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microfiches 

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Canadian  Instituta  for  Historical  IMicroraproductions  /  institut  'sanadian  da  microraproductions  historiquaa 


Taehnieal  and  MbNofrapMe  Nmh  /  NoM  tMhniquM  tt  WMtofrapiilquM 


Tha  ImtituM  hM  atMinpttd  to  obtain  the  ba>t  orifiiwl 
co(>y  avaiiaMa  for  f ibninf.  Faatura*  of  thi*  copy  wtiMi 
may  ba  WMiofraphieaNy  uniqiia,  witiieh  may  aHar  any 
of  tna  imaiBs  m  tna  faproductioii,  or  wMati  may 
liflnificanlly  dianfi  tha  uaual  mathod  of  f  itaiinfl.  ar« 

CiMClMO  DdOWi 


□  Coloorad  cover*/ 
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□  Covart  damaiad/ 
CoMvartura 


□  Covart  raitorad  and/or  laminatad/ 
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□  Covar  titia  minini/ 
La  titra  da  eouvartura  manqua 

□  Colotirad  mapa/ 
Carta*  itofraphiqua*  an  ooulaur 


Colotirad  ink  (i.a.  othar  than  Mua  or  Mack)/ 
Enera  da  eotilaur  (i.a.  aiitra  qua  Waua  ou  noira) 


D 

□  Colourad  plata*  and/or  illintration*/ 


PlanclM*  at/ou  illustration*  an  coulaur 

Bound  with  othar  malarial/ 
RaM  avac  d'autra*  documanti 


n 

0  Tight  binding  may  cama  thadow*  or  distortion 
along  intarior  margin/ 

La  raliura  *arr«a  paut  cawar  da  I'ombreou  dt  la 
di*tor*ion  la  long  da  la  marga  intiriaura 

□  Blank  laava*  addad  during  ra*toration  may  ippiar 
within  tha  taxt  Whanavar  po*tibla.  tha*a  ha«a 
baan  omittad  from  filming/ 
II  *a  paut  qua  eartainas  paga*  Manchas  ajoutte* 
tors  d'una  ra*tauration  apparai*tant  dans  la  taxtt, 
mai*.  lonqua  cala  *tait  possible,  cas  page*  n'ont 
pa*Mfilmte*. 


n 


Additional  commentt.7 
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This  item  is  filmed  et  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

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L'Imtitut  a  mierofiton*  la  maillaur  exemplairc  qu'il 
lui  a  *t*  ponibla  da  *a  proaurar.  Lai  dtoils  da  eat 
examplaiia  qui  »ont  pawt-tra  unique*  du  point  de  »ue 
WMiograpbiqiia,  qui  paueant  modifier  una  image 
repreduita.  ou  qui  pwnant  axigar  una  modification 
dan*  U  mMMda  normala  da  f  itaiafa  sont  indiqufa 
ei-danou*. 

□  Colourad  page*/ 
Page*  de  coulaur 

I      IPagMdamagad/ 


□  PafN  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Page*  ra*taur4a*  at/ou  paHicuMa* 

0PagM  diteolourad.  *tainad  or  foxad/ 
Pagn  dicolorta*.  tachatiat  ou  piqufa* 

□  P»ge*  detached/ 
Paga*d«t8eh«e* 

HShowthrough/ 
Tramparenoe 

0  Quality  of  print  varia*/ 
Quality  in«gale  de  I'impression 

□  Continuous  pegination/ 
Pagination  continue 

□  Includes  index(es)/ 
Comprend  un  (des)  index 

Title  on  header  taken  from:/ 
Le  titre  de  I'en-ttte  provient: 

□  Title  page  of  issue/ 
Page  de  titre  de  la  livraison 

□  Caption  of  issue/ 
Titre  de  depart  de  la 


□  MastI 
Gine 


livraison 


IMestheed/ 

Ginerique  (periodiques)  de  la  livraison 


lUX 

r— ^ 

___ 

14X 

^^^ 

18X 

22X 

26X 

XX 

^^^ 

J 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

28X 

3 

32X 


Th«  copy  filmed  h«r«  has  b««n  raproducad  thanks 
to  tha  ganarosity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'axamplaira  filmA  fut  raproduit  grAca  k  la 
g*n4rositt  da: 

Bibliothiqua  nationala  du  Canada 


Tha  imagas  appearing  hara  ara  tha  bast  quality 
possibia  considaring  tha  condition  and  lagibility 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  spacifications. 


Original  copias  in  printad  papar  covars  ara  filmad 
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first  page  with  a  printad  or  illustrated  impres- 
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or  illustrated  impression. 


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right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Lea  imagas  sulvantas  ont  M  reproduites  avac  la 
plus  grand  soln,  compta  tanu  de  la  condition  at 
de  la  nattet*  de  I'exemplaire  film*,  et  en 
conformit*  avac  las  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Lea  exemplalres  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  ImprimAe  sont  fllmte  en  commenpant 
par  la  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
darniire  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'Impression  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  la  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  las  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  aont  filmto  en  commen^ant  par  la 
pramiire  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impreaaion  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  darniire  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  dee  symboles  suh/ants  apparattra  sur  la 
darnlAre  Image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  la 
cas:  le  symbols  — ►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE".  le 
symbols  ▼  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartas,  planches,  tableaux,  etc..  peuvent  ttre 
filmte  A  das  taux  de  rMuction  diff«rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atra 
reprodult  en  un  seul  cllchA.  11  est  film4  A  partir 
da  I'angia  sup^rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  bas.  an  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nAcessaira.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mtthode. 


12  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

MHCROcorv  mouinoN  tbt  chait 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TtST  CHART  No.  2) 


1.0 

5     Itt  L 

-         IM     12 

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"*      14 

1  '*' 

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2JB 


12 


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40 


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2.2 


1.8 


1.6 


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A    >^PPUEDJM/1GE    Inc 


I6U  Eot(  Moin  Strwt 

Woch««t«i.  Nca  York       14609      USA 

(71«)  402  -  0300  -  PhoM 


(716) 


-Fox 


:i 


»* 

^-f-' 


ti 


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 


MKROCOrV   MSOIUTION  TIST  CHAtT 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHAUT  No.  2) 


^    /APPLIED  IIVMGE 


1653  East  Main  StrMt 

RoctHwter.  Nm  Ycik        14609      USA 

(716)  482  -  0300  -  Phon. 

(716)  286  -  M89  -  Fox 


Inc 


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