
road between Monbridge and Siluria, because that's where
most of the tramps and out-of-work farm-hands go by.
When he sees one coming whom he thinks he can help he
gets into talk with him, and takes him home, and keeps
him liiere for a day or two, trying to do him good. No,
Dan, it's not a bit of use you're signalling to me to stop,
for Fm not going to until Tve said my say. He's so
tender-hearted that he gives everything he has away.
Last year, in the depth of winter, he hadn't an overcoat
left to his back. When he came to Wildwood, five years
ago, the viUagers made fun of him ; but now they worship
him, and there isn't one of them who wouldn't gladly
starve that he might eat."
"There, there, maidie, that's enough," said the old man
180 THE WEEPING WOMAN
kindly, taking her hand in his. «* BccauHe you love me you
mustn't think that everything I do is good. Tm really a
veiy Melfiuh fellow. I do these things to other people
because it malces me happy — which isn't much to my
credit."
"I wish I had as much to mine," said Gabriel with
conviction. "It's a terrible thing to think how much
power to make or mar one another each one of us han.
Even when you're most anxious to make the best of your-
self for the sake of others, and have come to a decision,
and begun to walk along a way, you can never be sure,
until the end has been reached and it's too late, whether
it was the right road after all. If you do as Mai^ here,
sit down and delay, the chances are that youll gro , into
a habit and die where you sit. And if you do as I'm
doing, strike out boldly for yourself, the world's so
crowded that you're almost certain .o cnish some one in
forcing a passtige. I get very por])lexe(l when I think
oyer these things. To live is to bear a terrible res|jonsi-
bility; I don't wonder that there are some who prefer
to die."
« Yes," said Meredith, « and the sad thing is that the
ones who give up are often among the best. Your
brutish, selfish man is content to fill his belly and
have a fat time at anybody's and everybody's expense.
He hangs on as long as there's anything to eat and
drink, and any money to be earned or stolen. It's
your fine, tender-souled fellow who goes imder and loses
courage, becaiise he's too kind-minded to trample his way
into either downright villainy or thorough-paced virtue.
Most of the men on the roads are good men ; that's why
they're there, and that's why I love them and take them
into my house. Somehow or other I can't get it out of
my mind that Christ was once upon the road, and one can
never be siure that He won't be there again. It's come to
PEACE
181
me over and over that the beat men in thw life aro not the
men who win out ; the men who do that are only the
second, the third best, and the worst. The really irood
man usually goes to the wall, because he is so good. To
my way of thinking it's right and proper that he should,
and m accordance with Scripture usage ; for such treat-
ments are the despisings and persecutions our Lord spoke
of on the mountain. ITie only fault I have to find is that
most folk aren't careful enough that they are persecuted
for His sake. *^
"I remember coming across such a man years aco,
when I was working in a lumber camp out in The
Canadian Rockies. He was a small, slim chap, with fair
hair and eyes ; we called him *The Child,' because he had
such tmy hands and feet. Not that he was so very younif.
either; he must have been somewhere around forty. I
took a hking to him at first sight. By and by he opened
out and told me a few things about himself, nfwas
just one of those men who set out too well, and then
haven t the strength of purpose to carry them through.
It appeared that his father had been a rich mill-owner,
somev/here up Lancashire way, who had died early, leavin-
him the entire property. The Child was about twenty-two
at that time, and engaged to be married to a pretty giri.
Unfortunately for him, he suffered from a painful sen^ of
his obligations, and was always worrying over the good
and harm which he had it in his power to exercise Wr
his work-people. He was one of those big-hearted, small-
brained men, whose mind and affections are for ever
getting mto a tangle. The more he thought, the faster
his emotions unwound ; the faster his emotions unwound,
the more he thought-his heart and mind were one
gigantic muddle. His father had never known that there
were such things as obligations, and had accordingly run
the mills at a profit both to himself and his people.
i:: I
'•:•
JU
183 THE WEEPING WOMAN
**The upshot of it was that the Child went about every
day thinking ; and couldn't nleep of nights for thinking
over again what he had already thought by day.
** At last he came to the conclusion that it wasn't right
for one man to own the whole concern, while the work-
people got nothing but wage8. He called them together,
and offered them an interettt in the mills. They, seeing
the kind of man he was, with his pale eyes and tiny feet
and hands, listened, and agreed to whatever he chose to
say. What this was I never quite made out, but I expect
it consisted largely of how he loved them, and how all
men ought to be brothers, and how he was going to hand
the entire business over to them, and trust them, as a
brother should, to give him his proper share. It worked
out quite differently. The mill-hands collared all the profits
and got drunk, and, when the Child came before them in
his nervous, tearful way to ask for his share, they kicked
him out. Then the father of the girl he was going to
marry got to hear of it, and asked him what all this
nonsense meant. When the Child explained that it meant
that he had lost all his money the father told him a few
straight truths about his business qualifications, and also
kicked him out.
**The Child was always a delicate-minded chap, and,
when this happened, blamed himself because he made
sure that the pretty little girl would break her heart
because of him, and never recover ^m the blow. So what
must he do but go and book his passage to Canada, and,
just before sailing, write her a letter saying how he was
going to make his fortune, and return in a few years and
marry her, all the same. It wasn't until he'd got well out
to sea that it occurred to him that before those few years
were up she might get another chance to many, and
might be prevented from doing so by the pledge he'd
given her in that letter. Then he began to tangle up his
PEACE
188
conacience wone and wone, all the way aatMw the Atlantic,
thinking and loving all the way. By the time he'd got
to the mouth of the St. Lawrence he'd made up his poor
mind that it was his duty to write her a ttecond letter,
making out that the first one was sent in play, and that
he'd never intended to come back. For quite a long while,
for several years in fact, he remained liappy in the belief
that he had acted quite honourably.
" One day, when he'd almost ceaMKl to worry, he joined a
railroad gang, and fowid amongnt them a waster from the
Old Country who'd known hin family in Lancashire. The
Child began to talk with him, and found that the girl was
still unmarried, and was said to be eating her heart out for
love of him. Then he began to think what a brute he'd
been, and how he'd done wrong in sending her that last
letter ; and thereupon set to work to conjure up all the
agony she must have suffered, and to wonder how he could
put things right As I said before, he was one of those
small-brained, big-hearted fellows, whose brains and affec-
tions are for ever rolling up into a tangle. What must he
do, but sit down and write her a third letter. This time
he says to himself, * She's very lonely and miserable; I
must do something to make her hopeful and happy.' So
he told her how he was getting on splendidly, and growing
richer and richer every day ; and still loved her, and, if she
was willing, wanted to come back and marry her in a year
or two.
« Now the Child wasn't the sort of man who is ever going
to make money ; he wasn't enough of a fox to steal, or
sufficient of a squirrel to keep what he'd got. However,
he went on year after year, drifting from one job to
another, never making anything to speak of, getting
more and more despondent, but always writing back to
his pretty little giri, who was getting a pretty old girl by
this time, that he'd be coming home soon, when he'd
184 THE WEEPING WOMAN
made one Uut big pile. If ever thera wm a man who
bated a lie it was the Child, and yet, becaiue yean
ago, out of sheer goodness of '.cart, he'd told his one
untruth, be was oondemned to go on lying every day
** When I found him in the lumber camp this bad been
going on for twenty years. He didn't tell me his story all
at once : it slipped out in pieces when we were alone. At
last the poor old maid got sick and tired of his promises,
and spoke out her mind to him very bitterly, saying how
he'd devasUted her life, and stolen her love, and left her
nothing to live for. He was emptied right out, like a sail
when the wind stops blowing. He came to me, and, before
showing me her letter, put me on my oath to tell him
whether it was true. What was I to do ? I let him down
just as lightly as I could. •As for devasteting her life,'
I said, • I dare say from her point of view that is true ; and
as for stealing her love, she gave it to you in the first
instance, and, although perhaps f^ might have been more
honourable to have given her it back, yet to keep what
has been given can hardly be called theft. As for having
left her nothing in the world to live for, Fm not in a
position to give an opinion, for I don't know the lady.'
• I think I see what you're trying to hide,' said the Child,
clasping and unclasping his nervous, smallish hands.
•Thank you for teUing me the truth. I wish some one
had done it earlier. Good-bye; thank you so much.' I
tried to stop him, and asked him where he was going. He
looked pale and tired, quite unfit for a journey. Tm
not going very far,' he answered, and walked away into
his shack. I waited outside for a minute or two, not
knowing what was best to do. Just as I was about to
turn away there was a report, and a thin wisp of sn-oke."
"And what had happened?" asked Mary, breathless
with expectation.
PEACE
185
*'I>nd~by hk own haiid,** Meradith repUwl; "^with
her iMt letter beddc him."*
** And yet be Metned to be a good manr iihe wbiitpered.
**Yea; and he wai, too,"* answered Meredith almost
fiercely. "He was one of the kindest, gentlest little
fellows I ever knew.**
** He was afraid of his responsibilities,** said Gabriel ;
**the obligations of living were too much for him.**
"That was just it,** replied Meredith. "And yet it
seems to me better to be ho aware of life*s responsibilitiet
that you*re afraid of them, tlion never to be aware of them
at all**
" But which man does the least harm, I wonder ? ** asked
Gabriel, for in truth he could refer much of what had
been narrated to his own life.
" I'he man who has most love,** answered Mary. " And
I should say that, in spite of all, he has most peace.**
They were words lightly spoken, which Gabriel was to
remember with comfort on a future day.
ii
L'l!
HI
■'111
CHAPTER XVIII
HOW THK UUW SHONK CHKIITMAI DAY
It was ChriKtmaM morning. The windows were heavily
frosted with quaint and curious {wttems, and the sun was
gwdng in when Gabriel awoke. Down below in the valley
the matin bells of 8t. Dubricious were ringing a peal of
thanksgiving and happiness : wve for this there was no
■oumi nor stir. He lay very still, enjoying one of those
rare psychological moments of perfect tranquillity which
sometimes come unbidden and unaccounted for, a gift
from the gods or the fairies, when son»e of the quietness
of sleep laps over and distributes through the conscious
life of new day. ♦• I am young, I am young, I am young,
and this is the country, the country," the bells seemed to
say over and over, till his heart was fulfilled with gladness.
*♦ What shall I do, what shall I do, what shall I do ? Let
me worship, worship, worship." The chimes died away
and gave place to the toll : " Worship, worship, worship."
Now Gabriel had never worshipped, at least not in
words, since he hod won himself free from his mother's
control. Of course he had gone to church to please her,
and had pretended to listen, and had bowed his head
when the other people bowed ; but that is another matter.
He didn't much believe in prayer, and couldn't see any
use in it. He'd studied philosophy pretty thoroughly,
and, being a boy, had mistaken it for religion. He wanted
to do well for himself, and for the world at large. He
186
HOW THE SUN SHONE 187
WM filled with a geiMroja dwire to make grievoua people
glad, and to leave thiiigH better than he had found them ;
hut why he wat . <d to do all thin he could not nay, except
that ho admired Chriiit very much, and felt that it would
be grand to be like Him. When the belln commenced to
■peak it came to him a« a nurpriae. •• I don't know what
to nay," he muttered.
** Wornhip, womhip, wonhip,** answered the village bell
peniHtently.
He turned over on hin side, Rmiling at the hallucination,
and, stealing another wink of nlecp, had the most curiouM
of drcamit. He thought tliat he wtui ittanding all alone
upon a imow-covurud moor, and yet not he, for when he
looked down in search of his hands and feet there was
nothing there; he waM only a pair of eyes, which he
couldn't see, for they were looking and looking. Then, as
he watched, he saw a man clamber over the edge of the
skyline. He was dressed in a long robe of purple, with a
shirtlet of crimson. His feet were bare ; his face was
strangely familiar ; in his arms he carried a little, naked
child, which he held to his naked breast to warm it against
the cold. The eyes, which were all that there were left of
Gabriel, kept quite still, always gazing upon the traveller,
who came very swiftly on toward a hut from which smoke
was slowly rising, which the eyes had just perceived at the
opposite end of the moor. The stranger came to the door
and tapped ; a woman answered his call. She held out her
arms, and, taking the child, kissed and snuggled it close to
her bosom. She looked up to thank the stranger, but
saw him a long way off', walking back toward the skyline ;
and the eyes noticed that every time he placed his foot
into an old print it was blotted out and became pure white,
like the rest of the snow. Soon the man came again to
the horizon, but this time he baited reluctantly, looking
back over the way which he had come. The woman at the
^:
■ i" 4
■3, fe
i i
188 THE WEEPING WOMAN
door rtood looking alw. Suddenly he spread out hi. arms
on either side, casting a long, black shadow across the snow,
which, reaching the place where the woman stood, touched
with its uttermost length the child in her arms, who,
waking up, began to waiL
When the eyes looked again, the shadow and hut,
and woman and child, had aU vanished— there was
nothing but the lonely moor; whereupon Gabriel
awoke.
" Why, that was Mother," he said to himself as he
opened his eyes, "and I must have been the child! I
wonder whether dreams have ever any meaning, and
whether that one had?''
The village beU was still ringing, « Worship, wor^ip,
worship.'' He jumped out of bed, and stepping to the
window, opened it wide. As he did so, the distant sweU
of the Monbridge chimes floated merrily up to him, sing-
ing, "Christmas Day, Christmas Day, Christmas Day,"
upon which the village bell brf,kc in with a sullen bass,
" Worship, worship, worship."
" Well, if a man can't pray on Christmas Day he isn't
good for much," thought Gabriel; whereupon he went
upon his knees, and, folding his hands said, « Thank you,"
very devoutly.
He dressed quickly, whistling as he did so, wondering
what they were doing at the Turnpike, and how they
would keep the festival.
On coming down-stairs he saw at once that he must
have overslept ; breakfast was laid and the dishes were set
by the fireside to keep warm.
Another thing which he immediately noticed was that
some one had been busy decorating his room since last
night. There were bunches of holly and greenery every-
where, and, on the table at the place where he sat, a small
brown paper parcel— a book of some kind.
HOW THE SUN SHONE 189
« Hulloa, who's been here so early in the morning, giving
me presents ? " thought Gabriel, much amused.
Ripping the paper off he found it to be a cheap edition
of A ChikTa First Spelling Book, such as can be bought
in a village store. There was no name or message to say
from whom it came.
»* They showed sound literary judgment, anyhow," he
laughed, and sat down to his meal.
Presently a passing cottager brought him his Christmas
mail, which consisted of two letters, one in Hilda's, and the
other in Lancaster's handwriting.
Hilda's was a kindly little note, telling him how much
he was missed, and how glad they would be of his return.
Then followed some sisterly advice, as to the running of
his house and the necessity of keeping a strict eye over
whoever looked after him. There were also inquiries about
his work, and plenty of encouragement and optimism ; but
there was something lacking. It seemed to Gabriel that
she was straining after the conventional, because she feared
either him or herself. All the way through he could feel
that she was playing a game of hide and seek, one in which
he never could contrive to catch her. There were occasional
glimpses of a hand round the comer or a sparkle of eyes,
but never the complete woman.
Lancaster's was like the man : frank, intense, lovable.
" I have not dared to write to you before," he wrote,
" because, feeling the pain of our parting as I do, I feared
lest my affections might betray me into what might read
like foolishness when set down on paper. You know how
it is, Gabriel, love-words without the voice are only words.
And yet I do want to tell you once again, even at the
risk of becoming tedious, how very much I love you.
While you were near me the whole world seemed glad. I
don't know how to explain these sensations, but you are
to me as a young knight who has attacked my Castle of
il
190 THE WEEPING WOMAN
Deipair, and set at liberty, and brought out into the day
all the prisoners who had lain hidden and bound these many
years. Truth to tell, this is just what you have done, so
how should I fail to love you ? ** A little lower down he
continued, " I wonder whether it is really true that all
affection, even the purest, is ultimately selfish ! It is a
ridiculous confession for one man to make to the other, and
yet I feel I must tell you— do you know, I am positively
jealous of any new friends that you may make; I am
frightened lest they should steal your heart from me. You,
young as you are, have been my great deliverer ; and what
should I do if you were to be carried away bound ? Every
time you return to me after an absence I am fiUed with a
morbid dread lest you may have changed with time, as all
things change. For the first few hours together I watch
your every action, lest in any way you should betray the
secret that you do not love me as you did. Oh, these
friendships ! how they blend the bitter with the sweet,
giving now the fulfilment of all desire, and now an agony
of longing ! How we shall look back to them in the years
which are to come ! with what strange regrets, with what
sorrow of faces ! Well, well, to have loved as you and I
have loved is sufficient. Let us enjoy the perfect hour while it
remains with us, gazing forward with blinded eyes."" Later
on, after recalling many joyous adventures which they had
shared, he went on to say, " I dare say you will wonder,
dear Gabriel, how it is that I now write all this, when I
might have said it to your face. It is because of the
buried life. I am like a big iceberg, and take a long while
to unfreeze. My affections had stayed up at the North
Pole so long that they were quite solid when you, my
arctic explorer, came by and took me in tow for the South.
Many an evening as we have sat together during the last
few months, I have been willing, to the point of anguish,
to open up to you my heart, but somehow my lips refused
HOW THE SUN SHONE 191
to «peak. I wonder whether this in a difficulty peculiar
to me alone, or whether it i, common to aU mankind.
Perhaps this was the great distinction between other men
and J«ni8, the one which the crowds who went to hear Him
noticed, when they said, « He spake as never man spake.*
and which so startled the Samaritan woman whenAe
reported, * He told me all things that ever I did/ I
should rather like to think that this was the case. If it
were so, I think even I might learn to pray. Do you
know, I have Utely taken to doing one of those obvious
things which so often turn out to be such a surprise • I
have taken to reading my Bible, etc.'' So the letter went
on until it came to the point where he spoke of his work.
You will remember what I told you about Hilda and my
plans, when we went for that walk in Epping Forest ? I
am now more certain than ever that I have done the right
thing. I did not worry you by telling you all that I
was proposing, when you were with us, because I did not
want to interrupt your work. There's no harm in doing
so now, however. The numbers of the unemployed are
greater than ever this winter, and the distress is something
appaUmg. Down at the Turnpike we are in the heart of
It, Mid s^ every day aU the awful terror of their condition.
Hilda and I feel that it is almost criminal to eat our own
food, and to sleep in our own beds, when there are so many
w*o are starving and homeless. How different a man I am
from the one I was last year, when I was only too wiUing
to bar and double-lock my doors that I might remember
self only, and aesthetics! For this great moral change I
have you to thank, and your love. Oh, how I despise that
old self, with his little meannesses and his pride in his
granite heart! How he would plume himself and strut,
boasting that he had banished emotion, and was brave for
any fate ! yet, all the while, his heart was breaking. I was
like a man who builds a tower in a market-place, and,
19-i THE WEEPING WOMAN
having made the walk so thick that no sound of moaning
can escape, looks down from his high-up window, between
the spasms in his pain, upon the busy crowd below, with a
wizened, smiling face, calling upon the populace to witness
how he does not suffer. I named myself a Stoic, poor fool
that I was. That one word has wasted for me ten years
of life.
** * This is a queer kind of Christmas letter,' you will say,
and so it is. I have learnt what compassion means, and
now can do nothing but talk about it. Hilda and I spend
our days amongst fallen men and women. We eat our
meals with them ; we handle them ; we give them the run
of our house ; and at night, when the shop is closed, we
go out to finci others. So fiill is the house, that I have
had to vacate my bed. I sleep better on the floor, with a
gladder heart, than ever I did in my bed, when my heart
was full of sores. I love these p ■• ?le. I shall never try
to be respectable any more. Give -. j the bottom of the
ladder ; I have no desire to climb into precipitous isolation.
All my ambitions are gone, save this one, to love and
cherish my unfortunate kind. I am even overcoming my
loathing for vulgarity, and this, by doing what you did
that morning with the clerk and the labourer — refusing to
see their frailties. Hilda is with me heart and soul in all
my work. She is more tender and lovable than I.
When we are alone, I call her Christ's little mother,
because she has taken His poor into her breast." Then,
after some talk about Hilda and his love for her, the letter
concluded : " This work is not for you ; at least, not yet.
I r^ard it in the light of a penance for all my thirsty years ;
nevertheless I find in the penance my greatest joy. You
have nothing to acone for, so to you it is allowed to pass
upon your way. Make great songs, Gabriel, for we poor
outcasts need them. We want something good to whisper
as we go about our tasks. Weave all that is true and noble.
HOW THE SUN SHONE 108
however sad, into your singing; for men must be made
to weep before they can become ripe for laughter. If you
have learnt to pray, offer up a petition for poor old John.
If not, then speak a kind word now and then when the
wind is blowing this way, and perhaps he may catch the
refrain.***
Gabriel laid the letter down and brushed his hand
across his eyes. "How good people are getting," he
stammered ; « Pm afraid I shall never be like that. And
he will persist that it is all due to me. I, who tried to
steal Hilda's love. It is now my turn to pattern myself
by John."
A footstep came behind him, and a merry voice piped
up, « Good-morning to you : a happy Christmas. How
did you like my decorations ? " Then, « Why, you've been
aying ! " In a trice, Mary was down on her knees at his
side, holding his two wet hands in her own, her eyes filled
with tears. « Oh, do tell me," she pleaded ; « is it anything
that I have done ? Didn't you like the book ? "
She was so evidently distressed, her whole face quivering,
and her body trembling with pity, that Gabriel was at a
loss to know what to make of her.
" No, no, little sister," he said, putting his arm around
her. ** There is nothing really the matter. I was crying
because I was so happy."
" That is the best sort of crying," she said. « I have
sometimes felt it, when I have been by myself in the woods,
and a bird was singing."
"It is because a friend, away in the city of London,
whom I love very dearly, has been singing that I am crying,"
Grabriel replied.
She drew back, and looked at him incredulously.
« But you— you couldn't hear any one singing all that
way off, could you ? "
He smiled at her with his eyes. « I couldn't hear their
»3
IW THE WEEPING WOMAN
voice. They wrote their «mg lUl down on paper wKl lent
It to me.
« I wish I could do that," she sighed.
« So it was you," he questioned, changing the subject,
wiI^hSS^%"'"^^**^"'"**™^'«*"^"^«*^*'~'»bri^
She nodded. « And it was I who brought you the book.
You see, I can^ read, and I didn't know what to get you.
I heard you say that you were fond of books, so I sl'^ed
yo^^ike lu^^ '''^' ""^ ^"«*** y°" **^*- ^
Its just the book I was wanting. I never have been able
to learn one tenth part of what it contains, but now that
rm ,n the country, I shall have time to tiy aU over again."
"I am glad that you like it," she said. « It's so difficult
to know what people like. I must have read your thought,
somehow. If you really like it, I'll tcU you what you can
do—read It all aloud to me." / ««
At this proposal, his countenance feU. He didn't want
his deception to be found out. "Do you know, I don't
toi LS" understand aU that's said in th^ ft',
" Oh, that doesn't matter," she implied gaily. « You're
clever, andJU be able to make it^impC L ^^
Shall we begin to-day?" ^
Gabriel looked puzzled, rummaging his bmins for a..y
rr^ "rilteUyouwhatrildo. FU give you a pre^^
instead. Til be your brother while Fm here "
«J^^:i*^«^A^^t"^' ^^«*l^*y« longed for a brother,"
X^^rr *'"^' °' """' ^" '^''''^^^ ' ^ ^
sister^^TT'^ ^^ ^"^t\ " ' '^"^y^ "'"^ - little
sister, and have never had one. You shaU be mv
Chnstmas present." ^
HOW THE SUN SHONE 195
A radden thought ttruck her, and she looked sad.
•• What's the matter now ? " he asked « Do you want
to take back your gift ? "*
•« I was wondering how long it would be befoi« you went
away. YouTl be here a long while, won't you ? "
" Oh, ever so long," he cried ; « for at least five months,
and after that— we'll see."
She clasped her hands resignedly. « Then I shall forget
to remember for the next five months. I shall tell myself
that you have come to stop for always." Then, iUogicaUy,
"but, when you do go, I don't know whatever I shaU
do."
"Don't let us think of that," he said cheerily. "This
is Christmas morning, and we've got to be happy. Come,
now, what shall we do ? Do you want to go to church ? "
" Fve never been in my life," she said. « I don't know
the people, and Td rather not, unless you'd like."
** Tm not particular," he replied.
" WeU, then, the first thing to do, seeing we've become
a fiunily, is to have a meal together," she said ; " and, seeing
that Fm your sister, it's right that I should cook it.
You'd better run over and teU Mrs. Crump that she's not
wanted to-day."
"But how do I know that my sister can cook?" he
asked.
"If you're going to ask questions like that, youll very
soon find that you haven't got a new sister at all," she
answered with a laugh. « Now go and tell her."
Mrs. Crump had gone to church, but Mr. Crump, who
had lost most of his right leg in a poaching affray, was at
home. He said that he would tell his wife. He was very
anxious to detain Gabriel, and to engage him in conversa-
tion ; also very anxious to know what had made him so
eager to do without his dinner, in both of which objects
he was foiled.
1
IW THE WEEPING WOMAN
n J!I?*T- ®'^'* ««t back to the cottage, he found gi«it
prepaimtion. ,n progr««. The break fiu,t had been cl«««i
the room »wept and durted. and on the Ubie the «umt
anatomy of one of Mn. Crump'« turkeys to whomlnw*
rtuffing wa« bemg given at h» death than he had ever
received in his lifetime.
the unfortunate bird, and Uying his hand dirtLLly
upon Its haggard features, "we serve you as we seni
ourselves. It has been left for strangem to discover your
''''*"?^™ to appreciate your part»-so little admiml in
your l,fet,me-now that your dead. Alas, my featherles.
brother, our prajse falls upon deaf ears, and y^ur eyes can
no longer see ! How sad it is to reflect that we could not
allow you to be present at your only triumph-while you
were yet Imng-by eating you in your lifetime. It is
too late now, hke most kind thoughts-ah, vain regret!
A^uld that we had thought of it earlier, for yo^
WhUe Gabriel had been meandering on with his non-
sense, Mary had paused in her kneading to listen. When
he concluded, she said, "I suspect that you^re only making
fiin; but, quite senously, I always feel like tlit about
dead animals. It seems so terrible ^ destroy a thinir
which you can never make again.'
"I don't see how wishing that you'd eaten them in their
lifetime can do them much good," said Gabriel, laughinir
at her simplicity. "»*"*«
" I ^f«j't t*l>ing about that part of what you said,"
r lmP ' ^'^ *'*'* ^°"« ^'•' "b"* »^«t the cruelty
of killing animals at all. Gabriel," she went on, looking
up at him very earnestly, «I do hope youTl try and be
senous with me. I know Fm a very odd girl, and very
Ignorant, and perhaps : don't appear to you to be verv
good, but that's on account of my loneliness and my
HOW THE SUN SHONE 197
bringing up. I ouiH behave m a siiter should, if you
do nothing but play with me.^
** You little stupid, how do you know how a sister ought
to behave, when youVe never had a brother?**
** I know very well, becauiie Tve thought it all out many
times— when Tve wished that I had one. Besides, when
I was a little girl I used to pretend all kinds of things,
and one of them was that I had a brother in the woods
whom I went to visit all alone. Sometimes I would tell
Mother the things that he said to me : and at first she
would laugh; but afterwards she would cry."
" Why, what kind of things did you say that he told
you?"
"All kinds of things. I remember his face, and all
that he said, so distinctly, that I sometimes think he was
really there after all. Whenever I go out alone after
dark, I half expect to meet him. He had a* name, and
eveiything that a real live person ought to have.''
** WTiat was his name ?" asked Gabriel, abandoning his
bantering tone, and becoming interested.
" I used to call him Tony, and he called me Madge.
He was ever so much taller than I am, and wore green
clothes and long yellow hair. The first time we met was
when I was a baby of about four, and had crawled away
through the bracken over the hill at the back of the
house, when Mother was out picking fruit in the garden.
I was very happy at first, and watched the rabbits playing,
and butterflies sailing to and fro, like painted ships.
Then I grew tired of watching, and tried to run home ;
but I only got more and more lost in a green, strange
land. I suppose I must have sat down to cry, for the
next thing I remember is a boy dressed in green, with
yellow hair and a smiling face, picking me up and kissing
me, and telling me that I was his little sister. I didn't
believe him at first, I fancy, until he began to teU me
/^
IM THE VITEEPING WOMAN
;;;«^ rtoriai .boot Wid. ttd b««ti; and ^
•topp«l wilh him for .Tcr io long, for it wm W p^t
U^Ume when he juried me « fcr - the g«ti«..^C
^ L w'^* "^"^ *^* ^^" ~"« '^w Tony ^ mi^
r*.o .tt ::::? th.t he wouW come i^ai'n. Mo^
d«,rway, that rf,e foyot to «old. But when Ae caUed
ZJV. ~T*!^ ^'^ "^d -*id that my namfw-
Madge, becauae the boy had told me «,. Tl^ the J^
ojme out Mother thought that I wa- m.^^^^Jll
•nd laughed, and. when I pemisted. told me Uiat it w^
time after that I kept my iecret more to my»elf and
with him agam and again; sometime, all day.^met^
twice a day until I grew older and «w him lei';L Z
tree-. The l^t time he came was the night MotW died.
Ifelt jomeone looking at me in through the opS door.
what he wanted. I «w quite dirtinctly the face of To^
^hTJ'ir "^V" ^^ **« ^ been^oTing, bufwh^ ^i
^"^J: ^-' "^^ «-i- wa. emptyXf 'the« w!L no
"But that could only have been your imagination, and
came of hvmg so much alone."
f W^* ^^^ "^ ^^^^^^ ""^ ^^y ? You said just now
that they made your mother cry"* ^
"Mostly about myself, and good advice besides. He
HOW THE SUN SHONE 100
uaed to tcU me that when I grew up he would have to go
•WSJ ; but that I murt always remember what he had aaid
to me, when we played together. One of the tbingii which
he wai always aaying wais • The world ii not good, Madge,
you murt be very careftil ; the world in not good.* Then
one day I asked what made him aay that no often ; and he
replied that most people, especially women, died when
they were quite young, although they kept on walking
about after their death, just like live people, and it
was all because they had believed that the world was
good. It was when I told Mother this, that she cried
mosf
"But the world is good, Mary. It itt because I had
found it to be so much better than I had supposed that
you found me as you did this morning.''
♦♦ Never mind, Gabriel, we shall both find out some day.
Perhaps Tony was only a fairy tale; at all events, I'm
going to believe in you."
« But you said that you knew all about brothers. What
do you know?"
♦* If they are anything like Tony, they should be good,
and strong, and unselfish. He was always this to me;
although I was sometimes very cross, I never heard him
speak an angry word."
*« He sets me a high example. I'm afraid I shan't be
able to live op to it."
**0h yes, you will," she said ; "your hands are just like
Tony's, they are not the hands of a cruel man."
"You little minx," cried Gabriel, thinking he saw
daylight, " I believe you've been making it all up ! Come,
now, confess, there never was a boy in green, with yellow
hair."
" Hush ! " she said, with very evident consternation ; " if
you talk like that, we may see him. Fm half afraid of
you; you're so like him."
«» THE WSBPINO WOMAN
Md I M, only , poor cMuihy ^A- ^™^
CHAPTER XIX
WHIM HBABTt AlK YOITMO
Tmk lonainder of the ChriatnuM Dkiy paiMd happily
•way In tkis Hune innocent game of make-believe. If you
pretend that a thing i» m with lufficient penistenoe, you
will awake lome fine morning to diacover that it has oome
to be. So with these two play-fellowa, what had been
eommenced, by at least one of them, in a spirit of tender
jest, soon came to be considered in the light of a reality.
When the weather has been cold and the journey weari-
some, the fint fire one comes to does to warm the hands
by. Mary and Gabriel had each felt life to be a little
■ad ; here, by the merest accident, they had stumbled
across the desolate Moorland of Circumstance by separate
paths, up to the same lonely shelter, to find a fira alnady
kindled, and comfort within.
What blame to them if they were loath to depart ?
** Pull down the Winds," they seemed to say the one to
the other ; ** love is the unearned increment, and there are
few who attain. Let us spend freely, while it is ours to
enjoy. Love is a gift from the gods ; to-morrow it may
be gone. It is like to the wind— blowing where it listeth,
and we hear the sound of its voice ; but whence it cometh,
and whither it goeth, we never can tell. This fire must
tome day perish and our comfort forsake us ; let us be
merry while we may." So, day in day out, they met and
talked— when the weather was wet and dreary, at Follv
201 ^ ^
«» THE WEEPING WOMAN
thqr^.n:>e««l to perc«ve, or, if they did, to 'H=rf ,K,t
Dm Mereditli wa. the only one who h«J en nu.ce to
their mtimacy. At fl«t, ev4 he w„ dUti^T »,!?
^^ "H""' '"""""' "^ child-likett^S ^.
hon, he ««ed to grieve, «k1, .t time^ fo„.,d occSo^
S f^ TIT* "•"" *^'''« • *•"» "" through^h^
tor«t, he would come upon them by surprise ZikbZ
reace be unto you, my chUdren." At other time. iJ
would jhjcover them plunging deeper into the^CS^
G.hnel holding back the b«nchrthat Ae m^»to
^rf^":ii^tm!^*^*°'^"'*^""'-'- ^
«.d m„*^r "J! P«"'r *•"" 'h'y ""dd -^e him finrt,
«nd run toward him, and carrr him away caotiye to mpm
«tate the mptenes they had witnessed in the fo.4 • the
^v'h^d" "* JS'^ ^ ™'*^ -^ "■' buriJtoul
they h«J discovered. To the buds they would take nre-
».wers. For the latter action Mary would explain the
r<««.n by saying, " Poor dead people, ttey have iZ h5
ZZ^^ k" *'™- "^'y' - Britons, ^Tl^
been dead for-how many years did you »ay, Gabriel ? "
'^m inquinnggh„«*_«fo, „„„ than ^^ „,
years, Dan, and we thought that they must be verv lo^
so we brought them flowers - "»i « very lonely ,
WHEN HEARTS ARE YOUNG 205
''Hieir souls are with the Lord,*" Meredith would
^postulate.
** We are neither of us sure of that ; and besides, the
Lord was not bom when they fell fighting, Gabriel says.
So we bring them flowers.'"
After which Meredith would be silent, the world having
b^^ at Bethlehem for him.
** I wonder whether any one will give us flowers, when
we have been dead so long P "" she would question shyly.
** We, at least, shall be with the Lord,*" Meredith would
reply exultantly.
" Yes, but what about these poor people ? If they are
not there, I should not be happy,"" she would say.
Then the old man would shake his head uncomprehend-
ingly, and kiss her hand, saying, **The Lord is good.""
Rising, they would go away.
Even to his dull eyes, they were both changed. By
some mystic aldiemy of the soul they had both become
etheiealized. All of the peasant had disappeared from Mary;
the sweet rusticity of her nature alone remained. Gabriel
also was difierent ; he had become purged of the cynic and
contentious townsman — had riien above the world of strife.
When Meredith was perplexed by a phenomenon which
he could not explain, it was his habit to read deliberately
through the Gospels from Matthew to John, and continue
so doing, until some passage of Scriptiue gave him the
solution. This expedient he reverted to at the present
juncture. He had not read far before he stumbled on the
words, " Verily, I say unto you, except ye be converted,
and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the
kingdom of Heaven.""
" Little children ! "" he thought. " Most certainly that
is what they have become. They have been converted
into little children ; but have they been converted into
Christ?"
«0* THE WEEPING WOMAN
of the ehaSsTh: w^d-«J^' "a??'h*f ^"'-Hf
come. They have entered tK,- «i ■»* " y«t to
to meet the^tt" "^^ ' *^ ""^ 7**
«»t the^^-Lr iX^Jt Ze to in,'" '^' T
wheth. M, x:: t^'y^ci:^'-'- ^^
secure in the assurance th«f fK *^* reflecting;
P<Me of her living-to brin^ foUl, \: • ^ """^ P"'"
woos her child, he^ brothrif^i ^/!"r*« ^- She
with a like sul:::^;:^'^^,^^^^^ -^ ^^^^^^
bolH^andlS^htlnt If Tn^ '"^"^^* °"*
bom. * " ""*^ ""^ expression, and be
With a man it is otherwi»> w« i
to him«Uf, pe^ „„ Zw".^* mZr*^' ^
heart quivera within ), J t ^°" P"""/ « woman',
or loJ ^ ''"• *' " » *»««'• of salvation
Me?^7;trrfr f ?" """*'"« '^^ *° P-*'™-
««ijr watcn tHeir emotions at work unl#^ +1, u
«unts or time-^ers. A woman nevlr-^e^b ^
wa. no one of sniHoient wi«,om near hylt:^^Z
WHEN HEARTS ARE YOUNG 205
that Launoelot and Guinevere is a true stoiy. So they
drifted on, unaware of their danger.
IVagedies come stealthily and in the night ; the episodes
of young love openly and in broad day. For Mary and
Gabriel it was as yet early morning, and neither realized
their risk. Their eyes were for the time blind to the
accusing faces of the village ; their ears deaf to the world-
wise tauntings of spite. The purity of their own intentions
made the whole earth clean and native to them.
looking back upon their doings years after, had it been
possible, they might truthfully Imve saW—
"'^^ ,*. ^y •"** • "^^* ^^« ■»°« *o o»> played with as.
Folded OS round from the dark and the light;
And our hearts were fulfilled with the music he made with us.
Made with our hearts and our lips while he stayed with us.
Stayed in mid-passage his pinions from flight
For a day and a night."
Only, as so often happens, when the season for such
singing came, there were no two voices left to sing. For
the one that remained, the desire for song was over-past.
The single excuse that can be made is that their love
was innocent, and that they did not know. All this while,
Gabriers book was galloping on apace. The Poet's fore-
cast, that peace and the country would produce in him
song, had been verified in this unexpected way. Every
ramble and intimate conversation hastened its completion ;
for the inspiration which it contained owned a dual author-
ship. Like gusts of wind on an untroubled sea, each breath
left its impress and was duly recorded in some little or
large commotion of sound. The results attained far sur-
passed his most sanguine hope. He instinctively grew into
a quiet confidence of his purpose. The distresses and
regrets, registered at the Turnpike, gradually working
toward this abundant calm, gave to his cycle of singing a
strength which could not fail to comfort such chance
306 THE WEEPING WOMAN
daneUcU u should venture upon hii page-* comfort
which, he told himself, would easily atone for the vicarious
suffering which the book's production had imposed.
Never did poet labour amid kinder surroundings than
he. Every most trivial incident of the day contributed to
his creations. Mary, with her naive and pertinent re-
marics, was for ever throwing his mind back to a lost
simplicity, and kindling his imagination to fonwtten
purities of twilight days.
While yet retaining the maturity of his genius, he had
become as one of earth's earliest children, not distinguish-
ing between good and evil— this, for the reason that he
remembered only the good.
For the time, he was as one who sleeps and dreams in
his sleep, haunted by phantom's of the things that were—
memories which traversed his dream-Mfe discordantly,
causing him to rouse and, opening his eyes, to gaze round
upon the well-known room, but not for long, and then,
having found the familiar unsubstantial, only to hurry
back with quickened feet to the delicate land of his
acclaiming shadows.
The villagers, on account of the distant intangibility of
his look, nicknamed him « The Man in the Mist.'' Straight
ahead he walked, gazing neither to left nor right ; a dream-
man in a dream-world, and she following.
How far she really followed, and how much he attributed
to her by the glamour of his presence, it is unsafe to say.
Yet, remembering the mystery of her childhood, its solitude^
together with her c n early imaginative wanderings with
the green boy of the flaxen hair, it is only just to suppose
that they walked with an equal strength, side by side.
The waking moments of this strange life came to him
with the advent of letters from his old companions, telling
him of doings at the Turnpike. « Life is a crusade, life is
a crusade," Lancaster would continually insist. To which
WHEN HEARTS ARE YOUNG 207
Gabriel would reply, ** And for me it is one long dream."*
Having rend their messages and dispatched his answers, he
would lapse with a happy sigh into the interrupted vision,
and, reassuming his pen, scramble off fresh verses, explore
new emotions, and wander along the familiar by-ways,
accompanied by the same dear companion.
Their method of daily living was irregular and impulsive
in the extreme. Early in the morning they would come
together, clinging the one to the other with that tenacity
of trust which a young child displays for its mother — the
probable outcome of fear of sudden bereavement. The
path between the taU trees which connected his cottage
with Folly Acre was well "om by their willing feet. They
seemed to outvie in devotion as to who should be first to
annomice the sunrise, so that at times they would happen
half-way in the shadow of the dawn. Each day was too
short for their pleasures ; they were passionate to exhaust
every hour of its last cup of joy. The good-bye at evening
was of lengthy process, undertaken gradually, with many
journeys and frequent repetitions. There were waitings
outside in the dusk, on GabriePs part, till her light
had been extinguished, and the farm was utterly dark.
Counter watchings before sunrise, on Mary's, for the
opening of his window, which heralded for her the breaking
of new day. Second by second the spring was drawing
nearer, the magic of his breath was in the air. Birds were
returning by twos and twos back to the last year's nests.
Buds were bursting in the tree-tops. Life was exulting in
rapid strength throughout the greenwood. Their hearts
were possessed by the madness of his laughter. Theirs
was a pagan world ; too full of merriment to be Christian ;
with too little of grief to last for long. No thought of
parting marred the pageant of their day ; only at evening
did the melancholy of boding foreshadow, when hands were
parted and they had said *' Good-night.''
lOS THE WEEPING WOMAN
Happy M childttn in the first jnder of craated things,
they Uunched forward in search of newer discoveries, with
no sadness of whence and whither.
Cdumbus, in sight of the New World, was not man
glad than they. Thein was a new world, as indeed is that
of every babe who turns his new eyes upon our timewom
lands. The world has been here all the while ; it is the
new eyei which make it new.
For all his delight, there was no trace of sex in Gabriel's
love. She was a heart and a soul to him ; nothing less.
The inspirer of his ideals ; sharer in his thoughts ; inter-
preter and awakener of his better nature. He cherished
her without regud to her womanhood, as he might have
done a religion, a philosophy, or another m-n ; as 3»e thing
which had made known himself to himself, loid called forth
his god-head.
For a woman, such refinements of psychologic pro-
cesses are impossible. Unaware of it herself, at the back
of all display, she loved him only as a man, and panted for
his coming. It required the crisis to reveal to her this
truth. So far, she mimicked his attitudes, as do all lovers
the preferences and willings of those they love. The crisis
was not yet.
Meekness had become the paramount quality in her
nature. While he was writing, she was content to sit
quietly sewing in a room hushed and silent, save for the
dick of her needle and the peck of his rapid pen. The
task complete, she would listen attentively to the reading
of his production, often startling him by the aptness of her
criticisms and su^^tions.
" Where did you get your knowledge ? " he would ask
in amaze, remembering her ignorance of books, and in-
ability to read or write.
"Is that knowledge?" she would ask surprisedly.
« Mamma was very clever and used to talk with me, which
\
gn» roe «mg, to ^ ""f. there w«. no one to
"^^inpe^ u!5hTnL7l^'^'' '^ <•« »J«If.
„ Any mention of tt. ^ •
»<dd not unde«t«rf. ""^ "" «o»»U.ing which he
■Hie whole dan'M «r n
«» know till n.^jh" h ita*"™^* '■' «<• k"-, «nd
P^on of tut knowledge. G.b^ ^°°^ "'«• « -tolen
He would re.»n wfthW "1T ""' "'""■««'.
ation.- ■«•• That w„ .11 „ hj,^._^
«"«V°^;Ltt^t'f r*" -'■"«'" *'
"V» broke down. ^"^ *° "•"<>"■. ond hi. rea««,.
.y ""**"' "^Sht,- heloold
^^^/^r:;:rot- rc--- k"" — H
^'egan with you." *^ ^^® ™e, but not me. I
"And what if I -hnnW
then P« he would ask ^ *^*^ ^ ^^o would you be
" I should cease to ho « u
»"e into existence wh^yj^.^^ »-«■ '"H.!. «If
Such Mying, fii,^ him °^^ * "" y°"-"
he would «x,n dispel by „ri^ tZ°'"™*«0' f^, "hich
"d tun, .gain bomtij^^' ^^^ «« ""ty wo,d. ; "
'4 "'"" to hi, present fehcity.
•W THE WEEPING WOMAN
««•* t«nd -wumt S B "^ Cu^taott, in hi. W
Whither at this point • ih^l^^ ^* ^^ ««««d the
P«««?ge of the fo^ ' ^""^^Pwent had guarfed tte
inate^It^^^^ *h- two to «,„e for ulti-
vaUe^ glebing l^C";^'!: "^TV""' ^IT"^*^ *^"^
fires from the riverKlepS? tjT ^'" ^^^' beckomW
beneath taU t«e« ; ^Sn^&r! ^'"^'^ «~^ ^
hi« molten image spuS^^' *• *".^r'^ '^«^^*«J» till
in the distant «i ^"^^ ^~^"« *°d drenched, dit,,;,^
■^nere was liff 1a *j
The .pp^ ,„ u,, ^ *^t^ t»»ent «rf i,eeti,«.
P<«t<i«, on thn,u«h a n,im«, ^ *imagb « doping
dead moorI««i, «IL\^^ "^J °"t on to . ninlf
«i«li"8 ".d l-iteri^Sir^ '?' ""^k. dH>t Oft
The fortificaUon ttXSi, 5~*" *^
»«lb, it. el.bo«te »f hill*" """y 8««" "hJ outer
vanidied foe, bore ^ "'»"?'» preparation. »ainrt ,
'™;«e«nerof r.£ ^„:;«Se*""*,*"'™™^«'"
-the noi*le» hort. oAw! """^''^ of aU enemie.
"And they have all nas.ll« .1.
"»wer to a .p„ken thought """^ "'' " i' i»
"And thus wm «!.» -u n
«»«>» l.-.Mcki„g. lie ° ™, .'"»<'''». Gabriel l«,k«, („
•» open book before h," el w.^ ^^ '" ^^ «««
--.^«»»„„pt„a^";jr;ri^ri:,-
U-;St" "'•^•" -•" «••>"•«.. "he WU, not w«.t „
Tbey turned to co A. n, j.j
•»""t a pot 0/ /^ ^^T'J' *•' «». her foot eaaght
J^ ""'^th .r,^^b;«T«"^e the door. ,£
"f"^"**' them into hi. ^m^* «"«d to them to .top,
toj«k.,„dthen4„ti3*^f;,. »« ""ted for them
^•^^^^"t mtr V- --"-
Gabriel aodied .mgrily ""^"S "'^ "hat w« ,J^
" You «hall not hrar what h.
*««8ed, hjf-cwried jer totLS T'^ *^ "^ '«^ h.If.
Meredith hobbled ^tu ' ''°°''-
•ouldpe^it ''Oh,IWep^Lt *"* •" i'" la^ene^
be^^a^ mth me," he pleX^^'™*" "'**"• ^'i
»ai<i«i'"ou^kve1'"^^7,,!:i»'" Gabriel cried. ".^
•» THE WMPINo wroMAK
■"Mil nU. *™*« '*' "«»• wound lUdd
*• w«i lotth to W»» T-^ A
CHAPTER XX
■*« they too ihort for <!.. ■ ■
"■"owl PetuUntlv AlZi u J*^*^ of lore? - h.
convinced of thi^i a.J'J. ^f^ d.y I g«, „<«
by religion. Anger i. » l!n ~"y *"»* »» mew,
-•' die. with d^" «•"»"• P«i.» for you «Z^
"l-««g,7f„y^,^
2)3
«W THB WEEPING WOMAN
** Wi» Um^ 4-. ^ . P^ "*• •" «• other dav- •
a flu M ^ to-morrow in which to forp.^ *• j^ JT^
--"l^^«.*'" *^" •- "-«i But it - .^
At the bwlc of hb mind the old JmJ -rf ki , .
unCoigiv^ »" lert hi. «Jw»,y j„^ ^
"I*t not the lun on >lnn. ..
mother hri „p..ud to^li^X^"?" ^S" ."»*^" "«
P«^on. He could rnoli .u v " °" «"«> wy to
for the morning to d.!^. ir^^':"^.^' «»«•. '««gi««
. child: thelS q^t^^ :^-,^ ■«<«» -gi^"
hour was ali4ly late LnlJ^^fu ^^* "^'"« **»* the
good, ButKo^dTaw^^
be too late." came the DrLnT^ • "'**™'"« ^ " 't may
^ ^ ^ . came the prompting voice ; « why don't yZ
Fooli^ as the position might be, Gabriel was not so
A PBmTENT APOSTLE „«
for thinking .bout it, \o I iT»f '. ""*'"' •H»
•"S "^ ™^ - ^^ •«»<• to ,.« ^-?
Iti.Iwh„«„«^ *"-•"«■» to «y,Ut I did
t-^.oyoa""-ss-.iTr':i:'rt -'J"'
y<w. I w«t to tell you rty ' ' ""-judged
'^t'S^,^^ta''i;^"' • ir- •»-
"-•tMiend. ^ "^ "* • «re bUiing. All enmity
wSS" iSfwt SS;er *° ™ t """ '"• -tun, to ■
•'"'I'w. md began. f"""" *" O" ««» into the
"I»poke«»ldid|)ecBiueI„.„, „. u
through tn«ting ov^.m^h in^^^"*^'* y»" -««.
r::.^rho'^fen^s-£Vr'"™-
«« THE WEEPING WOMAN
G^^ '"'"'• ^«^ that ^^ ^. ..^^
ftJne- of „y rt«„gtt into tli^ i*'>™ *»« '» *»«•
»vcd ««t" "y '" •omething-ha, W hi. o^
Ga'S "'" ■"" •'"•^ "'»' you .„„<.,,, ^^
"Far from it."
"TeUme,''hesaio.
-n^^t^^g tr j^^^^^^ CO..
long night before him k^^'m^ K ?*" 1**^ ^*»° ^ «
gmndparents, the Devi. ^""1 *?• l^^'^' "J^^-
Acre, and many other c^d m^t"^Z\''^ ** ^^
dead or gone now. ^'^ ''''^ ^ho are either
" My father was omp r»f ♦!,-. i
ride, the «,„ „f . MoTbrid^ h^'^]? »'«■« «»»t7-
«^y on tho wert co«t of AftTr "^ *"«* » «»
to^rd. Mother «,d u, ^°^'' ^'"^ t»der-he«trf
«"ly exploiu Mother JTT" • . '"''*' mentioned his
mors than . boy, and joLS^ 2' ??"' ''°""' "•»» little
family would We n<S lo^T'^i'^ ""eh hi.
«»' he had <%™eed Ke r^:;!'.'""'' «»«"<'^-8
«me to their notice that thrT .. * ^'y- y«« ""ter, it
•eekles. daring he WbL^S T""^ «*» "f the oi^rt
•reived his «pt«i^ n^ *°"! "^ ""■" "^ had
AiHca, and a Slia^^lT'T.™''*'^ *'«' hin, to
h«=ame hi. g.eat^t' ^^tuL^ ^'^ l^^- It n«,
reium to England and meet his
i
nd
ins
khe
len
vn
A PENITENT APOSTLE «r
fctal. A native ri,m« tTk ,1 ^- w^,^ ?"»'«»
out that he mu fel-; °™ «> » <«* on the coMt, giviiw
be better te«I for Le ,^1^" ^"* *" ''"''' ■"■"*" *<•
or because ^Z^^T^ "^ "" S'""* "f onJer,,
/ colony, n«nei C^^Z "2,°""? J"?' *""» »' the
' the defence. He3^tv T,!. """"^ ,'"'" *° ™'»"^e
out sr hiraenttriTc^^' «rT «•»'"«
authority, and therefor, ^^^u '^'^^*- of usurping
home to the FoSrVlffi """^ "P ""y «»*■>«
advising Cart^^f „^!^ ;,"»' •'""S^g letter!
a dangerous man 111^.1 . ^ '*™'* " heing
to «.ve him "Ss .7 hi *"""' " " » 1^» handi
and the^fo^ t^eaJlg "hn^P^ ^-^ »*««■« fi-ts,
single-handed with ^! ™ ■ncompetence to cope
rj." '""' "" e">«8ency_„hich me«,t iS
'up^rior. tookhlT? *»PPo'»t«I in himself and his
and^i-.^igiof Mot IriV^." .'™*" "P *» driok
children." "'""'' '^ " had influence over u,
"I-uldanowaman.ho.ouldfeguUtyofone.ud.
«8 THE WEEPING WOMAN
Srr ''""''*' "' '^ "^ ' «»»^>>«J." Gabriel
more or IcM wild_l esDecialW sw. , Vf.*" P** up
t-ems 1 took to g^STgl^k ^i„f ^ ""^ "
therefore rather «b„i,^ thZ„^^ ^ hjnd«,me, «h1
m-Kiving, to rest I .jIST J ^^ ^^ "^
".other-snonvictbt .Lt^t^if JVe™ !"' "■^,
"turi/Meth^l":?^™^""^'*™'*'^:. ^'y^™
tion. who held me f„ a »„ rft^**^'""" » P"^**"-
that I wa, fore-orfainrft hlu ^""^T"'^*'""?''*
forbade our match. We wereil!: ,^" "f^K "' *^
the woods and dells wW „. ,^ *°*' °"*"°e» '»
"-observed. Se^l^A "! ^"''l."""* one another
twigs and rus&a WeltX a^',! " """^ "'»" "^
summer days. ^ '^^ "^ ""^ "« »P«>t our
A PENITENT APOSTLE 219
of.rimd,pirita. What I aftenrmd. „j]^ ,
tion, at which so many have dIavpH «k« «nipta-
beautiYul, but her pLciplef'T:^' o'^^ Z^^'l!^,
Droke down When I argued with her she fonjot her
moral standards. Of these she was alreadv Z^
account of their severity ^ *"^ °"
mo,^ penlous kind, and tampeml with^CSy All
th 8 came about because no God stood betw^ nf F
this reason I said to you, « Love with3 S;!; • ^"'
God made us frail ' * '^^'^^^ ''^ ""^^^ ^
Meredith pau^d, his fece «hy ^y. Leanir^^arf
and lowenng his voice, he said "I Z„'t ."""« '""'»"'.
of S: ^^^"^^ 1 7 '''*^'' hatiog-id the/X^
And if^ .""* "^ ^'*^"'' l^t^d «n ■» ray veZ
but^^- *"*"''**"'"''»'«• I found a truce,
MO THE WEEPING WOMAN
f^^'f^^zizi^^'sr^^^. Not
"n now fighting for the 1^1 - i ,!• "*?* »'«-i«te. I
-rith « effort. h*e conUn^'^ft f^„"f "^r^ *'*^
We neither of us n,ejr.„, I ?* "> Uw u«uj way.
■"•y God spar, you the d^ „f • T °''> «••»*«".
"ponyou fton. tJe windoroftrT'lh^?!,'-"'' •»'
her people; they would have sto^I^l. *''* *»^ "<* teU
W" wiUing to help her, die L, H 1? '• J^" ">«• -h"
."•rtue whieh I hJnoTsut^tA™ '"^''^- ^ «"«
■n the imminence of her *^ '"g^ "^T ^ «•« 'W.nt
"Oman, better than the oAe^„ I i, j f "^""^ '''*« •
and fending for henelf. "" ' "^ '""»™. thinking
w d?:;j3 "^Tu:":^ °^'' "-»>»t7 that d«
ta«eofh'nrfo^;j'^* »d ^ «»» »i«d. but no
the night the «, Xto'^Lt jfd it"" "^'«''
London. owuna, and taken train for
the' XILX ^"l" -^ ^"^ «»t I ea^l,
""tred of the Lord lr?„!*"°'* *" *"» temble. The
nnagining a™e to me by Z,t L'T*" , ^""^ horrible
dead. I „w her eves «t J ""^ *'y- ^ "»■ her
Stn.^.---^'^"^rs!^'5^-
-Pring had »h«X ttl Sv^"^ N-ertheless. the
- y». X heard ^T'^Zl^l^^f^J^
A PENITENT APOSTLE 221
^"P^^ I had killed them. I knew th** T K i^
do any good by stopping near bv^! i '^^^^ "*^«'
done the deetL «, I fl«f !T^ \^^ ^^^ ^*»ere I had
the hat«d^ l! Ujf^^ ^^^r^- I we:?
nothing. ^^ '^""^^^ *ne? I pronpered at
•ooimuUte. only new Wee.. ' ' ""'"K "tone which
d"pi"ed i «nk lower »2 l„iZ ^ ^"."^ '''"P"'""S ""d
h«*r, awaj, with thetortul' "'""' '^'' "«>
abroad had been to make ^ffiiT* ^ ''°P° '" f^'V
i*tam Mrf find o^t iTrlTn J"' T^^ *° "»'>'« ™e ti
»- m, „« /4^1^; -- I «»en,l3^. the
iHe LTwi^eTL-'^P't^-truir 7 ^T^
"hen n.y 1„4' Zat^ w^i: °' "^ «-^ One day,
•h.,n I had known, ca^e t metd Jf°HT^ "r""
«o you want to earn Ave dolLr. . .?. ^' y*" •»">.
"He w„„ldntT,ed^»" •»<»■«' honestly?-
hut the lowest dC B^ I^ "^ ""* ""^y *» "7
o^ri-g were anl^t. Tw«%r""\r? ^ ^^ ^
•omething cheap. I crin,^ T 7™"",""* he wanted
West ^nter «.„i„g „„. , tid'TmlSri^ ' *""*■
month?' he aakei r- *"'" 8^ my farm for a six
r ne asked. I answered that Pd try
Can you handle a gun and keen fL «.*• • r ,
•way ? ' he went on ^ ""^ ^^'^^^g ^ndiant
«8 THE WEEPING WOMAN
mjTi""*" '* "'• "** -■'' '^t rd l«„ . n,.Am^ ^
«^' "^r*' ""'^ '^. 'y™ "" "t^ »•»» to-<nomnr.'
, i?T* 7* • ""» »"<* "i"!* me long to chdkeUm
l«.k.„g b«k over hi. Aoulder « he pJ!!;, thtJ.'X
« A J ^°5 ' •"P'**' y°" ™ got much to p«k.' -
"And did you gof-«ied Gabriel. "^
for.^^eiolr"'"'*''- ""-t''>«J'»a*dt.,
" What kind of a place was it ? "
m^LtZhr ^"'"^' rj °"* °" *^^ P^"^» ^»*h "ever •
w2? I ^^''^^^'^""^"^^^"^"^'ng and had
become a railroad contractor; but he still kept hrrt«k
«W^ through the winter, so he put me in to take care of
nn" ^t?^"" ' *^''^' **** '"°^ ^»ne down and blanketed
up everything. Never before nor since havT I wT ^
d^fr-.''^^^"'"**^^ -^*^ the monotony ;^hen"
While the dnnk which I had brought with m^ 1-^-^
I^ Jlong toWabty .d,_„^d gettTklTK
men I di«»vered that this w«, giving out, .nd ,S
It out , but It was no good. When I looked out fiomtte
.e:;tirTr.r2tt:w4=i--e
night tried to sleep, d«adi„g the com^Tnew ^^
I Aould have shouted with joy had the I«li.^ Li J
lifters eome; but not one came nigh nor by At^
only one bottle of whisky „n.ai„ed. *VVhisky ^a, my ^
A PENITENT APOSTLE m
70a underatand ; it stood betwdpn «« j
"Day in, day out, surrounded by the irreat whitp .««
this stnunrle went nn «,.**k • ^ *^^ wnite snow,
and fe^f ™e LZl r^l'*" temptation^ «™^'
dwkini every Li?, ;t^ '?*"■''* •'°"'- '^"' « "uzarf
arouK^.l":'*''""""' "" '"'^■"« ■'"'<»^ hoof'
wt,!? 't'*';^"^" "y^'f "»' the cattle had b«>ken
beJ^°«Sr'^ i ''T ~ """ '^^ PO""*"* gallop
oegan again. Round and round .c went fill t r j /
look out. d^ading what 1 might :e:'' "^ ' '^ ^
Jhere w a belief on the prairie that the De.fl, H„
comes at de«l of night, in the depthT^teTTfa S^~
wh^e one of the i-^ate, i, to di^. IZt^",^
« Tn o L ^ ^ footpnnts of no living animal
«ni*Vit'^iir:;t'aX" "^ ■" ^^
^e b^rrr/str^ht ::!^; 'tt^ri
saw that aU the whisky was «,„! i\!, ^', ' *''«» '
Nothing now stood hetleTrnf I!^ L^ <" "^ "^'^
pnZ Z blew ±f evil r "" """" "'"'" '"'^^
r na mew, grey, evil figures sprang up «nd dowly
»« THE WEEPING WOMAN
S:::^' *~ *™«' •»* "-king n., „,. tt»
--««»neU.ing,-munn™.dG.I,ridL '^*'«»-
lUrough thiee more davs I w.t-4uJ » A .
glimmering of d«vli<At. .^ u 7*T^ fw the lart
coming of dark pXT ^.T*^ "* •■""' ^ the
fa on every ride, 1^^"%^,^^. "f t'™'. hemmed
«« up before mv ^JZJ^f !f **P^ "^ old am
At a loM what to dTf JL7. J^ ^ "mprepared to die
the end. *"' *° ''°' ' *"*«» ■» « maddening sUero fur
Jtir, co„,d„V.p^", t.ffZZZ a hC J f r
thi. once that I ^y^^fy"!^^ „"» -.f- ™ ^or j„.t
to «. .n.tant the .^amotion cea^d, g™.t .Uence ftU
A PENITEMT APOSTLE au
<»« up • ni«.- ^^ "^ l««n-l«8e ««m^ to
"i* tut ni^ I M ;C«;^1.^i'-^-»
a clean man.'' ** " "'^•*" *° Him, and become
live to do Hi. work Th— • .j!?" ^S™*- 1^' » "iglit
"ot alone. EvenrthinTwiU^!"" """^"'»'"<lw„
l««rth«I begun ^ '"""""''•• <*«««1, the new
the' bum ' whom he had^t o^h ° "*" '" 1«««^°»
"Nevin wu . IZiL "\''"* * «"Meei«ted mm.
me, he wanted to know wh.t T^J u ' , ^"»" ■" «"'
the right bJofAa^'^'^.fr'^ if *at w.».t
you.' • *™ ni be Hi8 left hand to
«-^; ii'aTig-Ln^iri. r "'^. """* »- -
forat that time e™rS,e Cl^^ ™ko«i tmnsaction.,
worked under him ZrT f P™"« '"™«Uy Wert, r
I l»d hand?^ Iyrmyte"1l, ZV" T ™™« «»»
8Bt back to Wildwo^ i wlftS t!'T ™ ''^"8 *»
the village where Td done T^ *°^o my g«rf j^ .^
•5 ^ "^ "evin wanted me to
«• THE WEEPING WOMAN
«» Into putnmhip with Mm unl nflu.^
-■^X'^iZ^^ IT":"- »f -I pu«. r
Him d«wh.; ?- ^ ''""'»'•*»» ">'«l' brtter for
P^tti^t^ ot;.-"^ «» «ng.r „, «» i^
t«"-.^ Xtte'te *° '^''"« "^ Wpi-* th.
inyouiwlf. God m«lem Cl^?^ ^"^ "'"-""«*
to throw .u«W^ aC wi^ " "If* '■"' '<•««>
now ".M ittir^"" "*• °"' ^ '•« Him
^ J- Not «,me day, but now,- ..id Me«dith. «^i„g out hi.
the g«e.%rthreo::s:.t 'i::tti ™"'^
A PENITENT APOSTLE w
CHAPTER XXI
i
^l\
HK lOUOHT OUT HIH MVL
They never referred to that evening again. Gabriel,
becaiu» he wm aiihamed of hii. nhare in it ; Maiy. becauw
«he was wilhng to forget; Memhth. because there were
-ome questions concerning his narration which he was
anxious to postpone. The incident had accomplished two
thm^t the one good, the other in some ways bad. It
tiad drawn Gabriel nearer to Meredith, and shown him
that he was a man to be loved and trusted. He tended,
with ever-increasing frequency, to slip down through the
woods to thecotte-^ by the high-road to convert with
this unsalaried e .^list, sometimes on religion, some-
times on books, and at times to ask his advice. Meredith
was a good influence over Gabriel. He was wholesome
and sincere, and, best of all, a ship which had found it.
nidder; a man who had manfuUy sought out his soul, and
discovered it not aU evil. Tie quality which had been
m«rt conspicuously lacking in Gabriel's earlier companions
had been a sturdy sincerity based on belief. Meredith
was the first man, whom he had met at close nuige, who
possessed a thought so profound that it was worth dyinir
for. Not that Lancaster and Hilda were not sincere, but
theirs was a desperate expedient for doubt rather than
the tenng offspnng of a loyalty. At O^otd he had
numbered among his friends and acquaintance a score of
men who had investigated more deeply, in a scholastic
228
m JoooHT OUT HIS sont m
"•Pt under , b^Ui"'T^ """^ J^J I J«M
What «. g^ iSZh'?™ r*" '>» ''»•'' the P— ge.
On theJwT^^Sl Tk' 8°^ ™'»«'' '^'
grt .t thege„S„w^r.f ^™' "^ "PP"""™" *»
di«ppoi„t5. Unknot to w"T't:^'"'"'"°"«
to «et up a comD<i.it» ij i °""f " ■» n»d commenced
i-n-te^ fo"hr4^r'':tj t *'"^* "«•
fi-ture ; .t p^t h' 3"« """ » undertaking for the
l-d.theS^LoLTth'nr^To'^S °"*^""'"
2«0 THE WEEPING WOMAN
spective, conacioiu of his love for Mary, and sensitive of
misconstruction. Until that occasion all their inteichange
had iNMsessed the sweet indiscretion of children and was
unconsidered ; now he was careful to review the likelihoods
of his endearments before putting them to the act Maiy
was quick to notice this, and, though she said nothing,
regarded it as the beginning of the end. The first hint of
finality was to her affection as a spark among faggots,
causing at first only a little local flame which was soon
stamped out, but which, smouldering its passage unseen,
threatened, should a gale spring up, to leap into open
conflagration.
Many kindly deeds^ which Gabriel had done previously
on the spur of the inclination^ he now omitted; not
because he was unwilling, but because they were unsafe.
Mary, noticing this secretly, construed his attitude as
alienation, and redoubled her efforts that she might win
him back to the old footing ; the doing of it revealed to
her the real nature of her love. Everywhere she would
follow him with a passion of devotion, exercising foresight
for his comfort in a way which she had never thought
necessary, when she had felt assured of his response. He,
reading her intent, was wounded to the quick, not daring
to thank her over-much, always remembering Meredith^s
warning woid; reviling himself for not showing more
gratitude ; adding the poignant pain of pity as a stimulus
to his love.
Face to face, she appeared happy as ever, docile and
tender; but when by chance he caught her unaware, he
saw her sorrow, for at times her eyes were weeping.
" I am a better man than ever I was," he told himself;
"yet I seem fated to rise, not on stepping-stones of my
dead selves, but of my dead friends, to higher things.
How is it, I wonder?"
Going to Meredith for an explanation, the answer was
HE SOUGHT OUT HIS SOUL 281
duld ,. cniaficd for the mother, the mother for the chHd
are here that we may learn to endure our crucifixions
graaoualy and with joy.'' ^tinxions
Such solution left him none the wiser, they only re-
Jtated what he had already found to be unsatlfZnTy
Months drifted noiselessly by; spring came and gave
S^ «"";r'^,«*"^ he li„ge«d. "^The book had W
n, despite the publisher's frequent mjuests, for he knew
that such an act would hemld the climax
ui^ll^^' ^i^V**" ^r^^^ ^e« in the field, and the
«r fiUed with, flower ftagrance, a letter arrived from
Lancaster which forced him to a decision.
« Oh, Gabriel," it ran, « it is terrible, so many peoole to
save and so few to do the work. I fe^l nowThaTowS
«ud. The harvest truly is plenteous, but the labourers are
few: pmy ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that H^
^d forth kbourers into His harvest.' I have^„^
pra^ng, and you know that I have never prayed for
«iythmg before that the Lord Jesus may send yW Hilda
and I have talked about it, and we think that this may
^^tl 'I.y°^^^« «™*«J that book, do at W
return to the Turnpike to see what we are doing, if it be
on^y for a day When once you have seen Hilda with
her arms aromid a faUen woman, I cannot believe that you
wiU ever have the heart to stey away. What are bciks
when compared to the saving of human souls ? I know
^w you will shudder at my saying it. / did not always
take this view. You will possibly set me down as a fanati^c,
and accuse me of loss of all sense of proportion. But
think, Gabriel, if there is a God, He wifgive us aU
1
282 THE WEEPING WOMAN
eternity for the writing down of our emotions; to far m
we know, the dumoe to reclaim these poor people oome»
but once— for them perhaps, for us for certain. I need
you ; Hilda needs you ; these poor waifs need you— why
don't you come ? Perhaps, when we are together, we may
be able to teach one another to believe in Christ The
impression is daily growing stronger upon me, that without
Christ we can do nothing."
Down in the meadows the sound of the haymakers
burred and buzzed, but Gabriel sat and thought Had
not he, in his own blind way, been gathering toward this
same conclusion ? Had not this been the trend of all his
wanderings, that without Christ he could do nothing?
He had tried to love without Christ, and had failed.
Helen had not written to him ; she had been disgusted
with what he had told her on that last night He could
read through her pretence at bravery now. He had tried
to be good without Christ ; he had only succeeded in
acting the apostate to his best friend. He had escaped
to the country that he might start all over again, and was
now planning to forsake and break the heart of one of the
best and simplest women he had ever known. Who could
say what Mary would do if he were to leave her at this
present juncture, when her heart was already raw?
If he returned to London, that he might make somtf
Amends to his friend by joining him in his work of re-
clamation, he would do an incalculable harm to a weak,
defenceless girl, who depended solely for happiness upon
his love. If he remained in Wildwood he would wrong
both her and his friend. How to act he could not see,
unless he married Mary— a thing which was abhorrent to
him, for he loved her as a sister; his mightier love was
with Helen.
Peering over the comlands, the meadows, and the
windings of the Whither, all the sweet hillside story
HE SOLGHT OUT HIS SOUL m
*o«ld it not have ut."^hr"?j^'* "Why
the parable, of Jesiu-VheotS ~'°'»hi8 eye. were
dotted with d,eep fl^TT,^ '"■•"«" !»-*■««.
Aow me how to be i J t„ «.,• ''^ "^ ' ^ouM th.1
J«««ter'. letter .i7«^Vr*'.«'"'" He opened
ftn-iiiar worf.. .Life ^Tt^^^ T" "^ "■"
*»m, a. you have wid. ^T^ ' ""'' ' '* " "'t a
"inute. j^ „odd ag«e witf r- "*" '"" '" "^
Unwade means fJamrhter " K-. *k x^
"n««fer of Helen, he fo^w T! T^? "eceaitate the
rendered him. Bui woo^n. ' ? *' ^ "^^y «»-
" he now „w thTt d,X p ^vi^ ""'*»"*' '»"■« ^m
o^ the long, icy „u of the Lf^ 1°" '^."^ ^^"^ ^'^
would grow iL virile „nSk?r"""'""'™'«»«
Simple a. Mary .^ Z^f «-«» --Jd «pent.
"oon divine the .ituaion^^S? "T"' '^ """dd
^ • qnality of aflec^^; ^ h^whS"!! '''^ "^
»pn. or break her h«rt by t:^"^ tf E
?H4o5*heT,^IS Stth-^rif 't«ightforw.,dly,
it were otherwiJ^^I!„„f ""^ -nust act « though
--d him^eif. ..X wiu^rc rtte'tf sti^!:
284 THE WEEPING WOMAN
Meredith is right I believe that there is sudi a tiling
as His hate.'"
The picture of the stale squalor of city streets, with
their harpy multitudes, alternated with that of Christ
walking through the cornfields, healing and comforting,
till he was replete with a love of mankind. " Oh, to do
something positive to save them!^ he sighed — "to give
nuf life as a ransom for many.^
The evening shadows had been creeping down from the
tree-tops as he sat in thought ; the sun hung suspended in
a giant oak across the vale. The work-people were
gathering together their tools for departure when hia
notice was attracted 'by a little crowd which had assembled
imder a distant hedgerow. As they took their places,
standing still, he saw that in their midst was a man with
his hands raised, evidently in prayer. The figure was that
of Meredith, and the people were already kneeling at his
coming.
** Christ among the cornfields,^ Gabriel muttered.
**0h, that I might some day be like him!^
Perhaps for the first time in his career a true sense of the
security of a Christ-dedicated life stole upon him. The
startling tranquillity of Meredith^s inward existence had
often brought to him wonder and amazement, especially
when he remembered its tempestuous beginnings ; so that,
when the long journey from some sparsely-attended meet-
ing was ended, he had frequently sat up late into the night,
puzzling at the door of, and fumbling for the key to, this
man^s calm. Here was one who by his own confessing had
once been a prodigious blackguard, walking through the
a)imtryside, which had witnessed his sinning, to find
peasants who knelt at his coming. What was the mean-
ing? His eyes revisited the valley. The prayer had
drawn to a close, but the worshippers still knelt till
Meredith should withhold his hands.
HE SOUGHT OUT HIS SOUL m
ftom Me«di,S^7ert to th^* evangel,*, c.a«d to .p,«d
w;- !•* ^«ereauii had found in the snow u w« _
protecting d«dow of a cT^ "* '" "*'*" 'h«
«wl fonaken. ' "" *'''' ""• '«« empty
"^"^I'cZotrM f r"™^.-"" -ething like a
•ttached to the personal Hfc^Tj , ""i*"**"' "'^
on for the individST^cjt,'^, ""^'^ ?'^ t«ke
indication. """^raed the semblance of a Divine
•f^t Meredith hS'^le^!.^<>^P—
"iebate were decided C ill T"""^ continuous
Wildwood n, JhSmie^ f ^ Tu ^ '*°* °«' '* <""»•
tedious life 7r^?,! ' •? "« "' *•"" P^> »"'J the old,
better pu^ X^J^ ^"It'^tt T "1
■«. teanung together, nught Z ^^Ttht
'trm
ssssssgsBSM
sasa
iSO THE WEEPING WOMAN
brother-poor P Might not they organiw ami in^iife othei
in such ft way that poverty and sin, in their moet repellen
formi, might vanish in their own lifetime ?
Vain and generous dreams of self-sacrifice haunted hi
mind. All the extremes of martyr-absurdities crowde
into the one compartment of his brain, jostling arms an
appearing commonplace as a sun at full day. A disdplf
■hip should be banded together — must be formed at ono
Prisons and slums visited. The conscience of citie
aroused. Wealth wrenched from the han'Li of the toe
ridi and distributed equitably among the over-pooi
Capital pimishmei^t abolished. Prostitution blotted oul
The saints^ vision come true.
He pictiued himself as speaking volubly to Englam
America — to all the world, of Christ and His love. Con
pelling men to tears; constraining them to laughter
extending over the heads of the multitude healin
hands, blasphemously similar to those of his Master-
yet pathetically unlike, had he only known.
All the fervour of Peter, first called from his nets, wi
his. His cheeks burned with the passion of his desin
He was prepared to foUow everywhere, anywhere, t
crucifixion and to death, now tluit he had once see
the light.
**Life is a crusade.^ If it were not, he would rendc
it so— a crusade in which all the world should tak
part
Poor Gabriel' Had he but foreseen in how brief
while all the nobility of his promises was to be given t
the test, how much more tardily would they have bee
made!
Thank Grod there are times when the hardest hearted c
us all can go divinely mad ; when, glancing through tb
scarlet gates of sacrifice, we have caught an authenti
glimpse uf the Christ in His Kingdom. If God woul
HE SOUGHT OUT HIS SOUL 987
He would Mve I ^ "^ """* "> army of «»,£
feting '" "***"«• «°^^« W-woumJ, t^ ^
wl.«e p4d Up. IS "^.^heS:^ ItL^* P"-^
tho laiy taunting of . »^„ j , '*^'" *™« <>'
CHAPTER XXn
A SOmn) OF A OOIKO IN THE TOPS OF THE TBXEt
Next morning he devoted to the fiurewell revisimi of 1
book. So deeply was he engrossed in his task that he d
not become aware of Mary^s presence until she had tipto
in front of him, and thus contrived to cast her shad(
across his page. He looked up shamefacedly, maintaini
silence like a school-boy caught cheating, and at last la
" Well, you see it is done."
She made no reply.
Manlike, in his hurried work h had been careless of]
completed manuscript, flinging it abroad, when reread, :
and wide. A breeze blowing in at the open door a
window had wrought havoc, distributing it piecemi
throughout the room. Mary, with her typical constn
tion of love into service, also to hide her emotion, bendi
down, commenced to gather the litter page by page, wl
the splashing of big tears punctuated the pauses in 1
labour.
Gabriel, not from unkindness, but because he dared i
trust himself, feigned at continuing his revision, chewj
his pen the while.
A little sob, which refused to be stifled, broke forth i
roused him from his speculation. Jumping up, he crosi
over to her, and, since she held her face sedulously aw
laid his hands from behind upon her eyes to find them v
The interruption proved too much for her ; sinkiug u|
288
A SOUND OP A GOING «„
•"".he Mt down bv tlT ^!!i ^. ''•"'W q»iet«d
"Come, little giJ- h, _m k •
^pp^,^ «d I, don-tis^« isi.rsj^'^
?^j: ":fir ^^7^ttT ".^ -«
W. Nor would it be riirht TJf u ??* '* ~"^*^ "^
todo.'' P***P** ■** '^^^^ there i8 much for ua
:-f.»«a.de. rtLt7:or,?:,3f --^
,Whflehewi„ZealJ' .*L^t I' ^"t"'' letter.
'the niu«Je. oontaS™? k '"'' ""' '''*° l*' ««».
When he hadl^r^ '^'^•' »""'''««» ■■» thou^J
™a nnuhed d» WM redumt TiJung botthi.
MO THE WEEPING WOMAN
handi in hw own sht ezdMrned, ** Gabriel, whj nofc
then togethei and help thoae poor people ?'' Seeing t
ht had not taken her maaning, she added, **0h, I oo
baoome to very good t Do let me come.**
**But — but you d«m*t undentand — no oiie can who
not lived there. To you, fresh from the country, the pU
where I ihould live might bring death.**
** I should not mind that,** she said gravely, ** if I n
(Hily near to you.** Then, more passionately, **6abi
you can never undentand what you mean to me. 1 1
been so lonely, and had never had any one to love, ezoc
ing Mamma, unt|l you came. Yet, my love for yot
different ; it is as though my hands and eyes went a
you, and my feet longed to follow. While you are %
me I am glad ; without you I should die.**
Making allowance for her untamed mind, he thou
to discover in her vehemence of speedi a mere ezaggeral
of words.
** No, not die,** he said ; ♦* we all think that when
trouble of parting comes. You will live through it
every one else has done ; and I can always come and i
you again.**
She became very solemn, her face wooden, the colon
day, all sign of emotion wiped out.
** Very well,** she said, " if that is how you feel, thei
nothing left to say. I knew that this must come ; I Y
seen it for many days.**
She rose to go, and had reached the door, when
imwilling that she should thus depart, not knowing wh
fore he should detain her, fearing lest he might lose con
of himself, called after her —
" But, Mary, tell me, what made you know ? Hai
been unkind to you ? Come and kiss me before you g
She came back slowly, and pressed her lips to his foreh
not at i41 in the old impassioned way.
A SOUND OP A GOING ui
rfMmSth. ~* • •"" "I"* he ««t off in ««ch
«. trouble byrlrSj^ *?!?•• '~'' J"*''* *^
hi. ride. "^ ""'"*•'«''«'• Wting till he aune to
•hlL^"* "^ "P "y "'nd to mamr Mmt, - 1^ j
Me«ditrd«ed hi. Lk ,^^T^'"P~*''«'»>»'I'«-
••""ved his .pect«le* '"«' « ">«P. and anrfUly
*»^"^2lr7::';.;° '^ ""^ »- ont V.„
J^But I will,, cried Gabriel , « the»-. „o „„e «, ^op
- Jr,Xtt rnl^-^'* ""• ' " *- - thing.
-then, he h«i S for .^^ T *° "'«'"' "•»'« •«
to di«ppre. Xf "^'"^'T '««'"«" the fi«t
l«ger world? ' ™' ~^'' '"^ «P«* fiom the
" You cannot do it,- Meredith reite~t«I » v j ,
love her that way. and I la«,w it." '^^ ^°" ^'
if. ti.e th.7r*;;ciflL"™;!e;?"' '■««'<-f orucifyingotL^,
'■ - ptolTi^x^r-" "™^ '^-''"•" ' ^^ ^""^
16
t4t THB WEEPING WOMAN
« rra lick of yoo Mid your Loid JMia,** Im nUm
hotly. ** You ChriitUuw make Him mi vxcum Ibr 3
•vtiy bilurt. Mm omi cHoom ewrything in this
•sotpt the day of thtlr death — MNne of them even i
WitneM the Child of whom you told me. If life wer
eaiily ezpUincd upon your principle, donH you rap]
that we should have found it out long agoP**
•• Some of ui have^ said Meredith quietly.
A swallow ilew acroM the garden, poJMd over a sunllo
dwindled out in space.
A wain in its passage to Monbridge rumbled down
road, paused on ,the brow of the hill to apply the skid,
disappeared round the bend to the river.
A milkmaid, cknging her pails and singing sh
something about —
"Her love and the moon,
Which perished too mhui,
When hedgerows were promidng Msy,**
entered a field across the ribbon of white road,
vanished, knee-deep, in meadow-sweet. Behind foUoiN
village lad, who came to the gate and stood still, lea
over the bars, till he had watched her out of sight :
love for whom she had been singing. Having ftirt;
Mown her a kiss, he also went upon his way. After
nothing broke the stillnesn, save for the monotc
drumming of a captive bee against the window-pan
Finally Meredith spoke.
«* Yes, there are things which you ought to know b
taking such a step.""
"What things ?*• asked Gabriel despondently.
** When I confessed to you some weeks ago, I did no
you aU.**
** You told me everything except your real moti^
remaining in Wildwood, aiid as to whether you
A SOUND OF A GOING u»
Oftbnel half nw with an oath. tiJ^f ii u. .
<^»«H*ing the arm. of hu^hiSP *^ '«"»*«* -ff^n.
" She waa Maiy'g mother f "
'^''^' "^ "•~«"'' «"i*i'W the «,l«c
1*>" MM know of thb?" o.i_j.i lj J^""
f-t^n^ of . „,„„t. bJ^L ^^ -*•*•«««»
** We never told her." ^
not teUWhecu- her mother wid^ir;;^ W.drf
herob,«t? Voa «tu™d over tl3. oTIh. .rr
penmtjwj to leoogiiBe your child."
M»edith. &oe w« covered in hi, hand*
r-™=«iooear. Ew nnoe my return ihe hw been n-,
K "d «ver once have I been .We to claimW^,T^
"- «««<rf">y bone. Bed. of „, fled.. wSSt?;:;
I
*** THE Weeping woman
"Dow would no«~ Ti^ *T ■* "•"« ■^wn.
God W it h« i^ bJ!'^ * ''*«"«' it ! bS,
- ™: of X '^ ™* '»''•« «-*«>•. ««o. „.
7- old dIS^'^mX'' h'r ^ "'-* ^-4
the other'. nuu„,rfL,d sT^Ln t'f* ? "y»8. rt~k4
PUymate mJcing ^^ ^^^gh he hjd been . chflT
•he »M yonr dairhter .» tT^ ' '*°''™ toy- " And
,. '• V«r W, a!!! *e^J^^^ f -I never'knewt^
»«. it w« th« ,n^ Whe^"^"^ "•" »•»* you. you
*• W to live i^ehow^"^" ~I '""y »» I«H^«^
happened. If youVe prfl^' ""'"««' "ttle to hi wh^
th«. allied it, l the ?^^ ^n:^r ^ P™'y "<«
to fling what fiaement. »!,''^- I^ '""^ J""'"' tempted
toidn.. in deKrh^T"^ "■■"«* »»«>n^
y«. which foUowed, bat f„t T t^"' ^'^'^ the two
»« eaw to know i^\- "" •""»» «he let dron it
,-he an r* on« ,:;,i^'^"»; :^ the birth of oj^*
ae little one'8 fot^ *^^/ *« ""'tm^d in her ^^
Somewhere or otherTln'^Xw " «■"«" « her oj^
"ght of a picture of U,e Vh^„ *^ "^ *« «««ht
b«~t, it. tiny h«Ki foM^ i w f "^-J i" h«
-■•-nthepicture'-'r'.h'e-l^i-Ci?'^
A SOUND OF A GOING 845
■"•fc op her mind then and them »„ .
««• Mary'. lake. ST Z^ *°*" *" *™' «««• a new I«rf
'•■Merited oT^^ "^ ■«"' -"d that d« h«l
fa»w. whaT^-;^' I" «»" °»ly child. At 6^
»iH«ge,whe«So?h«X"*' '^,'*t»™«' »» thi.
W for her chilS,lJr ^1S "" """"^ "^ «'"«'
fluenceof locelivimj^'^M Ji'^"" <»»««minating in-
wa. not kindly «ceiveX ?" ^Jk jTLi'T* "^ »■»
recJIrf how the .,d foIkC^ed le V""? ""'
kenelf, and kept more and „™. 1 ''* "'™"'' ""to
what was vud, it becLT '^ °' "' ■■»t««Iii«
•houldhearw.^ii.n^.'^' ""^^t *^' "«" «he
l«n. .0 loathe wSf^' "^ ■"•>"-. -""l ^ould
>et«^°ctt*'5rts:t'"r'''^'«'-->^.-er
neighboure alike Sl.r«, "f -Aanmng rtranoera and
the'^world «».':»» lteSrrL'V"'°„''^' ^ «»'
the only „y „ ^^Z ^tl^ ' .^^ ''' "^ «»t
t«ch her niaing t^t mlT^^ «"■'> '"''°~"« » *»
taught to read or write <5K. ^^^^r sent to a school, nor
W mother, who ™**i„ ^y^T Z" ""^ "^
"P«k out her mind; to cZLT^.i, T' '"""»• *°
paniondiip in her»I> "^ ^ """ ""^ '» «»d com-
"""i^-to keep W Z7^^ ',.'**"°"' " '«°««« •
knowledge of thl w^rldJi^ ?'".' '""« <*«* 'rithout
M "Xhad don? "d^,"** ""'«"' "'» -^ «v«
lie in her n.oth«W td''ir°"';^„rf >» too old to
-th-', cheek, be^Te ^ W I^ t"" "^^n"-
»ondered many time, .r.^ ^°" '»"«t have
upbringing.- ' " ^ °"« «' M«y-, «,lit.q,
•*• THE WEEPING WOMAN
** I have."
•?Jw I returned to WU*w^i u ?* "*"*■ °f life
r^!• • -right brfo« iw'J '»d »ot b«„ in u^
t^ door .t my comiZ s^'"'*' "d therefor h^
p^ rf s.t« to hi str:"^^:' ""^ I played ti:
««tttence lad «pped . ' JJ'S"- ^ ""«T "^ her own
httle,rf,eb<^ to «e that ^^intn?'"^ ^"'e >»
Uttt, If die had .offered m,^L , "°'" "*■» genuine s
P«TK« of my 1.,^ ^to ir^ '• -"d that t^ ,h"e
"•rr educated. But Ae^SJ^' ^ °*«l ^ ha"
done before. "^ '^^ everything, „ d« ^*
"o-^u^S te^r r -r- "•"«■• -eeing
our djiM. my early ZerfC ^oH^fK-''^ -^■«« '"
^t- " • boy, I c.u«, loverw^;!*^^""* '»^- «»t
M ■>>«de the acceptance of eJT ""'y '"'""gi now that I
to her, the red maiT^L*™" "^.'*^ '"« impoMhIe
^^ Wthin^TT^'"^ My-WuK
««; but, for the «ke of ^"^ ^ '<>:* g«w up f„.
A SOUND OP A GOING 947
IW k««n. tut thi. murt comeX «d have g«d in
m.i^k~!I^ ?**" ' •"« ••»>* long niiiht. in
h«a» b««tKieep in tlie rivraf tUt I m'St'J^
Wy »d hring it into .ubje^io^to ^k^^^'
"Dora pledged me before she died never t^ l«f itr
^w our histories. My lips have b^fn^^^i^^
^ I only teU you this now, becamTthe^^
J^v:ir int-ii^s ;r::i$':nirsidrS
wo«e than adulteiy; it would work vL b^^ ill*'*
«h«ne. Two hves have been thrnwl ^ • ? ^*"«
«ik1 T ..1 J -x. ^^ tnrown away in her makinir
•^I ple«J «th you tl«t .t thi. time you wilHS'
«rth«. h.»e d««ly m«Je. If y„„ ,„,^ hT^U . ™r
™ge love, it would be diife^t, j^Zt^Z'
pity her. Tien there is Mi«, Tluim - °° ' ' y°" ""V
Po«rty^d.en pretence .t offended dignity, hT^ed
"rm not free to say; but I know enough to be certain
« That 18 for me to decide," h- cried
WW to take any pleasure out of your life; but for yow
*« THE WEEPING WOMAN
There wag a wistful loot it. k.-
"hore. Let., j t„ ^ . ™""ty "pon . d«,I,te id„rf
Weeping Worn™, *U,„lr,'"".°"»««l &„!*, .^'^
lost love of Helen. **"« ""*^ ""« ?««> «nd of ^
the worn™ to .h«Hlo„ y„„ liltlf J?T- ^ ■'• ■»*
tl»t *e no l„„g„ ^f^^ "ShUy. What proof have you
or«t„l7no";^^'«^,^««. U.t .«e«.V.„
jeetured that the«^ been t^. '^ ""^ »« oon-
\ !>». which heZ^t ^ rK""Vr«^«''«»
"hom, and of what a nature W„^j "''' ' "*" "^wen
, " What ,„„. p^nn- ^^^r^ g^
«l«ce folWi^ upon such a^T -^ " "* ""»«»•
■"ght ? Any w„m,i^ ^h^T^ ""(«"on a. „i„e of that
™uM have acted al *e J^^^'^.T'^ ''T^K
tayed my loyjj^ t^ her brZl- ^ ""'yWl be-
wo^j, 4, J *?_ by ». j.rjg We to another
*ould have prompted Z t^ ,ZL! t °"' "^ •'«»«y
service, but I da«d to distaJ2)?K° J^. """^ "« -""-t
>— of my ^ .-^put^rhr j!L::^,»jhe
A SOUND OP A GOING ,40
■be mart Ute «Hi de.p,V l!^ " ^e I- «teA How
"t»y i we We turned e^ o^tTh "^^ '"™ «"■«
w««d. alway, do me good ^C . I ""^ '"'^- """«
the «me. Vhich m^', eS^ ^ T* «»* « « JI
gi»oi. When you .ool. T '?.^K"e "id to be for.
even admire yo„, f„ ' TT^T?" a^ow«„»^ peri„p,
~Uy think that her oE'C yo! C^™"*- *> y°"
« rm confident of it,- aTwe^^r^h^r'V^ ' "
^H^would that heipp. ..krf M^^ „^^ ^
«PP«e that ev^ the b^Sy mL t- k"""'*'""
have for her w. neri,h ? r„ u ^ """"^ y™ "o"
both you^elf «Kl hHt woL'tu;"^' "^ "^ "o
-.■"th:'^«h\X'rdJJe? r^*^^"'*- «
'«<«»i«d that in youHnethl ^T*"*^" '"'*'
Tbe Lord ha. a bi« wSoTT I .*" ""'^ '™'' 't-
tbe «ke of . pre^tZ^.1 ^ ^ *? ''" "■"'"here, f„
« P««nt petulance don't thrust Hin, aade
Ht- ;,^i.» ,
MO THE WEEPING WOMAN
.pair ^^^ "»*««. «o that It became difficult to
leav«L M Wkiif* ? "'•^^^es and wh rliM of fidkn
«-t the door, aSent^TS.'""^ ^'"*"*
CHAPTER XXIII
WHEN MADAM EMOTION HELD SWAY
to crouch tnm hia hidinir to rt! • I ^"^ "gilfuice
"-"Hue hi. C^Z^^Z'^'"^^^'^
vWonMy, who had been «!„w T""™* ""»
When he h«l «T.,ed .t MeredithTT XTh^TL.
••th the m«tyr.glow of con«ou. JfiWfllt^ "^
•• 1. often the cue with aatho»_^i ^K P<w»i™-
^bUined fcn,e. he n,ort certaiS^^^ Se":^ '"f
two men', bool* Vv^,>^,t^- ™' •?■"• ""^ "»
A««n. in »te,J?^r'w.S".:S?„^rnl'^»-
••tantly construes aII tli«f k u • ™'™^» * ««» con-
» verified, that the rteUT^ . ""* ■""™* "»
wHJ.Not^ehat^.^X^^-^^T'^r'S^
«« THK WEEPING WOMAN
Tfco**"* thb day hai) h>» _i j . _
knew tut he l»d^ ^^'"^ ,*" O"**!, lb.
I'bnuy rf imm«taU ^^ *°''™' *» t^ •"
On the other hand, the d»v h«J I—
»»«on«ah««dvi,t.ted. in! • ' TT ""^ ""7 •«>,
"""•. for the pleZn, J .Si™* '" •««* hi. «„
^ '■"""'ogTWe the true nature of hi. „^^'
^X-^^:!^J^^ " •« *^ hi. „
•h^ ever write." ' ^ "» "« g««te.t booit that
m-tmd hi. mind, dririnTeviv W?.". 1.P"*"" »"
•on; the picture of Meredftr^.-i'!' *""' "« >"*
«q«I to the virion h^i^lttL 1 ^* "^^ '""»"«»•
of M«7, mJ,i . Ce^l^ "P''*.P»"'etic figu,
which he had learnt » m^,T . j • '^'" "■*™»'
into«caH„g d«^Un^bG thl^^i!^ '^ *"~
*»t«y, i.rfi.creetly^To,^'' "^ "^7 «"« t.
Her apped h«I bW forS' ™l P°~^ »•«'••
not to bTdiwbejT P^Ph'tic indi,puUbIe,
Meredith', attitude had i.r»-i
horrible that thi, xL^JT^u^T ''™- « ««
for him the true ^ZlJ^f ^^^1^^ P^W
everything h«i been fought oSJ^'^":^"'. "'"'' "hen
pIe«Bng, of the-deviT^l^te °±iTK'!*r**^
"«pon«ble for the duujow of^ ^^ ^ heen
with «, great a p™,^ rf L^ ^^t^.""^ '^"
Perver.ely enough^ he wa. fi^,^ ^" '"'»^= y«*.
»then«.t, ^^^^Z^^^ZZ^T
^'^MiN EMOTION HELD SWAY «,
rf on. whom he M^v™J«??: T"« *«" «*• !■>
Now that he h«l » »« "ith i»ge.
WhiUt he h«l beent 7^ """^ P«»ntiW>.
««rtMn reccen of hi. boot ~-/T'.. "" event of the
«dhi.ftth«c„„,5rtm.t).eX'"; r ."^T •"■"«''
would toon have pwrffieA m^.?u, ^*^' °"** «««.
-x^ «SJr'.t.,S^t„'*-j«-'',e .o„», Hi.
«»«o«l in birth, or Zmlil "^ '?^''« "«<»-
>«» that, AouM he n«ttrTu^7;, .""'"'*«'• ««
r» «»bridg«ible gul£^r^>* f'?™' con<h•tio»^
i»»iUl>ly%.ult. ^^ •"" "^ W, home wooM
«t«..io„ with hi jhe Ln:r j?; *■»«'« ^
<*f«* of mating mich ^,ni ^ t^*' there wm «,
'oh«neo,,e«. T^Ze^^^uT^r "' ' ""^
•»d <Mltu«d trainine iZw i! 7'^"' ""i. tradition.
•'-ttooenti^.^i^.t^H^^^^^^.^
«* THB WttPiNo WOMAN
M««tl> W dZiiSrf *°" "»» •* tut, „rf
«»«»ing.«. to. the hmTof'S^w^af "? ""^ •*«
to fco. with tb. obi«t rf W. i£j ^S"' '-«»•*"
b* BO tonring bwrlc. T^^ ***"" *'^ «»«
•t u ««ol^o™pLi2r.i^^ ■» I«t«»
<Wh.d.dre. '*'™« "" l»"l*>. Neithtr of thiw
Jntelhct never hu. nor cm h. tu
^ King Rea«m ha. Z^ «^'"'!^'" ^ "^^
**'»^»«»*«J • war. «!hiC^ ' ^ wimiiionad that,
•tep-S bundle, hia iZ;.*^^ "*? ''*™' "P «»e
^ bu«„e« ;f li^^aU ovt^n*^ tl ~""^
handed way. * ^ "*** "> her own high-
At the turn in the path her l^A^u; u ^
*«npertuous, tornado-wisTtoo i'irrt P.**^ "^^
ingdicUto«hipa.her^^t ^^ fo' »»t«e, date.
The walk by the river wa. thkklv tr««,l i •
beneath overhanging bough, to ^^^J^^S^
'™»' UfOnON HILD JWAY u>
*r »• ipMt of ft mile ^^ trwulooi
rf th. fo«t to." W ^T "' "'Kfc'"***. in th. d«rf.
. 'l-cioLT^tlrl^^.*:" "f ,«- *fd«. into
■* • moaent TOpniiur t™,.,j uT '"*««•— only
••wt hi, iwk. with SI^u^^- '"'"• P"*^"* "» "»"
i"A«ild.taj7. '"''''*'">°'«n»nd«l? What
"Mwyyon?" *«"y«»7- What if I rfKrald «Uj .nd
i
«• THB WEBnNG WOMAN
W^ win W oar door..g,Un.t Um,ujaot ftmfclhm
»«« Cophctu* ud hi> bnsw-mdit im. .m^ ■_ j j
ti-nt^, wut o.wd iSSLHTpSri^*^
J^r«^!Srrj^f '^- ^— "-
thing, of which d« h«l «Jn^ rf .^l!r°Ti
m^rt ^^ *~ ™"^ *°8«*»»«' through tSlLt
A A«?^ / ^ °' *****' ®^ t'^o hearts.
aarKness stole out around them, and found them rtiU
I "^HKf ■MOnoW HILD SWAY MT
*Vwt, M he turned to wL w ji i"*^"^*^ *^
;»5rw.* he echoed her.
«•« tlirough the woodi he n«„n>i tr ^
;W. ^^ And n«« hedtatlngly. a. he «yi uleep. «^
«7
CHAPTER XXIV
U6RTIN0 A nmx
Am hour had elapsed since Gabriel's footstep had echoed
along the ojbble-tmck which led down fro7FoUy A^
when a shadow stole out from a neighbouring dumprf
^hJ^^ " **""! ^'' tf ^' "°^~ of Mary from within,
where she was ^afe in bed. ^^
« It is I, Dan. Let me in ; I must speak with you.''
.Ko !•!? ii* "^^ y°" ^y y^"' '*°«*- Wait a minute."
Ae replied. There was a sound of the striking of matl« •
ml^\Z Slf I:.*"' ^"^ '«»' unktched'^m ;^'
Mar^ stood before h,m on the threshold in night attire,
her hair long and loose, a shawl gathered tightly ai^
her shoulders andsecured by one h^d across W b^^
whpnrV"* u^* " '* ***** y°" ^t?" «te asked,
when^tiie door had been s. ut, and the candle placed upon
Wf :f t ^r.^* "^"' ^^"« ^-^^^ -«^t the
^^^wouldn't have come," he said softly, « but there was
»h!lLl' k"*'?^^ *' forejudged what was coming. Shaking
a^^her hair with a hint of defiance, she asked, « MVUt
258
LIGHTING A FIRE
S59
i^^^t^S^^-^"^ U. MU„ hi. «^
Before he could aiuwcr. "Dnwi i* ««« ^ ^ . ,
she asked. '*«"'«'» i^oes it concern Gabriel?"
He nodded assent.
hel^i^''^""T''^.^''' He has asked me to
n^mlJT ^^L"^^^ •" ^"""^^ *he mere exchange of
pronMs« concluded everythi„g-barriered retreat *^
" But you camiot," he blurted out
^ why notr she questioned in the same low, even
«mXr!^'^ ^' ^"" °°* ^*»"* y^"* J^«-"
hi..r^ft^;:V"^ * ^"" ' *° ^^^y-'^^-^ or
« But it cannot be," he repeated, « it cannot be Gabriel
^love you ; not in that way-not to^the extl!;":}
JKdr^^^^^*^-^^'- "He has just told
M^"* ^^^^ '" "*""*> ^ ™« this afternoon"
Meredith answered ; but his heart was fiUed wi^^Jt
the sight of her tense white face. ^ ^
** Then I do not believe you " she renli*v1 «k« i
It IS true," he cried. "If you do nnf \^v
"»•«" that he w« M.r, though mknown, to hi.
wo THE WEEPING WOMAN
oJRjring, and could call forth her love. Now that ^
•mthing word, had been .poken, aU confidence betww.
them miut be for ever at an end. unles^-unleig ho brake
hi. promise to the dead woman, and enlightened hu child
as to ho- origin. TTiis Jone would excuse to her W.
persistent interest in her intimate affaiw. For an instant
he wavered ; the temptation po^ed
ini^^T^'^^T^r'^^' P~-ed out mto the
Sf iLit "'"'« ^"» *^««* ^ ^«>' -»d extinguidied
. J^r^T*^'" ***^ "* concerned, even the gentlest
are capable of wo« cruelty than the most brutal rf»«.
Marriage love is for them the fol«»ent of aU desire.
wh«ea. with n^ it is but one of a multitude of intZte;
b ^it. defence they strike to kiU, where men would only
TTie ruthless blow, which had been dealt so easily, had
steuck home^ Rajching a field of clover which «n be«de
the house, Meredith fiung himself, sobbing, into the tamrfed
growth of grass. *
So rtiU did he lie, that a vixen, on a mound near by,
led forth W cubs to play. Gambolling with them a^
making swift femts at attack, she wouW stamp her foot
«iddenly, signaUi^ danger. At that sign, LT^
imjin quickly disappeared. Once one Tthem, S
felled to obey Quick as lightning she flashed upon him,
the white teeth gaping; a smothe«d oqueal, ^ Z
truant itrtumed precipitately to his motl^r's contrci.
The game waj. repe..ted-the leading forth, the signal,
the flight-tiU all had learnt the lesson. Then, snugE
them wound and under her, with tenderness th^Jw
!ZLt rT' *\«f"^ **»«*» «»P' ¥ng red and silent
agwnst the long white furrow of the moon.
The spectacle of family cravings, so naturaUy gratified
UGHl'ING A FniE
S61
««*i. Urn. Buiying hi. fiM» in the ,w«t
«iy ponirtaieiit M greater than I can bear. ForChnvS
«^pare m^ «Hl «y that it i, not true, ojr.^"
Win. M »v . V P"yer answered.
""« «lv»t of MereditS hiS^' tat" Z"" "^^ *^*-
fcrgotten. departed, the .ubstance it«lf wu
»««« though in the dre«.y oommonplace of a well-
k«wn .toeet many gate, had .uddenly opened lettinrfn
^ of «ent, and «ght, and ^undf-nS^Th^^^fv"
of urT^v "*"""" *° •>«•. by nmm of the tedium
m» «lenee„f the night, which .he had » often feS]
W^<fe L ■""•^ »'" 'ke tear, came, to think
W~k d« h-l «ppp^ it to b^ The p..t became dear
t
«M THE WEEPING WOMAN
^'^,' ."» '^"» • suturing «„y rf gju^ j^
«n«.L. f ■"",«▼€ for the occasional ffiXMuiinin and
««!» of «»„» jofau -ae white Aeet. SThXSd
A« ♦}»«-♦--„ **™i leemed very beautiful and untraffie.
th« might be th« brtter accomplid«i he ^ to -ori, to
»h.pe of <Jd k«^^ r™ d«-tr»«tion in the
™pe Of old letten, dimes, and other fi«l ««. ^
„S ^7L f- ^ ^■''"i"»««l all note, ^ traw-d
uKnwaves. These con«i.ted of dance-pro<mMme. nnJ
whjch her „«ne w., ™tte„, »erap» of flZTr^hT
had w„™, vanou. trifle, e„de««i by her .oZ,'Z<lt
.Kfl"-!* and tender men-ories ,«.„ uXd. ifti
•«■ "uy tove, but Ik crmhed them down a. out < i ~u„n
«d unworthy. Eve^ ktte, fi«„ ather. or 1;^^
UGHTING A FIRE
«2J which oootainid a m«ti«i of her nMne he •«.*
/"" io« »«n to come. He had adaKt^ u: .i .
"-at to foUow it Uke > m.» .11 ■ ^^ ""• P«th ; he
■liwiTiiur H. 1. • T"' """""S »» opportunity for
-Kr.^fti^L T «■""« her tl« b«t tut m«
;^J«J- be „ „phi„ figbt, ,^ ,^^T„T^^
J^ l^te into tl» .ftejnooB he p,o««W with ««.
»e hS bT «^ i"""* "T P°'^'™ "^ *»«T <««y-
MK^TtwTr^T^ T" «™""' "hen, looking up fa,m
t-der fc.„ fi, the w^"fVhK'"\5V '"'» '
-ight cxpUin. "^ "' *"■" »»•'' P"*-P" I-
J:lT'S tL'^± ""^ ^ "» "-"-y -be
"""^ "n "Pe°«W tbe *KH., mud) to her
IM THE WEEPING WOMAN
•nayMwthediMovwedthathewMiiotfttlioiiit. AlUr
wwidaring through the garden, calling hit nana, ihe waa
•Bthe pdnt of leaving, when a small bt^— one of thow
«*oin Meredith had befriended— came trotting m, bawlins
oott^t old Dan h«l driven away. AtdJ^ofMaryS
WMted back, and would have made good his escape had
•he not pounced upon him, telling him not to bedWd,
•wi demanding a fuller explanation. The boy's one idea
being to get free, he quickly told as much as he knew—
ttat Mr. Meredith had hired a horse and gig from the
Silver Horn at about six o'clock that moniiiig, and.
tnthout «^ng where he was going, had started off along
the Monbndge ipad. Maiy was puaded at this. dS
alw^ walked, however hx the distance. Somethins
h3f*"* ""^ ^""^ happened-perhap. concerning
%Htified and sad she returned to Folly Acre, whence.
^^"fl throughout the day, she made excunaons by
stealth to Gabriel's cottage to discover what was keepini
him and openly to Meredith's, i the hope that he might
be home^ Meanwhile, Gabriel proceeded steadily with his
He had sorted out his papers, and was about to
cany the dan^us ones out into the guden to bum,
when he noticed his Oxford gown and hood, which he had
pur^ased with so much foolish pride in the first flush
of h'» academic honours. Over these he paused; then,
muttering « What earthly good are they toa^ wh^
gomg to be a farmer?" hurried them into the same motley
Whistling lightheartedly, as if engaged in a diurnal
tosk, he gathered into the folds of the gown these frail
historians of his life, and walked out into the evening
Sauntering through the hazy distance he saw what
appeared to be two horsemen appromrhmg, bet to these
LIGHTING A FIRE
M5
H l«ame neoe-^y for him to fbd out . quS^
fa«d»d d.«. ^^Jdafag «ri ™u^ Going 'up^
•nd m dUing hi. eye. with .moke. i— "Kxucgww
»gun»S but, being temporarily Winded by the .moke,
fiuled to recogniie their identity.
-.^looking ov« the h«Jg. , <• my «„ refW. to^light."
•J^ M^.'**" "'"^ ■» «<«" h«ve pemrfved the
JS'^iim^il^^r'' ""^'* ''°*"*' "-"^ »-
..Sn^-*°^''''"^'*'"''^''y°"'I"»»'"'---Wnyou
l»per laroiw under the wood, won hul the whole
ma*. fUnng .w.y hke a fifth of November fe,ti»d.
h.A Cl"* ,* ""'""'^ *■" •»» "'"■'•'• he held in hi.
upon him tut It w«. one whieh he hira«lf had given a
P«i of hughter greeted him. "»" gi^cn, a
«M THE WBBPIIfG WOMAN
"And mnr, if jroa han aaUfi with nir -.♦J— _,
B^ «ot upon hi, ftrt. «d gMing o«r rt th.
It WM« thMgh, out of th. dertrurtion of th. S-T
ft^ta i? "^^-rt into th. p.th .nd j«rf„«l thai
U-pte aU pugi of eonnam hi> *»! wu vl^ »J-r
ii'sfrr? "fr?'.''-^ Hi. ^ dwT^^sSi
«th . fiaty of delight i hi. throat Mwned to £». ««™
up »ttoh. could not .p«l. ShawTlLir/w
g~^^;**"- «>««*«■«. n»bodii^"4r5
tt. ned^aihd ,n with . femininity of Uce. Het^fr
^jrnjAri fa tb. dining «„light. L .Zi«ZJ^
templ^nng a broad expan« of brow wrmounted bfl
G«»hj,r«^hat from which a feather d«op«J W .^
ttebnm The left hand w.. g.untl.wX ^t^
»^y lU. the long man. of the high .orrel wUd, Ae
"do. Knowing that he wa. exp«ted to m^ k!
S^donTw"" T'" «"'■"« ^^ ^»«^
^Hopert let out a hearty Uugh at thi. «fi„en«,t of
curiou, way of nw, vmg company, Gabriel. I, it y„ur own
invention, or jmt the custom of the country ? - ^
" ^!"f''°8 »f >»«>.- he an,we«d quieUy, «k1 then to
hu.^- h«>d^ «:t to work un»ddlin^ and'Ueri^'tll:
" YouVe come a pretty long way ? - he ulud of Rupert,
LIGHTING A PIRB
Mr
tvitdag hi. hud ant the hona' U^ ._. ^.. .
««»y««,durtymd d.^ ^*' "^ "^ '»«W«Bthrt
M«^.~"' "^^ •-'y -I" »il- th. oU« dd. of
t*^ «hc« Hden .tood waitingThel ""•-"■»""«
you do it always? Wh^f K- i- t • , ^ ^^- ^^3^<Jont
eveiything." oeiore. HesguoNd.
J,H« h« ? Tien he ™urt be ole»e«r th™ 1 took him
rid J^ «»d honey, «k1 home-made b^ad -^e^
-l^d hlo. to do ,t .lone, jurt to «e whether he r^l
couU »T?^ • ;, """" ""^ » Puden-what more
<=«dd am dearer" aooned Bupert, half to h.«i«l£
•W THE WEEPING WOMAN
S^hhLr dininpout; now ifb a ootUg, .nd
«Ufw«y. He*i very much improved."
Cy^ ♦"^ '^"P^* to widt on you. If yTLd h«
quite a good dedfor her^ Helen pu^ued; fa . „oitag
" YouVe got no. «,timent about you at aU, Helen.
What do you «ippo« a man marrie. a woman for STt
ittit to do everything for her ?" '
vJ!7^. "^iTu *^* y""^^*^ »»d no pmctice. All theee
y^ you might have been experimenting on me-thinTrf
the opportunitien youVe wanted." ™«— uiinic or
re^l^Z^ !*°'^ ^""^ ^~^'' °' education," her brother
rf ^ I T' ?™^*»»»~^ "^ to «/, how the »3
SJnTwLT ^'^'^r*^* *''''"P"1-. and of dormantT
S mn*Z Jtr*'"*^ ^!"^'-^'' to unmvel th.
f«^i J^Ti depending upon the crisi. of matrJaat
to^offaU my un.u.pected virtue. Fm eon«drZ
rV^Tt T''**'*^*"^ philosophy." hummed F J^,.
Gabnd had now fini«hcd hi* tank of laying Hk ubie »
they 8at down to a belated tea. ^ ^ * "
r l;?'r*J*"* ^"^^^ y°" *>^*^ »« unexpectedly?" asked
Rupert looked acro^ at Helen, waiting for her to i^v
3L^\^r^)" ^'^^ ^^ '^ ^' didnt, at LTl
didn t, know how hr Wildwood wa« away. We. of ^
LIGHTING A PIRX
"W to «. Hd« - '^ •" • «T)r ««. fcUow. d««, „p ^
t^^J^^ IntefTupUoo, In .hid, H^wt h-
to l^til, ■* •"!'*'»*«> »ith Hekn. ot .UM
««ri^ "iZ'toTi^lS'" ,"•'"■ •«*• '» • «'«•
■iMjniy . I got to know Dtm four ynn aim. whim i —
P-Jt'tag. Md Sir Duiver iwd «»,»«»«. to lo SthWoT
<«d to go «d «„g for h.m on occ«o». jurt to bdp C
B«o^ L^ -ud. „ «U ^n^,. «po.tul.t«i
"YZL!r!f ''"P "^ bfotber'. thought. occumVA
•h«. they w«, yoc,^ „en out in W»t Afric tC^
•vejT bmve d«i together ; I wt ,«.1| „Ut IZ^
the Govenior grew jej„„. of ftuiver CrtwriKhl »7ta^'
tam, ««J th.t oni, .t the expend of hi. own repuUUW
MICROCOFV RBOUITION TBT CHART
(ANSI and ISO TEST CHAUT No. 2)
1^2 |Z8
Itt
U
lit
IB
U
|3j6
■ 2.C
1.8
jS* /APPLIED IN/HGE
inc
165J East Main Straat
Rochester. N*. York 14609 USA
(716) 482 -0300- Phon.
(716) 288- 5989 -rox
«ro THE WEEPING WOMAN
promotion, .„d »„ y^pTZ^J^"^ «"* inii™di.te
"d mother for m«,/yZ^„"^ S?-"™" "^ "« colony
tention, when he retui^cjT 'e„"{ '*. :" «''«'y» h" in-
out the man who had^ne Id "*^''u-" Sood, to «a«h
«««d fe.ni the service, he bo,,;.^ JT '«°' "''«»' h*
««»» to «ve; partlyte^^ f^* H„Uyw«rf, .„d came
beauty of the ciun^i^, ^Tj^ ^f ''^^''^ by the
the Meredith family ^VL"^ "^P*"* ""e knew that
"On inquirThf fZ^*^"" "?™d *«« f^
living Jvl Zyt S, Z\^, ^Tr t,r -^
•eattered. He tried to foUow «!. ^'' **''<'«» "««
t»ce of them beyond ttrS^ttrthTl^^""'*''*'^ «
•fr*" «"« -«"t,had ^tnrSuo wfld'^lr'J^ *"
"bwed a cottage. He wenf ^T x "".Idwood and pur-
«>me bn-Wown^rS^t^^^i'!,™"*' "P^'"* *» ^d
best for him. ' ''=''™"»«I » any ca« to do hi.
tba" "^^fi^Sr-f^:,-"^^",* « viiiager toM h."™
woman named ZiUy SlipperL,^, .r"", "*'"« * ^<^
9- <Ji»Wct Sir Danv^'tC^ t^ l«-«t people in
■n a wretched hovd, pmy,„ ' J^!? J™ "P- ""d fonnd him
for her need* No one ete in th. n """"^ »°'' ""-g
•«««» of her bad ^Zl ""T "''"''' ^^ ""-^
apposed to be a witdb*^ ' ^ "^"""^ *" "a.
LIGHTING A FIRE 271
to help him was by giving him his friendship and private
•ympathy. Sir Danver encouraged us girls to go about
with him. He said that Dan and his father were the two
Urgest-h^ men that he had ever known. Since then,
Dan and I have become firm friends."
"Meredith told me something of thiV said Gabriel,
but not the last pari; about Sir Danver Cartwright.
Inat is new to me."
"Now let me get along with my tale," said Rupert,
suddenly remembering that he had been interrupteT
u w n"''' "f ^ ^**'"^^ ' **"* "^^^" ^"^^^ uncomfortable.
Well, as I was saying, just as we were sitting down to
breakfast, up drives Meredith-he'd evidently been driving
veiy fast-and asks for Helen. I don't know what he
said to her, but the upshot of the affair is that Helen's
been fidgeting to get to you all day. We had an engage-
m^nt to lunch out, which kept us from coming ewher.
Helen wanted to put it off, but Sybil wouldn't hear of it
so we came this afternoon instead." *
During the last few minutes, Gabriel had been seeking
to catch Helen's eyes, for a thought had come to him
which he waiited to put to the test. Her averted face and
fevensh anxiety to avoid his gaze were sufficient answer
It was Helen then, who had engaged the cottage for
him ! During that night drive in the Park he hS put
her in possession of all his secrets, and she, early the
following morning, must have gone to see the Poet, that
she might make her offer through his agency, and herself
remain unsuspected. He remembered now how non-
committal the wording of the Poet's letter had been
commencing abruptly, without preliminary address or
dating, « A cottage has been placed at your disposal," etc.,
ending without signature. She had recognized that his
confession to her of the previous night had made it
impossible for him to accept any semblance of help from
272 THE WEEPING WOMAN
^U^^r' ■»<! ""W™! thi. ddicte m<«n. o
assMting him, thus avo dine the min nf ~.a...i i.
Uining with her „,d .over i* U. ^1 1"^„^^
the man whom he believed to be hi, nobler «lf.
Her^, again, was an explanation for her lone silence-
dfa^ril He IJ "" '" •"' "«"nt«nance migh? be
oiscovered. He had once more been IpH mf« -
fr^l • ^ u^ ' oppositions were correct, this must
^^ ZT" T^"""'"- ■•» h" -l.tionshi,« ^
romd— in the case of Mary most of all.
What was the meanine of Meredith'. ™ i
dwZrtlief ««'»''/-««^^-T"Sf ^
^rab together a little more disci;tion before y„„^l^ J
P% your wife. Didn't you know that I nZZZk^l
;^harXuldnT" ""' »" «'"^'' -«* '^" ^^
yoi'r^x t:t'Sfs:;ZrYr "^"«' ""■"" -
Lid left .„j ">• uiscretion !• »ou give me away rieht
^ K. J ^ 'P^ "' "" *° "-y friends «s if I Vere a
Yoo^ of long standing , and Tm hardly as yet enZd
rouul V*^"'* "'"' '*'"« Pe""»l»l«ted ZZ
,„itTl"" Z*"^ f*" *" "^'^ »'«' open landing as a
smtable place whereon to embrace his Sybil lalf nilt
^n^be knew that eve„ one was just ^ming^do^"",^
LIGHTING A FIRE
278
"Because he is very susceptible, and, when he sees a
pretty pair of hps to kis.> , he cant help kissing them."
"There— I condemn you out of your own mouth ; you
call him susceptible, I call him indiscreet. The first is the
preface to the whole book. '
"What's all this about P'' asked Gabriel, waking up out
of his trance.
" A little dialogue on the timidity of love, of which
Helen is the happy illustration,'' answered Rupert. « She
couldn't endure to be absent from you any longer, ytt, for
some obscure reason, didn't want to call upon you oix'nly ;
so split the difference by coming to the Cartwrights', whci-e
she could be near you without being seen by you. All
this, under the false pretence that she sympathized with
Sybil and myself. Now will you please excuse my asking,
since you don't invite me, but I'd like a fourth cup of
tea."
"Love appears to be a very greedy little boy," said
Helen, rising from the table, and going over to the window
to hide her blashes.
" No, not greedy ; don't say that. Say that he is hungiy,
and has a child's appetite."
"And therefore should be left by his elders to feed by
himself," she concluded. "Come out with me into the
garden "—turning toward Gabriel—" I want to see whether
you have really been living the simple life, or only
shamming."
Fearing what was coming, yet with a pitiful display of
alacrity, he obeyed her summons, following her down
between the rose-trees to the bottom of the walk, where
an arbour had been constructet'. From here a view of the
neighbouring valley could be obtained, together with the
opening up of the plain where the blazoned turrets of the
distant city hung golden and fragmentary in the waning
light.
i8
. :*
• ■ '1
274
THE WEEPING WOMAN
It i. not T^^ ta t ,°" ' u""""" «»<' our dr«.ni
be"th?Z«":;t„''S 1" " '°"i ^'T -■«• " - "h""'
our liv«." *° ''°"'' «"" "'"' «l>»ni. we a»oci.l
•' ?r r ""It^*** '^'' ^" *e asked
_^ »es i I despatched it yestc day."
" &tto -*°*^ " ^°" "P*"*^ it to be ? -
h.p™ ^'•" ""^ '"^^ » eveiything, and a«
" In almost everjrthing."
" Where have you failed ? '
"w^ttl^r, *"»'^^'"" ' '"™ '<"* «•">» things-
lost ?^ ^ ' '^""' ''''''"'^> ''I "e whaf have you
" Helen, I think you know "
•'But W things ^ be found," she answo«d s«Uy.
othe^^ ''"' *°" °""' ""y "t ""•• «P«- of g,L to
At once she became serious, intenselv «« K u j
daspiug and „„elasping in the 'oU SnT'yet shtl^
not speak. Huperf, voice was heard caUing.'^d ^Lel'
LIGHTING A FIRE 275
glad of an ease to his suspense, stepped out from amons
the roses and answered.
As he came towards them he shouted—
"Oh, Gabriel, some one's just been here asking for you.
Such a pretty girl; I don't wonder that you like the
countiy. I told her that you were down the garden. She
must have gone down and peeped in at you, for I saw
her come scampering back again with her cheeks all
aflame, lookmg as though she hadn't been made very
welcome. •'
" Did she say what her name was ? " asked Helen, coming
out from the arbour.
"Mary something or other; I didn't catch quite what.
bhe was very good-looking."
« Her name was Mary Devon, I think," said Gabriel,
turning aside and plucking a flower.
"Any relation to old Meredith ? " asked Rupert casually.
S»he seemed to me to have his mouth and eyes."
It was a lazy shot, sent out with no particular destination
in view; nevertheless, it hit the mark.
^^ Gabriel swung quickly round to find Helen's eyes upon
"All people are more or less related in these parts," he
said, with the violence of a man flinging down a challenge.
I suppose so," drawled Rupert, quite unconscious of
his transgression. "That's the great advantage of living
m a c^y ; you have no relations-all yoiu- aunts and uncles
die oft. We had quite an epidemic of relations, until
we removed to London. Hadn't we, Helen ? Then we
invited them slowly, and with great caution, so as not to
scare them, to come and stay with us. One by one they
went back to the land and gradually departed this life.
Some of them took an unreasonably long time about it ;
but now they're all gone— all except Aunt Agatha. She
was too stingy to pay the railway fare to come and visit us.
276 THE WEEPING WOMAN
I wonder whether we could be hanged for it. They couldn't
bring It in a» manMlaughter ; it was premediteted."
" What noniKjnHe yoii talk, Rupert. You need a tonic
of Home 8ort, probably Sybil. You're not well without
her. For all her apparent desire to depart she lingered,
loath to ga * o >
"Come on, Gabriel," tried Ruperi, setting off up the
path ; " let's get the horses saddled. I suppose it will be
pretty late by the time we get back."
Having strapped and buckled as hurriedly as they could
Rupert volunteered to stand by the horses' heads while
Gabriel went to fetch Helen.
The garden was growing dusk, so that it was difficult to
see. Search as he would, no Helen could he find. He
looked into the arbour, but it was empty. He peered in
at the door of the cottage and whispered her name, but
received no answer. When he was on the point of return-
ing to Rnpert, thinking that she must have joined him of
her own accord, his nostrils caught the smell of burning.
Quick as thought, he ran toward the comer of the hedge
where the bonfire had been lit. As he went, there came
drifting down the path toward him a fragment of white
He stooped and picked it up. It was the torn, crumpled
page of a love-lettci, written to him by Helen in the
June of the previous summer. Indistinct in the half-light
he could just decipher the words— quite well enough to
recover the sudden pang of a pleasure past. As he neared
the spot where he knew that she must be, he called her
name more softly, lest an unheralded approach should make
him seem too much like a spy. She did not answer. There,
in the gloaming, he could discern her standing, erect and
statuesque, beside the still unconsumed records of his love
for her. The detective wind, which had so spitefully
prevented the first kindling by extinguishing the match,
had treated Helen in like manner to Gabriel, by carrying
LIGHTING A FIRE
277
I'":
the charred fragment of a letter to her feet am 8hc OMccnded
the path. In her hand »he held the other half to the la»*t
yoar'n letter.
" Your brother is waiting for you." he whispered.
She seemed not to notice what he had snid, but, stirring
the smouldering heap with her foot, siiid in a dreary
voice —
" It is a pity it would not light."
Then, turning slowly round, they walked side by side
toward the gate. Rupert, being now a lover himself, hatl
learnt the ways of love, and, thinking that he read the
situation, parsed no remark on their prolonged absence.
Gabriel helped her to mount, and hail already biide
them a conventional " good-night," when Helen reined in
her horse, thus falling several paces behind her brother.
Leaning over, she caught Gabriel by the shoulder, and,
bending so close that her lips touched his ear, whispered —
"Look in the rose-bush nearest the arbour — the one
with the red roses. Do not forget."
With this they vanished in the on-coming night.
CHAPTER XXV
THK APPAimON
When the Iiut ring of the hones' hoofe had died out
upon the wlence, and the last length of swaying shadow
h^ been bst in the surrounding gloom, Gabriel returned
to the garden and hbried down to the temioe of ro.«,
IhfZ 'H^^^T'^ "f^* ^^^ arbour-the one with
the red ros^- she had said. What was it that made it so
imperative for him to look there, he wondeml. Was it^
rtatoment of the withdrawal on her part of all further
love ? Oddly enough, the mere suggestion filled him with
toV^T.°. •n*"^^'- H^'^howasalmulybetrothed
to a girl of the village, was agonized at so smaU a hint of
losmg the mantaJ affection of one whom he could no longer
hope to wm The heart must be forever libertine Td
pagan, over-nding the Uws of men and worshipping stnmge
god. Where the head has painstakingly ^a^Jtcd^
W notously chooses. Singly they a« the most respect-
able of citissens, but together they can never agree. T^is
Galmel discovered.as he searched for the token of his fate-
the discordant mhabitants of the tenement of his soul had
fallen out again ; the battle was waging ; no woid of his
could stop the fight. « Look in the rose-bush nearest the
arbour-the one with the red roses.'' There were two
clumps of blossom near the arbour, either of which miirht
answer to the description. The flowen of the one were
diS^red '"*^ ^""""^ "" "^ ^^^ ' ""^ ^^ °*^^' * ^^'
278
THE APPARITION
i79
Piwled, he halted between the two, not knowing which
to March first, anxious for the climax, yet willing to post-
pMie. Prompting him to dcciition, Ntiatchcs of the line*
which Helen had sung that night by the lliameti stole
back upon him —
"Soon Hhall I wear acarlet.
Because my love is dead."
He looked at the two blooms and instantly chose the
one of the lighter and more violent shade. Prom the
heart of a fUll-blown rose he drew forth a narrow slio of
paper, folded many times. Smoothing it out he read:
" Meet me to-morrow evening in Sparrow Hollow at 7.80.
—Helen." Nothing more. The end was not yet. His
heart gave a sigh of relief. " Another day of illusion,
thank God. Twenty-four hourN in which to imagine and
to live."
A sound of singing came down the glade ; the tripping
step of two persons approaching ; a whispered good-bye ;
and the approaching footfall of one. There was a knock-
ing at the cottage door. Thrusting the note into his
pocket, he began to ascend the path. The visitor had
caught the soimd of his movement, and came to meet him.
There was a flashing of white, a scattering of perfume, and
he recognized Mary. She was still singing, breaking off
now and then in the midst of a phrase to talk and laugh
secretly with herself.
In her long, loose hair were wild-flowers, and flowers in
her hands. When she had come up to where he had halted
awaiting her, he stretched out his hand to touch her ; but
she eluded him, crjdng out words which seemed half a
song, " No kiss for errant lovers, but wild-flowers for me."
There was something so strange and unaccustomed in
her appearance that Gabriel strove to draw nearer, that he
mi^t look into her eyes ; at every fresh advance she ran
£uther away, laughing quietly.
; /
MO THE WEEPING WOMAN
«*«• h«ro «hI tell m, ,h«l thi> ni«u».- »""»~.
thi«,li„g her ny betwm. th. bud.^ pluckrf (te*
C»mmg down J«^ th, t»ck whid, G.bri.l'hK
di.wn forth the note i Ae.trelehed out her hmdto»a«
l-hij^ve Gj^briel w opportunity to con» up with her.
" Tlmt nm:r «^e gaMpctl . « Jt ha. hurt me."
Ittking her hand in his he exannned it and found th.
J«n«, jagged wound of a thorn. « I don't think ii^^ *
muchr he Ha,d. « Come into the hot wi^' te ^.^^^jj
dPBHs ar.<l bind it up for ycu."
All the niadne«N of her roming had departed : na^iv
"In that better?" ho Mked.
loIT^Jl"""'' T' "'" "P""' ' y" *™ »" the d«»d
Tl . .T' 'J" of^ one not fully awakened.
Thmkjng that a re»t might do her good, he earned her
over to the eoueh and stretched her upon it Her ej«
eh«ed ^her b^athing beeame „.ore evenra..d d,e ZJS
Gabriel knew not what to make of the rftuation; that
ttere wa. something unhealthy about it he wa. ^
Moreove^ who wa, it who h«l aceompani«l herTX
^f D|mng the past month, of constant intim«y ^
h«l seen Maiy under many moods , but never one S «
THE APPARITION
S81
thi*. ** It is the Huddcn excitement^ lie told hiimielf.
** When she ha* »lept it ofT iihe will be wtU ngain.*" Yet
the comfort did not HAtiitfy. Hour ntivr hour n\w ulept,
her head ncNtlcd cIonc HgainNt hiit NhuuliK>r, her hniith
fanning hin chcckii. The moon iumI Ntam Mailed out actom
the narrow Mea of window-pane, like nn old-tinic galleon
with her attendant fleet Still Nhe Nlcpt.
Somewhere between dreaming and waking, in the utter
quiet of the night, he began to realize the recent courM! of
event*, hiit brain beating, beattiig. He had been living
upon HcWn charity, and had not known it. She had
been loving him all the while, and once again he hod
betrayed her. Dan nuutt have known a gixxl deal of
Helcn^M affain from the beginning — at all eventu, had
guetutcd at her love, if he hwl not been told of it in m
many wortk He muiit have been keeping Helen informed
during the pant monthH of silence concerning doingx at
Wildwood— all nave thone which concerned Mary. Helen,
having learnt through hw agency that the book drew near
completion, had come down from London, m Rupert had
Haid, that nhe might be near him, and afterwards with him
upon the earlicHt occasion.
HiiH accounted for Dan^H hoNtility to the engagement
with Mary. He had known from the fint tliat there could
be no love ; he aloo knew on whom the true love waM centred.
Seeing that he could not check the march of misfortune,
he had taken the desperate step of ap|)ealing to Helen.
And how much did Helen know? Well, that wculd be
discovered to-morrow. " But how should I act ?" Gabriel
asked himself.
Looking down on the face of the girl sleeping in his
arms, remembering her trust in him and her manifold
handicaps, he felt that to retract was impossible. ** What
I have begun, I must finish,^ he said. Then came the ever-
present question, ** But what of Helen P ^ To one or other
' 1
888 THE WEEPING WOMAN
C^ZV^ he ™»t beUve bnitaU, ; which c«Ud
He thought of Helen a8 he had seen hpr fJ,-* a
the rest. '^ ^ ^**^ y**"' wealth would do
young daj,; a„d,S^S w^orti ""'".f ■■"
frieHhe'tlLX-l^ttlT "^"'■•' •*"■»»■»
live. di«ppoi„taent rcaZrty f» ^^1°' °'" "•"• ""'-
and ability to suffer ohw^^ meekness was there,
«.e heart' T^'Z^^^^T^'^ Z ZT^ "
l-PP«.ings,shShea^rH '^""*'«'T''«» of foture
to the red state of hfa a^^ ^ ''™ *''""«''»' l"" "
h» p««nos«e^:LX "t^^ *::?* sf"" ''^ "^ »'
te^r and deoay-fflZg Cn ':^.hl:^«^ '"^ "'
Contrasting the countenances of tibie't.-.
was passionately aware which of oJtT **VT'"' ^
a vampire of remorse-!^ • '"'^^°* ^°' ^^"^^I^
i' oi remorse-an omnipresent evil to dog his
THE APPARITION
288
darkest houw ; to drag him down ; to exhaust his soul.
Thus determined, yet struggling with regret, he drowsed
off into an unhappy sleep, to be awakened by a movement
at his side. Opening his beclouded eyes, he »aw indistinctly
the figure of Mary, just risen, standing beside him, bend-
ing over his body to kiss his foreheatl, a forlorn despair
around her lips. While in mid act she halted, and turned
toward the window, her face relaxing and breaking into
an unmeaning smile. There in the wan light, gazing
through the lattice with beckoning hand, Gabriel discerned
a likeness to himself, but wilder and more elfin. The long
hair which himg about the apparition^s shoulders was of
any shade, from flaxen to bronze, as it shifted and fell.
The dress worn was of a vivid forest colour. There he
recognized the mysterious boy in green, the Tony whom
Mary had so frequently and realistically described. Gabriel
reached up his arms to draw her back to him, but was
too late. She had slipped to the door and gone outside.
He rose and followed, rushed into the garden, where a
grey dawn was breaking; looked around and listened.
Far away among the vanishing tree-trunks, he caught the
echo of a subdued singing, the tripping step of two people
growing less and less, and the secret laughter of two
voices.
Wildly he essayed to follow, running abroad in the
forest ; listening, pursuing, stealing stealthily from tree to
tree ; until at last, in the abandonment of his sorrow, he
cried her name aloud. Nothing answered, no leaf stirred.
Utterly wearied, he flimg himself down beneath the
shadow of a giant fir, for the while submerging his pains,
with those of all the woodland world, in the oblivion of
sleep.
CHAPTER XXVI
VVmm HI8 HAND TO THE PLOUGH
between it and the river A £ f ^^f' '=°"«8».
alone. ^ ''^"'^ P""*^^ *° «"*^h as sought to be
ae»«ling to ^Xt^'^X^tZ '^■'^
f«Slo» .nd ^faS; t CavIe^T" n = t ""^""^ "^
espeeiaUy after ni^htfoiT S! u !? "^^^ "" "''•° P"**^ <»y
HIS HAND TO THE PLOUGH 285
day, talking, dreaming, reading, or writing as the spirit
urged. Falling back upon the most primitive of all
pleasures, they had whiled away hour after hour, telling
impromptu tales, fearsome, tender, terrible, or ghostly as
the case might be, according to their mood, with a noble
disregard to time or probability. Mary, in her narrations,
had manifested a baffling proneness to the occult. So
dramatic at times were her recitals that they thrilled with
a sincerity which seemed nothing short of self-revelation.
In her stories, trees, flowers, brooks, every created thing,
spoke with a living voice ; nature was vocal with unseen
presences of good and evil. In the number of these
inventions Gabriel had been wont to reckon the Green
Boy fiction; the first story which Mary had ever told
him.
Nevertheless, whensoever he had questioned her, she had
manifested a shyness and care to avoid the topic, which
seemed to denote something more actual than romance.
When he awakened next morning, under the fir-tree
beneath which he had cast himself down on the previoas
night, and recollected recent happenings, all these other
memories took on a new proportion. He tried to tell
himself that the face at the window had been nothing but
an evil dream, and that he had wandered from the cottage
in his sleep. Despite all that he might say, there was
still the odd attitude of Mary's arrival, and the fact that
he had undoubtedly heard two people approach the gate,
to be accounted for. « I can soon decide it," he told him-
self, "by going down to the cottage and seeing if Mary is
still there. I shall probably find her awaiting me with
breakfast already pi-epared."
Picking himself up, he set off at a trot through the
fern and bush, until he came in view of the house. The
smoke of a newly-lighted fire was curling against the sky.
As he came nearer, he saw a white-clad figure moving up
«M THE WEEPING WOMAN
«d ^own the currant-badw, gathering their fruit Till
now he h«J not realized the Wgh.,trung ^p«l .f^
r^J ni^r^f* "i! r *"" helugh^.tdt
!»« kT^T^ !? hi. arms, gazing »teadf..tly into her
^to ™ke «» that there could be no mirtakl It ,^
Wtaly right enough, but ,he looked tired md fiwaed 3
ing. He noticed that her dress w«» torn, sb with nmM
"WeU, Mary, have you nothing to say?" he asked
^1 w"^: "^ '■""'■* '" - •' -^ >S
gSi I P^',°'?t«'>'' »^*"« in a low voice, "Y^
"You little stupid,- he cried, drawimr her to hi™
dThX^.**' ^"■'"'""-^ He had fixed on the
r^ of i«^;cr„i'..ri''ir:^rdie^
WetenlfM^^L^t.X^'n.l-k " ""'^''•
Gabriel,Tth his u^TabilitJ t^.„^d ?'™"- •
tithe ^i"^' up his „iX tt sSr' ^^:
01 seeing Helen, his resolution might irive wav .^
that there was no valid reason for ^tpo^m^^-wht
HIS HAND TO THE PLOUGH 287
it simply meant misery for Mary and anxiety for
himself.
For immediate expenses he had the fifty-pound cheque
which his father had sent him at the Weeping Woman,
and which Lancaster had prevented him from destroying.
He had kept it lest any emergency should arise— the
emergency had now arisen. He smiled whimsically, re-
calling the dangerous vicissitudes through which it had
passed, picturing his pai-ent's horror could he but witness
the expenditure in which his bounty was destined to be
consumed— the bringing into the family of an unwelcome
daughter-in-law.
This tangible assurance of his affection seemed to set
all Mary's doubts at rest. Whatever forebodings the
plain language of Meredith, the coming of the Thurms,
and that which she had seen or guessed to have transpired
in the arbour, had caused to arise in her mind were now
most remotely banished. She laughed and sang about her
tasks in quite the old way, till Gabriel wondered whether
he had imputed to her an intensity of sorrow which had
never for a moment existed.
At breakfast all her talk was of the future and the
golden days. Herself once joined to him she seemed to
fancy every trouble at an end.
" But, Mary dear," he reminded her, « we shall have to
work hard, and may not have much to eat."
"What does that matter if we are only happy?" she
cried. « I will work in the fields every day, witli my back
bent, and never feel it, if I only know that I am workinc
for you."
He captured her hands and examined them ; wonderfully
small hands for a farmer's daughter, altogether too small
for a farmer's wife.
"Why, what can such little hands as these do?" he
asked, folding and unfolding the fingers the while.
288 THE WEEPING WOMAN
''They can ww for you, and cook for you, and dig youi
garden for you. They can work till they are broken and
raw for you."
He looked into her face, all aglow with generoua
emotion, and felt himself to be a very mean animal.
Remembering bin abHence from her of the day before, he
unthinkingly asked, "Where did you get to yesterday,
Mary?"
Immediately her eyes became misty, and her smilee
clouded.
" Don't speak of yesterday," she said ; " I cannot recall
what happened. I thought you did not love me."
** And what made you think that ? " he questioned.
" Oh, don't ask. I can't bear to think of it. I want tc
forget all the yesterdays and to remember only the to-dayt
and to-morrows."
This was the last mention made of what had occurred,
Gabriel, seeing how much any reference to it pained her,
refrained from pursuing the subject.
After the breakfast had been clc ^-d away she craved
permission to run over to Folly Acre and dr^ Gabriel
in the meanwhile, went down to the Silver Horn and
hired a trap, the selfsame trap which Meredith had used
on his destructive errand of the day previous.
Having harnessed, he drove up to the farm to save hei
the passage down.
He called her name, and soon she appeared looking ver}
simple and rustic She was dressed in muslin, a beflowered
lavender, her long black hair caught loosely up and
gathered under a broad straw hat of village make and
fashion.
He could not help contrasting her with ^the picture oi
Helen, habited and mounted, bearing in her every appoint
ment the opulence of luxury. Nevertheless, he did hi:
best to stifle the memory.
HIS HAND TO THE PLOUGH 289
Noticing that her hand was still bound up he asked her
about it. ♦* Is your hand no better ? "
"No; I thought that it was, and went to remove the
bandage, but it began to bleed, so I had to tie it up
again.**
** Helen's rose and Mary's hand," he thought. " I hope
there is no omen there.**
Rattling down into the high-road they swept past
Meredith's cottage, and found him standing at his gate.
If he guessed their purpose, he said nothing, simply
returning their salutation and at once buying himself
about the care of his flowers.
This was Gabriel's first visit to Monbridge since his
coming to Wildwood; he had been so wrapt up in his
work that he had never ventured farther than a few miles'
distance from his place of residence. The idea of entering
a town filled him with a vague delight, causing his spirits
to rise.
Down the long and winding road they swung, till, reach-
ing the valley, the track ran almost parallel with the
Whither; the towers and spires of the ancient city
drawing ever nearer.
On reaching Monbridge they went to the registrar's and
made application for a licence allowing them to be married
on the following day. After this they went to the Crown
and Heart for lunch. Gabriel was much amused at
witnessing Mary's futile efforts to disguise her surprise and
embarrassment on this her first visit to any town; for
although Monbridge was only four miles distant from
Folly Acre, so closely had she been guarded, that she had
never traveUed thither before.
The gouty waiter at the tavern awed her so much
that she persisted in calling him " Sir," despite Gabriel's
repeated correction.
'I know it's silly of me," she explained, "but when
19
M
wo THE WEEPING WOMAN
he handf me anything in that loidly way I can't pratei
myself." '^
Jiwt an they were on the point of leaving for home i
occurred to Gabriel that it might be as weU to purchai
the nng. Turning the horse's head, he drove back agaii
and alighted at the county's most important silversmith'i
Moneymalce and Poundworthy. Ha^iding the reins to
boy, he helped Mary out, and entered.
The shopman stared when the request for a rinj
was made, conjecturing its purpose and wondering a
the dissimiknty in social appearance of the brida
pair.
Gabriel noticed this, and was irriteted. The attitud(
of this insignificant employee was for him the first judir
ment which the world had passed upon his undertdciiS
Living m the forest he had lost for the time many of W,
caste prejudices; the return to a town had revived and
re^tabhshed these, so that he also began involuntarih
to judge himself with other eyes. Once again he stifled
the remembrance of his doubts and became engrossed in
selecting the token of his nev bondage. While so doing
he heard two people entei and draw near, about to pass
him. At this time he was occupied in fitting a ring upon
Mary 8 hand. With an uneasy feeling of being watchedhe
turned around, and, lifting his eyes, saw Helen regaitiing
him, m company with a fashionably dressed giri, whom
he guessed to be Sybil Cartwright.
As he turned, Helen deflected her gaze, pretending not
to have seen, and hurried by to the top of the Ihop,
brushing him with her dress as she passed.
For the mo- lent he lost control. « Yes ; I think that
wiU do, he heard himself saying to the shopman, in a
surging, far-away voice.
"But it's too big, Gabriel ; besides, we're in no hurry."
Mary expostulated. ^
HIS HAND TO THE PLOUGH Mi
- 1 teU you that one will do^ be ahouted. no loudly that
the two newcomeri turned around, startled
^«I.7*r'*""""'Cu" ^"^ ^y^^ Cartwright niurnmr.
Sewng the ring without wrapping or box, he deponited
tue trap, and, lashing the horse, drove off at top succd
until the town was left well behind. ^ ^^
Through the sultry stilUiess of a summer's afternoon
with smeU of new-mown hay, and the occasional «vIS
tion of the sharpening of scythes, they jogged along. T^e
hor«, speijt by the mpidity of his first ^, and^^^!!
therms slackened, sWed down by degT^^ a 4 t.^"^
a rambling wa^k, and, at last, finding himself no longer
uiged, browsed with hanging head along the highway
noazlmg the buttercups and daisies. '"gn^ay.
The occupants of the trap were engrossed in their
«^prate thoughts, aiding out pr«ble„«, mayhapror
me.^ly probing dejectedly the tragic mysteries^f^fe
M««y, her elbows resting on her knees, her face couched
m her hands, gazed straight ahead~a mournful sibvl
awaiting the coming of the Word. Gabriel sat emrt, one'
arm thrown along the back of the seal^ his hand tenadous,
and eyes downcast '
A shouting ^ead roused him from his dreams. A four-
horse warn, loaded with hay, was coming down the road
and the wagoner was hailing him to pull to one side!
nlS^r ITir"'> ^^' ^^° ^^ "^^'^r altered her
P^ition, deliberately said, "Gabriel, you knew those
ladies and were ashamed of me.''
lJ^**'.f*^^.^''"^ apprehended before it is acknow-
ledged; the words came to him like the accusing cry of
nl\!!? ,^^' y^V*"^ '*™''^ *^ expostulate. M^ Lid
no heed to what he tried to say. « If you are asLTed
MS THE WEEPING WOMAN
of me now,** ahe continued in a monotony of voi<
**whAt will you be when we are married P when y
have diMovered my faults ami I have begun to gn
old?"
He told her that there were reaions why he diould n
rccognixc the ladies in the Hhop, rcaiwinN thnt nhc could n
undenttand, though he Nhould tell her them.
** No, Gabriel, let u» be honest. You and I arc of t^
different worlds. God, or whatever is up there, has allow
us to meet and be happy together for a little while, but
was only for a little while— that little while is now
an end.**
** Never f ** ^claimed Gabriel, with the needless ov<
emphasis of a man telling a lie.
** It is useless to deny,** she said. ** You say you d
not want to recogniase her ; yet, since you talked with li
yesterday, why not to-day, unless it was on my aocoun
She is a great lady, and I— only a village girl.**
** Nevertheless, I am going to marry you,** said he.
**We have been very glad together,** she continue
" too glad — it could not last. You have had your sig
and I have had mine — soon it must end.**
** What signs ?** he asiced.
** Your sign came yesterday in the call from the outsi
world, from which you had fled, and mine ^
" Yes, and yours ? **
" I think you saw him last night.**
"Saw what?"
" The Green Boy. While I thought you loved me
did not come, and I was glad. When I discovered thai
had been mistaken he came again — and now I know."
" But this is a stupidity unworthy >f you,** he burst oi
" It may be all that,** she responded quietly ; " nev«
theless il is I, and I am my life.**
"1*11 convince you that you are mistake to-morro
-moiTow,
HIS HAND TO THE PLOUGH 908
which he waa far from feeling.
"Gabriel, you .Jiall never marry me unlen you awear
tt^you love me as a htuband ahould." She turned and
need him.
5n *!Si!ir''*h J?~*^ ***"*^^ '*^ ^^ ^«~*« fiii-ehood.
ify Wod and Hi8 winln, and by my hope of nalvaiion. I
UweyouaaahuBbandshould." ' •" »^ ""'*
tc^J'f'i;^^ *''•" '**' • ''**"*^ increduloudy, dum-
founded by hi. unexpected vehemence; wrinkli faded
out, the face bn^htwied ; holding out her hand lOie aaid,
li^riuf* ^'^"«°'^«» you wherever you choo*.'^
Despite thi. new.pledged promine, the cloud of what
h^ gone before overshadowed them, ho that they found
litUe to say for the re«t of the journey.
On arriving in Wildwood Gabriel pulled up at the
port^oe to receive hi. mail. Inhere wan a letter and a
telegram. The letter wa. from hi. publisher, brief and to
the pomt, acknowledging the receipt of hi. manu«:ript
and promwng to give it hi. immediate consideration The
telegram wa. from Hilda, and ran a. follow.—
"Come at once. John dangerously ill-««k. for you
repeatedly— not expected to live.— Hilda."
He handed it to Mary, wying, « Read that" She took
Jt ftom him, tummg it over and over meaninglessly. Then
he remembered that she could not read ; «,, taking it from
ner, spoke out to her its contents.
"That means that you must go to-night ? " she asked.
»-*u rr 1 ^^* awhile, and recollecting his engagement
IrJ?^if "' T""^"^' " ^°- N3t to-night. To-morrow."
Shall we be married before you go ?" she asked.
"nierewm scarcely be time," he replied. " John i. my
inend, and I cannot delay."
9H THE WEEPING WOMAN
**'nMn**— butabtpMind. She wm going to hav* «
**Thcn why notiUrtat onoe P** but the thought ol Imv
him with her for one more evening prevented her.
•• Wh^t were you going to My r he Mked.
** Oh, nothing j it has dipped my menuny.*
They left the trap at the inn and damberad up the 1
toward PoUy Aere. It was now four oVloclc. Entering 1
farm-houee they wt to woric to pulT up the fin and |
tea ready. This reminded them of their firrt day, havi
recalled which they rambled off throuf^ a pkaiMuit
capitulation of the happy houn of the pait months-
winter, ajn^ng, and summer days.
Pkesently Maiy, recalling the mention of John in I
telegram, asked Gabriel about him. The private ooni
sion which he had written out for his own edificatj
before leaving the Tumpiice had finiNhod thus, **T1m» wo
thing that I can do is to think badly of myself, since tl
will draw down my attention upon my baser self. I mi
blot out the past few months fpom my memory, and devi
myself to bringing joy into the world— look out of i
window instead (if in. This may not be so good for my a
but it will be much better for my soul'' He had adha
so rigidly to this resolution that Mary knew next
nothing of his past, nor had Meredith, until the otl
afternoon. Now that Mary questioned him concemi
Lancaster, when his heart was sick with the dread
losing him, his tongue was unloosed.
** Lancaster is the kindest and best fellow that I ha
ever known," he said. " When I was quite homeless a
deserted last summer he took me in, and houited, and i
me, mitil I came here. He was at tlmt time the one m
who believed in my genius, when every one else had faih
Moreover, he has been good not t me alone but to ma
poor people off the streets of London. I expect he I
been working too hard, sleeping too little, eating t
HIS HAND TO THE PLOUGH t05
f^^***^'^"* tW. I. wh.t hM bwugbt lOKmthl.
"If you •'ImM him -o much how wu. It lh.1 you tvtr
•Mne to toRve him P" iha asked.
Gdbrid found him.jaf .nt^igled-didnH know what
«««u»tomdce - WeU. you «».- he wpUiwd." London
dWnH^ with «e,imd I couldn't work thm>
« V uu *^.* y«« -^ you hi«l no money*
came forwnnl and provided for me."
"Oh," the murmured. « I lee." Thii. bolstering up of
h^ by hi. fH«Kl. made him «»m le« grand in her
•yw— it flavoured of impotence.
"And what is going to happen now ?"
iufflacntly well off to keep my-elf by writing."
I had idmost forgotten the book," Hhe Mdd. Then.
JimingtoGaWel,M,fyouandI^
mendi are to be my friends?" ^
•*Yefc"
a v"** J °"**** *° ^°^® ****" " ">"<* as you do ? "
.J^r*''^^ can't I go to London with you to-morrow
and help to nurse your friend ? "
In a moment there flashed before his eyes the picture of
«»^oountiy girl, m her sunburnt dress, wending the paved
streets of London. How curiously and absurdly out of
place her flgure seemed! ^
"But he has some one nursing him already— a irirl
cousm— she who sent me the telegram."
"Couldn't I help her? She can't attend to him both
day and night I could teke the night. Vm quite a
good nurse,'' Hhe added in self-defence; "I often looked
aner Mother when she was sick."
He akeady has others nursing him besides his cousin."
u
»6 THE WEEPING WOMAN
** Well, but oonldn^ I go up with you, in any omc, jus<
to be neaf you ? If this had only happened a day oT two
cer I should have been your wife, and should have had
0 go.'*
« I think you had better stay,** he said. « It may not
be so serious as we think. I shall come back soon— in a
week at most"
It seemed to Gabriel that the whole worid had conspired
to drag him from his purpose— the noblest, highest, least
selfish, which he had ever entertained. First the stem
disapproval of Meredith ; then the coming of the Thurms;
then the insolent astonishment of the shopman; the
surprise visit of H/Blen herself; the telegram, and, last of
all, this persistent appeal of Mary to be taken to a place
where she would be so manifestly incongruous, albeit the
phuje where he was most at home. There came the rub.
If she was out of place to-day, would she be any the less
so to-morrow ?
" I don't believe you want to take me, Gabriel. You
would be shamed by me and my country ways, as you
have been once already to-day."
"Why will you persist in saying that, Mary, and
accusing my love for you ? I tell you I am not ashamed
of you, and nevt will be. Have I not sworn it before
God ? " The thought that he should ever be ashamed of
the woman whom he had married seemed too monstrous ;
therefore, though he knew it to be true, his honour
compelled him to deny.
" Gabriel, dear, we have not spent this day well, nor
was yesterday any better spent. We have had too much
of arguing and too little of love. Let us tiy to forget
that these things have happened, and spend the rest of
the evening quietly, and trustfully, like those othew which
liave gone before.'"
It was now nearly seven o'clock, as Gabriel could see by
HIS HAND TO THE PLOUGH »7
the downward slant of the sun. Sparrow Hollow waa a
twenty minutes' walk distant, so there oould be UtUe time
for delay.
" I did not tell you, dearest, because I was afraid of
grieving you, that I have an engagement to keep which I
cannot postpone."*
** An engagement on this our last night ? *
" I did not know when I made it that it was to be our
last night— the telegram did not come until this after-
noon, you remember. After all, there is nothing to be so
tragic about, we have all the other evenings before us to
be together in, and the days."
" Is it Dan that you are going to meet ? "
" I cannot tell you, dear.''
" I don't see who else it can be. He is the only man
that you really know in Wildwood. Be kind to poor old
Dan, won't you, Gabriel ?"
"Yes; I will be kind."
Perhaps it was something in the way in which he
uttered the words which caused her to guess her mistake.
" If it is not Dan, who can it be ?" she questioned.
"Mary, dear, this is the last secret that I shall ever
keep from you; at present it is not mine to give
away. Soon we shall be married, and then you shall
know me all in all, and I you. Now you must be content
to wait."
« Her hands fell to her side, her body went limp, a
haunted look of foreboding came into her eyes— the fixed
gaze of a thing pursued which knows that its strength is
exhausted, and that there is no escape— the forlorn despair
which he had seen on her dream-face of the previous night
returned to her lips, blanching them white.
" Very well,'' she murmured.
" I shall see you again before I go, either to-night or
to-morrow morning," he said. « Why, don't look so woe-
SM THE WEEPING WOMAN
begone! I promiae you 111 oome again to-ni|^t Tliere,,
are you happy now ? **
As he bent down to kiss her face at parting he todc her
hand in his, but she, flinching painfully, drew it back.
** Fm Sony ; I foigot that your hand was wounded,** he
said.
So he kissed her, wondering at her silence, and wait
his way.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE MEEUMO in 8PARR01V HOLLOW
Many questions flashed through his mind as he journeyed
to the place of meeting; for the most part they fled
unanswered.
What was it that Helen desired to say ? Had she been
a smaller woman, the guess would have been easy ^to
taunt and revile him; that was not Helen's way. He
recalled his three latest meetings with her ; each at night
or about nightfall, each displaying some new grandeur in
her character.
The night by the Thames, when she had sung to him,
had revealed her capacity for sacrifice— the martyr nobility
of her womanhood.
The night in London, when the music had ceased, had
shown to him her magnanimity — ^her power to forgive, and
in the act of forgiving, to plan by stealth rewards for
the forgiven.
The evening at his cottage of the yesternight had mani-
fested her restraint of silence— her fortitude in enduring
unexplained pain.
He began to see that most of his lessons of the past
year had been learnt through her direct or indirect agency ;
that her care, often imseen, for the most part, unthanked,
had persistently followed him through all his emotional
travellings until now, as he thought of it, her love eemed
to bind and carry him forward as on wings of Fate.
299
800 THE WEEPING WOMAN
He had striven to escape her affection aa mott men
strive to escape death ; yet what a gift was this that sIm
had offered him! Well, well, it was now too late to
speculate on Lovers values; he had chosen another kind of
love, which consisted not in the fulfilment but the abandon-
ment of itself. « To be like Christ, to be like Christ," he
kept whispering to himself as he advanced. Yet, was there
anything peculiarly inconsistent with Christlikeness in
cleaving to the woman whom he loved ? ** It is too late
to ask such questions," he replied sternly. ** There is no
choice— only to go on." But what of the long and dreary
years, the days of hand toil, and nights of foot weariness ?
*< The man who doek what he thinks is right, though it be
ever so wrong, has gained a sure ground," he encouraged
himself. What if he suspect that it is wrong before ever
he imdertakes it ? ** Be silent," he cried, and quickened
his pace.
To refight the old battles was his inherent folly — ^it
wasted strength and gained nothing. He knew this,
therefore from henceforth he was intent upon conserving
this strength, taking short views of his future, and going
steadfastly on. Like the warning toll of a bell, the words
which his father had spoken rang through and through his
brain, never halting, never slackening, **Men fight and
lose the battle, and the thing that they fought for comes
about in spite of their defeat, and when it comes turns
out not to e what they meant, and other men have to
fight for what they meant under another name."
" For God's sake, cease ! " he cried passionately, as to
some neighbouring presence. " Leave me to do that which
I think to be Godlike, though it be black as hell."
Amidst cJl this confusion of tongues he saw the for-
lorn despair of the lips of her whom he had just left, and
knew, beyond all argument, that to make her happy, in
whatsoever way, was a thing worthy in itself.
MEETING IN SPARROW HOLLOW 801
laundung out from the path which he had been tread-
faig, he followed along the river-side for a little way, and,
coming to a bend where the bank grew less steep, knelt
down to lave his face in the rush of waters. Refreshed, he
hurried on till he came to an opening in the trees, through
which Sparrow Hollow lay.
Instead of entering by the direct route he bore off a
little to the right, slowing his steps, and following round
through the underbrush to see whether Helen had yet
arrived.
There, beneath the '•entral beech, with the reins of her
tall sorrel trailing frou> ner hand, wearing the green habit
of the previous day, and slashing impatiently with her
whip, she stood — a dream figure in a hollow of dreams,
the ghost woman of the Friuli.
As he watched her he knew that she must ever be for
him the most adorable of women. The hot blood of youth
surged through his veins, causing his heart to stagger and
his head to grow dizzy. The earth of his body joined
with the sob of the spirit in crying out, " How shall we
leave her?" The passionate, timeless freedom of an
immemcNrial forest bade him run toward her and claim her
for his own— this forest which had seen so many lovers
mate and die. "Life is short, life is short,"" sang the
waters of the river; "we have lived long, therefore we
know. We flow on ; we are gathei-ed up ; we are swept
away in clouds into distant lands, rarely to return. We
have seen men love ; we have seen men die ; and this we
say to you, * Love while you can.' Life is so short ; there
is nothing but love."
A blackbird in a neighbouring tree had contrived the
sel&ame me&>age. " Love, love, love," he piped in a shrill
imperative; "love while you can; there is nothing but
love, love, love."
If Merlin's magic had awakened and thundered down
809 THE WEEJk^ING WOMAN
the grove no temptation of his could have been moie ^
great High above the roar and rush of a tidal heart,
penetrating the sensuous infatuations of an unbridled
emotion, rang out the clarion call of duty, ** To be as
Christ was ; to die for others ; that is the goal.""
Slowly, with laggard feet, while the battle was yet
waging and imdecided, he began to advance. The leaves
turning under his tread caused Helen to look up — except
for this she did not move. When he came where she was
he gripped her steadying hand; after which they seated
themselves beneath the beedi.
** Perhaps I should not have ask d you to come,** she
said ; ** and yet I could hardly help it. I have tried all
along to be your friend, and it seemed to me that there
were still a few things left that I might do.^ She paused
and looked at him. He did not reply. ** You are going
to be married shortly ; your wife will be very young ; I
should like to make things easier for her.**
** Helen, you know this ?** Gabriel was flushed, his e3re8
were over-lnight ; he had grasped with telepathic instancy
the import of her words.
« Why not ? " she asked, with a faint smile. « Meredith
has told me everything ; he wanted me to dissuade you,
but I think that you have done well'"
**rou think so, Helen? Vouy of all people?** He
searched for sarcasm in her voice, but there was none.
The only explanation which could fall into line with facts
was that she had ceased to care for him, and was therefore
glad to see him settled. The thought that this should be,
though best for all concerned, stabbed him with the flame-
pain of a sword.
"Why should I not think so? Without you she is
defenceless; without her you would become selfish. If
this should happen you would lose your power to
smg.**
MEETING IN SPARROW HOLLOW a08
•« My power to ring!'' he cried; "what !■ that? Ido
not love her, I tell you— at least, not jn that way— not ai
I love you."
It was Helen's turn to express surprise. Then, seeing
the ordeal of agony through which he was passing, and
guttsing that there was yet some hidden knowledge, she
said more tenderly —
"Come, Gabriel, if it wiU help you tell me all. This
time it is I who invite you to confess."*
The joy of self^erision came upon him. Beginning
from the night that he had spent with her on the
Thames, he told fiercely and scathingly, frankly and
without omission, all that had happened to him, down
to the last scene in FoUy Acre. Of what his sin of
action toward Lpjicaster had really consisted, and how
It had come about. Of how he had come to Wildwood
supposing that the Poet was his only benefactor. How
he had drifted with blinded eyes, all unwittingly, into
aUowing Mary, Meredith's daughter, to love him. How
he had discovered her love and her history at one and the
same time. How, during his stay in the forest, a gradual
diange and search after a soul had gone on within his
heart, until he had at last come to see that no life was
worthy unless it cast the healing shadow of a cross. That
the first test of his new b^Uef had come to him in the
person of Mary, making a magnificent appeal to his sense
of the heroic ; and of how he had responded in order that
he might atone for the sorrows which he had so heedlessly
caused to others.
How, on account of her own silence of those last months,
he had come to think that she had forgotten to care for
him, being disgusted, as any woman might well be, at
^t he had told her on the night drive in the Park.
That with her coming of yesterday he had found his
conjecture to be fiilse, and that, moreover, her love had
8M THE WEEPING WOMAN
been foUowing him all the waj, providing with the Feet'
for his wants at Wildwood. He then ezphuned the
meaning of the bonfire and her charred love-letters, and
of how he had read her discovery of the same in her fiMe
before ever she had left to ride away.
With that sneering barbarity of which men are capable
only when they practise surgery upon their own souls, he
opened up to her his temptatimi to withdraw even at this
last stage in the game ; of the coward shame which he had
felt that day in Monbridge of Mary and her rusticity, and
of its sequd. Finally, of the latest development in the
news of Lancaster"! ilbess and of the consequent postpone-
ment of his marriage with Mary ; of her disappointment,
and of his conjectures on the way to the Hollow.
With a mad outburst of dervish frenzy he completed his
tirade, hacking long rents in the holy of holies of his
buried life ; gashing his sensitiveness with the two-edged
sword of embittered sincerity and sdf-scom.
** I am a poor, shiftless incompetent," he cried. " When
I try to do right I succeed in working lasting wrong.
When I plan to avoid a small injury I inadvertently
accomplish a greater. I go through the world enlisting
friends" sympathy, and dragging them down to my own low
level by my gratitude. I have relied upon myse^ to save
myself; prayed to God to save me; trusted that others
might save me, but all to no avail. I am rotten in myself.
I crucify others, but cannot crucify my own body. I am
utterly worthless, and utterly untrustworthy."
In this strain he might have proceeded had not Helen
laid her hand upon his mouth to stop him.
" You are wrong, wrong, wrong in what you say. You
have no right to accuse yourself like this. I, who by your
own showing, should have most reason to complain, recog-
,nize that you have done honourably and well. I am
willing to stand by you and, for all my love of you, to
MEETING IN SPARROW HOLLOW 805
Wp JOT in lurilleiiig our love to the bai»in«. nf f ki.
tlie wniiM ♦!.-,* l ""6»i /uur poin, and so to teach
ine world that heroes can rtill be brave In wh»fvl«
iMive done you have done wpII »«.♦♦ *u * ^'^
think.** weU— better than you can ever
^Be^an who™ J^^tn^ ^n^f ^^^
•t«>tch out her hand, to pu.h hhn from her while Z^
bve^r^ rf e^nfort. that he might have 'thltS^
DM Mrly Oxfoid day», when he hod held her to be m mn»h
l^^him""* ^Z^'„^:t 'T'^'^ """^
•ttainable ? She fcl^ ^ 'ntangible and un-
her" !1^ 1"'" " "rs'y *'»•" "> Gabriel,- he heari
prmntted, before you go to London." ^
no ,^" -™' """' '*'' y™ "^ ™ t- «>« ? Have you
« So mwiy that I haru,y know how to face to-morrow "
n.e„ why, after aU, should I do this thing ? Xuld
P«r « tnfle and «, ca»,ly come by that we »ho.Ud de,pi«..
rt f Let us go away quietly together to «,me forei™ C
^tl" iT "°* ''"°™.'^ «» "™ .t peace C^^
htr" wh^'^^o*;^ '^"^^ '» thesZTwo^^
^^ Micy wo were left oi.ce again so entirely
a06 THE WEEPING WOMAN
together, had diieinbemiied him of hb raeolm; tl
■oog of the earth throbbed through hie veine— nothin
counted lave love, love, love.
** Why do I urge you m?"* she repeated in a irnal
thrilling voice. ** Becauie it is best for both of us, Oabric
We love too intensely ; we should bum out our lives — \
consumed by our own passion. God never meant a ms
and a woman to love as we love. He would becon
jealous ; some disaster would overtake us. If I were 1
tell you what I feel toward you But we had be
be silent Such talk could only serve to stifle conscience
** But why should we not speak of it ? It was given i
to speak about**
**No, Gabriel ; it was given to us that we might refit
it"
"But why? Why? What is the reason for th
butchering of that which is best?**
" That it is not best ; there is something better— to gi
to others that which is our best You have told me
that which you have done, and the conclusion at whii
you have arrived — that life should be a cross
** Yes, but that was before I had discovered that y(
still caxed for me,** Gabriel interrupted.
**Doe8 that make the conclusion any the less truei
she asked. " No, Gabriel, you were right ; we must li
the Christ-life. Together, that would be impossible ; y
should care over-much for one another and become selfia
To live this life it is necessaiy to leave all.**
"Then it is a crime to love? You never said tl
before.**
" No ; but listen. After you went away, I felt the ne
of you ; but I dared not jwrite, lest you ^ould guess w]
it was that was providing for you. I had promised mys<
that I would go out of your life, lest calamity shou
befall you as it befell the Poet, through me. Hierefo
MEETING IN SPARROW HOLLOW 807
I fell into tb« habit of visiting Mr. Unourttr. who ilumd
my love of you. WM the one num who knew you mort
intimatdy, and who wm in coni.t«t oorrenpondence with
C*»K?T»^ ^' "^ ""^ ^^ of you,«Kl, poor com-
^^h thiK w.^ yet it WM «m„. comfort wl^ I w«.
r«7 lonely. By and by he began to unfold to mr, and to
exdiangeamfidenc»s telling me thing>. about himwlf. I
had noticed whenever I went there that hi. houM wa. full
ofditrepuUble people. You aim had told me wmething
•bout hi- new manner of life. One day. when I qucHtioncJ
he told me hi. d«.iru-to patch up maimed live. ; to .pend
him«lf for other.; to live the life which Chri.t would
have lived, even though he could not believe in Chri.t I
thought httle of it at the time, but afterwaitlm when
I returned home and pondered the vanity of my own
living, It came upon me in a fla.b that he wa. right-
that Uii. was the one attainable ai jition left for me. I
went down and helped him with his work-became nearly
M enthusiastic as he himself. His cousin, Hilda, who i.
the purest, bravest woman I have met, took me in hand
and instiiicted me; w, whilst you have been living at
WUdwood, I have been continually at the Weeping
Woman with the outcasts, laying my hand, upon them—
happy at last"
« We two have become possessed of thi. same idea,"
1* I^ Gabriel— that life is a cro.., and that they live
life best who live most bravely."
" And that i. my discovery also. Oh, Helen, why should
we not live our ideal out together ? "
"Because you are a poet, and I am a rich girl You
ran do your best work in other ways, but mine lies among
the poor. Besides, we have each had our call, and they
are not the same. You dare not disobey. That which
you have planned for your own sake, and for the sake of
that other man who fiiiled, you must carry to a finish.
•08 THE WEEPING WOMAN
Do yoa mMmber what I Mid to you at parting that night
in London f * I want you, when you are gone, to beoooM
more happy, and the bert way in which you oan do that ii
by Iteeping good/ Do not go bade upon your promiit,
Gabrid ; do not disappoint me."*
** I believe you are right ; but the crow ia heavy— more
heavy than I oan bear.**
** I Maw her with you to^y, Gabriel. I am rare the ii
worthy of the aacrifloe. If you do not love her now, you
will learn to lome day. Moreover, you owe thii; foi
however she first learnt to love you, the greater share oi
responsibility miut always rest with you.**
** Thank God, Helen, that you arr so good a woman.
If you had been less noble, I should have gone bade upon
my better self to-night What is it that you advise mc
to do? I am in your hands.**
** You must marry her to-morrow, as you have promised ;
that is all.**
** I will do it But when shall I see you again ?**
** Not for a long time, I fear. It would be unwise to
meet; we could not trust oiuwlves. You must make it
the purpose of your life to make yourself faithful in youi
thouj^ts to her, and, to this end, to forget me. After the
marriage you will go to London, I suppose, to see pool
John, and then return again . The twelve months set aside
by your father will soon be up, and you will be able to
come to some settlement with him. In the meanwhile, I
shall leave the Cartwrights, and go away.
" But shall I never see you again ? Shall I never hear
from you?**
" Where would be the good ? feupposing we did meet
or write, we should be as strangcn. I shotdd have no pari
in your life.**
" As you will," he replied sadly. « Yet there is stiU one
request which I want to make of you.**
MEETING IN SPARROW HOLLOW a09
"It «• cnicl of me to Mkit, I know ; j,,t I have • morbid
feeling that without it all will not go wdl. I want ymi
to oom« wi^U. » to-night and tell Mary thai you wi^ her
nappinpiw.
So fiur tha* had been nothing but genUcne« in her fiicc.
She had reaMHied with him a* a mother with her boy— a.
one who, while taking a tender interat in hit aflUri, was
only Ncondarily concerned. Now that ahe had gained
her pomt, and the good deed had been accompli«hed.
about hi. neck and ki».ing hiH lip., "Gabriel, do not
•^ me, .he cried. " I hate her ! My God, how I hate
While lOie .poke, he heard a wund, and, looking up.
peitcived that the .umet had died away and the moon wa.
riaen. Ail L i hollow wan bathul in light Tliere, not
twenty yard, away, rtood Mary and thai other, cartimr
two long Aadow., and gazing towaid the tree. One lona
look Ae gave, then, without a woid, .tole away. When
ihe had vani.hed with her companion among>it the forert
tm», Gabriel yoke. " It i. getting Ute, Helen, and you
have fiur to go." ^
" ^^ * !«"« ^*y to go." -he murmured mechanicaUy.
He hfted her on to her hon», not trusting himiwlf to
My more, and set out through the wood, by a Aort route,
that he might .ee her wfely on the main road.
When they had traversed a little over a mile, they came
out on the smooth, white Roman highway, which the
legions had tramped to Monbridge.
"Helen, you ought not to travel so far alone by night
Hadn t you better return with me to Folly Acre ? "
"That would only leave me the farther to go to-
morrow," she answered, with a tired smile. " You know
that that is &r enough ah^ady. I told them that I
810 THE WEEPING WOMAN
would spend the night in Monbridge, and Sybil i
awaiting me there. You need not trouble."
Nevertheless, he followeil her for the space of two miles
until they had reached the outskirts of the grey ok
city.
" You are a good fellow, Gabriel," she said ; ** you an
tired out, and had better not come farther."
" I could go anywhere with you, and never grow tired,
he sighed.
A wild look came into her eyes. He saw it as sh<
towered above him upon her tall horse in the moonlighi
Her moral endurtoce was spent.
Who would blame her if, after having striven to turn th
tide for God, she failed ; and what did blame or prais
matter in either case ? The world was wide, so wide ; wh;
shoidd it need saviours ; and who was she, a weak woman
to try to save it P Old age would soon overtake her ; thei
would be time and to spare for repentance — why shoul
she not take her delight now, while ahe was young ?
The horse pawed the ground and whinnied, a littl
breeze blew out his mane, speaking of space and a worl
to wander, bidding them begone together, while the ecstas
remained.
Turning her proud, blanched face toward him, sh
looked down with eyes which bespoke her thoughi
stretching out a hand to bid him come.
He read her mind and, remembering how she ha
saved him from himself that evening, took her hand, an
kissed it, saying, " No, Helen, it can never be."
''- Not my hand, Gabriel, my face," she cried, bendin
toward -him out of the saddle.
Risaching up and taking her iiace between his hands, li
looked long into the sweet, sad eyes, which he loved ; thei
putting his lips to her forehead, whispered her own word
" I want you, when you are gone, to become mote hap|r
MEETING IN SPARROW HOLLOW 811
and the best way in which you can do that is by keeoinff
good.'' ^ ^ "^
The mouth trembled, and tears filled her eyes ; tfc ; first
of that brave evening. « I will try for your sake, Ga ni. 1,"
she said. "Forgive me the harsh words which I iia»o
spoken ; they were not meant. You have proved yourself
a true poet to-night."
"And who am I, that I should forgive?" he cried,
pressing his hot face against her dress.
"Or I?" she said, resting her hand upon his head.
"We have both done our best."
" Grod bless you," he said.
And she, perceiving that other words were vain, and
only tempted to longer delay, gathering up the reins,
returned answer, " And may Jesus comfort you."
Urging her horse to a canter, she disappeared down
the moonlit road. Gabriel was once more left standing
alone.
CHAPTER XXVIII
JEPHTHAH^S DAUGHTER
Reluctantly he turned, and commenced the homeward
journey. The cMmax was over and past, he could now
view himself and each one of the little group whom he
had gathered around him, dispassionately.
This strange fact struck him, that they had all, in their
own peculiar way, foregone something. Lancaster and
Hilda at the Weeping Woman, Meredith at Wildwood.
These, after having fought and lost their battles, when they
had suffered defeat in that which they most had coveted,
had seen a new and better sort of victory emerging from
their own undoing ; with the defeat which was victory, had
come peace. A thing yet more significant grew clear to
him : that their first battles had been waged wittingly, for
themselves and by themselves ; that their defeat had been
a personal loss, whereas i,he after triumph had come
unsought, through themselves but for others.
Mary had been a defeated woman frtim the outset ; she
had inherited the shame and imdoing of her parents.
Love seemed to be for her the only possible conquest ; to
persist in love her one heroism. It behoved him, as the
stronger of the two, to help in the retrieving of her
hereditary losses. Helen was right. He must marry Mary
and ivUl to be loyal, in spite of himself. This he would
do. They two would live the quiet pastoral life, doing
their daily task and helping Meredith in his work.
312
JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER 818
He would teach Mary, and would devote his peraeveranoe
to making up to htx the deficiencies of her childhood.
When he recoUected what th'jse deficiencies were, his heart
went out to her in something more than compassion ; he
was already conscious of the birth within him of a new
protecting, different quality of love. *
*;i wiU be faithful to her in thought as weU as in
action," he said. « It was cowardly of me to wince to-day
at the opinion of the world. What is the world? An
old rake, who conceals his sins by accusing those of others."
Aiieady he was anxious to be near her, to make recom-
pense for past misdeeds, and to feel the forgiveness of her
arms about him.
But what of Helen ? She had fought the bravest fight
of them all. She had fought from the first in order that
she might be defeated, for the sake of others. As yet
there was no recompense for her. He, who alone knew
of her courage, was not permitted even to think of or to
pity her in this her darkest hour.
" We have each won something in the end," he consoled
himself. « Surely there may yet be some hidden victory
for her!" In obedience to her desire he banished her
irom his thoughts.
During the long and solitary homeward tramp there
was plenty of time for cogitation. One phenomenon
worried him, because he could not explain it— Mary's
hallucination about the Green Boy. He had made
inquiry of many people, Meredith included, as to whether
any such person inhabited the neighbourhood, and had in
all cases, save that of Meredith, been met with a blank stare.
Meredith, on being asked, had looked up at him half-
shrewd, half-frightened, answering, " Not that I have ever
seen."
Gabriel was convinced that he had seen the mysterious
Green Boy again this evening in the Hollow, in the
814 THE WEEPING WOMAN
company of Mary. Revealed by the moonlight he nad
not only recognized his shadow, but the face and dress
which Mary had so often described — the same face, so
strangely like his own, which had gazed in through the
window on the previous night. The memory made him
imcomfortable. It was uncanny. He determined to
question Meredith again, that very night.
There was a double reason for his seeing him at that
late hour. He was Mary's father, and it was only right
that he should be consulted about his daughter's marriage,
even though he exercised no authority over her.
On his first discdvery that Meredith had been meddling
in his affairs, Gabriel iiad inclined to be angry. Now that
everything was arranged, all cause for resentment being
past, Gabriel, understanding the delicacy of his predica-
ment, was full of sympathy for him, and readily forgave.
It was past eleven o'clock when he reached Wildwood
and turned in at Meredith's gate, but the light was still
burning, so he did not hesitate to knock.
Pushing open the cottage door he discovered his host
engaged upon the usual task. He had set a lamp before
him, in suchwise that, while enabling him to read from his
heavy family Bible, it would also act as searchlight to any
homeless traveller along the road
" Still up, Dan," he said, nodding towards him. ** Tm
glad of that, for I want a talk with you. What is it that
you are reading so late at night ? "
Dan looked up. " The story of Jephthah's daughter."
" One that I have never liked," said Gabriel. " It's too
brutal. God isn't like that ; it can't be true."
"Why not?"
"Because fathers don't make such vows; daughters
don't help them to keep them when they are made ; and
'should the worst come to the worst, God Himself would
see to it that they were broken."
JEPHTHAHS DAUGHTER 815
**8uch stories are true, Gabriel. Men have been doing
rash deeds and making carelow vows, for which their
womciifolic have had to suffer, throughout the ages. I am
a Jephthah ; I should know.""
"You live too much with John Bunyan, Dan, and,
like him, take delight in abasing yourself with strained
BiWe analogies. This time I fail to see the point of
contact in your comparison.'"
" I, like Jephthah, fled from my brethren and dwelt in a
distant land, where I gathered vain men unto me. I, like
Jephthah, returned after many years to the place of my
birth to fight a battle for the Lord. I also have won my
battle — and have an only daughter.**
« However that may be, there shall be no more tragedies
in your edition of the story. I told you, Dan, Lhat I
wanted to marry your daughter ; I still intend to do so.
I do not blame you for trying to hinder me, for I think I
can read your motive; you wanted to safeguard Helen.
I have been with her to-night and she herself has uiged
me to do this. Now that there is no other hindrance do
you agree?"
"Gabriel, dear lad, I interfered not for Helen alone,
but for your own sake. You know how much this
marriage has already cost you ; it may ruin your hopes—
your life."
" Then I am prepared and glad to be ruined. It is I
who shall pay ; it is my own affair."
" Is there nothing that I can say which will dissuade
you?"
"Nothing."
" Gabriel, you are a good man, you know how the secret
of my early sin has weighed me down, and how much easier
it will be for me to have one near who will share that
knowledge. It is not through lack of love for you that I
have been unwilling, but because I wished to spare you."
816 THE WEEPING WOMAN
**AndIamunwiUing to be spared. When I had k»t
faith, and honour, and relig^!on, you came to me and
showed me how life might be lived. I am happier to fail
in your company, through a kindly deed, than to succeed
in a fashion that would leave me cauHe for r^ret"
Meredith bent over him and kissed him, saying, "The
hate of the Loid is removed from me at last. He denied
me a daughter ; He has given me a son."
Thereupon Gabriel told him his plans, how he was to be
married on the morning following, and purposed living at
Folly Acre.
"There is one question," said he, "which I have been
puzzled in answering. I asked you about it once, and,
although yuu refused to answer, you seemed to me to know."
"What is that?"
« It is concerning that tale of Mary's about the Green
Boy, whoever he may be. She described him to me for
the first time on Christmas Day, and lately she has made
reference to him on several occasions."
Meredith's eyes had become anxious. "Tell me all
you know," he said, " and I will answer you."
Then Gabriel told him of what he himself had seen
that very night, and the night previous ; also, how Mary
had said that the Green Boy had told her secrets and
given her warnings concerning their love. Directly he had
finished, Meredith began feverishly, hurrying out his words —
" There are things that are held for true in our forest
which you people in London would laugh to scorn — things
which I myself do not like to believe, but which I know
to have happened. Many of the families which live in our
villages have been here, and in the same houses, from
father to son as far back as they can remember, therefore
much history and legend had gathered aroimd names.
" The Devons are one of these. Spiritual presences are
said to have come to such, as warnings of evil in times of
JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER 817
crises, before the happening of great events in their
houses. With some the form of the warning has differed
at different times, with others it has been always the same.
" The Devons have lived up there on the hill for hundreds
of years. To them the manifestation has always been the
same in form and figure, only the face has changed ; the
face has been that of the person through whom the danger
threatened. It has invariably appeared when disaster is
at hand. The Green Boy was seen before James Devon
marched away to Naseby to die, and before Nathaniel was
taken for sheep stealing. Dora saw him before I ruined
her, and the face which he wore was mine. Maiy has
seen him off" and on all her life— she is the last of the
Devons. This was why her mother was so much terrified
whenever she mentioned having been with him as a
child. It was this which made me so silent when you
questioned me, and partly this which made me so averse
to your marriage."
"But what does it all mean ?" asked Gabriel, striving
to keep down his fear. " Last night I saw his face at the
window distinctly, and to-night I saw him in the Hollow.''
" It means," said Meredith slowly, « it means that Mary
is in danger. Tell me, were you alone when they met you
this evening ? "
"No; I was with Helen."
" Did Miss Thurm see them ? "
" No ; her face was tinned away."
"Gabriel, we must go to Folly Acre to-night."
"To-night?"
" Yes, and at once."
" But she will be asleep."
" Nevertheless, we must go."
There was so much of horror in Meredith's voice that
Gabriel found his mood contagious. Turning down the
lamp they hurried out into the night
CHAFfER XXIX
THE TXKBOK BY MIGHT
A DBKZLiNo rain was falling, through which the moon
shone blurred. There was the sigh of a rustling unrest in
the forest, as of, tired trees tossing uneasily in sleep,
whispering incoherent warnings, though no breeie blew.
The atmosphere sagged limp and heavy across the valley—
a damp sheet, hung from the hill-tops, shutting out the
air — so that one's breath came painfully.
Striking the main road, Gabriel lent the older man his
arm. There was comfort on such a night in mere contact
of flesh with flesh, which made him less afraid.
"Do you think that this is necessary P*' hazarded
Gabriel, silence becoming oppressive.
« Jephthah's daughter, she is Jephthah's daughter,"* was
the only response.
Arriving at a point where the by-path broke away
beneath boughs to Folly Acre, they plunged into the
blackness whidi imderlay the woods.
Here it was necessary to go sin » /n account of over-
hanging branches.
Despite his infirmity Meredith pushed ahead, hurrying
the pace, so that it was difficult at times for Gabriel to
keep up with him. Ever and again dripping foliage would
tap against his face with the cold touch of a dead hand,
causing him to start back with an involuntary cry. .
. Sometimes when Meredith halted to discover the way
318
THE TERROR BY NIGHT 810
Oftbriel wouk) go by him, bruihing him in the fMming, and
would ahudder, fancying r third pmence. When through
the treei the solemn castaiations of the old farm loomed
up ahead they broke into a run, with a sigh of relief that
it still itood.
In the gloom and nightmare of the hour everything
had become poosible, so present had been the ihadow of
their dread.
Pushing open the creaking gate they hurried up the weed-
grown walk, working round toward the back of the house.
No light burned ; everything was silent. They hesitated,
peering in through the window, questioning whether they
should enter and awaken her. The night was too black to
see anything, and the panes were mist bedrenched.
Meredith timidly knocked upon the door. Receiving no
answer he knocked again, louder and louder, till the whole
house echoed with his violence.
"Why doesn't she answer?" Gabriel whispered tremu-
lously.
Meredith answered nothing, but, forcing the latch,
entered.
Groping their way toward the bed they smoothed their
hands across pillow and counterpane ; they were unruffled
— she had not slept there.
Horror giving place to alarm, they searched the room,
thinking that she might have fainted, or fallen asleep in
one of the chairs — all were empty.
Striking matches, and going upon their knees, they crept
across the pavfd floor, but found no trace of her.
"Can it be that she has moved into some other part of
the house ?" Gabriel suggested in desperation.
Seizing the hope they rushed to examine the door, but
found it locked on their own side, proving the supposition
&lse. Meredith, going out into the night, called to
Gabriel, saying —
^ t
890 THE WEEPING WOMAN
^Comeftway. She b not here. We miut look elMwhere
tot her.
He did not follow. Hid eye« had grown more Mcue-
tomed to the dark ; aomething had riveted hit attention.
Meredith, hearing that he did not come, re-entered the
houM to find him standing at the far end of the room,
gating up.
Fixing hiR eyes in the same direction to where the
minstrel gallery ran to and fro from wall to wall, he saw a
white thing, above the bed, hanging. For a minute he
too stood, gaxing, paralysed of action, till, in the dark-
netw, the shadow of white seemed to swing and sway. Then,
shaking Gabriel fay the arm, he shouted —
" Come, Gabriel, quickly. It may not be too late."
Running toward the ladder whidi led up i:c began to
ascend the steps. Fastened to the balustrade* lie found a
cord, which he tore at with his fingers to unloose.
Gabriel, aroused, and apprehending the worst, climbed
on to the bed, and held up the body in his arms, releasing
the weight.
By slow degrees it slipped toward him as Meredith undid
the knot, till the head fell back across his shoulder, and the
long black hair travelled his face.
They laid her down upon the bed, and relieved the
tension around the throat. She was already chill.
Discovering the lamp they found that its oil was
exhausted, the wick chaired ; it also had burned itself out.
Having searched for materials they lit a fire. Tliis
Meredith did while Gabriel watched beside the bed.
When the flames had sprung up and licked the wood
they revealed that which it was not well for any who
had loved her to see. She was beyond their aid. Drawing
the sheet across the face Meredith led Gabriel away, seat-
ing him beside the hearth. Obedient and dazed he did
that which he was commanded, sitting quietly, with eyes
THE TERROR BY NIGHT 811
«Md and ^pnmkmiem-^nHmt «. «wfi I •• tbo-e of that
dmA race into which he had glanced
JTrT A ^ / ^ *^ dUtingui Aed fttm, the patter of
the rain. Ah the father's heart within him awokT to it*
grief, speech grew in volume, torrentuoius totterinir, mm-
11- ^^lT** °^ ^^' ^°^~ "^ '^ '«"» now fun and
and Md with the secrecy of whispered sibilants.
In the night he was pleading with his God for her, for
Gatael, for himself, that He might hold out His father-
hand to each, to the living as to the dead, and guide their
foo^ps into Hs way of pea<.. Nothing ^f r.^Z
marred Uie petition, no idleness of reviling wonls was
Srr;n {f .' P«>7n fjith of one, who, s«ux» knowing
«^ f K- w l""^ '*f***'^* *"^ ""•"^'^^ •* finding the
mind of his Maker unknowable.
.J?^ ^l ^"* T"^ ^ ^°'''*^ '^^ °«t he arose,
^1 ^K ?i"»*?,* ^"'^^ ^"^''^^^ ^«^ fr^n* his pocket a
well-thumbed Bible, from which he commenced to V^ his
fevounte passages aloud, nmning his finger along the lines
that he might decipher the words. The embers flickered
and flared, so that at times he could scarcely see ; stiU he
read on.
With him this end had been in a vague way lone
expected. It fitted in with his theology of life-theolos;
or reverent superstition. '^^
That Jephthah's daughter should die because of the
victory, that children should inherit the curse of a father's
sin, were to him the natural concomitants of victory and of
the commission of sin.
Religion to him was Life;-^od working through lives
8M THE WEEPING WOMAN
to<Uy, 7«Urd«y, and forever, unchanging and unchanged
hanh as the God of the HebrewH. Religion was ai
inviolable automatic law, manhaUing and restraining life
God the great juriit— just, generous, but legal Mereditl
had so reguUted his record by Old Testament teaching
that he saw no ii^ustice or cause for resentment in th
striking down of the fruit of his own sin by the sam
Divine hand which had similarly bereaved Jephthah, El
and David. Retribution in one shape or another he ha
long feared. He bowed resignedly to the ineviUble man
date of a jealous God, recognizing upon it the handwritin
of his own past crime.
With Gabriel) affairs were far otherwise. He saw onl
the blind, brutal display of an Omnipotence which strun
arrows at a venture, behind clouds, carelessly, and laiighe*
All the long train of events, leading up to this one even
passed before his eyes mockingly, proving either no Go
at all or a frivolous wanton.
He saw himself of a year ago, as in some dim ag
setting out with high hopes and an initial sacrifice upc
his high road > helpfulness— his one idea to accomplii
himself at all cobts, for the sake of fame and of others.
Like the minor undertones of a great Greek traged
one miserable calamity after another had crept in, M
guides, promising to hasten him to the goal of his ar
bitions ; posing as skilful musicians of emotion who woii
call forth from the harp of his heart the new songs. Thi
the progression of his downfall sped on, till he, who
every thought along the way had been kindness, fom
himself at the end with blood-red hands, plashed wH
the blood of many, all of them people whom he had love
standing alone, an outcast in the eyes of the world,
criminal In his own.
With vehement petulance he blamed himself for lap
of kindness, absences of forethought, omissions of gentl
THE TERROR BY NIGHT 898
The bitterwt mcmcy of all w*. tl»t .he whom he had
whom, above every living creature, he had been wUlinir to
fo^ h Im^jlf the mo.t, had died mi.umlerHtandinK him
e«jdemnn,g him perhap ; or. what wa. wor., c^ndlniTg
When he thought of the horror of m^lMoathing which
mu.t have led to thin la«t act of her denial, he w^
P«-«ed .nth a inadne« of remon« ; .till more «, whc^
he pctuml how hi- each lea«t re.pon.ible action L"
c«ntnbuted to the cata.tn,phe. and mu.t unavoidah^
in the final 8ummmg. be held re.pon.ible. ^
DoubtlcH. he had revealed to her in variou- indi^
JZ^ kT^u ^ ^"'*-***** ^' *^""^^» "»' ^^^ the
fire of love which she gave.
The coming of the Thurm« had .trengthened her «u«-
ZZ' ?il Z '"'^"t •* ^«»»>"^«« had lent them
departure, had combmed them, cau-ing him to appear in
W eyc« «« a pulmg coward, who. not daring to s^Tout
the truA to her openly, had contrived thl roSd,^
means of exit-a lie She could not read the message fo
which she had seen in Sparrow Hollow had confirm^
Z7er^JllZr'\T'''''^' lent it life, impeding h«
to her final deed of despemte self-contempt.
His good and his bad had been alike misconstrued
ht:tu :jhi/f * 1 f °"l' f'^'^'y througrnonTif
««^^- -11 T^ *^'"^" ^ *^° ^ched, when, sick
and disillusioned, she. by whom the world had never sit
r ;:„Sir ^ " ^ ''^"^-'"'^ '-^ -^ ht
"What is there left for me to accomplish?'' his soul
cned out withm him. "Such things L I would not.
824 THE WEEPING WOMAN
those I do; the things that I would, I have not the
capacity to attain. I am a curse and a plague-spot
wherever I go— « vampire who thrives on the lives ol
others and cannot himself die.'' He thought of how he
had pledged himself to be the healing shadow of a crow
and of all the dreams which had come with the desire
From such a life he felt himself to be for ever debarred
how should hands which had slain ever be lifted up tc
bless ?
« Oh, Christ, that you were real !" he cried in the sileno
of his agony; "you, at least, would understand." So
between his lonely longing for a Saviour, many year
dead, and his memory of her glazed eyes, he eddied an<
swayed. i . i . i
Patiently, through the watches of the night, in Iom
broken tones, the other man read on until at last he cam
to the words, " Thou shalt not be afraid of the terror b
night." Here he paused, having arrived at that for whic
he had sought. Gabriel, wakening out of his trana
listened. "Thou shalt not be afraid of the terror h
night ; nor for the arrow which flieth by day ; nor for tl
pestilence that walketh in darkness ; nor the destructic
that wasteth at noonday."
The reader halted, with his finger on the page, an
looking up, met the eyes of Gabriel full upon hii
« That is what we have feared : the terror by night; tl
pestilence that walketh by darkness. These words we
written that we might not be afraid."
In his despair, Gabriel fancied he saw some phantom
comfort in what had been spoken ; as a drowning mi
flings out hands above the waters to clutch at the driftii
semblance of a hope, he snatched the book from Mei
dith's hands, and, throwing himself down upon his kn<
by the fire, that he might catch the flickering light,
near that the heat scorched his face and well-nigh sing
THE TERRQR BY NIGHT 825
his hair, he read. "He that dweUeth in the secret place
of the most High shaU abide under the shadow of the
Almighty. I will say unto the Lonl, He is my refaire
and my fortress; my God, in Him will I trust. Surely He
ihaU deliver thee from the snare of the fowler and from
the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with His
r?T^ and under His wings shalt thou trust ; His truth
«h^ be thy shield and thy buckler. Thou shalt not be
afraid of the terror by night"
Like the music of an old song, or the far-away memory
of a dear friend's voice, the calm of the words stole over
him. This was the kind of God he had been in seareh of
aU these years, a Being who mingled boundless strength
Witt the fimte mother-love-One Who could cover him
with the feathers of tenderness and shelter him beneath
the wings of a timeless security, making him unafraid.
In a dim way he began to contrast the composure of
Meredith's fortitude with his own resistless surrender to
misfortune. Here was one who knew himself to be de-
fended from the power of every advewary; while he,
i»abnel, had been trusting in the weakling force of his
own right arm alone. Oh, that he also might feel the
touch of the feathers, and quietly creep in beneath the
shadow of the outspread wings !
Meredith, with the delicate instinct of the divinely
consecrated, of one who had gone through the same fieiy
ordeal himself, looked on without speaking, until Gabriel
nsmg towards him, returned the book, and laid his hand
upon the old man's knee, crouching beside him.
" Has it come at kst, laddie ? "
Gabriel lifted to him a face radiant and smiling. « It
has come," he said ; « teU me more about it."
In a quavering monotone, Meredith, his hands resting
m the boy's long, tangled curls, repeated, « Now I saw in
my dream, that the highway up which Christian was to go
826 THE WEEPING WOMAN
was fenced on either side with a wall, and that the wall
was called Salvation. Up this, therefore, Christian did
run, but not without great difficulty, because of the load
on his back. He ran thus till he came to a place some-
what ascending, and upon that place stood a cross, and a
little below, in the bottom, a sepuldire. So I saw in my
dream that, just as Christian came up with the cross, his
burden loosened from off his shoulders, and fell from off
his back, and began to tumble, and so continued till it
came to the mouth of the sepulchre, where it fell in, and I
saw it no more.^
" I have seen that cross," whispered Gabriel, " and now
I have come to it. I have also stood within the sepulchre."*
For a while they remained without speech, each fulfilled
with his own thoughts.
« And then ?^ asked Gabriel ; " what did Christian do
next?"
" Then," continued Meredith, " then was Christian glad
and lightsome, and said with a merry heart, * He hath
given me rest by His sorrow, and life by His death." Tlien
he stood still a while to look and wonder."
" Did nothing else happen ? "
** Yes, as he stood looking, three Shining Ones came to
him, and saluted him with, * Peace be unto thee." So the
first one said to him, *Thy sins are forgiven thee;" and
the second stripped him of his rags ; the third set a marie
upon his forehead, and gave him a roll, with a seel upon
it, which he bid him look on as he ran, and that he should
give it in at the Celestial Gate ; so they went their way."
" I like what the first one said best."
" I also loved his words best at the time, I remember ;
but, afterwards, I came to love them all," said Meredith,
bending over his face.
" Dan, I am so tired, I should like to sleep, but I would
rather kiss her first."
THE TEIIROR BY NIGHT 827
Going hand in hand toward the bed, Meredith turned
back the sheet so £ur as her forehead.
^Dan, I think she is happy; I am sure she must be
smih'ng. They will love her better there."
« Yes ; she has departed and is with Christ, which is far
better."
So, when the terror by night had been overcome, these
two men, folded within each other^s arms, stretched on the
floor by the dead girl's side, slept tiU the breaking of new
day. ^
CHAPTER XXX
THE COMING OF THE UMENUOHTENEO
A NOETH wind swept the countryside, stramming from
the forest branches a low, sustained music, as from the
chords of a many-stringed harp ; rousing hoarse cheers as
it pelted through the valley ; causing flower-faces of the
field to bow this way and that, like royalty riding through
a park. The sun, blustering and brimful of glory, was
splashing his turbulent way through a racing cloud toward
the zenith of his height — a horse of gold in the surf of an
azure sea.
The world was electric with energy. Everything was
doing; birds flying hither and thither ; wains along distant
high-roads rumbling citywards ; brooks babbling on to a
river ; rivers bawling down to a sea ; seas swaying on to an
ocean. Life was throbbing and travelling.
Gabriel took a last farewell look at his cottage home,
and pulled to the door. Withdrawing the key fiwm the
lock, he placed it on a comer of the window-sill, according
to agreement with Meredith.
That morning they had talked matters over, and had
come to the conclusion that it was Gabriel's bounden duty
to hasten to London ; the message in the telegram had
been urgent and allowed of no delay.
This left Meredith in charge of affairs at FoUy Acre ;
also to face any trouble that might arise. Gabriel had
objected to the arrangement, till Meredith had pointed
328
THE UNENLIGHTENED 899
out to him that hia place was at the Turnpike, and that
there was ao sense in two being involved in an unpleasant-
ii«8 which was better handled by one. Moreover, his
absence might avoid a scandal which would drag many
names into the unsympathetic light of publicity-^Hewi
for instance. Prom every point of view it seemed expedient
tnat he should go.
Meredith relied upon the influence of Sir Danver Cart-
wnght, and had sent for him early that morning. If an
mquert should be made compulsory, the name of Gabriel
was to be omitted, Meredith being alone mentioned as
the discoverer of the suicide; its motive being left »n-
jwrtural. His well-known lofty character, together with
the secret support of one of the count/s highest magnates,
w.^d prohibit any suspicion of foul pUy attaSig to
The secluded life which had been led, both at FoUy
Acre and the cottage, gave no opportimity for the intri
duction of village witnesses. There was no one who could
contribute any information over and above what was
generaUy known, except Meredith. There were powerful
reasons for expecting that the tragedy could be kept
pnvate, as is frequently the case in obscure villages ; some
Ignorant or friendly doctor, of Sir Danver'spiwurimr.beinir
persuaded to fiU in a certificate of death in thrnormd
way.
A ^*^**l!° ***^ *"^^^" '"^"* °^ ^^ changed self, con-
fo«d by this contradiction in his fortunes, that unexpected
and overwhelming joy should have come to him out of so
temble a «,llapse of his happiness, resigned his own prefer-
en^ for those of the older man, and was content to obey
He had proceeded so far as the gate, when a tendemi
crept over him to return once more and look upon the
garden wherein so many destinies had been wrought out,
that he might recall it exactly in after years. Dipping
ft
bt
THE WEEPING WOMAN
his bag by the hedge, he pawed through the alley-way of
Tfaododendrons down to the terrace of rosea. ^
Entering Hm arbour, he gaied at the grey tracery of
Monfaridge, with the river flowing by, and smiled at remem-
bering the continentii of moods which he had traversed
since his eyes had first rested on that sight — and sighed.
Going from rose-tree to rose-tree, he wished them all
** Good-bye,^ and felt sorry at leaving.
Just as he was about to ascend, he caught a glimpse of
the bush which had borne the flower between whose petals
Helffli had slipped her note. Drawing nearer, he saw that
the wind had scattered its leaves and withered it away.
In its destructioq he discerned a sign, as he now saw a
portmt in the death of that small red-breasted bird which
Maiy had rescued on his first night in Wildwood, which
had perished from the heat of his hand. Barbg his
head before departing, he quoted, "Then saw I not the
brif^t light which was in the clouds, but now the wind
passeth and deanseth them. Fair weather omneth out of
the north ; with Grod is terrible majesty."
Striking the highway by a short cut throu^ the fields,
he tramped along, shouldering his bag,i until a farmer,
trotting townwards, overtook and ofilered him a lift
** Where be you travelling ?"
" To London."
**To London! Heaven help us, that be a mighty
wicked place, where all oiu: runagates gad. You look to
be an honest gentleman."
** More or less," replied Gabriel, after which conversation
of courtesy tiieir interest in one another flawed.
Half-way down the hill they saw a lady, leading a
saddle-horse, in whom Gabriel recognized Helen. He
asked the frumer to put him down and wait for a minute.
" What do you want ?" he asked her gently.
She cast down her eyes and flushed.
THE UNENLIGHTENED 881
«L««l night I oould not »leep for thinking over what I
r^ J!l {°"u '^^ ^^"^ ^^- ' •«» «>"»*«« to do what
I oo^t to have done lart night-to wiA her happinew.-
It M too Ute," he answered dowly ; «d,e is did.''
whS^^lNofdtr??^"^^'"'"^- "^^''•^
colfo^^^ ^ ™^^*' There is yet Meredith for you to
I. lir^'rP*^" "^^ raoaned, covering her face with her
fiands. IJen, after a pause, "But you are happy!
Gabnel,teU me, why are you happy?" Here was W
reproach in her voice.
« Because God has come to me, as He has come to her.
mere is no happmess without Him."
She gaaed upon her lover in anger and bewilderment
Tins IS the day, almost the hour, upon which you
were to have married her," she said.
" God wiUed it otherwise, and God knew best*
But I don't understand. She is dead, and you are
smiling! She is dead ; you said that she was dead"
you." ^ P~' "*^^ «° to Wildwood ; Meredith will teU
fflowly she b^ to move up the hifl, and Gabriel,
havmg watched her out of sight, clambered into the cart
J^^ceeded on his way to Monbridge, and thence to
Up the hiU she went until, coming to more level ground,
she remounted. Think as she would, she could not reaUz^
or reconcile this latest freak of fate. That Gabriel should
wmle and seem content in the presence of such a disaster
was monstrous to her. Had he reproached her, reviled
himself, spoken wildly and blasphemed, she could have
undajtood him-aU this would have been natural and in
accord with that which she would have expected from one
sat THE WEEPING WOMAN
of his tempenuneDt. But that he ihould meet her com-
poeedly, on mich a morning, when all the world wemed w
glad to be alive, and on the very road upon which he
•hould have been travelling to his wedding, and then tell
her, without a trace of grief, that the bride was dead—
that was too horrible. She, with her youth and pride
in her beauty, had learnt to look upon death as the
worst unhappiness which could befall — the tragedy of
trigedies, the grief of griefs. Often she hau crept to
the mirror that she mi^t run her fingers over the soft
texture of her skin and the glossy fitbric of her hair,
to make sure that she was still alive, shuddering with
dread at the thought that all these would one day be as
nothing, lying forgotten and out of sight in the depth of
some londy grave. To be alive, for the more sensuous
delif^t of feeling, moving, loving, admiring, was to her the
boon of boons— «fter life there was nothing.
Yet in the presence of death he had looked com-
placent, smiled, packed his bag, and gone in search of
new adventures!
Something like loathing grew up within her, and, with
it, an admiring fear ; fear of the magnificent callosity of a
man who, being himself an atom of a moribund creation,
could bring himself to dispense so lightly with the life of
another, as though he were immortal ; admiration, because
she felt herself to be so incapable of such an iron evil.
Nevertheless, side by side with this sickening sense of
repulsion, was the hint of a possible misjudgment; a
reserve opinion. She could not disguise the change in his
personality of which she had been made conscious; an
unutterable calm which could not have been generated by
mere hardness of heart. Toiling with her conjectures, i^e
rounded the bend which brought within view the ascent
to Meredith^s house.
There in the sunlight he sat as of old, the bees hum-
THE UNENLIGHTENED 888
• book iprMd open acnM his knees.
«!i!S'? ^ **u"* "P *^* *»'"» •*« demounted and
w^ked to where he WM seated. At the nisUe of her dress
be looked up, and seeing her, arose.
** Is this true, Dan ? is she really dead ?"
"She is dead." ^
last nflf^ ?V°* *~'* -^d, Dan ; and Gabriel told me
last night that she was your daughter."
*• That is true ; but she is dead."
boL^H^^V'***"'*"^?'**^- I «"«* Gabriel not an
vTa^nr^ K ''" ""'""«' *"^ 8°»»8 away, and even
you are not unhappy." o ^,
^^e has departed, and is with Christ-which is far
" But you were fond of her, Dan ?"
"I would willingly have died for her."
" ITien why are you not sad ?"
i«h^^^ *^. "^^ "°*^^ ***** ««»« unaltemble,
"jefinable tianquiUity which she had noticed in Gahrid
« Helen-for I used to caU you Helen before you grew
d«tth ,s only the b^„i,^ of a newer and better life^f
His hand to take her; therefore we are glad"
" But how, Dan-how ? I have heanl all these phrases
before; they mean so little and cover up so maJyT
answerable doubts." ^ ^
"AU doubts are answerable for those who believe "
ab^S'^hi^'^'jJ'f"? ?7J" *° **°^ """b '^' ^"^y knew
about himself, he told her his life's histoiy and of the
banning last night of the new heart in Gabriel
She listened attentively to the end. " It is ve^ wonder-
884 THE WEEPING WOMAN
All You mutt give me time to think ; I oumot gnwp it
It i« too wonderftil,"* she laid.
Then she told him of henelf and of the haaty wordi
which 1^ had sfxtken ccmoeming Mary, and of the purpoie
of her prewnt joamey.
** I ihould lilce to tee her jmt once,** ahe said.
At that moment the mmumI of wheels wan heard from
helow, and Helen perceived the hi^ dog-cart of Sir
Danver pulling up at the gate.
** I should like to see her alone if possible, Dan ; I had
very bitter thoughts about her last night."*
Meredith, who had been waiting for Sir Danver's coming,
led her out by the back way, and, having pointed to where
Folly Acre lay ahd having set her upon the right path,
returned to meet his new guest.
Helen, as she walked along between the high trees
through whidi the sunlight filtered and fell, strove in vain
to reidiie the meaning of all that which she had Utely
heard. Here, as she passed, a rabbit ran across her trade
and a red-breast hopped under cover; squirrels were in
the tree-tops, and a laric, high up and out of sight, was
trilling. Had no one any just and angry pity for the
death of this young girl ? Was there no one to be sorry
for her ? A gercrous indignation against the merriment
of the day brought tears to her eyes. " I, at least, will be
sad for her,"" she said.
On through the green-wood she travelled, passed up the
moss-grown path, and stood before the threshold. Two
rooks, which had been perched upon the gutter of the house,
rose insolently up and flew leisurely away with a studied
slowness, as though in protest against her coming — the only
moiumers dressed in black which she had seen that day.
The door was on the latch ; but she hesitated to enter,
recalling the bitterness which she had entertained in her
life toward the dead. She looked in through the windows,
THE UNENLIGHTENED 885
«»d thought of .11 the other fiu» whl«* h«] peemi thnnigh
them in the long length of jean, i fkc«. whi^hud it»ohS
loil! «»7|«» d"** T" "****» ''^ "y*- «»"W no
^lJ^11l**''if"'"^"«" •^ «"•"«■ *^ «««~tioni. of
i^ *i^''^ her eyei ; the petty detail, which had
comprbed their pa«iionate life, the marriageiH fea-tingm
quamaingm love-making., and death., of wSch there wt^
jio more record than if they had never heen. Thi. girl,
the la.t of them aU, Uy dead within. In the reflecUon
Jhe «w nothmg but finality. To-day World ««med til
Z^^!'^:^ **"!;^'^"* of ye.teiday\ to which wa.
appomted a kmdrod end.
Summoning her courage. Ae pushed open the door.
Th^ room wm bright and polirfied, marked with the care-
tul tokens of the toil of tha« dead hand* The aiOie. of
a fire rtiU glowed, throwing out a .mouldering heat In
the fiu. conier. beneath the galleiy. .tood a bet^over which
wa. .pread a sheet ; and wmething under it Down by
the «ide drooped a delicate arm and hand, the fin«^
emp^ and partly doubled, seeking a hand to hold/
Crouching bes.de it, Helen dipped her own into that of
^ teyl" ^""^ ^"^^^ "^ «^" «">P«^
« Come back ! ^ .he whispered. « I want you to have
him. I have come to tell you so."
She waited for an answer.
STS"^L 'n'«flng«»««m«ltohoId the tighter, but
the body did not move.
"Oh, cannot you hear me? If you will only come
b«.k I will love you asa sister. I have never had a sister.
1 feel I could love you now.'"
In her excitement she had released the hand. When
ahe had done speaking, she noticed how it swung to and
fro ; empty a^^n ; bidding her begone.
886 THE WEEPING WOMAN
In tht psoM which followed, the braune mwtn of Um
MMtcritj of the Rilenoe which she had dneenitod. BttMUai
lower over the bedside she whispered, ** U there nothini
that I can do for youP** Her answer was the nepii
iroin sound*
«* I should like to kiss you before I go,** she said. Tin
dead hand moved stifRy and reluctantly toward her lip
as she drew it up. Then she saw the thorn-wound upoi
it, jagged and red, and wept over it, moaning, ** Foo
woiuided hand,** and touched it also with her lips.
** I should like to kiss ycnir face,** she said.
Um wind blowing in at the open door rippled th
shroud, making it seem as if the body beneath wer
strugi^ing to rifee.**
She pulled back the covering, and for a mmnent gaaei
upon the face.
The muscles had relaxed &« the body had chilled, bring
ing back to the countenance something of its old waywar
sweetness ; only the agonized apartness of the mouth, an
the blue, rude circle armmd the throat served to signif
by what means the fipmt had contrived its departure.
''And they can look upon you and be glad !"* she groanec
** And they call that religion ! ^ But the body lay at reel
quite heedless.
With a sob she kissed the forehead, put back the sheei
and passed out into the sunlight
Walking toward the farm, deep in conversation, si
saw Meredith and Sir Danver. She slipped behind a tn
and waited till they were out of sight
Then, returning to Meredith^s cottage along the trac
by which she had come, remounting her horse she alt
rode away.
CHAPTER XXXI
■KMAXINO TRK WOILD
l«t attempt to honour hi. defe/t " ""•
oneHeScing, ^ii!^ "***"« "^ """««''»« « «"»«
^htlotw" "i^tJS' .T'"' "'•J'^ °^'"" "-^
r.i, • 1 ^^'. °'»»° •'>'', true poet that Tou are"?
«.^^K ""i:'*'^, ™«"*'y whether «ri, might nrt be
deliSr^Ae^^tr* °" ""^ ""* "-^ ■-"
" 837
888 THE WEEPING WOMAN
Beyond all elde, thoughtH of Lancaster and the purpow
of his abiegated life occupied GabriePs mind, making
tender and enthusing him at every nearer approach to his
friend*8 presence. Tlie words of that last letter echoed in
his ears : **I feel now what Christ must have felt (though
I am still none of His) when he said, *The harvest truly
is plenteous, but the labourers are few ; pray ye therefore
the Lord of the harvest, that he send forth labourers into
his harvest* I have been so praying, and you know that
I have never prayed for anything before, that the Lord
Jesus may send you.^
Gabriel, looking upon this multitude of damorous
teeming lifie, understood the compassion of those words.
He felt that he wauld like to stand up there in the heart
of that dizzy throng and say something which mifi^t
restrain the huny of their feet, and bring peace into
their eyes. Peace! He sought eveiywhere for peace
in the rude sketch of careers which was scrambled across
these men^s and women^s features. Eneigy was there;
passion was there; love was there; but no hint of
peace.
** For what are they all hurrying r*^ he asked. ** Where
is the goal of their perfo^id d^re ? ^
Now he recognized what Lancaster had laboured and
was dying for — ^that he mi^^t give these weary ones peace.
He had arrived within a hundred yards of his old place
of residence. The Gothic steeple of St. Lawrence toward
high over all, imsombre for once in the summer li^t ;
costers* barrows jostled against the kerb-stones, as of old ;
vendors cried their wares ; and between these contrasts of
silence and of sound the sign of the Weeping Woman
hung scarlet against the sky — motionless and battered,
bearing upon its blistered surface the fiuniliar image.
The shop was dosed, so he rang the bell, waiting to be
admitted. Thus occupied he noticed a scattered array
RKMAKING THE WORLD 889
w«-*i ^^ envelope gummed above the letter-hoT wifk
tood brf™,hil "»<>•«— ope«d. .nd Kate
"Come in, Mr. GabrieL" ahe ..M. «_ i. •.
«»P«*ing you." ■" "m. "we have been
find no n«ne. ^'' '"■"^ '"""^ •« "oU
"Wh.ti,Uienew,?-heMked.
^Wy^th.thei.rtmUWng. He h.. been waiting for
^"rttZ**r'*iV't^ «Kl -« nKt by Hilda,
miiling. ^^ ^ ™'*' "Jy « w» of quiet
840 THE WEEPING WOMAN
Entering the room in whidi they had lived ho much
together, she told him briefly all that had happened since
his departure.
Huroughout the winter John and she had followed out
the plan which they had set before themselves — ^to live
Christ^s life ; speaking no word of blame ; refusing shelter
to none; showing compassion to whosoever came their
way; denying themselves everything; giving everything
to all ; healing where they could ; r^^ning those who
had fallen ; expending themselves in every way for the
gone-tmder.
This had entailed late nights, early mornings, harder
work, sleeping where they could in tiie crowded house,
often on the floo|rs ; less food, because they could not eat
while others starved under their very roof ; innumerable
small privations whidi had totalled up to the diminution
of Lancaster's vitality. It came out in the course of the
story that it had been their habit to scour the streets at
midnight, when the entrails of the city lay bare, in search
of sudi women as Kate had been, and of ijie men who had
bem their accomplices — ^to gather them all into the diarit-^
able waUs of the Weeping Woman. In all iliese doings
Kate had taken no part, had stood aloof, condemning and
sullen. The day before Christmas she had disappeared,
leaving a note which stated that she did not intend to
return. Night after night they had searched London for
her, planning out their districts, until one drizzling evening,
about eleven o'clock, they had discovered her near Wapping,
starving and penniless. They had brought her home and
reinstated her in their household without a word of
accusation. Gradually under their persistent tenderness
the barren lands of her nature had b^un to unfreeze.
During her absence anxiety on her behalf had weighed
heavily upon Lancaster's mind. He had attached an un-
reasoning blame tc; himself, imagining that her flight had
I'
REMAKING THE WORLD 841
been prompted by wme nncoindou. coldne* of hi. own
SL W ™; ■"l"^" «" the m«, «cl.°L .f*Z
iwlth in her «Mch. He h«l .pent entire night. DaciW
the W quarto, of the city.gllLng intoe^ woS
&«. hop„« tt.t he might m„gle her. VZe
"r^i. ..T^ T^^ indemency of the winter weather
„f^'^ ■"''''* ""^ "*ened, never .pedcingtwL
rf^ ™«en„g to any one. di.pen«ng hi.^^^^^
W«b, when he needed them mort, to who^eveTS^
One hrt torrent, coming at the end of a .weltoine Jme
anaoKofimeamoniahadKtin.
f-*?? ^ % U'5'^had wen him fcilirg, until findly the
&W tdegram had been di.patehed to Wildwooi ^
. iiS .. ^*^ "'""'« Lancarter, though he had
talked contmuaUy of Gabriel, had been aver^ Z^^
fcr him, not wirfiing to dirturb hi. Uter«y ^oTS
»d chmce of mcce« with hi, fort b-X^-T^ S
ftom him to Gabriel had been penned ju^brfore ul
co^p«. and ported the day dter it had hapS^
.He h«l n^t been told of tie tel.««m untiTE had
b«. «nt Since hi. iU„e« Kate Wbeen beride he«S
with remorw, weU knowing that die wa. in tL ZT
«P»»Me for it She wlhipped U nit « S
wprevioudy die had thwarted him, » that die had w^
l>a«af m by refuring both food and deep that ATmTZ
■erve him night and day. *^*
whlt"^ "> ^^'^'' ^^ ^^'^ "y™ ""not tell
what this year h>. meant to me. ^U firrt I wa. frightened
842 THE WEEPING WOMAN
and ddc at heart because of tiie privatioiu which our life
entailed ; I showed you that once in a coward moment hi
tai« veiy room. It soon passed ; his love outweighed
everything. We have seen little of one another, John
and I, and even that only in the company of the poor
people whom we have entertained ; but the sight of him,
reclaiming these wretched men and women, compelling
them with his love, dragging the soul into their eyes, and
sending them away happy, where before they had been
miserable, has been to me like a glimpse of Christ"
"But what will you do when he has gone?" asked
Gabriel, thinking of the things which he himself had
learnt, and wondering whether any part of his ezperionoea
had been shared, i
She looked up into his fece with a smile. « I shall just
go on my way, trying to do the things which he has done,
and getting ready to live with him again."
"You, too, have leamt it?" he panted, seizing her
hands.
" Yes ; I have leamt it too."
" And what of John ?" he asked. " Has he leamt it ?
Does he believe ? "
" There is no need for him to believe— he acts."
A footM was heard upon the stair. Kate stood at the
door.
" He has wakened up, and wants to see Mr. Gabriel at
once."
" Is it wise that I should see him to-night ? " he asked
of Hilda.
" No wisdom can save him now," she said. " We can
only hope to keep him with us a few days at most ; you
had better go ; you will make him happy."
The room in which he lay was the study, an attic at the
top of the tall, lean house. A bed had been erected near
the window, the sa^ <rf which was flung up wide, letting
REMAKING THE WORLD 848
^tad entered hi. eye fell upon tien, of Aelves naked
^ch their philanthropies had reduced them ; also, of the
^i«|«tic. of sacrifice to which Lancato had been p^^^
for to a man of hi. temperament hi. book, had been «
the puldng blood of life.
A. Gabrid approached the bedrfde Lancarter tried to
SlLJr" *"P °" **"* *™' ^* ^^ »»<* weakly.
Gahnd ran to support him. «0h, it is nothingr he
~d ; « never mmd, I shaU be .tronger for a h^;hile
now^that you have come. I have so longed to see
"If 'its r *^,'^^?' ™« «"««•,« Gabriel cried.
rf^ f * i^'^ '. r"^** ^"^ ~"«" Now that he
Jtood &ce to foce with the waning shadow of his fiiend
b. heart ..teated within him ml it. old frenzy, ^r
the moment he fo^t the new strength which M come
^tohi. hfe, and dirank before the threatening billow of
"But now you have come, and wa are together again,
notiung matters,- Lancaster sighed. '*«^'^ »ga«»
aibriel laid Ws cheek upon the piUow, so that his lips
to^^the sick man's hair, repeating, "No, nothing
With charac. ^^c self-foigetfulness Lancaster began
wood,andhi.book. Gabriel checked him, saying, " John
we have deeper things to talk of in thes^ iThoun. I
\ '^**' v""°^ ^°' ''^'^ I ^^« not nought, while
you have been living it.'' ^
The large, eager eyes caught a new Bre, "You have
learnt to pray, Gabriel?"
" Yes ; I have learnt to pray."
'n»en, omitting the more harrowing parts of hi.
Ml
844 THE WEEPING WOMAN
«P«rienoe, he namted how, at the end of the fiiiht,
he had found C!hrirt. *^
When the itoiy waa finished I^carter motioned to
toon to raiae him up on the piUow.; and when they,
fcanng over^dtement, seemed unwilling, " If I ]ive till
mwTiing I am content," he said. So they did his bidding.
There in the dim room, within sound of the hubbub of
life, amid the reflected lights of an earthly Babylon, they
loitered through the hoUow lands of their hopes and
dreams. In the presence of this perishing entity, symbol
and idtimate of aU futilities, they piled up to^er, he
and they, the phantom fabric of a new world.
C^»podte the window knelt Gabriel, holding the wasted
hand. At the foot of the bed, erect and vigilant, to
protect the rapidly crumbling house of her love, sat Hilda—
immobUe, her hands thrown back. In the dusk of the
doorway, unbrave and inconsolate, crouched the figure of
Kate, the woman whom he had died to save—a Maoda-
lene repentant ahnost too late.
"If you can honestiy pray," whispered Lancaster, "you
can accomplish anything. I could only once, that time
for you, Gabriel, though I have tried often. When I
have gone upon my knees, in the hour of my greatest
nw^and agoniaed that I might speak out my derire, the
S^TTf ""^ "»e"ori«» of my lost opportunities have
drifted before my eyes and Wotted out the fiice of God •
that the fiioe was stiU there behind aU things, seeing me
through my losses, though my eyes were bUnd, in my
heart of hearts I think I have never doubted. When I
look back upon all that is past I am convinced that God
did not want me to pray. He sealed my lips that my
hands might express. With you it is otherwise; He hL
brushed your lips with His lips, and held your hands in
His own."
He paused, panting for breath, and then continued.
REMAKING THE WORLD 84A
•You on accomplid, mor. than I-mod, mon. I ha„
be«i your John the Baptirt, preparing the wav makW
your feet 1 have been only a road-mender, makina the
and teote. Before you have come to the end of vour
journey children win be rtrewing pahn-bnu.che. VZ
to nde over, ««1 men will be outing their garment/ to
the way „ you pa« up to Jeru«lem.^I haveKj,"
jo^mender, yrt I have done God', work amT'am
"Oh, John, I feel, while you have been qieakinir. that
I •hall be strong to do wmiething great TeU me l«,f™.
you die what i. it that I muH d? ,Tw i. uILTi^^
'Ilhe eyes were doied; he was exhaurted and sinkinir
mpid^y^ but the lip. still moved. "IWlaim hbT^
bound. Rrodaim the acceptable year of the Lan\ ^
Z^'^^^'^iilf*"?"" Ap^intl^^^^t
mourn ,n Z,on beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourn-
X'^^'^1^'-'''-'''^^^'^^^^^ give
The long-yoweUed words droned out in a whispered
monotone nsmg and falling like the h«t flickering!^
burnt-out lamp^ I„ the dusk and dirge of that Zauiet
city tiiey seemed not a part of the speaker, but far-bC
oracular, immense. *«r oiown,
A stifled sob of the woman by the door aroused him
to consciousness. "Who was that crying?" he askT
"No one must cry when I am dead''
Disentangling his hand from Gabriers grasp he let it
wand«. over the coverlet till it rested upo^X hea^ of
346 THE WEEPING WOMAN
K«t^ who iMd DOW run wildly fbrwud «t hMring hit
-D«i^ ay, little Udy," he «id tenderly. « Yoa iM
going to help Gabriel and Hilda to ranake the world;
yoa are one of xu now.**
«0h, I will, I wiU," die iobbed. -But I am twt
wicked, and you are dying becauie of me."
**Ab you will die because of other*. Who shall «y but
that in some other age God may send you back to die for
me, Kate ? I ^want you to remember, whenever you see
a little starving child, that it may be me. Be kind to
eveiything for my sake.**
"And you foigive me?" she cried.
"When one loves very much there is no room for
forgiveness ; thdre are no sins when sins are all forgotten.**
The eyes closed again and breathing came more gently,
only the twitching of the fingers denoted that the worn
^irit still lingered in its old habitation.
Suddenly the silence was profimed by the babel of an
•ngiy wrangling without; the voices of two women,
husky with drink, clamoured in vile altereation. Then
there was the soft "pung" of Uows, followed by a thud.
More voices, and silence again.
The lips stirred. "Those are the people whom you have
got to save when you make a new world."
" We wiU save them," whispered Hilda; "andyonwiU
think of us saving them when you are gone, and ask the
dear Lord to help us."
Raising himself up with a sudden return of strength his
gaae groped blindly around the four walls and centred on
those three watching friends. He smiled tea Wly and,
strange to say of one so weak, compassionately upon them.
« I shaU not stay long away. I shaU come again to you
and be with you when you do not know it, sitting up with
you late at night and walking with you by day. We
REMAKING THE WORLD 847
h^iSy^^"^ P~P^*' *»*«-•«> t-ch them to
be kinder, uid wjA .way .11 griefc, mndcing the world
Now I jm veiy tired and Aould like to deep?
Otae by one he ki«ed and bide them « Oood-night,- m
otwl""^** K.te; be . good girl, ikI learn to love
CW-nght, Gebnel; we have been good friend^ we
m^l fK^ T" ^^' "'**^ you come to talk o^with
me all that you have done."
JMW«ight. HOd., it win not b. for long, « AJl
0« ^ on. thqr approuhed imilingly, etching the
n^ Wow;, gM c«,«d««,e, ««! ,rt«,id him uf own
di^"^Tl!r?]S!?i''''.P'"^ «">d Wd him down to
*^ ne hjjit from the rt«rt Aone ftdl upon hi. ««*
tatb.drfnot»«ntoh.«iit lWw«rmZnS
jb«jtUm «ve that m«.e by the low intJce «kI erit rf
^erettroogh the long night they «t : Grf,riel ,t the
h^^HUd^t the feet , the penitent wom« douching
heude the bed, her hair brolten loo<», t»ilin« ««, 1^
t^ her I»nd. damped «rf thmwroot NoTZj^
thq- were h.t«,ing for the beat of the angel'. Xj^ '
JCbt roar of London drow«d, and feU into a troubled
Now and jgain the quiet wouU be rtartled by the beat
Mjmad rtar. dnfted out, floated «tos. the dcy ; vaniAed
mto .p«e. Gabriel, in watching them, thWhTw
him mWildwood«nong«ich other «ene* Tie wi*^
moon c«.t down her cynic gaiCi a, much a. to My, " It ha.
»4S THE WEEPING WOMAN
•U hapiMMd befimt it will aU happen agdn. I im
thouMmb of DMQ and womm die eveiy ni^t in the ooone
or mj jomaeytogfc It is raJly nothing new. 80 wa^
the worU: one growi aoeuctomed to death in a miUioa
ymn. I have.**
Before moraing Gabriel doiedi thiiWM the woond of
hie tdlaome nighte. He wai awaliened by the chiU of
•nicy hand laid upon his. Opening hiii eyes, he saw Hilda
•triving to arouse him. •* It is all over for him in this
worid, I think," she said.
Gabriel looked, and saw that the bosom no longer
heated; placing his hand upon the forehead, he found it
•InadycokL
" yes,** he said, « it is aU over for him in this worid ; but
what of the next r '
An exultant look gloriaed her ifeatures. « We need not
fear for him in any other Ufe," she said. *«Hehasremade
our worid."
The sheaf of shadows kneeling before the bed stirred; a
white, despairing lace looked up. "Oh, he b dead," it
cried, "and I loved him so I I sinned and was cruel, and
went away because I longed to have him to myself. Now
I have killed him, and he is dead."
«*Hush!" whispered Hilda, bending over the weeping
woman, "we can both love him now without diflerenoe:
now that he is dead."
Pitting her arms uround Kate, and supporting her head
upon her shoulder, she led her out from the room and put
her to bed, though she herself was very tired.
Crabriel, when left alone, stood above the dead man*s
body, gasing down upon the stem, yet gentle, outlines of
his face. Raising the limp white hand to his lips, he
kissed it, saying, "I pledge myself, by all that is most
sacred, to copy you in remaking the world. I will compel
men to treasure one another by the example of my own
REMAKING THE HTORLD mq
al^,^ "T«?°l" '■''***■ «• ««. upm E«th
uunougb tlM fove of Hk Chriat**
I^oUng out tlmi^gb the wiwJ^, wh« he hui flnWM^
fin»«^h«jd. which bo« wito.. to hi. tow; «d « L
knew that the dawn had oonie.
CHAPTER XXXII
UWMO TRB ■ATllB
JT? "^^ *»f> gone by "inoe the d«ith of UacMltr.
•nd Augurt h«^ brought agahi that intetuity of ddkht,
^culkr to it aloo. of aU the month., whJ the aJS
Summer he. reeched it. height, end hang. poi*d XIS
U» Ajjtumn clij. befo« with o«^ ^iill
•bettered upon the Winter roelc. below. 1* '» ""
1^0^ WM compemtivefy empty. Every one had
Jjwaped to Ma or oountiy who could contrive a way; oolr
t^«wbo w«. dther too poor or too rich to aftrt to go
GabiW Mt in LanoMter*. old rtudy in the Timnrflce.
» "l^*"";* behad d«wn up to^the ^^SSm^
thonghtftiUy, leading them again.
m^^ ^u**? ^****'' "«ninding him that the twelve
month, limit had jurt expired, and rtating that he
expected to be in to^A that day, and would nwrve the
evening for their meeting.
ITie long abwnoe from his only child had woriced a
«ftemng in the father's heart He had heanl, thitHigh
the agency of Sir Denver Cartwright, also from tte
ynpathetic lipsof Meredith, who had seen him perwnaUv
the stoiy of Gabriel's doingM since the Augurt of the'
previous year. The letter closed by sayingr**! do not
Wwne my«in even in the l^t of what haToccurred, for
LOSING THB BATTLE ui
pv^-wf. but of Btti. ™d «h, to HirN:nw
*Wta, it h- becom. of ooi»«,u«« to you «d to u. Jl
Tk f »f •>"•»«»••«»« in •pit.ofour defi.it, only
^j;-ta™d«ttob.«*,h.t„«,.t iJ;n
SSwS^j! ■Und hj, you fa wb.tooew tou „,,
«*tiiigto be««ld B«, „ AaM W while w m«
jnwnurtioinetiiiiMUtlMiiMdofine."
Tlie neaad letter Maned to be of quite uiotber
t^' 'r Z,°^ -a it be .«Je littleV3
^I^^ t?™*^ ■» "•««"* *«» WiUwood.
Ibrmw bfi, had been rtnpped from him MDoe the eomimt of
«!»» of hu boolc brf wnMied w completely w the
i-^'"dir' c: ^ If' f ?»«• "»•««• of
(««" aeugiit. Veiy frequently I have puued in the
«4j« of «me ..juWte pjige .„d delj:
a>ro™ .t .«de, e«Wming Wtterty, 'And I is, ooi
852 THE WEEPING WOMAN
capable of that!' Your book ha. been to me the vivid
and aoeitting likened of my flaming youth, thruit by Mme
<*«ioe irtranger into my pale oM hand* Yes,youareaU
that I might have been. I wat not mirtaken; you m
the great poet for whose coming aU men wait, and you are
rayveryself. I have imparted my aecret to Kveml of the
Dwswnem of Dreama. They are amaaed at the new
•trength which you have developed. Some of your
younger work, which you diowed me last winter, had &r
too much of the aad note in it ever to be widely read. As
you are probably aware, the world of to-day has blinded
Its eyes to sorrow, to the end that it may persuade itself
that sorrow is no longer in the world. Of course the
world of to-day is mistaken; bulk opinion always is.
My own ezperiei|oe should have taught me that Never-
theless, it is very necessary that you, at the outset, should
keep the world's preferences in mind ; after all, it is bulk
opinion which buys your books and makes your reputation.
** It was the o^ -ervance of the mourner's tendency in your
genius which prompted me so forcibly to suggest your
removal to the country. I am glad that the advice has
had the desired effect A joyous abandon is conspicuous
In your Uter verses; where grief does occur it is not of
the g^me of the soul or of cities, but of the mekncholy
of fields and woodland»-a grief with which most of yoii
readers are unacquainted, and to which, therefore, they wiU
not object Don't think that I am trying to be cynical ;
I am not At the end jf my life, counter to aU my
prejudices, I am attempting to be practical for your sake.
Honesty in some professions may be prafitable, but in
literature it does not pay.
" In your early poems, to which I have referred, you Uaie
out men's duty with no uncertein sound. Vou accuse the
world without mercy, painting for us the agony of the
down-trampled with an almost evangelical fervour. That
LOSING THE BATTLE 858
we do ~t know tW m&enOJ. people «drt i. our one
ffT ^J^ ^P^"* *>»«»• Pkadooate apostle^ who
point us where oar duty liei, Me never thanked ; wehuiir
them upon a eroH between two pe«imJ8t«. On the
•trength of your new vein I think you wfll achieve a Uige
weom. Your book ii » imrirtibly happy that it cannot
•nrid the winning of appUutte. In the other book- which
you may write ""
Grf)rid laid down the letter, and throwing back his
h^ indulged in a quiet kugh. How completely this
mtiosm. whidi WM meant to be flattering, revealed him-
■^ to himself! The flight fitw, unhappy reaUty; the
bolitenng up of exquisite untruth ; the avoidance of the
▼ital; the search after the non-essential; the dosimr of
2S;i!?u k'!!?'?^??; ^^ ^* •^""* "^ *° be^t»»
withheld hand of helpfidness; the preibienoe for dieams
over uves.
As fivquently occurs when, by the soroeiy of the camera,
ft portrait is produced Uke, yet unUke : over-emphasiiing
oortdn quaUties in a countenance, and uncovering others
which have from birth lain hid, so that the dead picture
beoomes more true than the living face, so had this letter,
Jfnorant of its own skill, sketched in actual proportion the
features of that dead WiMwood-self. Gariijg upon it
impartially he could now recogniae how much of tne by-
gone remained, what had departed, and what had been
brou^t under the new control to serve a better end.
♦k*** *T^ l»ughing, and, driving his fiuicy back to
those abandoned delights, hummed ouf with rappinff
knuckles— -rir'-n
"Most dsUcstalv hour by hour
He euvasMd hnnuui mjntoriei.
And trod on silk, as if th« winds
Ww his own prsites in his svas,
And rtood sloof from other minda
In
•3
impotNMe of fimded power.'
B54 THE WEEPING WOMAN
<< Wdl, old ooamde, joa an cUd,** he dgbMl, Kgttdiog
the fiu» revMlfld in the letter. « rm «lbid yoall nevw
write nj mor»-«t leart, not like that** \
Daring the lart night at Folly Aereacarioui iMjctiogie
phenomenon had ooeurred. I^om the hour of the cba^^os
not only had all inclination, but aim all capaeitj, fir
writing either imaginatiye pran or vem departed fton
him. It was as though some secret fibre in the brain had
■napped, releasing other fibres and giving them fuller plif,
but iirevocaUy destroying itself.
When, in dispatching his book to the publisher, he had
said, « Good-bye, books ; you are the greatest book that I
shall ever write," he had spoken more truly than he had
known at the time.
During the kst five weeks which he had spent at the
Weepmg Woman he had leoome aware of his deprivation
—that the poetic £une which he had striven so strenuously
to gain had now become impossible for him— that he oouU
no longer sing.
Just as in feudal times the royal foreeter, haviiy caught
a noUe hound trespassing, was wont to mutilate its right
foot that it shouM no longer race through the ^een-wood
hunting the shadowy <ker, so had the invisible ibrestcr,
life, owning a master pevchance no less royal, cut off
from Gabriel the feet of his poetic ffight, leaving him
crippled in the whispering woods of his illusions— makii^
it necessary for him, as for the poor maimed brute of
Norman days, to limp between the tall trees where once
he ran.
He was quite resigned. In the year of his power,
when to think was to express, he had dreaded this as a
calamity. Now that it had come he only smiled, and was,
if anything, a little grateful. Talent in song had differ-
entiated him from the rest of his fellows. Now las most
earnest wish was to be named as one of them.
LOSING THE BATTLE B55
J^!^!T.^ ■*** b«*n«>m lam and his fHendAm^
SSil^^^i^ ; >«^ that the gift it^lfw.
^^wn, aad hf J-d beoome .. one of the common
n^ r.T"fir ^^ *<> ■■^ It i. wmetime.
■JTOitmnkthathemayleMfnhow toroleariirht TTii-
G^el«^; he aW thought that he ^^^^J^
BMHtar whom he served.
JtL^fl^m^ 'r'u^ '^****" the power of
S^TI^Sl- h*^'^"^ ^ wo«hip with hi. hands, «
that,twvcUing moi» dowly, he might be the meeker in hb
psMng by.
"Sparfis aU very well," he oonmied himself, « but it
*« not make manyfriends; it is the dow-joun^ing m«
h^t^^ ^^ "^ ^ '**°"*^ thnH^h which
Foet s lettavespecia% the mention of the other books
;:S!? „"^ write, he laughed, for he knew thatTJ
oth^adf, who had^most ddicately hour by hour can-
^J^^IL^}^^^ "*** **" *^* **»" was so would be
look mto the ^ of a foHMdcen self without experiendng
«me compassiojmte -nsations of longing. TTiat he w«
^ because of his 1o«s«m1 would not have willed it
otherwise, was maniftstiy true.
IJus while he sat ruminating in the mellow afternoon
the door was pushed open, and a woman entered.
••• THE WEEPING WOlfAN
Hewing the aoaad of her fbotiOl he awoke from hk
iwene and turned in hit efaair. ** Why, H^"* he cried,
jom^ up, « I w«, wo«kring whrther yoo would come,
•Pd had ahnort abndoned hope." ^^
"HowoouM Idootherwi«?"Aewplied,itaTin«hi.
advance, and ttandfaig motionle» in the middle of the
loom.
*But I wrote you a full sUtement of all that I intend
to dc— it will not be an ea^ life."
"Whatofthat? Are ea^ ^le always bert ? **
"No; I think they are never ao. But you have been
brought up dilfcrently— there will be haidihip and di.-
appointment to endore, and perhaps diMimoe.**
« I think I can *ear them.^ *" ""»™*-
**Before you make a deadoa from which there is no
wtoeat I want you fuUy to understand my motives in
do^ this. In the first place there is the feeUng that,
however aflaini may go, I can do no other; I am appointed
to ^ work In the necond, there is the added incentbe
of the knowledge that I have dme much harm which
be atoned for every day of my life; above aa,thei
which I did to Mary. You are one of ihom iHrnm I narc
wronged ; I have no ri^t to make aa^ fwther call uaaa
yew generosity. In sanw ways I tUnk y«i must Ce
■mfered most ; it was the knowledge of this tibrt mmik mi
prem you to take your relaase."
"I had alw»y. thought tiiat it was one hrff the sweet-
ness of love to stAr."*
" Yes ; but voluntarily. You have had no
" Suffering and love go hand-in-hand. Love
«W8 18 always imposed— it is too great to be cMsm"
G^jriel, who had risen and hat! been leaning agaiaat the
taWe while she spoke, now made a st«^ towaids her, htA
aiie hdd out a restnuniag hand. « Peihaps if I oonfr •
•in to you it may help to comfort you, if ever you AM
LOSIKG THE BATTLE 857
douhtri me, th«» hM l«n • time wben I haw doubted
JOQ.
•*Whe»iWMthat,Hekm?*
^It was after our lut meeUng on the Monbridge
••Goon."
«Idid not undewtind— you looked more d«d than I
had ever aeen you. Then I went to FoUy A«n alone,
and looked on her." — «•—
"And then?*
"I thought you cruel, and wicked, and inrineere."
She stood with her head hung down and hands folded.
And what made you think otherwise?"
"Dan came up from WiMwood, when he came to see
JO* fiither, and he told me it all again. Ami Hilda
wrote to «e fiwn here, and told me what you had been
doings and of your change."
** Aad «Ud yon believe them ?"
"GiAtid!"
fJ^Z.^^1^ ~" whence, a year ago ahnort to
wft' I^*?* "^^'^ *^*» "J-*« had led him
mlLtT!?! ^^^.'^ Heakohadrertforthe
^^ing in his armi^ with beeiiBg heart, she too found
•*Helcn, do you remember what you once said about
^ii!r."° «»« ever come, back-woman sometimes,
man never?
r^*^!"*"**"^' *«*yw»««more than a man, you
^laughed lightly and tohi her how she was mistaken-
~ he was no longer a poet, and couU never make sonffs*
again. ^
Mi THE WEEPING WOMAN
mmimtag btkttr, jtnva hmuu*
<*¥«; IwiiwwoMofGoirseoaBMalMid; omoTiIm
!5?.^7^^^^^*^ Yttth«l.oi>eiiHWMiig
whkh I think I era writ*"
** And whfttb that r
"My bv. ^ mcn't l|y«i. Oh, H«lm, I h«^ bam
JB^Wng a bMk itrMt of my heart when it diould ha^
been a metropolie. What b art, and what a» boolu,
oomiMnd with moi's lives ? No one ia angrr tor the
mn^ of God*i poor, but I wifl make them angiy.
Hera are we, three women and one man aoainet the wotid •
yrt I think we ehaU win this fight One wooMn, who has*
own a dnner; one woman, whoee lover is deed; one
wooM who has had to wait long for her love ; one man
who hu suilbed defeat^yet I tbak we dmll win this
uffkt»
hi.**,S£:;j!:S.'"'^^
IJen he told her egatn how he h*^l ainnged to e«rf
on the business of the Weeping Woman jnst as it hed been
in Lanoester's day. How it was to be the hoiM of the
new start for the down-trodden ; a home for all, wheie
none was refosed and Christ was Uved. Thm he had
planned that they shouM Uve, Kate and Hilda, and tiiey
^settingtheexampleof the love whidi should lemake
the wofkL
" The worid is wrong based," he cried. -WeareaUso
•dfi^ at heart that it is diflBcult to avoid losing audi a
batUe. Wecanaflbrdnohalfmeasowihcre. We must
do as John did, hurl our talents, our health, our possessions,
and ev^ our lives into this new fi^t We must woric
with a divine rage in our hearts for the wrongs of God's
outcast people. We must mutilate ourselves for their sake.
LOSING THE BATTLE 859
tfflw. facMwte fa tht .od of the worW
Httai dnw his ISm« down to her own. <«Yoa era lik«
. jn ath« Id-HH.," A. .mi W ; « the world muTJl'
^it i. .bo Oirirt'. way. I beUeve that it wiU come
And eo^ no loooer h^l their old iUudon deputed. th«i
A^^^ «P to beclcon them forth,^tTbetter.
wiSTVi tIT* ^ ^^ commenced, in which, in common
with .U the world, they wouW «irely wife defeat T^
^ out rfthdr krt lort hattle hed carried oiT «metW^
peeterthantiiat for which they h«l Ibught-lo^-w^f
iw^iS!* IS" ^*^* ^"^ ''^ Stainlycome
^d«p.te theur defaat. and thou^ when it cLe, it
ihouW turn out to be other th«i they meant, yet God
"^J^ «»th^ ». trong men, when they th^ve.
JJ^we turned to dart, who would fight for that which they
h^m«mt^.^^^^^^^^
TRx warn
BlOBARD CtAT * ilOim. LUilTID,
BUAO ITBIST mtL, 1.0., ATO
■viNuy, nryyoLK.
<'• ,. ^yjK